Murder Tightly Knit

by Vannetta Chapman

  Yeah, she was wearing happy clothes too.

  Maybe the rest of the day would go as well as the beginning. Being with Pam always seemed like an adventure.

  First they stopped for drinks at the local burger drive-through. Pam wanted a shake, but settled for a soda. Amber wanted a soda, but settled for an unsweetened tea. Twenty minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot of the giant discount store. As they shopped, they gabbed about their individual church services, their upcoming Thanksgiving plans, and winters in Indiana.

  “Being from the South, I’m looking forward to it.” Pam consulted her list, then rolled their cart toward office supplies. Most of their general supplies were delivered to the Village, but Pam had taken over the chore of maintaining their office supply stock. At least it had seemed like a chore when Amber had done it alone.

  “I’ve heard that from folks before. The novelty wears off somewhere around the third snowfall.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I guess you’re used to having four seasons. Where I come from—”

  “God bless Texas.”

  “We had two seasons—hot and hotter. No fall. No spring to speak of. Winters were hot. Summers were hotter.”

  “No snow?” Amber enjoyed hearing Pam embellish about her hometown of San Antonio.

  “Nah. Maybe a little rain. Now and then you could wear a light jacket.” Pam glanced across the discount store toward the clothing shelves. “Having winter is going to open up entire new avenues to accessorize. I’ve bought all sorts of gloves and scarves and hats. I wonder what they have here.”

  “You might be overpreparing.”

  “You can never overprepare when it comes to accessories.” Pam cocked her head and surveyed Amber’s jeans and T-shirt.

  “Don’t even think about it. My outfit is fine without a scarf or hat.” She did love the African dress, though. How would that look on her? In a different color, of course. Were her hips too big to be wrapped in elephants? She had gained a few pounds since marrying.

  “Discount store to Amber.” Pam nudged Amber with her shoulder. “You left me there for a minute.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m a little distracted, I guess.”

  As they walked around the store, her eyes fell on a display of hunting gear—camouflage clothing, hand warmers, even doe urine used to attract bucks. Her mind immediately fell back into the nightmare of the last week, of Owen’s death and Naomi’s mysterious note.

  “Stop that!”

  “Stop what?” Amber turned to Pam in surprise.

  “Worrying. I can always tell when you’re doing it, and you’re doing it now. You’re thinking about Owen again.”

  “I suppose.” Amber walked up to the display and reached out to touch a hunting jacket. “Do you think when he went out that morning he had any idea it would be his last day on this earth?”

  “No. Fortunately, I don’t think any of us have that kind of foreknowledge, and who would want it? Better to enjoy your last few hours.”

  Amber wasn’t so sure. She would want to grab those she loved and hold them close.

  As they trundled down the aisles, she tried to banish thoughts of Owen from her mind.

  Their cart was nearly full after they had wound through the office supply aisles. Now they were standing in front of an endcap that held first-aid kits for businesses, which apparently came in all shapes and sizes.

  Pam ran a French-manicured nail down her list, tapping the sheet when she reached the word Band-Aids.

  “We need Band-Aids?”

  “We need to restock our kits. You know, the ones buried in each shop’s supply room?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Probably those should be in a more accessible spot. Last week we had a guest with a blister on her heel, and I was called to shuttle over Band-Aids. Carol Jennings had forgotten she had any.”

  “Not something you use often in a quilt shop.”

  They both stood staring at the large selection of first-aid kits.

  “Who would have guessed there would be so many different kinds and sizes?”

  “I thought we were looking for Band-Aids.”

  “Maybe we should buy new kits. What we have right now are ancient.”

  “Do you think the new ones are any different from the old ones? I mean, it doesn’t seem as if much would have changed in first aid. They all contain Band-Aids, aspirin, antiseptic wipes . . .”

  As Amber was listing the things she expected to find in a kit, Pam picked one up and began scanning the list of items enclosed inside it. She stopped and squinted closer at the label. “This one has a blanket.”

  “A blanket?” Amber shook her head in disbelief. “In that small box?”

  “It’s a space blanket, whatever that is.”

  A voice over Amber’s shoulder explained, “A space blanket is actually a thin sheet of plastic coated with a metallic agent. It’s good for many different types of emergencies.”

  Seventeen

  Amber and Pam turned to stare at the woman who had stopped behind them. She appeared to be a few years younger than Amber, had beautiful, curly red hair, and was dressed in a mosaic blue skirt and matching blouse from a high-end store. Amber knew where the outfit was from because she’d drooled over it while paging through their most recent catalog. Ultimately, she’d decided it was too expensive.

  “What kind of emergencies?” Pam’s voice did nothing to hide her skepticism.

  “Weather-related is most common, but there are also power outages, pandemics, and terrorist threats.” The woman flashed a genuine smile.” What you’re looking at is also called a thermal blanket, and they’re a handy thing to have in case of a crisis.”

  “Oh. Maybe I have seen them before on television.” Amber realized her reply sounded somewhat moronic, but she’d actually given very little thought to their first-aid kits.

