Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery

by Isabella Alan

  Oliver knocked his head against the back of my leg.

  I laughed. “Fine. We will go inside. You’re so impatient.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Okay, I agree this has been a particularly long day.” As I reached for Running Stitch’s doorknob, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the shop next door, Martha Yoder’s shop. A brand-new sign hung over the front door, AUTHENTIC AMISH QUILTS. I gritted my teeth. The shop’s name was a pointed dig at me, whom she believed robbed Running Stitch of its Amishness.

  I didn’t begrudge Martha her new business. She had taken care of my ill aenti for many years, which was the root of the problem. Martha had assumed that since she had cared for my aunt and the quilt shop during her illness that Aunt Eleanor would leave the shop to Martha in her will. When I inherited the shop and decided to stay in Holmes County for good to run it, Martha had not been pleased.

  Martha deserved to have the life she wanted, but did she have to rent the space right next to my shop? No. She did that out of spite. Only a narrow alley separated Running Stitch from Authentic Amish Quilts. I wished it were a greater distance, like the Grand Canyon.

  I blinked at a white poster hanging in her front window advertising quilting classes. The poster was twice the size of mine. I stepped closer to the window. ALL OUR TEACHERS ARE AMISH LADIES, it read.

  I gritted my teeth. The only person in my shop who wasn’t an Amish woman was me. Those classes had been my idea. How dare she? I closed my eyes and counted to ten backward in Pennsylvania Dutch, a language I was attempting to learn with Rachel’s help.

  I opened my eyes and found Martha glaring at me through her shop window. My frustration evaporated. She wasn’t done with our little feud yet. That was certain. I sighed and turned toward Running Stitch.

  As I did, Anna’s buggy horse trotted down Sugartree Street. Anna’s horse slipped into the spot next to my car.

  Oliver pressed his back against Running Stitch’s front door. He wasn’t a huge fan of horses. They weren’t on the same level of his terror list as birds, but he still believed in giving them plenty of space.

  Anna tossed me the reins and I tied off the horse at the hitching post. The horse blew air out of his nose into my face.

  “Maggie,” she said to the horse as she slowly lowered herself from the buggy. “That is no way to say hello to a freind.”

  Maggie bared her teeth, and I took two large steps back. “I don’t think Maggie believes we are friends.”

  Anna removed her quilting basket from the buggy. “She’s being grumpy because she stood at the auction yard all day around the other buggy horses. She’s not a very social animal.” She slipped her arm through the basket handle. “Have you told Sarah yet?”

  “I told her briefly about what happened to Wanda over the telephone, but I haven’t been inside the shop yet to tell her about the emergency meeting.”

  Anna, Oliver, and I entered the shop together. Sarah, who was alone in the store, met us at the door with her cloak in her hand. “Anna, I’m surprised to see you here too.”

  Anna set her basket on the cutting table. “We’re having an emergency meeting.”

  “Because of Wanda?” Sarah’s eyes glittered.

  Anna removed her cloak. “Ya.”

  “I’m so glad. I want to hear everything.” Sarah replaced her cloak on the wooden peg.

  “There’s not much to tell.” I unbuttoned my jacket. A leaf fell to the floor as I did. A leftover gift from my goat-wrestling match.

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Anna set her basket beside the rocking chair by the window and sat. “Calm down, Sarah. Of course, we will tell you all the news. Can we catch our breath for a minute?”

  Sarah blushed. “Ya, I am sorry.”

  “Are you sure you can stay, Sarah? What about your children?” I asked.

  Sarah’s thin lips disappeared in a smile. “Do not worry, Angie. My daughter called the shop not long ago. They are all fine, and she’s working on dinner: sausage, biscuits, and gravy. The younger children are helping her in the kitchen.”

  At age eleven, Sarah’s daughter could make a full meal for her family of five. When I was eleven the most impressive meal I could do in the kitchen was make my own Kraft macaroni and cheese, a talent my aunt Eleanor did not approve of. She found any meal that came from a box to be suspect.

