Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery

by Isabella Alan

  “Where will he go until he can return to California? Back to Wanda’s house? Alone?”

  Mitchell removed a sheriff’s department ball cap from the back pocket of his uniform. He bent the bill of his ball cap over and over again. “He’s going to stay with me. He wasn’t too happy about that, but it was either that or foster care. He’s only fifteen.”

  My heart constricted as I thought of Mitchell opening his home to this troubled teen whom he didn’t even know. There was so much about the sheriff I didn’t know and so much I wanted to learn. “That’s so kind of you.”

  Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Do you find it appealing?”

  “Very,” I admitted, looking him in the eye.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Good.”

  Don’t blush! Don’t blush! I tried to will myself. I swallowed. “So the auction will go on even with the investigation in progress?”

  He nodded. “Yes, the canning shed is so far removed from the main part of the auction yard, I see no reason to shut the place down.” He started in the direction of Anderson’s vehicle and Reed. After a few steps he half turned back to me. “Angie, I know that you are asking questions because you care about Rachel. How much you care about your friends is appealing to me.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “But as a cop, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”

  My smiled morphed into a frown.

  Chapter Nine

  I returned to the merchants’ tent and the only difference to the space I found was the Millers’ absence and the bare bakery table.

  Oliver whined at me from under my table.

  I squatted beside him and scratched his jowls. “Sorry, buddy. I know you didn’t like to be left here all alone, but there are way too many scary people and animals in the auction barn to take you there.”

  He sighed and lay back down.

  I stood and checked the inventory to see that everything was there. Not that I thought one of the police officers would have run off with a lap quilt, but things could go missing in this type of situation if you didn’t keep an eye on them. After I was certain everything was accounted for, I removed my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans and dialed Running Stitch.

  When I took over my aunt’s shop it didn’t have a phone line. Even though Aunt Eleanor was New Order Amish and therefore allowed to have a phone in her place of business, she never saw the need for one. She did all of her fabric ordering through the mail, or if she needed to, she borrowed a neighbor’s phone. I required technology to function. Now, Running Stitch had a phone line, credit card reader, and Wi-Fi.

  I listened to the phone ring and waited for Sarah Leham to pick up. She was New Order Amish as well. I hoped she wouldn’t have too many questions, but knew that was unlikely. Sarah was the most curious Amish woman I had ever met. That had landed her in trouble a time for two with more closemouthed members of the Amish community.

  “Running Stitch Quilt Shop, thank you for calling. How may I help you?” she asked like she was a professional telemarketer. I doubted Sarah even knew what a telemarketer was.

  “Sarah, it’s Angie.”

  “Angie, I’m glad you called. Is Mattie on her way? I thought she would be here by now. . . .” She trailed off.

  “She’s not coming.” A group of English tourists entered the tent. I smiled at them and then turned away. I didn’t want them to overhear my conversation with Sarah. “Something has come up.”

  “With Mattie? Is she all right? I hope she didn’t eat anything that made her ill.”

  Funny Sarah would say that, considering how the coroner suspects Wanda died.

  “Mattie’s fine. She went home with Rachel and Aaron a little while ago. She won’t be going to the shop because there’s been an accident.”

  “Is it Rachel?” Sarah took a short breath. “Is she all right?”

  “Rachel is fine too,” I paused. “It’s Wanda Hunt. She’s dead, and Rachel’s shaken up by it.”

  I waited for the flurry of questions that were sure to hit me. Nothing. Silence.

  “Sarah, are you still there?”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  Sarah? Speechless? That had to be a first.

  Then the rapid-fire questions came. “What happened? How could this happen? Was she sick? Why is Rachel so upset about it? I know it’s terrible, ya, but what does that have to do with Rachel?”

  “Sarah, I can’t talk right now.” I lowered my voice. “I’m still at the auction. I promise to tell you when I can.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Someone may overhear you. You can tell me when you return to the shop.”

  “That might not be for some time. The auction doesn’t close until four. I should stay here for the rest of it. Business has been good here.” I paused. “I don’t want you to be stuck there the rest of the day. Close the shop and go home. Just leave a sign on the door and the key in the drawer below the counter.”

  “I can’t do that to you, Angie. Business has been brisk here too. Auction days are always the busiest in town.”

  Relief washed over me. I may have done well at the auction, but I didn’t really want to have the shop close early with so many customers in town. I couldn’t afford to.

  But then guilt for keeping Sarah away from her home and children immediately replaced the relief. “You should go home to your husband and children. I can’t ask you to stay any longer.”

  “You’re not asking me to stay. I am doing it on my own. Besides, there is no one at home to go to. The children are at school, and my husband is on a carpentry job in Summit County. He won’t be home until late. If the children beat me home from school, they will be fine. My oldest is eleven, and she will be able to mind the other children until I arrive home. I will call the shed phone near our house and leave a message on the answering machine for her. She knows to check the shed phone machine if we aren’t there.”

  “Your shed phone has an answering machine?”

  She laughed. “I’m New Order Amish, Angie. I don’t live in the Dark Ages.”

