Marshmallow Malice

by Amanda Flower

  “Are we on our way to the Chupp farm?” Cass asked with a knowing smile.

  “We will be just as soon as I find out where it is.” I removed my phone from my pocket and made a call.

  Charlotte answered the phone at the candy shop on the first ring. “Swissmen Sweets. Can I help you?”

  I was relieved that Charlotte was the one who’d answered the phone. My grandmother would understand why I needed to speak with RJ Chupp, but she wouldn’t like that Leeza’s death now involved the Amish.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m trying to find an Amish farm. Do you know where the Chupp farm would be?”

  “Chupp? That’s not a very common Amish name, but I do know at least three families in the county. Can you tell me anything else about them?”

  “The farmer’s name is RJ.”

  “Oh! Yes, I know where that is. They have a volleyball court on their property. That’s where the young Amish go to play sometimes. It’s not far from Harvest Woods.”

  And now the woods had come up for a third time.

  She paused. “I never did like going to those woods.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “They are so dense and dark. I’d much rather be out in the open, where I can see everything.”

  I silently agreed with her. It seemed to me that Harvest Woods was becoming a bigger and bigger part of this case. Aiden would be furious if he found out I’d gone into those woods alone. If I took Cass with me, he wouldn’t think that was much better.

  “Why do you ask?” Before I could answer, she went on to say, “It has something to do with the murder, doesn’t it? Do you think RJ Chupp is involved?”

  “I have no idea, but please don’t say anything about him, or that Cass and I plan to go there.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” she said sincerely. “But I do have an idea for the perfect professional reason for you to go. It would be for the shop.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Strawberry picking. The strawberry patch is open for the season now.”

  “Strawberries?”

  “The Chupps are fruit farmers. They have a pick-your-own strawberry patch. You can go there and pick strawberries and ask a few questions. It’s the perfect cover.”

  “I don’t know if I’m happy or sad that you know what the perfect cover is,” I said into the phone as I watched the snarled traffic of cars, buses, and buggies on the main road through Berlin. Traffic was another reason I was glad Harvest wasn’t nearly as popular to tourists as Berlin. “But this is an excellent plan, and chocolate-covered strawberries can be one of the sweet treats that we sell at the Fourth of July celebration on the square.”

  “Marshmallow sticks, too,” Charlotte said.

  “Can you tell me how to get to the strawberry patch?” I asked, knowing that my GPS wasn’t always reliable in finding Amish farms off the beaten path.

  Charlotte rattled off the directions so fast, there was no way I could have caught them, but she said the Chupps’ farm was the second driveway south of Harvest Woods. I knew where the woods were, so I didn’t think it would be impossible to find.

  “Don’t let on to Deputy Brody that I was the one who told you where it is,” Charlotte said.

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  Cass raised her eyebrows at me.

  I ended the call and looked at her. “Are you ready to pick some strawberries?”

  “That sounds awful on a July afternoon in Ohio,” Cass said. “Don’t they have machines to do that?”

  “Not in Amish country.”

  She sighed. “Why does everything have to be harder in Amish country?”

  It was a fair question.

  On the way to the Chupp farm, I filled Cass in about my conversation with Charlotte.

  “That was a good idea Charlotte had about the strawberry picking,” Cass said. “I see potential in that girl.”

  I arched my brow. “Potential for what?”

  “For anything other than being an Amish wife and mother.” She held up her hand before I could protest. “There’s nothing wrong with being an Amish wife and mother. Emily is on that path and clearly happy with it, but Charlotte . . . I’m just not buying that that’s the life she wants to lead. She might do it, and she might be miserable because of it.”

  I nodded. I had the same worries about Charlotte, but I had learned months ago, when she first came to live with Maami above the candy shop, that Charlotte was the only one who could make the decision about what was right for her.

  I turned onto the county road that held the entrance to Harvest Woods.

  “Geez,” Cass said. “That looks like a forest right out of a horror movie. Have you ever been inside it?”

  I shook my head. “Never.”

  “Let’s keep up that streak.”

  I didn’t reply. I passed the first driveway, which led to an English farm. I knew it was English because of the electrical wires that traveled from the telephone pole on the road to the house.

  “We are in real Amish country now,” Cass said. “We haven’t seen another car for miles.”

  And it was true. All we had passed for the last five miles was an Amish pony cart. There was a young couple in the cart, out for a Sunday ride. The young woman, who didn’t look more than sixteen, sat so far away from the young man, she was at risk of falling out if they hit a rut in the road.

  The next driveway didn’t have an electrical pole or wires. I was at the Chupp farm.

  The large strawberry patch was to the left of a two-story, pale yellow farmhouse with black shutters and a black front door. Near the field of strawberries, pickup trucks and minivans were parked along the side of the road. I parked my car behind a blue minivan with a dent in the fender. Through the windshield, I watched as Englischers filled their berry baskets to the breaking point.

  There was a hand-painted wooden board on the side of the road with a giant strawberry painted on the side of it.

  “This must be the place,” I said.

  Cass looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “What was your first clue?”

  I climbed out. In front of us, the strawberry patch went on for miles. Even from the road, I could see the bright red berries peeking through the leaves and vines, waiting to be picked.

