Dead Wrong

by Vannetta Chapman

  Fishing vests, waders, tackle boxes, and poles covered every available surface. The kitchen table was staging what looked like a fly-tying competition. As for the cooking area, it didn’t appear to have been touched. Mason and Paxton were getting by on granola bars and the two meals a day she provided. She walked over to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, and was a bit surprised to see no fish there—none in the refrigerator portion either.

  They obviously hadn’t cooked any, as the dishes hadn’t been used and the stove was still immaculate. Those boys had been fishing for the better part of two days. Had they caught nothing? She’d have to ask them. If they weren’t having any luck, she’d ask Charlie Knox to stop by. Charlie knew all the fishing tips for their area, and he didn’t mind dispensing a few of them in exchange for one of Agatha’s fresh pies.

  Her business depended on repeat customers. The last thing she wanted was for two avid fishermen to go home empty-handed.

  She quickly changed the bed linens, dropping the dirty sheets and towels onto the front porch of the cabin to pick up on her way back to the main house.

  One more cabin to service and she could turn her attentions to putting the finishing touches on dinner.

  Cabin 3 sat a little farther down the path and around the bend. Perhaps that’s why Mr. Dixon had chosen it. He seemed to value his privacy. Agatha stepped onto the porch but paused outside the front door. She clearly stated that the rooms would be serviced in the afternoon between three and five, but there was always the possibility that Mr. Dixon had decided to take a late afternoon nap.

  Nothing worse than walking in on a guest who was fast asleep, snoring with his mouth wide open and his glasses askew. She’d learned that lesson the first week she’d reopened the B&B.

  Knocking firmly on the door, she called out, “Anyone home? Agatha Lapp here.”

  No answer.

  Well, she hadn’t thought there would be.

  It was a beautiful June afternoon. Why would anyone be inside?

  She tried the door on the off chance it had been left unlocked.

  Definitely locked, and the curtains were drawn tight as well. Agatha called out one more time, then reached into the pocket of her apron and fetched her master key. Slipping it into the lock, she pushed the door open with what she hoped was a friendly, “Anyone home? Just here to change the...”

  She never did finish that sentence.

  Her mind reeled, trying to make sense of the scene before her.

  Mr. Dixon’s suitcase had been flung open and clothes tossed around the room. The breakfast tray she’d left on the porch earlier that morning sat on the nightstand by the bed, though the mug had been knocked over and lay shattered on the floor. The bedding had been dragged toward the open back door. She glanced around as if Mr. Dixon might pop out from the broom closet.

  But there was no sign of the man.

  No indication of what had happened.

  She stepped toward the back door and peered outside, which was when her knees began to shake. She reached for the doorframe with one hand as her other fluttered to her chest and pressed against it to slow the hammering of her heart.

  She simply couldn’t make the details of what she was seeing fit together into a cohesive picture—Russell Dixon lying face down at the edge of the clearing, one hand trapped beneath him and the other reaching over his head. The unnatural position confirmed what her mind couldn’t accept.

  Mr. Dixon wouldn’t be caring if she changed his linens because Mr. Dixon was literally dead to the world.

  Chapter Two

  Agatha dropped the linens and rushed down the steps. Kneeling beside Mr. Dixon, she reached for his wrist to check for a pulse.

  But he had no pulse, and his fingers were cold. Cold and stiff.

  She dropped his hand, jumped up, and stumbled backwards.

  A small cry escaped her lips.

  Her heart raced as if someone were chasing her. Blood rushed through her veins, hammering like ocean waves in her ears. She stumbled around the side of the cabin and skidded to an abrupt stop.

  Standing in the warmth of the afternoon sun, she closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart.

  Had she imagined it?

  Perhaps Dixon was simply passed out.

  No—she remembered how his skin had felt beneath her fingertips. Her right arm began to tremble as she frantically looked up toward the house. She’d have to pass all of her guests to reach her office phone. What if she was mistaken? She’d have frightened everyone and ruined their vacation—for nothing.

