The Beilers walked past and waved at Agatha as if it had been a completely normal day.
Both Agatha and Gina stood to walk back to the house, but Agatha detoured to walk closer to the pasture and offer a carrot to her horse. She’d need to come out later and fill her oat bucket, maybe give her a rub down, but first she needed to check on each of her guests. She had turned back toward Gina and was walking back toward her when she noticed Fonzi lying up against the barn, and beside him...
She stopped and squatted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
“What are you staring at?”
“Come and look at this.”
It was a large, man-sized boot print. From the position of the print it looked as if someone had been standing with their back to the barn.
“There hasn’t been any rain,” Gina said. “Why is there a boot print?”
“We installed those automatic sprinklers a few weeks ago. Remember? That nice young boy from Kerrville came over and did it for me. Works off solar energy, so the bishop allowed it.”
“Okay. So could it be his foot print?”
“Nein. That was two weeks ago, and this looks like a fresh print to me.”
“So you’re a tracker now?”
“I can’t imagine a guest standing here against the barn. Not when there’s a perfectly good bench over there.”
“It’s only a boot print, Agatha. I doubt this case is going to turn on that.”
“According to Tony, cases can turn on a dime.”
“Far be it from me to argue with the good detective, though you do realize the man has been hiding in his house the past couple of years? It could be that he’s gone a little...” She twirled a finger next to her head.
“Narrisch?”
“Whatever.” Gina pulled a cell phone out of her back jeans pocket and snapped a photo of the boot print. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to show him the picture. If he thinks it’s important, he can come over and case the area.”
They walked back to the house in silence and stopped at the steps to the back porch. Both women proceeded to stomp dirt off their shoes. Agatha glanced at her friend, but didn’t ask what was on her mind. Sometimes, especially with Gina, it was best to wait. With her eyes squinting and her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth she looked as if she were readying for a fight. Finally, she turned to Agatha and shared what had obviously been bothering her all along.
“Someone’s targeting you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, someone killed Dixon. Someone knew about his allergy, snuck into his room, stole his EpiPen, then later swapped out the breakfast you left on the front porch, leaving a muffin filled with peanuts.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I have no idea, but when we figure out the answer to that question, we’ll be a whole lot closer to finding out who the real murderer is.”
Chapter Thirteen
TONY WAITED A FEW HOURS. He wanted Agatha to have time to put her house back together and attend to her guests. He knew she was still awake because he could see her sitting with the Willis family on the porch. The solar-powered lights mounted to the porch railing gave off a soft light.
When Tony called out and climbed the steps, Stuart and Brooklyn stood as if to go. Stuart was holding baby Hudson, who waved a small hand excitedly in the air and giggled. Brooklyn, as usual, had her camera hanging from a strap around her neck. Tony wondered if she was a professional photographer or if snapping pictures was merely a hobby.
“Don’t leave on my account,” Tony said.
“Probably you two have things to talk about.”
“We do, but actually I’d like to ask you a few questions about what you said in your statement.”
Brooklyn looked uneasily at Stuart. They seemed to decide at the same moment that staying would be the wiser thing to do. Both sat back down on the porch swing. “There’s really not much else we can add,” Stuart said.
“That’s all right. Just talk me through it.”
So they did. Brooklyn again explained about the baby cutting teeth, waking in the middle of the night, and deciding that perhaps a bottle would quiet him. “I came down the stairs and into the kitchen. I guess I surprised him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He jumped, looked startled like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.”
“And you shared all this with the police?”
“Yes, she did.” Stuart scooted closer to his wife. “I honestly don’t see the point in going over it again.”
Instead of addressing that, Tony turned his attention back to Brooklyn. “And you’re sure it was Mr. Dixon?”
“Why would I lie about that?” Brooklyn’s gaze darted toward Stuart, who had put an arm around her shoulders as if he needed to protect her.
“I wasn’t suggesting that you were lying—”
“My wife was trying to be helpful.” Stuart stood and shifted baby Hudson to his other arm. Brooklyn joined him and they huddled there, looking ready to stand together against the world.
“And I was only suggesting that it might be hard to discern who she saw given the darkness in the kitchen and the hour.”
“I know who I saw.” Brooklyn raised her chin an inch.
“What do you think he was doing?”
“How should I know? He came out of the pantry. For all I know he was looking for something to eat.”
Agatha cleared her throat even as she shook her head. “I keep fresh snacks on the counter with a sign saying Help yourself, so that’s not likely.”
“I trust you don’t have any more questions, or if you do—check with that Lieutenant Bannister and read our statement. Now if you’ll excuse us, it’s been a long day.” Stuart cupped his wife’s elbow and turned her toward the front door.
Tony watched in surprise as they walked into the house.
“Are they always like that?”
“Like what?”
“Prickly.”
Agatha smiled. “You Texans have funny expressions, but I get it. Prickly—like a cactus.”