  I laughed. “Thank you, Sarah. That will be a big help. I will have to make it up to you.”

  “You can by telling me everything you know about Rachel and Wanda when I see you.” She hung up the phone.

  As I slid my cell phone back into my pocket, a woman in a purple sweater stopped at my table and gestured across the aisle to where Rachel’s table stood empty. “Where is the sweet lady from the bakery? I had hoped to take home one of her pies today.”

  “She had to leave early. There was a family emergency.”

  Her bottom lip popped out. “I’m so disappointed. Will she be back for Saturday’s auction?”

  “I’m not sure. I know she would like to be. It depends on how the emergency goes.”

  The woman sighed and moved on. After she left, I helped a group of ladies select souvenir thimbles.

  “Aren’t these cute,” one said to her friend. “This is going right on my miniature shelf.”

  They each bought three. And the quilting circle ladies had scoffed at my thimbles. I tucked the dollar bills into the back pocket of my jeans.

  An Amish woman whom I didn’t know sold baskets from the table next to mine. The ladies who loved my thimbles raved over her baskets. Their praise was deafening. I smiled at the small Amish woman helping them. When we made eye contact, she looked away quickly.

  I moved to the other end of my table and smoothed a Diamond in a Square quilt that lay across it.

  One of the women examined the bottom of a bread basket. “I’ve been looking for a new basket for my dining room. My husband leaves the mail all over the dining room table. It drives me crazy. He even has an office in the house, but insists on leaving the mail in the dining room.”

  Her friend snorted. “That’s a man for you, but that basket isn’t going to make a lick of difference. He will still leave mail on the dining room table, and you will still be pi
cking it up.”

  The first woman’s face reddened. “I can train him to place it in the basket at least.”

  Her friend flipped over a price tag hanging from a berry basket. Shaking her head, she set it back on the table. “Sugar, you’ve been married to that man for twenty years. Your brief training window has come and gone.”

  The first woman clutched the shallow basket to her chest. “I’m still buying it.”

  Her friend shook her head.

  Throughout the conversation, the Amish basket seller quietly embroidered the edge of a basket liner.

  “I’ll take this,” the first woman said.

  The Amish woman accepted the money with a small nod and returned to her work as the English women walked away, still bickering over whether the woman with the new basket could train her husband.

  As they left, I realized the basket seller, whose table was directly across from where the Millers had been, had had a front row seat to all the comings and goings around Rachel’s table, including Wanda’s appearance that morning and the sheriff’s a few hours later. I studied her, but she never looked up from her sewing. I slid down the table closer to her and refolded a set of quilted place mats. “I wonder if her husband will use that basket,” I said.

  The basket weaver said nothing. Her needle moved in and out of the fabric, creating a tiny delicate daisy.

  I tried again. “It was nice that she was so eager to buy. This auction has been great for my business. I’m so happy the Nissleys included me.”

  Still nothing. Did she not understand English? I knew that was unlikely. The vast majority of the Amish in Holmes County were bilingual with maybe the exception of small children.

  “Have you been selling your baskets here long?” I tried again.

  She set her embroidery on her lap with a sigh and she peered at me over black wire-framed reading glasses. “Business at the auction is always gut. Englischers like things. Even things they do not need or use.”

  I forced a laugh. “Isn’t that good news for us? We sell things. I’m sure she will find a use for your beautiful basket even if her husband doesn’t. You can never have too many baskets.”

  “You can have too many of everything,” she argued.

  “Well, I just wanted to introduce myself since my table is right next to yours. My employee Mattie Miller has been here most of the day. I’m Angie Braddock; I own Running Stitch in town.”

  “I know who you are. Martha Yoder is my cousin.” Her eyes were cold.

  Ahh. I winced. No wonder she was prickly. Martha used to work for me at Running Stitch, but quit to open her own Amish quilt shop because she thought the changes I made to my shop were “too English.” That wouldn’t have bothered me at all if Martha hadn’t opened her shop right next to mine. I could just imagine what Martha had said about me to her cousin. I knew none of it was good. “If you know Martha, then you must know that I am friends with Rachel Miller.”

  She dropped her gaze back to her basket liner. “Ya.”

  I shifted from foot to foot. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’m sure you have heard the news about Wanda Hunt.”

  “Ya.”

  She really was a conversationalist, wasn’t she?

  “Were you here earlier today when Wanda spoke with Rachel at her table?”

  “Why do you ask? You were there.” She picked up her needle again and resumed her work.

  “I wasn’t there the entire time. Did you overhear anything they said before I arrived?”

  “The Amish do not eavesdrop.” The way she glared at me made me wonder if she saw me eavesdropping on the sheriff and the coroner.

  “How did Wanda act when she first walked up to Rachel? Did she look upset, angry, or ill?”

  “I do not know. I do not mind others’ business.”

  I set the place mat back on the table. The woman had decided to dislike me because of her cousin. There was nothing I could do to change her mind. Martha made sure of that.

  She made eye contact again. “It is a shame the Millers have been so influenced by an outsider. I have always thought Aaron Miller to be a strong and reliable Amish man.”