  Oliver sniffed the perimeter of the shop as if to check who had been in and out of his domain throughout the day. Satisfied there wasn’t any danger, he settled on his dog pillow at the feet of Anna’s rocking chair.

  I dropped my hobo purse on the counter beside the cash register. “Then let’s sit. It’s been a long day at the auction.”

  Sarah and I started to move two folding wooden chairs from around the stretched quilting frame where we held our quilting circle meetings.

  “Nee.” Anna struggled to her feet. “I will come to you. If we’re to talk about Rachel and poor Wanda Hunt, it is best if we keep our hands busy and work on the quilt. I don’t have my quilting with me, but I am sure you have a needle I can borrow, Angie.”

  I laughed, replacing my chair beside the quilt frame. “Pick out any needle you like.”

  Sarah sat at her place, which was across from me on the quilt frame. We had been working on this quilt, which had been commissioned by an English customer, for a little over a week. The customer had pieced the Sunshine and Shadow quilt herself and asked us only to quilt it.

  Anna settled into her chair on the side between Sarah and me. She clicked her tongue. “I see another place here where the woman clearly didn’t piece her pattern correctly. Look at this.” She pointed to the offending spot of the quilt.

  “Anna,” Sarah said. “Not everyone can be a gut quilter. I am sure this Englischer is proud of herself for finishing the quilt. It will be a treasured family heirloom.”

  “True, but it is so difficult for me not to rip it apart and start over,” Anna huffed.

  I laughed and handed her a box of quilting needles from a basket I kept beside the quilt frame. “Anna, you’re a perfectionist.”

  Her expression cleared. “Most Amish quilters are when it comes to their work.”

  Sarah threaded her needle. “What has happened? I don’t want to know simply because it’s news. I want to help the Millers. I really do.”

  Anna, whose glasses were at the very tip of her nose, examined the needles in the box before making her selection. “We know that, Sarah.”

  Sarah tied a knot at the end of her thread. “Mattie and Rachel are wary of me because I spoke of Mattie’s former sweetheart to others in town. I am sorry for it. I’m trying not to gossip, but it’s difficult for me. I wish the Millers would see I am trying.”

  I winced. Sarah was right. Sure, she was a gossip, but she had proved to be loyal to me and Running Stitch. When Martha left, she could have sided with her, but she didn’t.

  “Helping the Millers now will be a good start,” I said.

  “What happened to Wanda?” Sarah asked. “How was she murdered?”

  How odd was it for an Amish woman to ask such a question?

  I threaded my own needle with sturdy white thread. “She died, but we don’t know she was murdered. It may have only been a tragic accident. The coroner will have to determine if it was murder.”

  Anna began stitching. “Angie overheard the sheriff and the coroner talking.”

  I blushed. “I may have heard a little bit. The coroner thinks she died of allergic reaction. He suspected peanuts.”

  “Was Wanda allergic to peanuts?” Sarah asked.

  “That’s what we have to find out. A member of her family or a close friend might know,” I said.

  “What about Willow Moon?” Sarah asked. “Wanda was a regular customer at her shop, and they are both township trustees.”

  Willow was a possibility. She ran the Dutchman’s Tea Shop next door to the Millers’ bakery. I had seen Wanda there many
times myself. “I will ask her,” I promised.

  After a set of eight tiny stitches, Anna pulled her needle through the fabric. “Finding out what happened to Wanda is important, but it is much more important we think of the Miller family and what they need during this time.”

  Sarah buried her knot deep in the middle of the quilt. “Why are the Millers involved? You never told me over the phone, Angie.”

  “Wanda died holding one of Rachel’s fry pies.” I threaded my needle. “Rachel gave it to her at the end of an argument.”

  “She died holding a fry pie,” Sarah yelped.

  I nodded.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Sarah fidgeted in her seat. “What were they arguing about? Rachel’s never argued with a person in her life, well, other than me.”