“Surely you’ve heard someone called prickly before.”
“Nein.”
“How would an Amish person describe them?”
“My mamm would spout a proverb.”
“Such as?”
“You can look a man into the face but not into the heart.”
“That’s a good one, and it might apply to the Willis family.”
Agatha set her chair to rocking. “I don’t know. They seem like a nice couple, only terribly young.”
“I’ve noticed that my perception of age changes the older I get.”
“Ya, there was a time I thought forty was awfully old. Now I’ve turned fifty-five, but in my heart I still feel like a youngie some days.”
“Mind if we go inside and check out the pantry?”
“Not at all.”
Five minutes later, they’d scoured the small walk-in closet from floor to ceiling.
“Can’t imagine what he might have been after.” Agatha worried the string to her prayer kapp.
“Nothing stored here except food and drinks.”
“Which are on the counter and in the fridge.”
“The breaker box is here.” Tony stepped closer and stared at the box. Pulling his pen out of his pocket, he pried the door open.
“Why the pen?”
“Because Bannister might want to come back and check this for fingerprints.”
“I don’t understand.”
Tony didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t exactly sure how much of what he was thinking he should share with Agatha. After all, at this point, he had no proof. So he shrugged, motioned her back out into the kitchen, and said, “Or it could be nothing. I also wanted to speak with the Coopers. Are they here?”
“Nein. They decided to go to dinner and dancing over in Kerrville. Left me a note that they’d be back late.”
“I suppose I could com
e speak with them in the morning.” He glanced around the kitchen. Through the window, he could see his place, but for some reason the thought of going back over there and stewing over this case didn’t appeal to him at all. “Would you like to go back outside?”
“I would love that. The porch may be my favorite part of this place. It reminds me of home.”
They walked outside and Tony sat beside her. It still surprised him how comfortable he felt around Agatha. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the company of another person—a long time since he’d let anyone close. During Camilla’s illness, he’d pretty much kept people at arm’s length. Why had he done that?
Agatha didn’t interrupt his musings.
After a few minutes, he told her Gina had sent him the picture of the boot print, but he didn’t see how it could be related. “It’s good you’re keeping an eye open though.”
“I continue to hope this will all...blow away.”
“That’s not likely.”
“I’m aware, but a girl can hope.”
Tony waited, unsure exactly what he should say next. Agatha didn’t make any effort to jump in and fill the void in the conversation. Silences seemed not to bother her, which after Tony’s year of mourning was a relief. He’d grown accustomed to quiet and could think better when he wasn’t besotted by voices and music and the sounds of techno gadgets. Instead, all he heard was the sound of crickets, a slight breeze in the trees, and, if he listened closely, the flowing waters of the Guadalupe River.
“I didn’t come here only to talk about the case.”
“Indeed?”
“I wanted to check on you, Agatha.” When she didn’t respond to that at all, he sat forward, elbows on his knees and studied her in the dim light. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience. I know first-hand that these things can be difficult...”
“I feel okay, maybe a bit tired.”
“It’s not unusual for there to be a delayed reaction.”
“Hmmm.”
“The symptoms of PTSD include re-experiencing the trauma.”
“Re-experiencing how?” She looked more curious than concerned.
“Flashbacks or nightmares.”
“I’ve had neither of those.”
“All right. Well, there are other symptoms, too. Emotional numbness, difficulty sleeping or concentrating, feeling jumpy—” He stopped abruptly when she put her hand on his arm to stop him.
“Danki. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
“And you’d be honest with me if you weren’t?”
“I would.”
They sat in silence another minute. Finally Tony said, “Now I feel silly.”
“Why in the world would you feel silly?”
“Because I was worried about you, but you seem to be processing everything well enough.”
“Your worry is a kindness. That’s what freinden do, right? They worry about one another. They care.”
She made it sound so simple, and maybe it was. Maybe somewhere in Tony’s season of grief, he’d simply forgotten what friendship felt like. Maybe he’d blocked off his emotions. Maybe he was the one with PTSD. Was that even possible? Or perhaps it was simply that he’d needed to give his heart and his body a year to grieve and heal.
He’d never miss Camilla less. He knew that now. He didn’t have to worry about forgetting the prettiness of her face or the sweetness of her voice or even the fierceness of her temper. All those things were a part of him.
But somehow Dixon’s death had awakened him. He felt as if he’d received a good hard shake when he’d seen Agatha running toward his home, and it had worked like a splash of cold water. He was no longer content to sit in the house and stare at the muted television.
He was alive; and oddly enough, he was glad to be.
He owed Agatha for that.
Though if he tried to explain it to her now, she’d probably quote some obscure Amish proverb. So instead, he simply sat, enjoying the quiet evening, and trusting that his brain would put together the clues they had regarding Dixon’s death. Because the killer was still out there, and Tony was determined to find him.
Before he struck again.
Chapter Fourteen
Agatha was sitting at the kitchen table the next morning when Gina walked through the back door.
