I swallowed and glanced around for Linda. She was near the pass-through arguing with the cook. “I’m not a cop, but I was there when Wanda’s body was found.”
“So were dozens of Amish people. I don’t see them coming in here, and pestering me while I’m trying to enjoy what peace I have before the pickup calls start coming in.”
“I was the one who found her,” I said.
His mouth fell open. “You were?”
I nodded.
His bushy eyebrows knit together. “So what. That could have happened to anyone. I don’t know why you want to talk to me about it.”
I thought the best policy was to be straight with the guy. “The police suspect a friend of mine had something to do with Wanda’s death. I know she didn’t, so I’m”—I paused—“I’m helping the police out. Unofficially.”
“Well, there’s no reason to unofficially help them out here. I’ve already spoken to the sheriff and one of his deputies. Go talk to them to find out what I said.”
That wasn’t really an option.
I barreled ahead. “The sheriff wanted to talk to you because Wanda was your ex-wife.”
“I guess that was his reason.” He gripped the handle of his coffee mug.
“You don’t seem too upset about what happened to her.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I am upset. She was my wife once upon a time. I’m sad at her passing of course, but our marriage ended on bad terms. Excuse me if I don’t start bawling. I haven’t even seen Wanda in well over a year. We speak through our lawyers.”
“That’s hard for me to believe. Holmes County isn’t that large.”
“I don’t care if it’s hard for you to believe or not. It’s the truth.” He shook out his newspaper. “I don’t know why I am answering your questions anyway. The free coffee isn’t worth it.”
“What about the alimony you wanted her to pay? Is that the conversation you two had between your lawyers?”
Troy lowered his newspaper very slowly. Behind it his face was red and blotchy. “Where did you hear that?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“A friend of Wanda’s told me.”
“That friend of Wanda’s should also have told you that if that were true, an alimony case would be the exact reason I would not want Wanda to die. I won’t be getting any alimony now. All her money will go to whoever inherits it. I can guarantee I’m not in the will.” He studied me.
“I didn’t come here to ask you if you wished her dead,” I said. At least not outright. “When was the last time you saw her?”
Troy gripped the edge of his newspaper. “You’re not going away, are you?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
He glowered. “Do I have to repeat that I haven’t seen her in over a year? Because I haven’t.”
“I guess that means you haven’t seen your nephew either.” I dropped my hands to my lap.
He placed his paper back on the table. “My nephew. I don’t have a nephew.”
“Ex-nephew. Sorry. Reed Kent.”
He snorted. “That’s Wanda’s sister’s child. Let me tell you, Wanda’s sister is a bigger pain in the—”
I interrupted him. “What do you know about Reed?”
“Nothing. I wouldn’t know who he was if he were standing right here in front of me. The last time I saw him, it would have been when Wanda and I went to visit her sister when Reed was still a baby. We flew out to California. What a wasted trip. I planned never to go back.”
“Why was it wasted?”
“For one there was no place to smoke. Everything was banned. Little did I know that those liberals would spread to Columbus and change the laws here too. It’s discriminating against smokers. They can skew the statistics so much to make them say what they want.”
I didn’t know any health professional who questioned the harm of secondhand smoke, but I wasn’t going to tell him that, especially now that he was talking to me. Even if it was just to get rid of me, I was okay with that.
He shook his paper so hard, I was surprised the letters didn’t fly off and hit me in the face. “Sometimes a man needs a smoke to take the edge off. Nothing to take the edge off, he might shoot a guy.”
Lovely thought.
“So you haven’t seen Reed at all.”
“What, am I talking to a brick wall?”
I’ll take that as a no.
The bell on the door jangled as someone new stepped into the dinner. Oliver woofed lightly at the teenager and let him pet him. That was interesting. Oliver typically wasn’t that friendly to strangers. Although he was better with human strangers than winged ones. Reed wore black leather pants and a tattered denim jacket over a graphic rock band T-shirt.
“Do you know the kid who just walked in?” I asked, testing Wanda’s ex.
“No, but he looks like trouble. Those Goth kids always are. He’s probably on drugs.”
He seemed to honestly have no idea that the kid in the leather was his former nephew.
Reed glanced our way. His gaze didn’t seem to register his former uncle. They didn’t know each other—of that, I was certain—but he surely recognized me. Instead of waiting for a menu, he turned to go.
“Kid probably saw this wasn’t his kind of place. No heavy metal music blaring.”
Troy’s cell phone rang. “We’re going to have to wrap this up. This is one of my Amish clients calling.”
“No problem,” I said and bolted from the table after Reed.
“Crazy woman,” I heard Troy mutter as I exited the booth.
I left Oliver in the diner. Linda would take good care of him for a few minutes. The two had bonded over their love of sausage while I’d enjoyed that lovely chat with Troy.
Outside, the pavement shone with the recent rain. I looked left and saw nothing. I looked right and saw Reed walking at a slouch up the street. I jogged after him.
The kid spun around in a fighting stance. Maybe he had taken karate as a kid in addition to horseback riding. I thought to play it safe and stay out of range of his kick. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?” he snapped.
