Chapter 24
Emily had the sugar in a double boiler for the peanut brittle and stirred it in a slow figure-eight motion, as I had taught her to do. “I was just about to add the other ingredients to the peanut brittle.”
“Danki, Emily,” I said, winking at her when I used the Amish word. “Let’s finish up that peanut brittle, so it has time to cool before the judging.”
She grinned back. Had it been Cass who was helping make my candies at the ACC, she would have peppered me with a thousand questions about my conversation with Susan and would be dying of curiosity over my confrontation with Beatrice, which clearly had not gone well. But Emily was not Cass. She didn’t mention it or ask a single question. I was grateful for that because I was still processing what I had learned. There was a saboteur in the ACC. But would the person have gone so far as to kill one of her fellow competitors in order to permanently remove them from the competition, and if that was true and he or she had committed the ultimate crime, where would the killer stop?
I loved candy making as much as the next candy maker. It was my life’s work, but it certainly was not a life or death occupation. It was not worth killing over. I would argue that no occupation, and certainly no contest that gives you little more than bragging rights and extra publicity in the Amish world, ever was.
A few minutes later, the peanut brittle was cooling on cookie sheets lined with parchment paper. The amber-colored candy was molten hot and smelled divine. It took all my willpower not to pluck one of those sugar-covered peanuts from the tray. In any case, that was a bad idea, one that could result in a third-degree burn.
Emily dried her hands on a dish towel. “You have a good chance of winning this round too, Bailey. Swissmen Sweets’ peanut brittle is my favorite. I can’t believe that any of the other candy makers here could make anything better.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” I glanced at the time readout on my cell phone. I still had twenty minutes before peanut brittle judging began. That would give me enough time to run over and peek inside the church.
I must have had a look on my face because Emily shook her head. “Wherever you need to go, go. But promise me you will be back before the judging. I don’t want it to be like last time when I had to go find you.”
I frowned. “Last time, Charlotte found Josephine’s body.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“All right. I . . .” I trailed off because I noticed Haddie’s posture. She wasn’t watching me exactly, but her body was too still, as if she was putting all her focus into listening to what I was saying. “I’ll be back in time for the judging. I promise.”
Before I could change my mind, I ran across the square and the street that separated the green from the church lawn. I ran around the back of the church to the door that led into the utility room.
“Do you see the smudges?” One of the two painters in coveralls asked the other. “We’re going to have to repaint this entire part of the fence. This isn’t the only job we have today. I don’t have time for repainting. Why did that moron touch the fence? And if that pastor thinks I’m paying for that man’s dry cleaning, he’s got another think coming. I don’t have to pay people for their idiotic behavior. He should have seen the sign that said ‘wet paint.’ How dumb can you be?”
“But where is the sign?” his companion said.
“What? You put it on the fence before we left last night.”
“Well, do you see it?” his friend asked.
The larger of the two men walked up to the fence. “What did that nimrod do, tear the sign off and throw it away? Oh, that steams me right through.”
The smaller man rolled his eyes. “I don’t think he purposely removed the sign. It wasn’t like he wanted to get paint on his coat.”
“He could have,” the first man said in a sulky voice. “You hung the sign up, didn’t you?”
His friend threw up his hands. “Yes! You saw me do it. You just said that.”
“Then what happened to it?”
The smaller man shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe someone moved it.”
“Who moved the sign?” the first painter asked. “Check the rest of the fence. Make sure it’s really gone. I thought when we took this church job, it would be easy. Aren’t church people supposed to be nice and all?”
The second painter walked the length of the fence. “It’s gone.”
Painter number one grunted. “I wish I knew who moved the sign. I’d tell them where they could put it.”
“Doesn’t seem to matter,” the second painter said. “We can fix this smudge in the paint and leave. It’s not really that bad. Reverend Brook made it sound like the entire fence was ruined.”
“That is a small blessing. We have two more jobs to get to today. You knew it would be on us to repaint and cover the cost. Reverend Brook is a penny pincher. Even if he is a pastor.”
“In my experience,” the second painter said, “most pastors are.”
His friend grunted in agreement.
“Hey!” the second painter yelled. “There’s the sign.” He pointed into the cemetery.
I looked in the direction he pointed. In the middle of the cemetery, a good thirty feet away from the fence that surrounded it, there was a small stone mausoleum. On the round wooden door, a white piece of paper hung. The smaller of the two men jumped the fence and ran to the tiny building. He ripped the piece of paper from the mausoleum door and waved it in the air. “This is our sign, all right.” He hurried back to the fence to show his friend.
“Darn kids,” the first painter grumbled as he took the piece of paper from the other man’s hand. “They don’t care about anything but having a laugh. They must have been the ones who moved this sign. They don’t take the time to think about how much time we have to waste cleaning up their little pranks.”
“Well, at least we know how it happened. Let’s touch up the fence and leave.”
The first painter grumbled in agreement.