  Going to her left wouldn’t be any better. She’d have to cross the entire property, and there wouldn’t be anyone home anyway. The neighbor that direction was some business man out of San Antonio. He rarely stayed on the property.

  Which left the neighbor on her right.

  The last thing she wanted to do was flee to Mr. Vargas for help, but what choice did she have? She moved quickly and with a grim determination to somehow fix this.

  Ridiculous. You can’t fix a dead person outside Cabin 3.

  There was no fence between her property and that of Mr. Vargas, only a hedge of Texas sage. She pushed through it, snagging her kapp and apron, and then sprinted toward the back porch of the man’s house. He must have seen her coming because he opened the door before she’d made it up the steps.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Cabin 3. Mr. Dixon. I think...that is, I’m sure...I can’t believe it, but he’s dead.” Why was she out of breath? She hadn’t climbed a mountain. She’d run fifty yards, maybe less.

  “Sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”

  “Nein. He’s...he’s dead, and I...I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  Vargas was in his sixties, recently retired from what she’d heard, and suddenly alone after the death of his wife. His skin was brown like a well-seasoned saddle. He rarely smiled, but his eyes seemed kind though sad. At Agatha’s proclamation, he nodded as if what she said made sense, though she realized it probably didn’t. He ducked back inside, grabbed his phone, and then dashed toward Cabin 3.

  Agatha sat there, leaning forward so that her head hung between her knees. She’d never fainted, but she’d read the occasional romance novel which assured readers this was the way to slow the rush of blood to your head.

  When her pulse finally calmed, she sat up and looked around. She’d never been on her neighbor’s back porch; she’d taken him a peach pie once but that had been delivered to his front door. He’d accepted it quietly, thanked her, and firmly shut the door on her.

  Mr. Vargas wasn’t the neighborly type.

  So why had she run to him for help?

  Who else was she supposed to run to? It wasn’t like she knew what to do with a dead body.

  Had Russell Dixon actually been dead?

  How was that possible?

  She couldn’t answer any of those questions, so instead, she prayed. She prayed for Mr. Vargas, that he would know what to do and that no harm would come to him. She prayed for her guests, that they wouldn’t be alarmed by this strange turn of events. She prayed for herself that she’d have wisdom for whatever lay ahead; and finally, she prayed for the soul of Russell Dixon.

  She opened her eyes to see Mr. Vargas sprinting back across the yard. She jumped up and waited at the porch railing. “Is he...”

  One quick nod vanquished any hopes she’d been clinging to that she had been mistaken.

  “Mr. Vargas...”

  “Antonio. My name is Antonio. Most folks just call me Tony.”

  “And I’m Agatha. I met you before when I first moved in. I don’t know if you remember.”

  “You’re still shaking. It’s the adrenaline. Sit down, and I’ll get you a glass of water. Or maybe you’d like something stronger?”

  “Nein. I’m...I’m Amish.”

  He nodded, strode into the house, and returned with a glass of water, which he pushed into her hands.

  “Danki, but I need to get back
to my guests.”

  “I asked everyone to move into the house and told them to wait there. I told them we’d explain everything soon.”

  “And Mr. Dixon?”

  “Dead. I called 9-1-1. The authorities will be here any minute.”

  “I appreciate your help. I don’t normally lose my head like that.”

  “Your first dead body?”

  “What? Yes, of course.”

  “Then it’s understandable.” He cupped his hand beneath her elbow and guided her back to a chair, then nodded toward the glass of water in her hands. “Drink. It’ll help.”

  She didn’t think she’d be able to stomach anything, not even the cup of water, but she drank the entire thing down in one long pull.

  “Better?”

  “Maybe...yes.” Agatha swiped at a strand of hair that had fallen out of her kapp. Was it only a few minutes ago that she’d stood on her back porch delighting in the beauty of the afternoon?

