Anna sighed. “It is not for me to say. If you really want to know, you should talk to Jonah. He has been doing business with Gideon for years.” Anna wouldn’t say another word about it.
I made a mental note to talk to Jonah. “I stopped by Out of Time too to talk to Jessica.”
“And?” Anna asked.
“She knew that Wanda died at the auction, everyone in the county knows that now. An interesting tidbit she told was that Wanda’s ex-husband, Troy Hunt, is an Amish driver.”
“Is that important?” Anna asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “Wanda died on an Amish auction yard. Maybe Troy was familiar with the place because he’s driven Amish out that way before? All I know for certain is he’s a prime suspect.”
“Why?” Mattie asked. “Because he drives Amish?”
“No, because most murders are committed by someone the person knows, and most of those murderers are the significant other or, in this case, the ex-significant other. If he didn’t do it, he might know the person who did.”
Mattie gripped the feather duster. “Our family has used him for a driver before.”
“We have too,” Anna said. “I don’t know his phone number, but we reach him by calling the Double Dime Diner in Millersburg.”
“The Double Dime Diner? Where’s that?” I walked over to Oliver’s dog bed where I found him curled up with Dodger. The kitten was asleep nestled under the Frenchie’s chin. Oliver was wide awake and appeared to be trying very hard not to move.
Anna snipped a new length of thread from her spool. “It’s south on route 39.”
I plucked my coat from the peg on the wall. “I’ll head over there right now. Mattie, can you stay and keep an eye on the shop?”
“But, Angie, what about the beginner’s quilting class tomorrow morning? I thought you wanted to work on putting the pieces together today,” Mattie asked.
“That’s right. How about this, you start cutting the pieces, and I will put the packets together when I get back.”
Anna stood. “I can help you cut, Mattie. I am teaching the class.”
“I’d appreciate the help. That’s a lot of pieces to cut even if it’s only for a small class,” Mattie said.
I picked up my hobo bag. “What was the final count of attendees?”
Mattie walked around the counter and consulted a clipboard. “Final count is seven.”
I frowned. I had hoped for at least ten. Although a class that large would be tight in the shop if any shoppers happened by. However seven was a respectable number. The class had to be a success, so they would go home and tell their friends, who then will want to take a class. The goal was to begin small. Class one was on choosing the right pattern and cutting, class two was on piecing, and class three was on quilting by hand. By the end of the fifth class, they would each have a small wall quilt of their very own. Materials were included in the cost of admission. I had a lot riding on these classes, especially now that Martha had copied my idea and offered classes of her own, calling hers “authentic.”
“Sarah will be here tomorrow to help you with the class,” I said.
Anna nodded. “I am glad. Sarah has a good eye for detail, which comes in handy at times.”
I fished in my purse for my keys. “I want this class to be a huge success, and the ladies who attend to think they’ve had a real Amish quilting experience.”
“It will be,” Mattie said reassuringly.
Anna wiped the lens of her glasses on her apron. “You wouldn’t happen to be thinking about the classes that Martha’s offering next door, are you?”
“How did you know that?”
She laughed. “Your hands are balled up into tiny fists.”
“So how do you know that I wasn’t upset about something else? Like Wanda’s death? Or the accusations against the Millers?”
“Were you?”
“No,” I admitted.
She nodded as if I just proved her point, which in a way I had.
“In any case, I will be back in plenty of time to help get everything ready for tomorrow’s class. I can even stay after the shop closes if need be.”
“Ya.” Mattie nodded. “We know you like to work at night but don’t worry. I wouldn’t be surprised if Anna and I have everything done before you get back from the diner.”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised either. Thank you both.” I turned to Oliver. “Oliver, let’s go.”
He lifted his head up from where it rested against Dodger’s cheek. His expression clearly said, “Do I have to?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Dodger will be fine. You can’t be a mother hen over him all the time. He needs to learn how to take care of himself.”