I stared at the small mausoleum. It was no bigger than a shed. Why would someone move the WET PAINT sign to the front of the mausoleum? Was it kids pulling some kind of prank, like the painters thought? Had the sign simply blown off the fence and landed on the building? That seemed unlikely, especially since it was secured in place with two bright blue pieces of painter’s tape. And on closer inspection, it was clear the small building hadn’t been painted in years, if not decades. Who would ever believe that the mausoleum had a layer of wet paint on it?
However, that didn’t change the fact that these were the two men I had seen painting the fence yesterday morning, not long before Charlotte found her dead aunt inside the church’s organ. They might have seen something.
I stepped out of the shadow of the church. “Hello?”
The first painter jumped back and grabbed his chest. “You again? No, we haven’t seen the pig.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I wasn’t going to ask you about Jethro.”
“Jethro?” his friend asked.
I glanced at him. “That’s the pig’s name.”
“Of course it is,” muttered the first man.
I pressed on. “Do you know what happened inside the church while you were painting?”
The first painter sniffed. “If you’re talking about that Amish lady who got killed, then yeah, we know, but don’t think we had anything to do with it, because we didn’t.”
“Did you see anyone around when you were painting?” I asked.
The first painter raised his eyebrows at his friend. “No. Nobody was around. We were to paint the fence, and we wanted to finish up the job and get in and out of here as fast as possible.”
I took a deep breath. “You didn’t see anything at all? All morning?”
“There was that raccoon,” the second painter mused.
His friend rolled his eyes. “The woods are full of raccoons. Why did you bother to tell her that?”
The younger painter shrugged. “What if I was wrong and
it wasn’t a raccoon at all but that pig?”
I latched onto that. “It just might have been,” I said eagerly. “What can you tell me about it?”
He pulled on his narrow goatee. “’Coons can get big, but I thought it was too big for a raccoon.”
“I don’t know. ’Coons can be huge,” the first painter said. “There was one that lived under my uncle’s shed out in Knox County. He just left it alone because, I swear, it was the size of a bear cub. He figured a ’coon that size could have the shed.”
His friend shook his paint brush at him. “There is no way that you saw a raccoon the size of a bear cub.”
“You can ask my uncle if you don’t believe me,” the other man said, sounding a little miffed.
His friend snorted. “Your uncle is ninety if he’s a day. He’s not a reliable source.”
“He is. The man is as sharp as a tack. He can recite the capitals of all fifty states.”
“What does that prove?”
“Did you see something?” I interrupted the men’s argument. “Other than the giant raccoon.”
“Looked more like a groundhog to me,” the first painter said.
“It was too fast for a groundhog,” the second replied.
“How do you know how fast a groundhog can move?”
Raccoon or groundhog, their description gave me hope that they had actually seen Jethro on the lam. I had to get this conversation back on track. It was very close to going off the rails completely. “Where did the animal go?”
“Don’t know. It ran into the cemetery. Could be there now, as far as we know.”
“It would be if it was a groundhog. My uncle says they’re really partial to graveyards.” He shook his head, as if groundhog behavior was more than he could fathom. “Let’s go get the paint we need to finish this job. Didn’t I tell you that these church people are crazy?”
I watched the two men lumber away. I wanted to follow them, but I had too much to do. I had also promised Emily that I wouldn’t miss the peanut brittle round. I couldn’t afford to if I wanted to stay in the competition. Beatrice would be more than happy to remove me.
I glanced at my phone again. It was seven minutes until judging. If I wanted another peek at the church’s organ, this was my chance. I hurried to the back entrance that led into the kitchen, hoping the door was unlocked. I placed my hand on the handle and stumbled back when it flew toward me. Deputy Aiden Brody stepped out of the church with a bemused expression on his face.
I groaned.
Aiden cocked his head. “Not exactly the reaction I want to hear when I run into you. You might make me think that you didn’t want to see me.”
I felt a blush creep across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
“Aren’t you supposed to be making candy?” Aiden asked.
“Technically,” I said, happy that he made no comment about my blush.
“What on earth are you doing back here, Bailey King?” I heard just the slightest hint of a southern drawl in his words. His accent wasn’t nearly as pronounced as his mother’s, but if I listened closely enough, I could catch a hint of it from time to time.
“I—I,” I stammered. I had to think fast. “I was looking for Charlotte.” The Amish girl’s name popped out of my mouth, and I wished that I could shove it back in again. The less attention I brought to Charlotte, the better, especially since I knew she was at Swissmen Sweets, helping my grandmother while staying out of sight.
“She’s not here,” he said. “Funny you should be looking for her. I am too. She and I need to talk. I went out to her family’s farm this morning but was told that she wasn’t there.”
“Oh?” I said as innocently as possible.
He removed his department ball cap and bent the brim, a nervous habit. “It’s hard to know if she really wasn’t there or if her family just said that to me. Most Amish don’t like to talk to law enforcement and will protect their own.”
“They have a good reason not to trust the law,” I said.
Aiden slapped his hat lightly on the side of his leg. “I can understand that. The sheriff hasn’t done much in the county to build a relationship with the Amish districts. If anything, he’s done the opposite. I’m working to change that, but it’s not easy when my supervisor fights me every step of the way.”
