Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery (9 page)

T
he drive between the Millers’ farm and the small house I rented in Millersburg was twenty minutes. I turned into my driveway and smiled. I loved the little Cape Cod–style home with its flower boxes in the windows and huge, horse chestnut tree in the front yard. When I moved to the home last summer, the flower boxes overflowed with red and pink geraniums. Now, deep purple mums took their place although they were difficult to see in the dark. I wished I could take the credit for the green thumb, but my elderly landlord, Mr. Gooding, and his wife, Mrs. Gooding—I’m convinced they don’t have first names—cared for the flowers and yard. They refused to let me help. Honestly, they didn’t trust me. Over Labor Day weekend, they visited their son in Pittsburgh and put me in charge of watering their flowers. The dahlias didn’t make it. The Goodings mourned and remembered.

I left the car in the drive and let Oliver out of the backseat. He hopped onto the driveway. He wiggled his stubby tail as I unlocked the front door. Oliver trotted inside. I pried off my dusty boots on the front step. And was relieved to see they would be as good as new with a shining. My cowboy boots were my prized possession. They were brown aged leather with delicate blue cornflowers and yellow daisies stitched up the sides. I would never find a pair to replace them in Ohio.

I stepped into the house, carrying the boots, and heard a plaintive yowl. Oliver barked at the front window. He bent back his short neck. I followed his line of sight. Two-month-old Dodger hung from my brand-new living room curtains. I had made them out of some overstock bolts of yellow cotton fabric from the shop.

The kitten’s pewter gray tail whipped back and forth. “Mew! Mew!”

Oliver barked again. Worry etched in his face. The moment the Frenchie set eyes on Dodger, he appointed himself guardian, which was a new role for the pooch seeing how he was afraid of just about everything. Oliver had reason to worry. Since we had brought Dodger home he had fallen into the toilet, got stuck under the couch, and escaped into the wilds of the backyard. It had been a long two weeks. People say dogs are harder to care for than cats. I beg to differ.

“It’s okay, Ollie. I’ll save him.” I patted his head.

Oliver shook off my caress. He wanted me to act.

The gray-and-white kitten was nine feet off of the floor. “Meow, meow, meow.”

Even though I was tall, I wasn’t
that
tall.

Oliver woofed and snuffled. His face clearly said, “Do something!”

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a dining chair. I placed the chair below Dodger and climbed on top of it. I grabbed the kitten about the tummy and unhooked his claws from the fabric one by one.

“Mew. Mew. Mew.”

“I know,” I said as I pulled that last claw free and stepped down. Dodger nuzzled my neck. Oliver barked. He wanted to make sure the kitten was okay. He didn’t trust me with the job. I set Dodger on the floor next to Oliver. The dog snuffled the tiny kitten all over looking for any sign of injury. Dodger rolled onto his back and batted at his canine brother.

I knelt on the floor to reassure Oliver. Dodger didn’t need any reassurance. He was already up and wandering the living room on a quest for more trouble. “He’s okay, Ollie. There’s not a scratch on him.”

My curtains were another story. Pinpricks ran all the way up the rod. It appeared Dodger climbed the curtains several times while we had been at the auction.

Oliver followed after the kitten and pressed his stub nose into the kitten’s side and nudged Dodger into his dog bed. When the kitten was settled, Oliver lay next to him.

I folded my arms. “You two are turning in for the night?”

Oliver put a protective paw on Dodger’s back. The kitten nestled into the dog bed and closed his eyes. Oliver watched the kitten sleep.

•   •   •

The next morning, I woke up to yowls. I sat up straight in bed and saw tiny Dodger hanging from my previously unharmed bedroom curtains. Oliver rooted on the hardwood floor below barking at the kitten, who was only five feet from the ground. I couldn’t tell if he was barking encouragement or reprimand. From the confused expression on Dodger’s face, he didn’t know either.

I jumped out of bed and examined the pinpricks of slits in my curtain and sighed. I looked down at the kitten and shook my finger at him. “Dodger, we are going to have to get you a scratching post.” Again, I unhooked him from a curtain and set him on the floor.

The little kitten purred and butted his head against my ankles. This was how he got away with everything. Oliver cocked his head as if to say. “What are you going to do? The kid is cute.”

I gave Dodger extra points in the cuteness factor. I shook my finger at the kitten. “You’re coming to the shop with us today, so we can keep an eye on you.”

Oliver woofed his approval as he always felt better when he could supervise his small charge.

After I had gotten all three of us ready for the day, I drove to the sheriff’s department in Holmesville. Oliver and Dodger rode in the backseat.

“You guys stay here,” I told them as I stopped the car in the visitor parking lot. I sighed as I walked to the octagonal building. Two months ago, I made this same walk, but as a murder suspect. I was never charged or arrested, but I did have to record my statement and be fingerprinted after finding Joseph Walker’s dead body. Who knew that in such a short time I would be here again because I made another gruesome discovery.

Sheriff Mitchell’s reserved parking space lay empty. Not that I looked for his car. Okay, maybe I did.

I pushed the heavy metal door open and moved down the linoleum floor to the desk sergeant. “Hi, Nadine.”

She grunted and handed me a clipboard. “Sit there.” She pointed at a folding chair. “Record your statement and sign.”

“Okeydokey.” I perched on the chair and filled out the paperwork. When I was finished, I took it back to Nadine. “At least you don’t have to fingerprint me this time.”

She held out her hand for the clipboard, and I gave it to her.