  “Who needs a metal blanket?” Pam asked, setting the kit back on the shelf as if it might contaminate her. “Seems like a quilt or a cotton blanket would be better.”

  “They’re actually not. Space blankets are lighter, can fit into a very small storage area, and are better able to help a person retain their body heat.”

  Amber and Pam stared at each other.

  Pam asked, “Seriously?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They prevent or counter hypothermia, and they’re waterproof.” She reached forward to snag the kit Pam had repositioned on the shelf. Running a perfectly manicured burgundy nail down the list of contents, she mumbled, “This is adequate, but you can purchase these supplies for far less and create your own emergency buckets.”

  “Do we need emergency buckets?” Pam directed the question to Amber, who shrugged.

  After what she’d been through the year before, she probably should have been more focused on the Village’s medical supplies, but truthfully she preferred to block those events from her mind. Emergency personnel had arrived in time, and the blood had cleaned up well, erasing all traces of that terrible day. She did still suffer the occasional nightmare. What if Gordon hadn’t arrived in time? What if Tate had been hurt more seriously? What if Hannah and Jesse had been in the room during the explosion?

  Her dreams always presented unsolvable problems—such as being in a room with no windows or doors. Sometimes she found herself running down a hall that never ended. She’d wake from such nightmares wet with sweat. Tate would wrap his arms around her and whisper into her ear until she fell back asleep. During the day, she tried to push the entire subject from her mind. It hadn’t even occurred to her to check the first-aid kits.

  Once again she found herself thanking God for Pam. Her assistant manager was proving invaluable, plus she was turning into a good friend.

  Staring at the large kits in front of them, she wondered if they would stop her nightmares.

  A tall man with a close-cropped beard joined the woman.

  “I always know where to find you,” he teased his wife—at least Amber assumed they were husband and wife. They both had
rings on the appropriate finger, and the woman stepped closer to the man when she glanced up and smiled.

  “Guilty.”

  As if noticing them for the first time, the man held out a hand to Amber and then Pam. “My name’s Tom, Tom Rhodes.”

  “And I’m Sue.”

  “Hello, Tom and Sue. I’m Pam, and this is my boss, Amber.”

  Now why did she introduce them that way? Technically the description was correct, but more and more Amber felt they were coworkers.

  “We both work at the Village,” Amber clarified.

  “Sure. I know where you mean,” Tom said. “We’ve eaten there a couple of times. Wonderful restaurant.”

  “It’s what attracted me,” Pam murmured.

  “We had the chicken pot pie last time,” Sue said. “Fresh-baked crust. It was a work of art.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pass your compliments on to our cooks.”

  “We were buying supplies for our medical kits,” Pam explained as she glanced at Amber. “Sue stopped and was explaining some of the contents to us.”

  “My wife is a nurse, and she teaches emergency preparedness classes for the Red Cross. She often lurks around the medical supply aisle, especially here where they seem to have everything.”

  “They have it, but their prices are still too high, Tom. We’re better off ordering online.”

  “You use the—what did you call them, emergency buckets—in your classes?” Something was pulsing in Amber’s mind, like the low hum of an amplifier. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was—not exactly a sense of déjà vu, but more like something she’d meant to do and forgotten.

  “I do use them, and so does Tom. He teaches an emergency preparedness class at our church.” When they named their church, Amber recognized it—she’d seen the large, beautiful structure on the outskirts of town.

  The pulsing stopped and the thought Amber had been trying to catch surged forward. “Like preppers? Like the Indiana Survivalist Group?”

  Pam adjusted her safari dress. “We need to stay away from that group since they could be tied to Owen Esch’s killing.”

  Sue reached forward and touched Amber’s arm. “We read about that in the paper. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

  Instead of correcting the woman, instead of explaining that she hadn’t personally known the victim, Amber reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “I’m Amber Bowman, the general manager at the Village. I wonder if you might have time to meet with me next week. I’ve had some questions about survivalists and the ISG.”

  “No problem.” Tom pulled out his own business card. “But you might be able to find answers to your questions on our website.”

  He pointed to a web address on the bottom of the card. “Go to this site and click on Missions, then Classes. You’ll find a PowerPoint presentation that explains what we do under Prep to Bless. If you have any questions after you’ve looked through it, my contact information is at the end of the PowerPoint.”

  “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

  “Also, I have Red Cross classes every month. E-mail Tom and he’ll forward you my schedule. It never hurts to be prepared.”

  “We’re not members of the local survivalist group,” Tom clarified. “We have our own group at church that has the same function but with a biblical emphasis. We do interact occasionally with the ISG, though, and they’re a fine group of folks. I can’t imagine them being mixed up in that young man’s murder.”

  Amber nodded, and Pam thanked them for their help.

  Both waited until the couple was two aisles away to discuss what they’d heard.

  “Church survivalist group? That sounds a little hinky to me.” Pam had bypassed the large first-aid kits and dropped three supersize bags of Band-Aids into their cart.

  “They didn’t look like survivalists, or what I imagined survivalists would look like.”

  “He didn’t have a long beard.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She wasn’t wearing a prairie dress.”