  One minute passed, then two. Tony didn’t rush her, and she gradually grew calmer.

  “I don’t know why I ran here. I’m sorry...”

  Antonio waved away her apology. “When adrenaline surges through your system, your body goes into fight-or-flight mode.”

  “I’m Amish...”

  “Yes, you mentioned that.”

  “So I have no experience with fighting.”

  “Hence the flight.”

  They waited in silence another few minutes and then the sound of sirens split the quiet of the afternoon. They both turned to stare at the cruisers barreling down the road with lights flashing.

  “Would you like me to go with you?”

  “Please.”

  Which was how she found herself walking toward the front of her home and a group of Englisch police officers with Tony Vargas at her side.

  Chapter Three

  Tony shook hands with Lieutenant Bannister.

  “Detective.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  Agatha stared at him, then at the emergency personnel assembling on her lawn—two police cruisers, three officers plus the lieutenant, and an ambulance with two EMS workers. She still seemed to be in shock judging by the way she kept clutching her right arm to her side to stop its trembling. And her pupils remained dilated, a sure sign adrenaline continued to pump through her system.

  Tony cleared his throat and took charge, something he hadn’t done in over four years. “The deceased is at the back of the property. Follow the path to the last cabin, and you’ll find him ten yards from the back door.”

  Bannister’s hand went to the butt of his gun.

  “No sign of foul play.”

  “Heart attack?”

  Tony shrugged. He didn’t like making any assumptions this early in a case, not that a dead guest on his neighbor’s property made it his case.

  “Witnesses?”

  “I moved all the other guests inside and asked them to wait for further instructions. This is Agatha Lapp, the owner of the Bed-and-Breakfast.”

  “We’ll need to interview you in a few minutes.”

  Agatha nodded, though she didn’t offer to shake Bannister’s hand—whether that was because she was Amish or some other reason, Tony didn’t know.

  The EMS personnel were already moving toward the back of the house.

  Bannister addressed two of his officers. “Check the perimeter of the property, just to be sure.”

  He motioned for the person riding shotgun with him to step closer. The officer was probably in her thirties, physically fit, and Antonio was pretty sure that if he checked, he’d find she was still wet behind the ears. But she was wearing the department uniform, and she was a member of the lieutenant’s staff, so she must have earned the position.

  Bannister wasn’t yet fifty. He was close to six feet and looked as if he could drop and rip off a hundred push-ups. He’d spent some years in the military and retained habits learned there. His pants had a sharp crease down the middle, his hair was buzz cut, and he didn’t mince words. “Call dispatch. Ask them to send out...”

  He turned to Agatha. “How many guests do you have on the property today?”

  “Other than Mr. Dixon, there are twelve adults, a baby, and myself.”

  “And Mr. Dixon is the deceased?”

  Agatha nodded her head once, a quick jerky movement.

  “Tami, get me thirteen witness forms. Have Jolene bring them out stat.” Again addressing Agatha, he said, “You can go inside, Mrs. Lapp. We’ll be in soon, but for now please keep your guests inside the building. I don’t need people traipsing over a potential crime scene.”

  Agatha glanced at Tony, no doubt wondering at the lieutenant’s use of the phrase crime scene. A rookie mistake, though Bannister had plenty of experience. He’d been on the force nearly ten years. He’d made detective when Tony left and risen to lieutenant shortly after that.

  But calling the area a crime scene? That was unnecessary. There was no need to further frighten the person who’d found the deceased.

  “I can go inside with you,” Tony offered.

  Agatha pressed a hand to her throat. “Danki. I’d appreciate that.”

  They traipsed across her front yard and up the steps.

  Tony hadn’t been in the sprawling ranch home since it had been converted to a B&B. He was surprised at how much better it looked than when the Beans had owned it. Flowers overflowed brightly colored pots strategically positioned on the porch steps. Healthy ferns hung from the porch ceiling. The old porch swing had been replaced, and freshly-painted rocking chairs sported bright colored pillows.