  “The pie factory Aaron would like to build. Wanda wanted to put a stop to it.”

  “How terrible. And the sheriff thinks Rachel may have given the fry pie to Wanda to kill her?”

  I nodded, hoping I was wrong.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Sarah scoffed. “Rachel Miller is one of the mildest women ever to take a breath of life.” She leaned across the quilt frame. “What about Wanda’s family? They will need help too,” Sarah added.

  I liked Sarah even more for remembering Wanda and her family. “According to the sheriff, Wanda’s nephew, Reed, is the only local family member. He’s fifteen and lived with his aunt.”

  “What’s going to happen to him now?” Anna asked.

  I set my needle against the cloth but had yet to start stitching. “He’s going to stay with the sheriff until some other family arrives. The boy’s mother lives in California.”

  Sarah smiled. “The sheriff is a gut man. Don’t you think so, Angie?”

  I frowned. “He is a very good sheriff. He cares about the people of Holmes County.” I pretended I had no idea what she implied with her question.

  Anna shook her head as she pulled her needle through again. “It’s not right for a child to live so far away from his parents.”

  “The sheriff said that Reed only mentioned a mother. There may not be a father in the picture.”

  Anna frowned. “The poor boy. It will be gut for him to go back to his mother and to his home.”

  In the Amish world, generation after generation stayed in the same place. The thought of one of their children moving across the country alone was hard to fathom. However, migration even happened to the Amish as their population grew and more Amish traveled west to places like Wyoming and Colorado in search of less expensive land to establish new Amish districts.

  Jonah, who was always on the lookout for how to make a profit, might be tempted by such a move. His mother would be devastated. By Anna’s frown, I suspected she entertained the same thoughts. I didn’t think she had to worry. There was no way Jonah’s prickly wife Miriam would leave Holmes County.

  The cowbell hanging from the nail on the inside of Running Stitch’s front door rang as Mattie stepped into the shop.

  Chapter Eleven

  I jumped out of my chair. “Mattie, what are you doing here?”

  She removed her thin shawl and hung it on the peg along the wall. “I saw Anna’s buggy in front of your shop while I locked up the bakery. I thought you all might be here then.”

  “You were in the bakery all this time?” Anna asked.

  “Aaron said there was no reason for us to close. Rachel was too distraught to stay, so I volunteered. They needed to be home with their boys.”

  Sarah cocked her head. “Did anyone visit the bakery?”

  She swallowed. “Ya, one of the sheriff’s deputies came in. He wanted to see the kitchen.”

  Sarah’s mouth made an O shape. “Why?”

  I knew why. The peanuts.

  The young Amish woman shook her head. “I don’t know. There was nothing to see. I wasn’t baking anything. We do most of our baking in the early morning. I had already cleaned all the mixers and ovens for the next day.” She gripped her hands in front of her. “He seemed upset when I’d told him I’d done that, but the sheriff didn’t tell us not to clean the kitchen. Why would we not? Wanda died at the auction, not our bakery.”

  This was bad. Very bad.

  “Did he take anything from the bakery?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  Sarah spun in her seat to face Mattie. “What?”

  “He took a jar of peanut butter and a bag of peanuts. He asked me if we had peanut oil in the bakery, but I said we didn’t. Peanut oil is not an Amish ingredient.”

  Sarah turned to me. “Maybe Wanda did die from a peanut allergy.”

  Anna stood and walked over to the melancholy girl, taking her arm. “Mattie, come and sit down. You have had quite a day. Tell us more about the deputy’s visit.”

  “Which deputy was it?” I asked.

  “Deputy Anderson,” she murmured.

  Deputy Anderson was a good-natured but bumbling cop. Hopefully, he would miss anything truly incriminating of the Millers, not that I believed there was such evidence in the bakery.

  Mattie slipped into her customary chair around the quilting frame, but she didn’t reach for a needle. “He took many pictures too. Picture after picture. I thought he would never stop. He took photographs of the front of the bakery too.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He did this when there were Englisch customers. I shudder to imagine what they must have thought. I shouldn’t have let him inside the bakery. Aaron will be angry with me, especially when he hears about all the pictures.”

