Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery

by Isabella Alan

  Suddenly I had another idea. Willow! Willow, who knew everything that happened in town politics, likely had a copy. I promised myself that I would ask her the moment the tea shop opened the next day.

  “At the very least, I’m going to find out what this mysterious ordinance is Wanda used to shoot down Aaron’s plans.”

  Mattie bit her lip. “I don’t think Aaron would like it if you helped him in any way.”

  I frowned. “He might not like it, but I don’t answer to Aaron.”

  Sarah pointed her tiny seamstress scissors at us. “All this talk about the factory is not focusing on the real issue—what happened to Wanda?”

  Mattie shook her head. “It seems to me that the sheriff is blowing her death way out of proportion. Why would he think it was anything other than a heart attack?”

  I tapped my needle against my thimble. “The sheriff told me that Wanda reported prank phone calls to the sheriff’s department.” I paused. “If it was a phone call, the person probably was English.”

  Anna snorted. “Why do you think that? The Amish have shed phones and are just as likely to call Wanda as an Englischer is.”

  She had a point.

  Mattie sat very still. “Does the sheriff think Wanda was murdered because she’s been getting these calls?”

  I set my thimble on the quilt top. “I think he’s treating it like a homicide because he feels guilty the department didn’t take her complaints more seriously.”

  Sarah inched forward in her chair. “Well, he should. How could they ignore such a complaint?”

  “I guess Wanda was notorious for filing complaints with the sheriff’s department, so they brushed it off,” I said. “We do know the cause of death.”

  “What do you mean?” Mattie asked.

  Sarah told Mattie about the peanut allergy theory.

  Mattie gasped. “That’s why the deputy took the peanut butter and peanuts from the bakery? But there are no peanuts or peanut butter in our fry pie recipe.”

  “There’s always the chance the peanuts ended up there by mistake. Maybe cross contamination.”

  The women frowned at my comment.

  “What I mean is, say you made peanut brittle and chopped up a bunch of peanuts on a cutting board. Later you use the same cutting board to fold the dough for the fry pies. A tiny bit of the peanuts could get into the fry pie dough.”

  “But we didn’t make any peanut brittle,” Mattie said, confused. “We only make that at Christmastime.”

  “I know that. It was just an example of how peanuts could end up in the fry pies accidentally.”

  “But that’s not possible. My brother is meticulous about washing every spoon, bowl, and cutting board between recipes.”

  “I’m not saying this to offend you, Mattie. I’m only telling you how it may happen.” I set my needle on the quilt top. “It would probably be best if you didn’t tell the police about washing everything between recipes.”

  Her delicate brows knit together. “Why not?”

  I sighed. “Because if it was impossible the cross contamination was accidental, then it was intentional.” I paused. “Which means it is murder.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I stood. “It’s late, ladies. Your families must wonder where you are.”

  “How are you going to solve the case, Angie?” Mattie asked.

  I frowned. “All I want to do is show the sheriff that you, Aaron, and Rachel had nothing to do with Wanda’s death.”

  “What are you going to do first?” Sarah asked.

  “Tomorrow, I will drop in on Willow Moon and find out about the ordinance and what else she might know.” I smiled at Mattie’s worried expression. “Don’t worry, Mattie. I wouldn’t be surprised if your brother and Rachel were cleared by the end of the day tomorrow. It’s getting dark. Let me give you a ride home.”

  The ladies stood and gathered up their belongings, and I locked Running Stitch’s front door behind us.

  I waited for Mattie as she hugged each woman good-bye. If the hug was any indication, things were much better between Sarah and Mattie than they had been just a few weeks ago. I was glad. Sarah Leham’s farm was a close neighbor to the Grabers, so Anna and Sarah climbed into Anna’s buggy.

  Across the street, Willow Moon’s tea shop had a cheerful jack-o’-lantern in the front window. Willow’s apartment was above her tea shop, but the curtains were closed. It was only six in the evening, so she may be awake and ready to talk.

  Oliver whimpered as he waited beside my SUV. “Don’t worry, Ollie. We’ll go home right after we drop off Mattie. It’s been a long day.”