“Gude mariye.”
“I don’t know if it’s good, but it’s morning so we might as well make the best of it.” Gina stored her purse in Agatha’s office, then poured herself a cup of coffee and joined her at the table.
Agatha glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re early.”
“Figured there would be extra work to do.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we have our regular chores plus we need to find Dixon’s killer.”
Agatha raised her coffee cup with both hands, took a sip, and studied Gina over the rim of the mug. She was a good friend and an excellent employee, but sometimes she worried too much. Perhaps a piping-hot cinnamon roll would ease the frown lines between her brows. Agatha jumped up, retrieved the pan from the oven, covered the rolls with homemade icing and set the entire thing in the middle of the table. She fetched two plates and two forks, then refilled their coffee mugs.
“Baked goods won’t solve a murder, Agatha.”
“Indeed.”
“But these are awfully good.” Gina smiled for the first time since walking into the house. “You could open a bakery.”
“Danki, but bakers have to get up even earlier than bed and breakfast owners. I had my fill of that living on a farm.” She pulled off the outer edge of the roll and popped it into her mouth. “Now tell me why we have to solve this murder today.”
“Today or tomorrow. Your guests leave Sunday morning.”
“And you think one of my guests is the culprit? Is it the sweet old Amish couple or the nice Englisch one with the baby?”
“I don’t know who it is, but people can sometimes hide their true self.”
“Ya.”
“And someone killed Dixon.”
“It’s true.”
“And it wasn’t you.”
“Indeed.”
“Once your guests leave, once they scatter to the wind, it will be harder to figure out who did it. And if we don’t figure it out, this will hang over you. It could ruin your reputation.”
“I have a gut reputation.”
“You did, before this. But who wants to book a weekend they might not return from?” Gina finished her cinnamon roll, then wiped nonexistent crumbs onto the plate and carried the plate to the sink. Sitting back down across from Agatha, she looked even more serious than she had when she’d first walked into the room.
“I know you’re no Agatha Christie.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. She’d heard that joke since she was a youngie. Even Amish folks knew of the famous writer.
“And I’m certainly no sleuth like Miss Marple, but we can do this.” Gina’s gaze flitted around the room, as if she might spy the offending party lurking near the stove or behind the refrigerator. “Think about it. Whoever swapped out Dixon’s breakfast had access to this property. The chances that someone who didn’t belong here moseyed up to Dixon’s porch and changed his breakfast, without anyone noticing, well that’s a slim chance indeed.”
“I don’t know what we can do, Gina. We cooperated with the police, Kiara has promised to represent me if it comes to that, and Tony is helping any way he can.”
“Which is all good, but I’m talking about you and me...we are the ones who have the most to lose and we need to solve this.”
Her intensity should have made Agatha laugh, but instead, she squirmed under her friend’s gaze.
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“We keep our eyes open. Someone isn’t telling the truth.”
“Any guesses?”
“Something is up with those Cox brothers.”
“They certainly don’t seem to be catching any fish.”
“Also, I’m not buying the Coopers’ story. For some reason, they want to turn our attention to Mason and Paxton.”
“Tony didn’t believe them either.”
“The Willis family seems innocent enough, maybe too innocent. Brooklyn claimed she was downstairs because the baby was teething, but I’ve been around teething babies all my life and they’ve never been as good-natured as Hudson.”
“Now that you mention it, Hudson smiled at me bright as the sun yesterday morning.”
“So why was she downstairs in the middle of the night?”
“Insomnia?”
Gina waved that excuse away. “Then we have your Amish guests.”
“Yes?” Agatha couldn’t wait to hear what Gina had to say about the three Amish couples. They were all over sixty and from the northern part of the country. They couldn’t possibly have known Russell Dixon.
“I’m not sure. There’s something...off about them.”
Agatha shrugged. How was she to answer that? Amish often seemed very different to Englischers. They were different, but it didn’t mean they were killers. In fact, the thought was preposterous. Amish adhered strongly to a policy of non-violence. She just couldn’t imagine such a thing.
“We’ll both keep our eyes open.” Agatha reached across the table and squeezed Gina’s hand. “Maybe something will pop up.”
“As long as it isn’t another dead body.”
They both stood and began preparing breakfast for her guests, working seamlessly side by side. Agatha put the uncomfortable conversation behind her and focused on the day ahead—working in her garden, cleaning the guest rooms, and hopefully finding time to finish some knitting.
That peaceful vision was shattered by Gina’s final comment on the subject.
“Think about motive, Agatha.”
“The killer’s motive?”
“Exactly. Someone wants you out of business.”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” She’d been chopping a russet potato to make hash browns. Her hand paused mid-air, the blade of the knife gleaming in the sunlight. She stared at Gina, who seemed entirely too caught up in all of this.
“Think about it. If you’d been arrested—”
“I wasn’t.”
Dead Wrong Page 7