  I squeezed her hand. “You did the right thing. It shows the police your family will cooperate and has nothing to hide.”

  Her eyes went wide. “We don’t. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “We know that,” Anna reassured her and patted the quilt topper. “You might as well make a few stitches as we talk. Gott loves busy hands.”

  Mattie nodded. “You are right.”

  I slid the needle box across the top of the quilt to her.

  Mattie selected a needle. “Sarah, I’m sorry I didn’t stop by here and tell you that I wouldn’t be coming back to Running Stitch. You have been a great help to Angie today by minding the store.”

  “It is all right, kind,” Sarah said with an understanding smile. “You needed to care for your family at the moment.”

  Anna snipped a length of thread from a spool. “I imagine Aaron has already received a visit from the bishop and the deacon. They will want to hear about what has happened.”

  Mattie blinked away tears as she threaded her needle. “It is so terrible. Rachel would never hurt anyone. How can the sheriff believe she would?”

  “Will there be trouble from the church leaders?” I asked.

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t think so. They will be more concerned about how this will make the district look. However, the Millers have never caused any trouble before. I know the bishop, who is a gut man, will give them the benefit of the doubt.” Anna reached across the quilt top and patted Mattie’s trembling hands. “There’s nothing to worry about in that regard, Mattie. Rest assured.”

  “Mattie,” I said. “The sheriff will consider Rachel and Wanda’s argument about the pie factory Rachel’s motivation for the murder. What is your brother’s relationship with Wanda and the trustees?”

  Mattie swallowed. “Aaron has always gotten along with the trustees well. They have always respected his business and praised the part the bakery plays in the community. That changed when Aaron bought the land at the end of Sugartree Street to build his pie factory.”

  “What happened?”

  “At first it was fine. In fact the trustees seemed to be happy Aaron bought the land instead of that Englisch developer.”

  “What changed their minds?” Sarah asked.

  “The pie factory. I don’t know what they expected Aaron to do with that much land, but they were furious over the idea of a factory.” She took a breath. “Their reaction came as a complete shock to my brother. He tho
ught the trustees would celebrate another Amish business in town and a place that would create more jobs.”

  “When did he find out they didn’t like his idea?” I asked.

  She began her first stitch on the quilt. “At the trustee’s meeting. Aaron did what he was supposed to, and he presented the plans for the new factory to the trustees at a public meeting. He even sent them each a copy of the plans ahead of time.” She wiped away a tear. “He worked so hard on those plans. He typed them out on an old typewriter at the library and paid the librarian to copy a proposal for each trustee.”

  “But they didn’t like the plans,” Anna said.

  Aaron’s younger sister nodded. “Nee, they didn’t. Aaron thought that it would be easy. He has never had any problems with the trustees before. It looked like the trustees would approve his plans with little comment until Wanda spoke up. She talked the others out of approving them. She insisted it broke some township building ordinance.”

  I grimaced down at my own quilting. What Mattie told us made the Millers’ motives for the murder—if it was a murder—only that much stronger.

  “How did she talk them out of approving the plans?” I asked.

  Mattie shook her head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. My brother doesn’t take me to such meetings. Rachel didn’t even go.”

  “How large are Aaron’s plans? Have you seen them?”

  She shook her head again. “My brother does not show me such things.”

  “Is there any chance I can see those plans?” I asked. Maybe if I knew how big the factory was to be, I would understand why Wanda was against them.

  She worried her lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know where my brother keeps them. He won’t want us to get in the middle of his argument with the trustees. Aaron insists this will be all over soon. Gott will take care of us.”

  He may, I thought. But it wouldn’t hurt to move the process along, in my opinion. Maybe Rachel would be able to give me a copy of the plans, but then, she would be disobeying her husband. I didn’t want to put her in that position.