I snapped my mouth shut to withhold any comment. I was surprised that he was being so candid with me.
He smiled. “When was the last time you saw Charlotte?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, thinking how I could get out of the direct question without a bold-faced lie. Using Charlotte as my excuse to be creeping around the church had backfired big-time. I couldn’t tell him I’d just eaten pancakes with her that morning. I had promised my grandmother that I wouldn’t make it common knowledge that Charlotte was staying with us.
I smiled brightly at him, and he scowled in returned. It seemed that the wattage of my smile was losing its impact. Maybe it was time to go to the dentist for a tune-up.
“Are you going to answer the question?” Aiden asked.
“I haven’t seen her for hours,” I said.
“Bailey,” a frantic voice called from around the side of the church.
Before I even saw her, I knew it was Emily and that I hadn’t kept my promise of getting back to the table before judging. I was late. Again.
Emily rushed toward me and grabbed my arm. “Bailey, you have to come. Now. The judges are almost at our table.”
“Sorry,” I said to Aiden with a shrug. “Candy waits for no one.”
I turned to follow Emily back to our table, and as I did, Aiden grabbed my wrist. His grip wasn’t painful but firm. “Bailey, if you’re hiding something from me, I will find out what it is. That’s a promise.”
I had no doubt that he would, and he was still holding my hand. I stared at the fingers that encircled my wrist and raised my eyebrows.
“I’m sorry.” He let go of me. His cheeks were flushed.
I ran after Emily without looking back.
Chapter 25
If Margot Rawlings spent any more time chewing the piece of peanut brittle I had given her for judging, she would grind her molars to the gums. Beatrice and Jeremiah had already eaten their samples and made notes on their clipboards. They judged each piece on texture, flavor, and presentation. I felt peanut brittle was one of my best entries. My very best would be my fudge offering, which would be in the final round. As a chocolatier, I would be devastated if I didn’t at least take home the best-in-fudge prize. That was a matter of pride.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Margot swallowed and made a note on her clipboard.
I smiled brightly at all the judges, hoping that they would give me a hint as to how I’d done. Jeremiah and Beatrice were calm and quiet as ever, though Beatrice glared at me over her glasses.
Margot frowned as she made another note. I was going to have to go to the dentist and have my smile checked out. It wasn’t having its usual impact.
Jeremiah and Beatrice moved on to the next table, but Margot remained and pointed at me with the end of her pen. “We expect great things from you in this next round, Bailey. It is chocolate, after all, that is supposed to be your specialty.”
“No pressure,” I said to Emily when they were out of earshot.
She played with the edge of her apron. “I know chocolate is really your favorite, Bailey. Have you ever thought about making more fruit-flavored fudges for the shop? I know you have blueberry, but what about strawberry?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. The blueberry fudge sells well, and there is nothing to indicate that other fruit flavors wouldn’t also do well. As much as it pains me to say this, not everyone likes chocolate. Mango might be fun.”
“Mango?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
I laughed. “Okay, maybe not mango. I know it’s not a fruit that is used often in Amish kitchens.”
“What is a mango?” Emily asked. “I�
��d try mango fudge.”
I smiled. “Let’s get started on the fudge. It’s going to take some time to set up.” I handed Emily a list of ingredients to gather from our supply crate. Then I started a double boiler on our propane-powered burner to melt the chocolate.
I didn’t want to take any chance of not winning the fudge round, so I would be making Swissmen Sweets’ top seller: chocolate peanut butter fudge.
Emily set cocoa, evaporated milk, peanut butter, butter, and white sugar on the table. I dropped the butter and poured cocoa and sugar into the double boiler, and then I slowly added the evaporated milk as I stirred the mixture. A calm settled over me as I watched the chocolate come together. It was a calm that I needed after everything that had gone wrong since the beginning of the ACC, but even stirring chocolate, I couldn’t put Josephine out of my mind. Why on earth would she drink licorice extract? And if she didn’t drink it voluntarily, how on earth did someone else get her to drink it? It didn’t make the least bit of sense.
Emily stood beside me. “That smells so good. How do you make it smell so good right from the start?”
“Chocolatiers never give up their secrets.” I winked at her. “Can you start a second double boiler for the peanut butter? Just mix it with a little evaporated milk so that it is thin enough to pour into the fudge
She nodded and set to work on the second burner on the stove.
After a few minutes of stirring, the melted fudge was at the consistency I was looking for. “I’m ready to pour,” I said.
Emily had already set a baking pan lined with waxed paper in the middle of the table. Using a tea towel to protect my hands from the boiling-hot glass bowl, I lifted it from the pan of boiling water and poured the molten chocolate into the pan.
A small group of tourists watched in wonder as the chocolate slowly flowed out of the glass bowl into the pan. I never tired of watching chocolate myself, so I could understand their fascination.
I shook the last of the chocolate from the bowl, and then I added the peanut butter, making a zigzag pattern over the top of the chocolate fudge. I set down my empty bowl and ran a toothpick through the top of the fudge, swirling the chocolate and peanut butter together. “Done,” I said with a smile.
Lethal Licorice Page 17