Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery

by Isabella Alan

  Gideon Nissley built the auction grounds in a caravan style. The small barns, sheds, and tents surrounded the main auction barn like spokes on a bicycle wheel. The merchants’ tent, where Rachel and I had our tables, was farthest from the parking lot, which was really a glorified field of grass, and closest to the Nissley’s home and private property.

  Anna had told me the Nissley farm had been on this land for generations, but after some time, Gideon, who had struggled as a farmer, decided to transform it from a working farm into an Amish auction. By the look of the number of Amish and English wandering around on the grounds and the number of sales going on in the main barn, he had made the right decision.

  Boys’ laughter caught my attention. Three teenaged boys teased one another as they walked across the property from behind the Nissley’s farmhouse in the direction of the main auction barn. This would not have been newsworthy if the trio didn’t look so out of place together. Two of the boys were Amish in plain clothes and bowl haircuts. One was short and built like a fire hydrant and the other was lanky and reminded me of Gumby. However, it was the third boy who really caught my attention. He was English and dressed in all black with matching dyed black hair. Two Amish and a Goth walk into an auction? What was the punch line? The sight was unnerving even in Holmes County where the English and Amish interacted every day.

  “I saw you standing here, and I thought I would come over and say hello.”

  I’d been staring at the three boys so intently, I hadn’t heard anyone approach. I turned and looked up and up and up at a very tall, clean-shaven Amish man. His lack of beard told me he was unmarried although I guessed he was older than thirty. It was unusual to have an Amish man unmarried at that age. However, his most shocking characteristic was his height. He was tall, but I mean tall. At five nine, I wasn’t tiny by any means, and he surpassed my height by a good twelve inches.

  “I’m Linus Raber. I’m the auctioneer and will be the one auctioning off your quilts later today.” With his deep voice and height, I could see right away why Gideon had chosen him for his auctioneer. Linus Raber attracted attention.

  I smiled up at him. “Nice to meet you.” I held my hand out for a shake, and he shook it very briefly. I had to remind myself that many Amish men were uncomfortable shaking hands with women, especially English women. I dropped my hand. “I’m thrilled to be included in the auction.”

  “We are happy to have you here. Eleanor Lapp’s quilts will fetch a good price at auction. Everyone knows she was the best quilter in the county. Do you quilt too?”

  “I do, but I’m not nearly as good as she was.” I considered asking Linus about the three boys I had seen, but thought better of it. “Have you seen the three quilts I have up for the block?”

  He nodded. “I have. I keep detailed notes about everything that goes through this auction. The quilts you chose will snatch a good price. I should head back to the main barn. I have only the briefest of breaks between blocks.”

  As the tall man returned to the main barn, I wondered if the NBA ever scouted in Amish Country because they had a contender.

  I stepped back into the merchants’ tent. Running Stitch’s tables were the first when you walked inside of the tent. Mattie was alone at the table. “Did the English woman buy anything?” I asked.

  Mattie shook her head. “But she might bid on one of the quilts when they go up for auction. I hope you attract a lot of bids, Angie.”

  “I do too,” I said because I really needed it. I had poured a large chunk of my savings into my shop to bring it into the English twenty-first century. I added wiring for a phone line and Wi-Fi. Both were amenities my late Amish aunt would have never considered for her shop, but I, as an English person, required them to run a successful business. And now the slow winter months weren’t that far away. As the weather grew colder, fewer and fewer English tourists would come to town. There were many lean weeks ahead of me. I hoped I wouldn’t come to regret those costly improvements.

  “How do you think Sarah is doing at the shop?” Mattie asked.

  Sarah Leham was a member of my quilting circle, which also included Mattie, Rachel, and Anna. She also happened to be a notorious gossip. Sarah and Mattie had their issues in the past because Sarah would question Mattie about who was courting her. Sarah was over those disagreements, Mattie was not. While Mattie and I worked at the auction, Sarah promised to watch the store for us. It was a generous offer for her to make because like every Amish woman she had many responsibilities at home.

  “I’m sure she’s doing fine.”

  Mattie pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d spent all of her time talking to shoppers instead of selling them something from the store.”

  “It was kind of her to offer to watch Running Stitch,” I said. “She wouldn’t even accept any payment for her time.”

  Mattie dropped her head. “You’re right. It was kind of her. I am sorry.”

  I smiled. “It’s fine, Mattie. I know you and Sarah won’t be BFFs or anything.”

  “BFFs?” she asked.

  I just shook my head.

  Oliver whimpered from his spot under the table. Maybe bringing him to the auction had been a bad idea. He would have much rather stayed at home with my new kitten, Dodger, whom Oliver adored, than be here with all the noise and commotion. Most of Oliver’s days were spent alternating between eating, sleeping on his pillow at Running Stitch, and digging up the shop’s backyard garden. He wasn’t accustomed to such a large crowd or goats on the lam.

  “He did that the whole time you were outside the tent. I think he wanted to go out there with you, but he was afraid.”

  “Can you hold down the table a little longer? I want to take Oliver on a proper walk. We never finished the first one. Petunia-the-runaway-goat interrupted us.”