  The Bed-and-Breakfast didn’t look like your typical murder scene, but after thirty years on the police force, Tony knew there was no such thing. Every murder was different and every scene held unique challenges—secrets even, though he wasn’t ready to jump to the conclusion that there had been a murder. Russell Dixon might have died from natural causes. There were a few things about the cabin that bothered him—the cabin and the man’s final resting position.

  They stepped into the house and Tony was nearly knocked over by the aroma of fresh baked bread, some sort of casserole, and if he wasn’t mistaken, apple pie. A new case had always spurred his appetite.

  Not your case, he silently reminded himself.

  Agatha led him into the adjacent room—a living room situated at the front of the house—and twelve guests turned to stare at them. The questions came all at once, tumbling over each other and demanding answers.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Why are the police here?”

  “Did I hear someone say ‘crime scene?’”

  “What crime? Are we in danger?”

  Tony opened his mouth to address their concerns, but it seemed the moment Agatha stepped into her Bed-and-Breakfast she took on the role of mother hen. The frightened, disheveled woman who’d appeared on his back porch vanished—at least for the moment.

  Her conservative dress had first caused him to think she was older, but on closer look she appeared younger than he was and physically fit. Running a Bed-and-Breakfast no doubt helped in that area. Agatha Lapp looked to be in her early fifties and stood about five and a half feet. Brown hair just beginning to turn gray peeking out from the white bonnet she wore.

  Agatha moved to the center of the room. “Have a seat, everyone.”

  Complete silence settled over the group—stunned silence, as if they were waiting to hear the other shoe drop.

  “I’m happy to tell you what I know, but first...can I get anyone a soda or cup of tea? I’m afraid dinner is going to be delayed. I have some freshly baked cookies...”

  By asking such normal, run-of-the-mill questions, Agatha inadvertently calmed the situation. The three Amish couples sat down. The young woman holding a baby moved to a rocking chair, her husband opting to stand behind her. The black couple moved closer to one another. Only the two men, still wearing their waders and dripping water all over Agatha’s wood floor, remained at the window.


  When Agatha asked one of the Amish women to help her in the kitchen, everyone resumed speaking in low voices. Tony walked over to the two fishermen. “Perhaps you could step out on the porch and remove the waders.”

  “What?” The taller of the two looked around as if he didn’t understand what Tony was referring to.

  “We’re dripping, bro. All over Agatha’s floor.” The shorter brother—and they had to be brothers because they were carbon copies except for the difference in height—stuck out his hand for Tony to shake. “Name’s Paxton. Paxton Cox. And this is my clueless older brother Mason.”

  Mason’s gaze had been darting around, and when he glanced back toward them, Tony noted that his pupils were dilated and his breathing seemed a bit ragged. He acted almost as if he’d been the one to find Dixon.

  Tony shook hands with Mason and couldn’t help but notice that his palms were sweaty. What was that about? “You were fly fishing?”

  “We were.” Paxton’s head bobbed up and down. “We have been since we got here yesterday. So it’s okay for us to step out on the porch?”

  “Sure. Just stick close.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t want to get arrested.”

  Which seemed a strange thing to say, but what was even stranger was the way Mason glared at his younger brother, then strode out onto the porch without another word. Paxton shrugged and followed him.

  Tony popped into the kitchen where Agatha and two of her guests were arranging mugs on one serving platter and cookies on another. “Do you have a towel? Your fishing guests dripped water all over the floor.”

  Agatha fetched an old threadbare one from the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “Will this work?”

  “Perfectly.”

  He couldn’t get over how she’d calmed since entering the house. Obviously, it was her sanctuary—a place she felt at home and comfortable. He could understand why. The last of the afternoon light streamed through the large windows. A kitchen nook on the east side of the room held window seats that looked out toward the river. The freshly-painted white cabinets and uncluttered counters sparkled.