“I want to talk to you about your aunt.”
“I want a car. Seems neither one of us is going to get what we want.” He turned and ran.
Chapter Twenty-one
After Reed ran down the street, I debated whether or not I should run after him. Common sense prevailed. Oliver was back in the Double Dime Diner. If I needed to track Reed down, I knew where to find him at the sheriff’s house. Although it might be a tad awkward to knock on Mitchell’s door asking to see a potential suspect.
As I returned to the diner, Troy shuffled toward a nondescript tan minivan parked on the street. “You again?” he grunted. “You ran out of there like a dog after a tennis ball.”
“Can I ask you one more question?”
“You never got my permission to ask one before. Why start now?”
I smiled, shooting for charming again. “I’m trying to be polite.” Judging by his scowl, I failed.
“I have to make a pick up at the quilt shop in Rolling Brook.”
My brow shot up. “Quilt shop? My quilt shop?”
“You own Authentic Amish Quilts?”
I grimaced. Not my shop. Martha’s. “No, my shop is next door. Mine’s Running Stitch.”
“Why would you be so dumb and open your shop next to another quilt shop?”
“Mine was there first.” I dug the toe of my shoe into the wet leaves on the sidewalk.
“The owner must not like you much or thinks he can put you out of business. Why else would he open there?”
I didn’t say anything.
A slow smiled spread on his face. “Hit a sore spot, did I?”
“Why are you picking someone up from that store?”
“I don’t have to tell you that. I have client confidentially to think about.”
“You’re a driver not a lawyer.”
“There is an Amish driver
code. You wouldn’t understand.” He stalked away.
Back inside the diner, Linda set a pancake on a ceramic plate in front of Oliver. He gulped it down in two bites.
She straightened up. “You got a good dog there.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking I might as well finish that piece of pecan pie. I didn’t want the entire trip to the Double Dime Diner to be wasted.
“I couldn’t help but overhear some of what you said to Troy about his ex-wife. Is that what brought you here? I read about that in the paper. It’s a sad story.”
I nodded. “Very sad.”
“What do you have to do with it?” She looked me up and down. “Are you a cop? I know all the cops in Millersburg. They are some of my best customers. You’re not one of them.” She peered over the counter and examined my outfit. “Are you FBI or something? I saw on television that the FBI dresses fancy.”
I looked down at my jacket and jeans and wondered where the “fancy” comment came from. True, the jeans were designer back from my Dallas days when I cared about such things as the label on my clothes. “No.” I coughed. “Not even close. I told you when I first arrived that I own Running Stitch, an Amish quilt shop in Rolling Brook. Also, I don’t think the FBI is really known for dressing fancy.”
“They wear suits. Suits are fancy.”
I wore jeans and an orange turtleneck sweater. “I’m not wearing a suit.”
She lowered her voice. “Because you are undercover.”
“Really, I own an Amish quilt shop. That’s all I do.”
She pushed away from the counter. “You’re not Amish.”
“I’m not.” I was coming to realize that I was bound to have this conversation every time I said I owned an Amish quilt shop. Should I start saying I owned “a quilt shop” and leave the Amish out of it? But the Amishness of it was what made Running Stitch my aunt’s store.
“Then how can you call it an Amish quilt shop if you’re not Amish?”
“Because it was Amish first. I inherited it from my Amish aunt.”
“Oh, you’re one of those runaway Amish. You saw too much television during rumspringa and couldn’t go back. I know the type.”
“No, I was never Amish.”
She gave me a look as if to say yeah, right.
“I’m not Amish, and I’m not an Amish FBI agent either. I wanted to talk to Troy because Rachel Miller is a good friend of mine. The sheriff thinks that she or her husband may have caused Wanda’s death.”
“Why? Rachel Miller has to be the sweetest woman in the entire county.”
I couldn’t agree more. “The Millers were in a dispute with the township about a pie factory they planned to build on Sugartree Street.”
“I heard about that.”
“You did? From who?”
“It’s hard to remember. I think it was an Amish man complaining about the English meddling in their business.” She snapped her fingers. “I know! It was Linus Raber.”
“Linus? The auctioneer?”
“That’s right. He was here talking about the factory, but he was mostly talking about how much the Rolling Brook township trustees try to control the town. He wasn’t too fond of them, I can tell you that.”
“Can you remember what he said?”
“Oh, yes, Linus likes to talk. It’s unusual for an Amish man; most are tight-lipped, at least they are when they are around people like us.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“That Aaron Miller would have to plead his case in front of the township trustees at the next meeting.”
Plead his case. That was tomorrow in front of the trustees, and I had to be there whether Aaron wanted me there or not.
I made a mental note to ask Jonah about Linus. Mattie too. She might be able to tell me what connection he had with her brother that he would know this much about the family business. Aaron wouldn’t tell me himself. Linda was right. Most Amish men were quiet, and Aaron Miller was the most closed-mouth Amish man I had ever met.
Linus Raber just became a person of interest.