  Amber attempted to relax her shoulders. If she wasn’t careful, this was all going to give her a giant headache, and that was not how she wanted to spend Sunday evening. “It is interesting that a survivalist happened to pop up while we were shopping.”

  “I suppose. My momma would say to watch yourself and don’t walk too close to trouble.”

  They were now headed toward the checkout line. “I don’t see how it could hurt to look at his website.”

  “You’re not going to find a posted confession from Owen’s killer there. Besides, I thought he was Amish. The murderer wouldn’t be at Tom and Sue’s church if he’s Amish.”

  “Gordon said the murderer could be someone trying to appear Amish. It might help if we could understand survivalists a little better. If we did, maybe we’d figure out where to look for the killer.”

  “We don’t need to look anywhere. Gordon’s doing that. Some days I think the Lord sent me here to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You need to go home and finish that book you were pretending to read when I called you.”

  How did she know about the book? Not that it was a difficult guess.

  Amber stared at the items Pam was stacking on the belt. “No space blankets.”

  “Nope. I don’t want to invite trouble, and space blankets sound like a beacon for trouble. Unless my boss tells me to.” She squinted over at Amber. “Then I suppose I’d jog on back to that aisle and pick some up.”

  “They’re cheaper online, remember?”

  “Do you believe everything strangers in a store tell you?”

  Amber thought of that question later in the evening, when she was scrambling eggs for dinner and thinking how much her life had changed in the last year. As a rule, Amber did not believe everything folks told her. On the other hand, the couple had seemed nice, genuine, and completely counter to what Amber pictured when she thought of survivalists. Wasn’t that what Tate had tried to tell her? That preppers were nice folks. But if they were nice, then why . . .Her thoughts swirling, she ate her dinner, listing all her questions on a pad of paper as she savored the eggs, cheese, and bagel. The coffee was decaf, but it still had the psychological effect of rendering her more alert. Twenty minutes later the dishes were rinsed, she’d poured a second cup of java, and she was sitting in front of the computer—her list of questions and Tom’s business card beside her.

  Eighteen

  Jesse tossed and turned, determined to fall asleep. So far, he’d had no luck at all, which only made his brother’s sound sleeping more irritating.

  Andrew snored loudly in the bed next to him. Apparently he had no late-night meetings scheduled. He’d offered no explanation for the one on Friday night. In fact, they’d skirted around the subject of Andrew’s unexplained appearance and his future plans. Which was fine with Jesse.

  Except he couldn’t sleep. The more he tossed, the more uncomfortable his bed grew. Finally he threw back the covers and shuffled downstairs. Using his flashlight, he found and uncovered the leftover cinnamon buns and retrieved the pitcher of milk when his oldest sister, Susan, peeked around the corner.

  “Have enough of that for two?”

  He motioned her into the kitchen.

  He hadn’t bothered to light any of the lanterns since he didn’t want to wake the entire household. Instead, his flashlight sat on the table between them, pointing up to the ceiling, creating a halo of light.

  Not one to worry about calories or how much he ate, he finished one cinnamon roll and was reaching for another when an image of Amon Birkey popped into his mind. Amon was a minister in their church, and he also ran a buggy shop. The man was nearly as round as he was tall. If it weren’t for his suspenders, he probably couldn’t keep his pants on.

  Was that what he wanted to look like in a few years?

  “Eat it,” Susan said. “You work enough that your body burns any calories off before they hit your stomach
.”

  He compromised by cutting it in half and pushing the remaining portion toward Susan. His mamm’s sweet rolls were big enough to cover a small plate. All that sugar would hit his stomach soon, and he’d sleep like a cat in the sun on a lazy summer afternoon.

  Susan picked around the edges of her roll. She wore her nightgown, and her blond hair was braided and pulled over one shoulder. Though she was barely sixteen, Andrew realized that his sister was no longer a child. When had she grown up?

  She stood and refilled both of their glasses, then stored the milk pitcher back in the refrigerator. His parents had owned a gas-operated refrigerator—the same one, actually—for as long as Jesse could remember. But at his grandparents’ house things had been different.

  They’d refused any of the new gas-powered contraptions. He vividly remembered his visits to their home, which was two miles down the road. His grandmother would ask him to fetch more ice, and he’d walk into the storehouse, where the blocks of ice had been cut from the river and then packed in sawdust. He’d marveled that they could remain frozen, even in the summer heat. But the ice house had been built into the side of a hill a few feet behind the main house. The ground’s temperature and the sawdust had done the trick. He would fetch the ice, carry it to the kitchen, and place it in the compartment at the back of the ice box.

  His grandparents had passed in the last few years, the test of old age finally taking its toll. But they’d lived full and happy lives. There had been no sadness at their funerals, only an ache for the hole left behind in their family and their community.

  As he ate his roll, drank the milk, and studied Susan, Jesse realized his grandparents’ milk had been every bit as cold as what he was drinking now. He supposed as long as he could have cold milk, he didn’t care what type of appliance they had. It was strange to think that if he asked Hannah to marry him, if she said yes, then he would be making those sorts of decisions for their home.

  “Heavy thoughts going on over there, bruder.”

  “What do you mean?”