Oliver sighed but rose to his feet. He took care not to disturb the sleeping kitten.
Dodger mewed softly in his sleep as if to ask where the large warm pillow had gone.
Oliver whimpered, but before I could even cross the room, Dodger rolled back into a tight ball and went to sleep.
“See, I told you he will be fine,” I said.
Anna pulled open the drawer under the cutting board and pulled out a pair of large fabric scissors. She pointed the scissors at me. “Angie, you treat that dog as if he were your child.”
My brows shot up. “He’s not?”
Mattie chuckled, and Oliver and I headed for the Double Dime Diner.
Chapter Nineteen
The Double Dime Diner was a freestanding building on a corner lot between two state routes. Oliver and I tiptoed over a bed of slick wet leaves to reach the front door from the small parking lot. Thankfully, the storm had finally passed and only the puddles remained. Oliver rubbed his nose in the oak leaves.
“Oliver, unless there is a clue in there to Wanda Hunt’s death, we have to keep moving.”
Reluctantly, he waddled after me through the diner’s door.
A waitress, wearing a powder blue 1950s waitressing uniform, polished the glass of a rotating pie case. I suspected the uniform wasn’t tongue-in-cheek retro, but the real thing retro, as in, the waitress had been wearing that same uniform since the 1950s. Oliver stared at the pie case. I wasn’t sure if it was the rotation or the desserts that captured his attention. Maybe both.
“No dogs allowed,” the waitress rasped like a lifetime smoker. Judging from yellow tobacco stains on her fingers, I suspected that was a good chance.
“I’m sorry.” I started backing out the door. “I’ll put him outside.”
Oliver cocked his head and wiggled his one white and one black batlike ears. He knew when it was time to turn on the charm, and Oliver had plenty to spare.
The waitress tossed her dust rag onto the counter next to the cash register. “You are a cute little feller, aren’t you?”
Oliver certainly agreed with her cuteness comment. He trotted over to her, his nails clicking on the worn and chipped linoleum tiles, lay on his stomach, placed his head on his paws, and gazed upward. Aren’t I precious? he asked with those big brown eyes.
“How darling. He looks like he can handle himself. He can stay as long as he stays up here near the front door. He can’t go in the dining room. Some of the guests might not like it, and I’m not in the mood to hear their bellyaching.”
“Thanks.” I stifled a grin. “Oliver would hate to wait outside. He hates to get his feet wet.”
“Me and him both. There ain’t nothing worse than wet feet. Oliver is a sweet name.” She looked to me. “You can just sit anywhere you like.”
I slipped onto one of the blue spinning stools at the counter. Through a pass-through to the kitchen, I saw a middle-aged man flipping pancakes on the griddle. My stomach rumbled. It was almost eleven, and I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
The waitress slapped a plastic menu in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee please, with cream and sugar. Are you still serving breakfast?”
She flipped over a white coffee mug and grabbed the coffeepot from the warmer in a practic
ed move. “We serve breakfast all day long. What would you like?”
“A short stack of pancakes.”
“Cream and sugar is right there on the counter.” She pointed to a shaker of sugar and a dish of creamer cups. “Short stack coming up.”
She turned and called my order in to the cook. After doctoring the coffee to my liking and taking a second to miss the vanilla lattes I used to get from the barista in my office building in Dallas, I turned in my stool. The diner was half full. Two elderly Amish men sat in the first booth, drinking coffee and reading the Budget, the Amish newspaper. All the other people in the diner were English, over sixty, and male. I didn’t know how I would be able to pick Wanda’s ex-husband out of the bunch. It could be any one of them.
The waitress topped off my coffee. “You looking for someone?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because I’ve never seen you here before. The new people who come in are tourists, and they don’t come by until afternoon. You don’t look like a tourist.” She peered over the counter at my cowboy boots. “Although you don’t look like you are from around here either. And you keep looking around like you’re afraid somebody might sneak up on you.” She leaned in. “You got man trouble?”