  He gave me a doggy grin. Really, the Frenchie could understand English, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he picked up some Pennsylvania Dutch since we moved to Ohio.

  A breeze picked up leaves fallen from the small maple tree outside of my shop’s window and blew them across the street. Oliver ducked between my legs, and I shivered. I wondered if the Amish ladies noticed the eerie autumn feeling. Fall in Texas didn’t have the drama of Ohio’s autumn. Some leaves changed and the days were cooler, but it didn’t have the colorful display of submitting itself to the coming winter. Even though I’d lived in Ohio until the age of ten, I had forgotten what fall was like here and the creep-crawly feeling that it could give me.

  “Angie, are you ready to go?” Mattie asked.

  I nodded and helped Oliver hop into the backseat of my SUV. Mattie climbed in the front, and we were off to the Millers’ farm.

  Somehow Oliver snuck from the backseat and into Mattie’s lap by the time we turned off Sugartree. His thick toenails must have been digging into her legs through her skirt. “You can make him climb into the backseat if he’s bothering you. He thinks that’s his seat. Really, he thinks the entire car is his.” I laughed.

  “He’s not bothering me.” She scratched Oliver between his batlike ears.

  The Frenchie leaned into her caress.

  “How does Oliver like having a kitten in the house?” Mattie asked.

  Oliver perked up at the question. He definitely knew the word “kitten.”

  Two weeks ago, Oliver and I brought a nine-week-old gray-and-white kitten home to live with us. He had been from a litter of kittens fostered by my friend Jessica Nicolson, who owned an antique shop in Millersburg. Jessica decided to keep the mother, Cherry Cat, but she planned to find homes for all the kittens. The moment Oliver saw the little gray-and-white kitten, I knew that we would have to take him home. It was love at first sight.

  I laughed. “He lives in fear most days.”

  “He’s afraid of Dodger? But he is so tiny!”

  I chuckled. “He’s not afraid of Dodger. He’s afraid for him. The kitten has a knack for trouble. He’s named after a very mischievous Charles Dickens character and he lives up to his name. I can’t tell you the number of places I have had to rescue him from since we brought him home.”

  Oliver whimpered and shifted on Mattie’s lap. I reached over and patted his head. “Don’t worry, Oliver. I’m sure Dodger has been a perfect gentleman in the house all day.”

  He gave me a look. Truthfully, the Frenchie was probably right.

  As we drove out of town, onto the dark country roads, I clicked on my brights and kept my eye out for the reflection of the orange triangle off the back of the buggies as they drove in the darkness. Most of the Amish in Holmes County, but not all, used the slow moving vehicle sign. Some of the most conservative Amish refused to attach it to their buggies because they claimed God would protect them from an accident.

  “You will help us, won’t you?” Mattie asked.

  “Hmm?” I murmured with my eyes peeled.

  “You will help Aaron and Rachel. You will make sure the sheriff knows they didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’ve already told you that I would.” I didn’t take my eyes off of the road. “Don’t be too upset the sheriff is looking at your family. He has to give this case his full attention. Wanda was an inf
luential person in the county. This is a big investigation for him.”

  “I can’t help but worry. I know Gott doesn’t want us to fret,” she whispered as she ran her finger across the top of Oliver’s smooth head. “But I can’t help it.” Her fingers stopped, and my Frenchie whimpered.

  I couldn’t help but worry either.

  “I need you to help them. I know my brother—he will not argue with the police if they accuse him or Rachel of something wrong. It is not the Amish way to do things. It is not his nature either.”

  I glanced at her for half a millisecond before returning my concentration to looking for buggies. “Back at the shop you acted like that was a bad idea.”

  She patted Oliver’s side. “Only because Aaron won’t like it.”

  “Then we won’t let him know.”

  She blinked at me. “How?”

  “First, you shouldn’t talk about it at all in front of Aaron.”

  “Then, you can’t tell Rachel either,” she said. “Rachel can’t keep a secret from her husband. They are married.”

  “Okay. Then, we won’t tell Rachel either.”

  She was silent for a minute.