  “Of course.”

  I started toward Rachel to ask her if she wanted to go with me on a short walk. Mattie could watch both of our booths, but two English couples arrived at her table just then to select a pie or two. I backed away. I didn’t want to interrupt a sale.

  Outside of the tent, I turned right away from the main auction barn and the center of activity with the hope Oliver and I would have a more peaceful walk away from the crowd and avoid any escaped goats along the way.

  The Nissleys, a late-middle-aged Amish couple, lived in a large gray farmhouse, and there were several other smaller buildings scattered around the back of the house. Oliver and I passed a small shed and the noise from the auction began to lessen the farther away we went.

  The building I found most interesting on the Nissley property was the canning shed. I hadn’t known there were such things before I moved back to Ohio. However, in the Amish world there was. The Nissleys made a nice living off of the auction yard, at least I thought they must, since they made a percentage of all the sales at the auction, but Tabitha Nissley, Gideon’s wife, made extra income for the family by selling her homemade canned goods.

  There was a table in the merchants’ tent piled high with her jars. She also sold them to Amish shops all over the county to resell to tourists. She canned everything from beets and other vegetables to jams and jellies.

  The canning shed’s door was open, and I peeked inside and marveled at the floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with jars of peppers, pickles, blackberry jam, strawberry preserves, and the list went on. On the right side of the large room, there was a full kitchen with a propane-powered stove, sink without running water—there was a hand water pump outside of the shed—and glass-paned cabinets filled with everything that Tabitha needed for her operation: sugar, salt, pots, pans, spoons, measuring cups, and funnels of every size.

  I backed out, vaguely curious as to why the door was open when no one was there.

  Oliver pulled on his leash. “Okay, Ollie. I was just taking a peek. No harm done.” I stepped out of the doorway. “Which way should we go?”

  Oliver pulled me around the right side of the shed.

  “Wher
e’s the fire?” I asked. The Frenchie was far too small to make me walk anywhere if I was unwilling, but I was curious to find out why he was so adamant about our direction. It was out of character for Oliver to lead our walks.

  As we came around the corner of the building, I discovered why. Wanda Hunt lay on her side in the shade of the canning shed. She gripped Rachel’s half-eaten blueberry fry pie in her hand. Judging from the blue color of her face, much like the blueberries in the pie, I knew she was dead.

  Chapter Four

  I fell to my knees beside her. Maybe I was wrong and she was still alive. “Wanda! Wanda!”

  No response. I felt for a pulse on her wrist and on her neck. There was none. Flecks of the fry pie’s blueberry filling decorated her cheek. A chill ran up my spine. Did the fry pie kill her? Rachel’s fry pie? Wanda and Rachel had just had a very public argument in the merchants’ tent and now Wanda was dead holding the fry pie Rachel gave her? This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

  I ripped my cell phone out of my pocket and called 911, and then I picked up Oliver and ran full tilt back to the merchants’ tent while describing my discovery to the dispatcher.

  No. I mustn’t panic. Wanda could have been ill. Women suffered from heart attacks and strokes too. Oh, no, I should’ve tried CPR. But I didn’t know the count for the breaths and heart pumps. I needed help.

  Jonah grabbed my arm as I flew by. His grasp jerked me backward.

  “Angie, what’s wrong? You are as white as cow’s milk. I haven’t seen you run that fast since I chased you with a garter snake when we were kids.”

  I gulped air.

  “Ma’am, please stay at the scene. The sheriff is already on the property and will be there in two minutes,” the dispatcher said in my ear.

  Jonah stared at the phone. “Is that the police on your phone? What’s going on?” His normal teasing tone was gone.

  “I—body—dead—Wanda.”

  “What?” His voice was sharp.

  We were about ten yards from the merchants’ tent, and I noticed people were beginning to stare. I turned my back to them. “Wanda’s dead. I found her behind the canning shed.”

  “Show me.”

  I nodded. Yes, that was a good idea. Jonah would stay with me until the police arrived. I had no intention of guarding Wanda’s dead body alone. I led Jonah back to the canning shed. The phone was still in my hand.

  “Ma’am!” the terse voice said.

  As Jonah and I hurried back to the canning shed, I put the phone to my ear. Oliver was becoming heavy tucked under my right arm, but there was no way I would put him on the ground this close to the body. “Yes,” I said into the phone. “I’m still here.”

  Jonah ran ahead of me.

  “Miss Braddock,” the dispatcher said. “The sheriff is on the line and asked I patch him through to you. Please hold on.”

  Before I could argue or even comprehend, I was about to talk to James Mitchell, I heard his voice. “Angie, are you all right?” the sheriff of Holmes County asked.

  As soon as I heard his concerned voice, my stomach fluttered. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Jonah kneeled beside Wanda’s body, looking for signs of life just like I had. I had to turn away.

  “Are you still there?” The sheriff’s voice held an edge to it.

  “I’m still here.”

  “Anderson and I just arrived on the auction grounds. Where are you?”

  “Behind the canning shed. It’s close to the Nissleys’ house, beyond the merchants’ tent—”

  I was going to go on and be even more descriptive with my exact location, but he cut me off. “I know where it is. We will be there in one minute. Don’t touch anything.”