  Cass got out of the car. She wore her high-heeled boots, black jeans, and a black, silk tank top. The tank top was her only concession to the Midwestern July heat. “Don’t think I’m in the right outfit for this.”

  “Probably not. In fact, you’re not in the right outfit for any activity in Holmes County.”

  She made a face. “Had I known that we would be farming today, I would have borrowed some of your clothes.” She waved her hand. “You have the whole country vibe going over there.”

  I wasn’t offended by her comment. I wore jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. The jeans were designer, leftover from my life in New York, but other than that, I fully embraced the casual country style.

  Cass stood beside me and clapped her hands. “We’re going to have a real country experience right here.” Despite her poor outfit choice, she seemed excited by the idea of picking strawberries. When the sun began to beat on her back, I wondered if that enthusiasm would continue.

  “Have you ever picked your own fruit?” I asked her.

  She put her hands on her hips. “I’m from New York City, born and raised. When would I have had a chance to do that? Not all of us spent our childhood visiting the Amish.”

  “I haven’t picked fruit in Ohio before, but back in Connecticut, I grew up apple picking. It was a big deal in the fall in New England. And I always went to the fields to pick my own pumpkin to carve.”

  “Seems to me you grew up more like your Amish roots than you first thought.”

  “Maybe,” I mused.

  A wooden box that looked like a mailbox turned on its side stood atop a metal post at the edge of the road. On the post below the box was a small wooden sign that said, “$10 an eight-quart basket.”
Beneath the wooden box were three stacks of berry baskets ready for use.

  “Ten dollars for all those berries,” Cass said. “That’s a steal. I pay triple that back in the city when a bride asks for chocolate-covered strawberries.”

  I smiled. “Well, you didn’t pick them, and then there’s the shipping cost.”

  We weren’t the only Englischers who’d had the idea that it would be a nice afternoon for strawberry picking. Out in the field, there were three English families with baskets collecting all the fruit they could carry. Beyond the field, the large, yellow farmhouse loomed.

  “That must be the Chupp home,” I said.

  Cass nodded. “The best clue to that is the car out front.”

  “What car?” But then I saw it. Aiden’s department SUV was outside the farmhouse. Aiden already knew about Leeza’s connection to the Chupp family? And here I thought I’d made a huge break in the case.

  Cass grabbed two baskets and handed them to me, then grabbed two more for herself. “Hot Cop is here,” Cass said.

  “That complicates things. We can’t talk to RJ now,” I said.

  “Then we might as well collect berries,” Cass said. “We will wait until he leaves to talk to RJ.”

  I put eighty dollars in the wooden box to pay for our berries. That would be enough for us to fill eight eight-quart baskets. We’d have strawberries coming out of our ears by the end of the day. The berries might be very cheap by NYC standards, but to have enough for the holiday party and tourist season, we’d need hundreds on hand for chocolate-dipping.

  We walked out onto the field.

  “Pick good ones,” Cass advised.

  We set to work. I don’t know how long I picked strawberries under the hot sun. But after a while, the repetitive activity was therapeutic. It gave me time to think. While I put strawberry after strawberry into my basket, I tried to remember the man Leeza had left with after the wedding. He wasn’t Amish. I knew that. At least, he wasn’t dressed Amish. He had been wearing a T-shirt and basketball shorts. I didn’t think I had ever seen an Amish adult in shorts.

  In no time, I’d filled both of my baskets with so many strawberries; they were tumbling over the sides. I put one of the bright red berries in my mouth. It tasted like summer. I straightened up from my stooped posture, bending backward. Berry picking was hard work.

  An Amish girl no more than eight played on the grassy field next to the berry patch. It was the first I had noticed her, so I had no idea how long she had been there. She had a kite and giggled as it swooped through the air. Her prayer cap strings and the skirt of her lavender dress flew behind her as she ran. I watched the little girl for a while. Was she related to Leeza? Did she know that Leeza was dead? Did she even know who Leeza was?

  I glanced at the house. Aiden’s departmental SUV was still parked in front of the porch. I itched to speak with RJ, but it seemed less and less likely I would get a chance before I had to return to Swissmen Sweets.

  I was contemplating getting a new basket to pick even more berries when there was a bloodcurdling scream from the next row of berries. The scream chilled me to the core.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Ow!” Cass cried as she held her right hand in the air. “I got stung by a bee! I might die!”

  I dropped my basket of berries. “Are you allergic?” I ran over to her.

  She looked up from her swollen wrist. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never been stung before, so I don’t know. It hurts like heck.”

  I studied her. “Your wrist is swollen, but I think you’d be having a more serious reaction if you were deathly allergic.”

  “Like what?” she whimpered.

  “You’d stop breathing, for one.” I studied her wrist and saw the stinger still in her skin. I grimaced. “I’m going to have to pull the stinger out.”

  “What? It’s still there?”

  “Just hold still,” I said. As delicately as I could, I grabbed the stinger and pulled straight out. I tossed it into the strawberries. Cass let out a string of cursing that would impress any New York City subway employee.

  “You’re okay,” I assured her.