  We came to a four-way stop under a lone streetlight. With no buggies in sight, I risked stealing a look at her.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I am doing this because it is the right thing to do for my family. No matter what Aaron will think. You will help me?”

  “Yes.” What else could I say?

  The little SUV bumped and rocked into the Millers’ driveway. A lantern hung from the wide front porch. I was certain Rachel lit it for her sister-in-law.

  The screen door slammed opened, and Aaron stepped outside. I walked with Mattie to the front porch to meet her brother.

  “Danki for bringing Mattie home.” He looked at his sister. “I thought you might be at the library again tonight.”

  Mattie shook her head. “I spent some time with Angie at Running Stitch after closing up the bakery.”

  She didn’t mention the other members of the quilting circle were also there. If she had, Aaron would have known that something was up.

  A chilly breeze whipped around our feet. It caught up Mattie’s skirt and pressed the fabric against her legs.

  “It is late and cold,” Aaron murmured. “Mattie, please go inside. Rachel is putting the children to bed.”

  Mattie pursed her lips, but after nodding to me did what her brother told her. Unmarried and with no living father, Mattie’s brother was in charge of her life.

  Aaron removed the lantern from the rusty nail on the porch. “Angie, I know you may want to, but please do not help the police with this matter. Please know that I do not want you to do that for me or my family.”

  I wrapped my arms around my waist to protect myself against the chilly wind. “I understand how you feel, Aaron.”

  He visibly relaxed. “Gut. I am glad. This is a terrible day and a very sad accident for Wanda and her family. Our prayers are for all involved.” He held the lantern under his chin and the light bounced off the angles and planes of his face. The light highlighted the red tone in his beard. I almost stepped away.

  I swallowed. “Please tell Rachel and Mattie I said gute Nacht.”

  He smiled at my use of the Amish word. “Rachel will be pleased with your pronunciation, and I will. Gute Nacht, Angie.”

  Seeing the ghoulish cast the lantern’s light gave Aaron’s face, I wondered if there was any chance he was capable of hurting Wanda. As I walked back to Oliver and my car, I shook this idea from my head. Clearly, the spookiness of October had gotten to me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The drive between the Millers’ farm and the small house I rented in Millersburg was twenty minutes. I turned into my driveway and smiled. I loved the little Cape Cod–style home with its flower boxes in the windows and huge, horse chestnut tree in the front yard. When I moved to the home last summer, the flower boxes overflowed with red and pink geraniums. Now, deep purple mums took their place although they were difficult to see in the dark. I wished I could take the credit for the green thumb, but my elderly landlord, Mr. Gooding, and his wife, Mrs. Gooding—I’m convinced they don’t have first names—cared for the flowers and yard. They refused to let me help. Honestly, they didn’t trust me. Over Labor Day weekend, they visited their son in Pittsburgh and put me in charge of watering their flowers. The dahlias didn’t make it. The Goodings mourned and remembered.

  I left the car in the drive and let Oliver out of the backseat. He hopped onto the driveway. He wiggled his stubby tail as I unlocked the front door. Oliver trotted inside. I pried off my dusty boots on the front step. And was relieved to see they would be as good as new with a shining. My cowboy boots were my prized possession. They were brown aged leather with delicate blue cornflowers and yellow daisies stitched up the sides. I would never find a pair to replace them in Ohio.

  I stepped into the house, carrying the boots, and heard a plaintive yowl. Oliver barked at the front window. He bent back his short neck. I followed his line of sight. Two-month-old Dodger hung from my brand-new living room curtains. I had made them out of some overstock bolts of yellow cotton fabric from the shop.

  The kitten’s pewter gray tail whipped back and forth. “Mew! Mew!”

  Oliver barked again. Worry etched in his face. The moment the Frenchie set eyes on Dodger, he appointed himself guardian, which was a new role for the pooch seeing how he was afraid of just about everything. Oliver had reason to worry. Since we had brought Dodger home he had fallen into the toilet, got stuck under the couch, and escaped into the wilds of the backyard. It had been a long two weeks. People say dogs are harder to care for than cats. I beg to differ.

  “It’s okay, Ollie. I’ll save him.” I patted his head.

  Oliver shook off my caress. He wanted me to act.