I reached for the sugar dispenser again. Talk of man trouble always brings out my sweet tooth. “I recently moved here from Texas.”
She whistled. “Texas. You’re a long way from the longhorns, Little Miss. What brought you here?”
“I inherited an Amish quilt shop from my aunt,” I said.
“Whereabouts is the shop?”
“It’s in Rolling Brook.” I removed a card from my purse and slid it across the counter to her.
She examined the card. “So, Angela Braddock—”
“You can call me Angie,” I said automatically.
“And I’m Linda. So Angie.” She tapped the card with her index finger. “Was this shop the only thing that brought you to Holmes County?”
“Maybe a little man trouble did too,” I admitted.
She wiped the counter with a rag. “I knew it. After sixty years working this counter, I can always sniff out a broken heart.” She propped her elbows on the counter and cupped her face in her hands. “What happened?”
I hesitated from telling. First of all, I didn’t know her at all and second of all, my breakup with Ryan wasn’t something I talked about, even with the quilting circle. However, she may be able to help me find Troy Hunt, and she liked Oliver.
“Ryan and I were together seven years. We were engaged; he dumped me right before our big Texas wedding. End of story.”
“Sweetie.” She walked over to the rotating pie display and hit a button. The rotation came to a halt, and she opened the door. “You need a big piece of pecan pie for that tale of woe.” She chose the largest piece of pecan pie from the display.
“Well . . .” Typically I didn’t indulge before noon, but it was all in the name of finding out more about Wanda, right? “Well, okay. If you think it will help.”
“Pecan pie always helps. You can bet your life on it.” She picked up her rag again and began cleaning the rest of the counter.
Before she got too far away, I said, “I am looking for someone.”
She straightened up and came back my way. “I knew that too. In my line of work, you learn how to read people. I can always tell when someone needs a coffee fresh up or another slice of bacon. It’s like a sixth sense.”
I could see where a sixth sense about bacon would come in handy.
“Do you know Troy Hunt? He’s the one I’m looking for.”
She removed a plastic straw from her apron pocket and unwrapped it. “Why would a pretty young girl like you be looking for that old curmudgeon?”
I twisted my mouth. Did I tell her about Wanda? Spilling my guts about Ryan seemed like payment enough for a little information, even considering the pecan pie.
“Order up!” the cook shouted.
Linda turned, grabbed my order of pancakes, and slid them in front of me. “You hold that thought while I go check my tables.”
Saved by pancakes. As the waitress made her rounds, I doused my pancakes with syrup. So much for my diet, but I told myself that it was okay because eating pancakes was part of my cover for being in the diner in the first place. I didn’t want to blow it. I counted the pie as collateral.
Whimpering caught my attention. Oliver belly crawled in my direction.
I shook my head and hissed, “Oliver. No. No. You know what the waitress said.”
He gave me his most pathetic face.
“No.”
Linda came back and Oliver belly crawled backward. The pitiful expression was still on his face, but he didn’t want to be put outside either.
She started a fresh pot of coffee and removed the chewed-up straw from her mouth and used it like a pointer. “He’s back in the corner there with his cronies. They hang out here at the diner most of the time until they get a callout.”
The butter pancake melted in my mouth. “A callout?”
“To pick up some Amish and drive them someplace. It’s a good gig for an old guy to have. It keeps them active, and they can make some good money on it too. The Amish have many places to go.”
“Where do they usually take the Amish?”
She shrugged. “Mostly to the doctor or to appointments in Canton. That’s the closest city. Some of the guys have daily gigs taking vans full of Amish men to job sites as far away as Cleveland and even Cincinnati.”
I slid my fork in the pecan pie. It oozed caramel. Surely, a dentist would go into cardiac arrest if he saw it. “They drive Amish that far every day?”