  She held her wrist. “How long before we know if I’m going to stop breathing?”

  “I think you would have had trouble by now. Let’s get some ice on it to help with the swelling. You’ll be okay, but if you start acting strangely, we’ll go straight to urgent care.”

  “Urgent care? What about the hospital?”

  “The closest hospital—real hospital—is thirty minutes away.”

  “I hope I don’t lose a limb out here,” Cass mumbled. “They won’t amputate my hand, will they?”

  I gave her a look. “Even Ohio has advanced beyond Civil War–era medicine.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said. “I don’t want to die in Amish country. It’s not how I imagined my end.”

  “I don’t think you are having a serious reaction. You’re still able to complain.”

  “Oh,” Cass said with a smile. “That has nothing to do with it. I will be able to complain on my death bed.”

  That’s when I realized all the other English people who had been picking berries had left. It was just Cass and me, and the Amish girl with the kite. Her kite was now on the ground as she stared at us. Her brown eyes were huge, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had heard some of Cass’s more colorful speech. I hoped not.

  I smiled at the girl. “My friend got stung by a bee. Do you have any ice we can put on her wrist?”

  “Ya,” the Amish girl said. “My home is just over there.” She pointed at the yellow farmhouse. “We have ice. I will tell my daed, and he can help you.”

  Cass was jumping in place, waving her wrist around.

  “Is your friend having some kind of fit?” the girl asked nervously.

  I smiled again. “She’s from the city. This is the first time she’s been stung by a bee.”

  “Oh.” The girl’s pink mouth made a little “o” shape. “I have been stung many times. There are a lot of bees around our home because of the berries. They are gut for the farm. Daed says you can never have too many bees.”

  “I know they are,” I said.

  “They are good until they sting you,” Cass complained.

  “I will take you to my daed,” the girl said and glanced at the house. “He told me to take my kite and go play by the strawberries.” She lowered her voice. “There is a policeman at the house.”

  “How long has the policeman been there?” I asked.

  The girl shrugged. “A long time. It seems to me that I have been playing with my kite for a very long time.”

  “What’s your name?” Cass asked.

  “I’m Essie Chupp. I am so sorry that you were stung. You are not going to sue us, are you? My friend at school, Belinda, says that’s what the Englisch spend most of their time doing, suing each other and the Amish when they can.”

  “We aren’t going to sue you,” I said. “We picked berries at our own risk.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Come to the house, and I will fetch your ice.”

  I glanced at Cass, and she shrugged. Perhaps she was thinking what I was thinking. Aiden had been in the Chupp home for a very long time. We couldn’t wait all day, and Cass’s beesting was a bit of cover to explain why we were there. Who was I kidding, though? Aiden would see right through our story.

  “Lead the way,” Cass said to the girl. “I really don’t want to have to go to a clinic in the middle of nowhere.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The clinic is just fine for minor illnesses or scrapes.”

  Cass snorted, as if she didn’t quite believe me.

  Essie picked up her kite and ran ahead of us. Cass and I moved at a much slower pace. I eyed her. “You got stung in the wrist, not in the leg. Why are you walking so slowly?”

  “I’m giving the girl some time to find her dad.” There was a slight twinkle in her eyes.

  “Please don’t tell me that you got stung so we coul
d talk to RJ.”

  She shook her head. “No way. This hurts worse than a tetanus shot, and now it itches. If it itches, does that mean I’m going to stop breathing?”

  “I don’t think so. I was told that means it’s healing. At least, that’s true with other wounds. I don’t know about beestings.”

  She snorted. “You’d make a terrible nurse.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m a chocolatier, right?”

  She sighed. “I’ll never pick strawberries again,” she said forlornly. “But I guess that was a safe bet anyway. It’s hard work, and I think the back of my neck is sunburned. I’m going to go back to New York looking like I just trekked through the Amazon.” She turned her head so I could see the back of her neck. “Do I have a burn?”

  I stepped behind her to look at her neck. “Maybe a little.”

  She touched the back of her neck and winced. “I’m not built for country life. Give me a high-rise and recycled air any day of the week over this.”

  I thought it was best not to comment on that. We were just a few yards away from the house now. The girl had run through the open front door. A moment later, a tall Amish man with a long, blond beard, wearing a denim work shirt and trousers, came out of the house. Aiden was just a few steps behind him. Aiden’s eyes widened when he saw Cass and me standing in the middle of the Chupps’ yard.

  Above their heads, another much smaller girl stood in an upstairs window and watched us.

  Essie popped out of the house behind Aiden and ran to the blond man.

  “Essie, what is going on here?” the Amish man said, and then added something in their language.

  Essie replied in Pennsylvania Dutch and pointed at Cass as she spoke.

  The Amish man stared at Cass, as if sizing her up, and then settled his dark glare onto me.

  “I feel like I’m on trial,” Cass whispered. “You know, the Salem witch variety.”

  I felt the exact same way.

  The Amish man, who I assumed was RJ Chupp, spoke again to his daughter. I didn’t catch all the words, but one of them was “go.” It was clear he was telling her to go inside the house. She disappeared from the doorway, and the little girl’s face in the upstairs window also disappeared.