  The gray-and-white kitten was nine feet off of the floor. “Meow, meow, meow.”

  Even though I was tall, I wasn’t that tall.

  Oliver woofed and snuffled. His face clearly said, “Do something!”

  I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a dining chair. I placed the chair below Dodger and climbed on top of it. I grabbed the kitten about the tummy and unhooked his claws from the fabric one by one.

  “Mew. Mew. Mew.”

  “I know,” I said as I pulled that last claw free and stepped down. Dodger nuzzled my neck. Oliver barked. He wanted to make sure the kitten was okay. He didn’t trust me with the job. I set Dodger on the floor next to Oliver. The dog snuffled the tiny kitten all over looking for any sign of injury. Dodger rolled onto his back and batted at his canine brother.

  I knelt on the floor to reassure Oliver. Dodger didn’t need any reassurance. He was already up and wandering the living room on a quest for more trouble. “He’s okay, Ollie. There’s not a scratch on him.”

  My curtains were another story. Pinpricks ran all the way up the rod. It appeared Dodger climbed the curtains several times while we had been at the auction.

  Oliver followed after the kitten and pressed his stub nose into the kitten’s side and nudged Dodger into his dog bed. When the kitten was settled, Oliver lay next to him.

  I folded my arms. “You two are turning in for the night?”

  Oliver put a protective paw on Dodger’s back. The kitten nestled into the dog bed and closed his eyes. Oliver watched the kitten sleep.

  • • •

  The next morning, I woke up to yowls. I sat up straight in bed and saw tiny Dodger hanging from my previously unharmed bedroom curtains. Oliver rooted on the hardwood floor below barking at the kitten, who was only five feet from the ground. I couldn’t tell if he was barking encouragement or reprimand. From the confused expression on Dodger’s face, he didn’t know either.

  I jumped out of bed and examined the pinpricks of slits in my curtain and sighed. I looked down at the kitten and shook my finger at him. “Dodger, we are going to have to get you a scratching post.” Again, I unhooked him from a curtain a
nd set him on the floor.

  The little kitten purred and butted his head against my ankles. This was how he got away with everything. Oliver cocked his head as if to say. “What are you going to do? The kid is cute.”

  I gave Dodger extra points in the cuteness factor. I shook my finger at the kitten. “You’re coming to the shop with us today, so we can keep an eye on you.”

  Oliver woofed his approval as he always felt better when he could supervise his small charge.

  After I had gotten all three of us ready for the day, I drove to the sheriff’s department in Holmesville. Oliver and Dodger rode in the backseat.

  “You guys stay here,” I told them as I stopped the car in the visitor parking lot. I sighed as I walked to the octagonal building. Two months ago, I made this same walk, but as a murder suspect. I was never charged or arrested, but I did have to record my statement and be fingerprinted after finding Joseph Walker’s dead body. Who knew that in such a short time I would be here again because I made another gruesome discovery.

  Sheriff Mitchell’s reserved parking space lay empty. Not that I looked for his car. Okay, maybe I did.

  I pushed the heavy metal door open and moved down the linoleum floor to the desk sergeant. “Hi, Nadine.”

  She grunted and handed me a clipboard. “Sit there.” She pointed at a folding chair. “Record your statement and sign.”

  “Okeydokey.” I perched on the chair and filled out the paperwork. When I was finished, I took it back to Nadine. “At least you don’t have to fingerprint me this time.”

  She held out her hand for the clipboard, and I gave it to her.

  I turned to go when she said, “The sheriff will be seeing you soon I’m sure.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She gave me the tiniest of smiles. I didn’t even know Nadine knew how to smile. “You’re free to go.”

  Frowning, I left, worrying all the time about Nadine’s smile.

  On the drive from the sheriff’s department to Running Stitch, I peeked in the rearview mirror and saw Oliver and Dodger sitting side by side. Oliver had one of his forepaws in front of the kitten as if to stop him from falling off the seat in case we were to stop suddenly. He had definitely assigned himself the job of canine guardian angel. I arrived two hours before the shop opened because I wanted to catch Willow in her tea shop before she opened at nine.