  I opened my mouth.

  “Mary, how are your baskets selling today?” Anna Graber asked.

  I turned to see Anna walking toward us.

  “Very well. It is kind of you to ask,” Mary said.

  “I’m glad that you were able to meet Angie. As you know she’s the niece of my dear friend, Eleanor Lapp.” Her voice held a scolding tone to it.

  “I do.” Mary returned her attention to her embroidery.

  Why did I think that the two were having an entire conversation between the words that I wasn’t privy to?

  “Angie, can we speak for a moment?” Anna asked.

  I followed Anna to the other side of my booth. “By talking to me, you are likely only proving Mary’s point that I am a bad influence on your family.”

  “Do not listen to her. She and Martha are close.”

  “I know. She just told me that they are cousins.” My brow wrinkled. “In the time she worked for me, Martha never mentioned a cousin.”

  “I doubt she would mention much of anything to you, Angie, other than her distaste for the changes you made to the shop. She was set to dislike you before you moved back to Ohio. The moment she learned Eleanor left Running Stitch to you, not her, she made up her mind about you. She hoped you would not stay here, but you did.”

  I chewed on the inside of my lip.

  “I am very glad you made that decision. Having you here is like having a part of Eleanor with me. I know she’s happy and without pain as she’s gone on to her heavenly reward, but I miss her dearly.”

  I will not cry. I will not cry.

  “Now, we must think about the more pressing issues at hand. Rachel and Aaron Miller.”

  I blinked away the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “I feel awful about what has happened to them. Aaron’s not taking the sheriff’s thinly veiled accusations seriously enough. From experience I know Sheriff Mitchell means business.”

  She adjusted her glasses. “You think he will put them through what you went through over Joseph Walker’s murder?”

  “Mitchell is a good cop. He will come to the right conclusions in the end. The longer it takes him to reach those conclusions, the more it will hurt the Millers and their reputation within the community, both English and Amish.”

  She nodded. “That is why we need to meet with the quilting circle. There must be a way to help.”

  “You mean to investigate what happened to Wanda.”

  She shook her head. “That would be the Englisch way. The Amish way will be to help Rachel with her housework and help care for the bakery during this time.” Her eyes twinkled. “If we happen to do a little crime solving too, that won’t hurt. I know you have already started.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Angie, I saw you spying on the sheriff earlier near the canning shed. I know I’m not the only one.”

  I grimaced. Anna seeing me spying on the coroner and sheriff was not good news. Who else saw me and did they tell the sheriff? I would have to tell him. I hoped I could think of a way to do it to lessen the blow.

  “We will meet at Running Stitch after the auction today. Sarah is already there, and we both know she will want to be in on this from the start,” Anna said.

  “What about your families? You need to go home. I know that you have much work to do.”

  “I have told Jonah, and if Sarah must leave, we will tell her what we decide later. We have to help Rachel. The best way to do that is to find what really happened to Wanda Hunt.”

  Great, now Anna was beginning to sound like me. I think I may have created a crime-solving monster.

  Chapter Ten

  At four thirty on an autumn Wednesday afternoon, Rolling Brook was quiet. Occasionally, a car leaving the auction would roll by. Amish shopkeepers pulled in their outdoor displays from the sidewalk for the
night.

  I slid my Honda into one of the diagonal parking slots in front of my shop. Typically, I parked in the small lot at the end of Sugartree Street across from the mercantile, but with the businesses closing up for the day, I felt I could take a shopper’s spot.

  Running Stitch was a brick, flat-face building that my uncle Nathan had painted olive green a decade before I was born. I always wondered why he picked that particular color. Had he been caught up in 1970s paint trends? I didn’t think so. It was much more likely the color had been on sale at the mercantile when he decided to paint the shop. Even though it wasn’t my favorite color, I had no plans to change it because I remembered the shop as olive green when I was a child and Aunt Eleanor was at the helm. Forest green awnings hung over the shop’s two windows providing the west-facing building with shade in the late afternoon.

  I smiled at the large display window to the right of the door. A fall theme of leaves, pumpkins, and autumn-colored quilts filled the space. When I had brought in real fallen leaves from the shop’s backyard garden for the display, Mattie had been aghast. To the Amish, there were clearly things that belonged inside and those that belonged outside. Real leaves fell into the outside category.

  Choosing the quilts for the display had been my biggest challenge. I had so many to choose from because my aunt had sewn so many quilts throughout her lifetime and each one was more beautiful than the last. In the end, I settled on my favorite Ohio Star and a Goosefoot. Both were made with russet, orange, goldenrod, and brown wools, which were perfect for an autumn display.

  On the inside of the window, a poster advertised our new lineup of quilting and embroidery classes. Anna agreed to teach the quilting classes, and Mattie, who was a whiz with the embroidery needle, would teach the embroidery classes. I frowned. The poster was eight and a half by eleven, which made it difficult to read from the street. Maybe I should have paid the extra money to blow it up. Only a handful of people had signed up for the classes so far. I reminded myself it took time to build something new, especially in a place as resistant to change as Rolling Brook.