Chapter Twenty-two
After I returned to Running Stitch, Anna went home and I spent the rest of the day in the shop with Mattie preparing for the quilting class the next morning. Mattie left at three. I locked up at four thirty like always, but didn’t leave the shop until six.
As I left with Dodger tucked under one arm and Oliver at my feet following me, I felt a sense of pride. Seven chairs waited in a circle in the middle of the shop where the class would be held. Anna would teach them how to quilt in clear view of the display window and, therefore, those passing by on the sidewalk and street. Little packets of quilting materials, which were included in the price of the class, sat on each seat tied up in a silver bow. The class would be a success, I could feel it.
“Come on boys,” I told my two housemates. “It’s time to go home.”
For dinner I had a snack-sized bag of Doritos and handful of grapes. I wasn’t proud of it, but after an exhausting day investigating Wanda’s death and preparing for quilting class tomorrow, I was too tired to open the refrigerator door much less cook something.
Unfortunately, even though my body was tired my mind was restless, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t have a chance to talk to Reed Kent. It seemed like everything led back to the teenager. I knew where to find him because I knew exactly where the sheriff lived. I wasn’t a stalker or anything, but I may have asked the ladies at the quilt shop for his address. I had never been on the street before. At least I had never been caught on his street before.
The sheriff’s house was only a few blocks from mine in Millersburg. I guess that’s how he was able to reach my house so quickly two months ago when I had a fire in the backyard. I parked on the street beneath a maple.
The home was a modest white ranch with red shutters. The colors reminded me of a candy cane and made me smile. Did the serious sheriff pick that color scheme? The tree in the front yard was bare of its leaves. I let Oliver out of the car and worked up the courage to walk up the driveway and knock on the door. Mitchell’s eight-year-old son, Zander, threw open the door and the sheriff’s spunky Boston terrier, Tux, flew outside. When he and Oliver touched noses, both dogs leaped around the yard in joyous barks.
Mitchell’s son didn’t seem too surprised or concerned at Tux’s reaction to Oliver. Maybe Tux behaved that way every time someone stopped by.
Zander cocked his head. “Who are you?” The raven black hair from his mother fell into his father’s aquamarine eyes. There was little doubt who this child’s parents were.
“Umm, I’m Angie. I’m . . .” I paused. What was I?
I had met the child briefly at Rolling Brook’s Watermelon Fest that summer, but not surprisingly he had seemed to have forgotten meeting me. For some reason, that bothered me.
I tried again. “I’m here to talk to your dad, the sheriff.”
From deep in the house, I heard the rumble of Mitchell’s voice. “Zander, what did I tell you about opening the front door? Let me do that.”
Zander spun around and ran into the house. Unsure what to do, I stayed rooted on the doorstep feeling like a fool. Should I go? Would Mitchell be upset that I was there? I knew he wouldn’t be happy when I told him that it was about Reed. Was that the only reason? I gave myself a mental head slap. Of course, that was the only reason.
“Who is here?” I heard the sheriff ask his son.
“I don’t know. Some lady. I’m going to watch cartoons.”
The sheriff sighed. I could hear it all the way to the front door. “Don’t answer the door again,” he told his son.
I heard the gentle thud of footsteps approach. The door was still wide open. The sheriff’s face broke into a smile when he saw me, and his aquamarine eyes brightened. “Angie, this is a surprise.”
A good surprise?
“What are you doing here?” He folded his arms over his blue flannel shirt. It was odd to see the sheriff out of uniform. Ev
en when he was out and about walking Tux he wore his department baseball cap.
“Hi.” What a brilliant opening, Angie. I stopped myself from knocking the heel of my hand against my forehead. “I’m looking for Reed.”
The sheriff’s open expression closed up like a trapdoor. The calculating cop grimace planted firmly back on his face. “Reed? Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him, you know, about what happened to his aunt.”
He folded his arms. I tried not to stare as the muscle contracted under the fabric. Get it together, Angie!
“Why do you think I would let you do that? You’re not a cop.”
“Maybe he will tell me something he won’t tell you.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “He doesn’t even know you. What makes you think he will talk to you?”
Why did I come here? In the list of dumb ideas, this was off the charts. I planned to blame this lapse in judgment on fatigue.
The sheriff dropped his arms. “I didn’t even know you knew where I lived.”
Oh, great, now he was going to think I was a stalker. Could this get any worse? “I . . .”
My dismay must have registered on my face because the sheriff quickly added, “It’s fine that you know. I’m sure anyone English or Amish in the county could tell you. It’s no secret.”
“One of the ladies in the quilting circle told me.” I sighed. “I understand you don’t want me to talk to Reed, but I think I can help.”
“You need to stay out of it. Do I have to remind you what happened this past summer?”
He didn’t. The fading scars on my palms remind me every day. “Was it murder?”
The sheriff sighed. “Possibly and that’s how I am treating it until proven otherwise.”
“How did she die?” I frowned. “Was it the fry pie?”
Please say it wasn’t. Please say it wasn’t. If I knew the fry pie wasn’t to blame, then Rachel wasn’t involved, which meant I wasn’t compelled to investigate.
“It was the fry pie.”
My face fell.
Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery Page 13