“Sometimes, but I think Troy likes to keep his pickups closer within the county.” Linda gnawed on her straw like Huck Finn on a piece of hay. “You still haven’t told me why you want to talk to him.”
“Umm.” I shoved a bite of pie in my mouth. Delay tactic.
“You look like a sweet girl. I’m asking for your own good. The sheriff was here earlier this morning looking for Troy too.”
I almost fell off my barstool. “He was?”
She nodded and fanned herself. “He’s a good-looking man who makes you sit up straight and take notice. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be chasing him the moment I heard his divorce was final. Those eyes. Have you ever seen his eyes?”
Mitchell’s peculiar blue-green eyes crossed my mind. I had seen the eyes.
She peered at me. “You’re just about his age and pretty enough. I bet the sheriff would be just the ticket for you to get over that Ryan what’s-his-face.”
“Did the sheriff say why he was here?”
She fiddled with her straw. “Turns out Troy’s ex-wife died at the auction yesterday. The sheriff wanted to know what Troy knew about it.”
“Did the sheriff tell you that?”
“No, but I may have overheard a comment or two while I refilled their coffee. It wasn’t like they tried to keep their conversation private.”
“What did they say?” I asked, hoping that she would want to gossip some more.
She didn’t disappoint. “The sheriff asked him when the last time he saw his ex-wife and where he was all day yesterday. That could only mean he is a suspect.”
That would be my conclusion.
The cook stuck his head through the pass-through. “Linda, stop gabbing and wait on the tables.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” she bellowed back and grabbed the coffeepot, refilling my mug. “See, I’m serving customers.”
The cook threw up his hands. “She’s not the only one. I don’t make money off some skinny girl tourist.”
He called me skinny. How sweet and misguided.
Linda growled but snatched up her coffeepot and moved around the counter. While Linda was occupied, I slipped off my stool and headed in Troy’s direction.
Chapter Twenty
The man Linda pointed out as Troy had sparse gray hair, a beer belly, and a fi
ve o’clock shadow.
“Troy Hunt?” I asked.
“Yeah?” He folded his newspaper on the table. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Angie Braddock. I own Running Stitch in Rolling Brook.”
He sipped his coffee. “So what?”
I stepped back. “I wondered if I could talk to you for a moment.”
“Wonder no more. The answer is no. For the record, the answer will always be no.”
Linda appeared over my shoulder. “Troy, stop being such a bear and answer this girl’s questions. It’s not like you have anything else better to do.” She pushed me toward the opposite side of the booth. “You have a seat there, sweetie, and chat with him.”
Troy showed her his teeth. “I’m waiting for a callout.”
Linda flipped through her order pad. “Which means you have nothing better to do than talk to this girl while you wait for that call.”
He scowled. “I’m reading the newspaper.”
“You will just depress yourself if you do that. War. Poverty. Corruption. The newspaper is a downer.” Linda lifted her coffeepot higher in the air. “Free coffee for a week if you talk to our friend Angie here.”
He held up his mug. “Fine. It will make the time pass.”
I slipped onto the empty bench across from him.
Linda filled his mug and moved on to the next table.
“You’re lucky the diner makes the best coffee in this county. Not that it’s all that good, but at least it won’t make you choke.” He eyed me. “You look like you are a froufrou coffee drinker.”
“I enjoy a mocha now and again,” I said.
He gagged. “Might as well eat a candy bar if you’re going to drink the sludge.” He sipped from his mug. “What do you want? You’re not Amish, so I know you don’t need a ride from me.”
“Do you ever drive Amish out to the Nissleys’ auction yard?”
“’Course, I do; it’s a regular stop. Lots of Amish from all over the county want to go to the auction.”
“Drive anyone out that way on Wednesday?” I asked.
“I made a couple trips out. Wait!” He slammed his mug onto the table and some of the black liquid sloshed out onto the laminate surface. “Is this about Wanda? I know nothing about it. Are you a cop?”
Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery Page 12