  Before I could tell him it was too late for that, he hung up.

  “Jo-Jo, get up. The sheriff and his deputy are on the way.”

  Jonah scrambled to his feet, and we heard the whine of sirens as an ambulance approached the auction yard.

  The sheriff and Deputy Anderson appeared on the far side of the shed. Mitchell looked directly at me with his beautiful aquamarine eyes. The gaze lasted for mere seconds, but I knew it would take me hours to fully recover.

  His eyes dropped to poor Wanda on the ground.

  “Are you thinking heart attack, boss?” Deputy Anderson asked.

  Mitchell squatted beside Wanda and checked her pulse. Finding none, he sighed. “It’s the most likely cause, but it could also be a stroke. The coroner will know for sure.”

  “Unless you think she was murdered,” the deputy said. “She did report just last week again that she was getting threatening calls to her home and office.”

  Mitchell jumped to his feet and glared at the young deputy.

  “What threatening calls?” I asked.

  Mitchell’s glare at Anderson grew darker. The deputy shuffled backward.

  The sheriff ignored my question and asked, “Did either of you touch anything?” He let Oliver sniff his hand. The gesture made me relax.

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “We both checked to see if she was alive and if we could help her just like you did.”

  The sheriff opened his mouth as if to ask another question when three paramedics ran around the building. They immediately slowed when they saw Wanda. There was nothing they could do here. The paramedics weren’t alone. Gideon Nissley was also with them. “What’s going on?” He looked down at Wanda, and placed a hand on his chest, saying something in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Gideon, please come over here and stand with Angie and Jonah.”

  Gideon stumbled in our direction. “Is she dead?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Did she have an accident?”

  “That we don’t know yet.”

  “What else could it be?” the auction owner asked.

  The sheriff did not answer.

  I swallowed.

  “Angie, you found the body first, correct?” His unique blue-green eyes watched me.

  With a dry mouth, I managed, “Yes.”

  “Let’s talk over here.”

  I followed the sheriff a few feet away into the open land between the Nissleys’ house and the canning shed. From that vantage point, I could see that the auction went on. Amish and English still moved from tent to tent, and faintly, I heard shouts coming from the auction barn as men shouted bids to Linus.

  “Are you all right?” he repeated the question he had asked me over the phone.

  I set Oliver on the ground keeping a tight grip on his leash and pushed my curls out of my eyes, wishing I had a hair tie to hold them at bay. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He searched my face. “Tell me everything that happened. Start with how you found her. Why were you back here?”

  I bristled, taking offense at the fact he seemed to suggest I was somewhere I should not have been. “Oliver and I went for a walk. He was skittish after his encounter with Petunia the goat, so I thought it would be best to keep him away from the crowds, so he could settle down.”

  He sighed. “Petunia the goat? You had better start from the beginning.”

  After I had told him everything that had happened up until he arrived, I asked, “She was getting threatening calls?”

  He pursed his lips. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

  “Like I would forget something like that,” I muttered.

  “I know.” He folded his arms. “The last couple of months, Wanda reported to the department she was receiving threatening phone calls.”

  This put a whole new spin on Wanda’s death. Maybe it wasn’t a heart attack after all. “What does the caller say to her?”

  “That was part of the issue. He or she said nothing but stayed on the line with her until she finally hung up. She dropped by the department twice to file an official complaint.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  The sheriff bristled and stepped back. “We listened to her complaints, but we don’t have the resources to track what appears to be prank c
alls from middle schoolers for everyone in the county.”

  I twisted my mouth. “She’s dead now. Maybe it wasn’t a middle schooler making the call.”

  His face reddened. “Yes. And we should have done more. This wasn’t the first time that Wanda complained to the department about something. It seemed like every other week she wanted to file a report against people breaking township ordinances or to claim someone was out to get her. We investigated these to the best of our ability, but after a while we stopped taking her complaints as seriously as we should have.”

  “She cried wolf too many times?” I asked.

  His aquamarine eyes turned sad. “That’s what we thought, but now I think that was a mistake.” Worry creased the sheriff’s forehead. “You can rest assured that I will be taking her death very seriously.”

  Did that mean he would treat the case as a murder investigation? Thinking of the fry pie again, I wondered what that would mean for Rachel.

  Mitchell led me a few yards farther away from the canning shed, out of earshot of the crime scene techs collecting evidence. He dropped my arm. “Do you have any idea of where that fry pie came from?”

  “Umm . . . well . . .”

  He eyes snapped on my face again. “Angie . . .”

  I grimaced.

  “How did she get it?

  I kicked a tuft of grass with the toe of my boot. “Rachel gave it to her.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re not telling me something else important?”

  Because I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to tell him about Wanda and Rachel’s argument. He would have to learn about that on his own.

  Chapter Five

  The coroner arrived not long after that, and Mitchell became preoccupied with the scene. I sidled up to Deputy Anderson, Mitchell’s young and perpetually flummoxed deputy. “Would it be all right if I take Oliver back to the merchants’ tent?”