I turned to go when she said, “The sheriff will be seeing you soon I’m sure.”

“What’s that mean?”

She gave me the tiniest of smiles. I didn’t even know Nadine knew how to smile. “You’re free to go.”

Frowning, I left, worrying all the time about Nadine’s smile.

On the drive from the sheriff’s department to Running Stitch, I peeked in the rearview mirror and saw Oliver and Dodger sitting side by side. Oliver had one of his forepaws in front of the kitten as if to stop him from falling off the seat in case we were to stop suddenly. He had definitely assigned himself the job of canine guardian angel. I arrived two hours before the shop opened because I wanted to catch Willow in her tea shop before she opened at nine.

Typically, I hated mornings. A lot. However, ever since Dodger moved in there were no more lazy mornings at my house. I dropped Oliver and Dodger off at Running Stitch and crossed the street to Willow’s tea shop.

The chimes over the doorway clinked together as I stepped through the door of the Dutchman’s Tea Shop. I sidestepped a scarecrow with a cloth pumpkin for a head and holding a teacup. The tea shop was the only business on Sugartree Street that embraced Halloween, which was only a few days away. The Amish don’t celebrate Halloween. Out of respect for my quilting circle, I didn’t add any Halloween decorations to my shop.

“The shop doesn’t open until eight,” Willow called from the tearoom.

I followed her voice. “Willow, it’s me, Angie.”

She turned and beamed. Her typically gray buzz cut was now a light shade of lavender. I wasn’t sure if it was a mistake, a preparation for a Halloween costume, or a color she chose for every day. Knowing Willow, I bet on choice number three. I knew better than to ask. A simple question of Willow’s style choices usually led to a three-hour conversation.

Her reading glasses hung from a colorful beaded chain around her neck and she wore her signature loose blouse over a baggy pair of jeans. If anyone was out of place in Rolling Brook, it was Willow Moon. However, at the same time, she was a perfect fit because she was liked by both the Amish and English residents of the township.

She clapped her hands. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need a taster for my Halloween tea recipe.”

Uh-oh. I should retreat while I have the chance. “Willow, I don’t drink that many different kinds of tea. I’m a Lipton girl. I’m not the best person to judge your new drink. Maybe someone like Farley Jung would be better suited.”

She snorted. “Hogwash. You are a perfect candidate, especially if you don’t drink much tea. You will be able to give me the non-tea-drinker’s opinion.”

Without testing it I could give her that opinion. It was awful. I still was in recovery from Willow’s other recipes.

“Have a seat.” Willow pointed to the dining table closest to the front window. In the middle of one table sat what I could only describe as a cauldron. I swallowed. “What’s that, Willow?”

“Tea.”

“In a cauldron?” I squeaked.

She slipped into the chair across from me. “Is it too much?”

“We’re in Holmes County not Salem.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Wrong clientele for it. It’s a shame. Not too many people can say they’ve received tea service from a cauldron.”

“You could use it with the English customers. I doubt they would mind.”

She held on to the purple crystal, which hung from her neck. “That’s a wonderful idea, Angie. I will only get it out if there are no Amish in the shop.” She dropped her hand. “Would you like a cup of tea from my cauldron?”

Her question was a little too Hansel and Gretel for me. “Oh, well, I’m not thirsty.”

“All you have to do is taste it.”

I edged closer to the table. “You want me to drink something that came out of that?”

“Of course. It’s only a decoration. You don’t think I’m a witch, do you?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. The cauldron is making me nervous.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s only tea leaves and spices.”

I saw the top rim of a fist-sized tea ball in the middle of the pot. Some dark black substance inside.
Tea leaves and spices, right.
I swallowed. “What flavor is it?”

“I’m calling it Witches’ Bite.”

And she claims not to be a witch.
I did not find the name comforting. “You might not want to share that name with the Amish.”

“Good point.”

“What’s in it?”

“Pumpkin, sweet potato, and a special kick.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I’ve never had sweet potato tea before.”

“Then this will be your lucky day.” She walked over to the sideboard and removed two teacups and saucers. “It gives the tea an earthy quality.”

I always wondered why people described food as having an earthy taste. Didn’t that mean it tasted like dirt?

She used a ladle to spoon the tea into the two cups and placed a teacup in front of me. “You are here about Wanda, I presume.”

I shifted my position on the bright blue wooden chair. “I am. When did you hear the news?”

“Yesterday afternoon. It seemed like every person who came into the tea shop spoke of it.” Her face fell. “Wanda had her faults, but she was my friend and dedicated to the good of Rolling Brook. Her tactics were aggressive, but she got the results when no one else could.” She dabbed her eye with a paper napkin. “Are you going to try your tea?”

“I’m going to let it cool a little bit,” I hedged.

“Don’t let it cool too long. I find the sweet potato flavor dulls as it cools.”

That didn’t sound good. I wondered how long I could postpone the taste test. “Did people know what happened?”

“There were a lot of stories. The outsiders didn’t know much about what was going on, but a few locals said that the sheriff thought the Millers might be behind Wanda’s death.” She examined my face as she said that as if she were looking for a reaction.

I cupped my cold hands around the mug. The tea smelled off. How I dreaded the first sip. “The Millers have nothing to do with Wanda’s death. It’s a terrible event for her family and for the town. The Millers are not involved.”

“I heard she died holding one of Rachel’s fry pies in her hand.”

I closed my eyes. How many details about Wanda’s death were already circulating throughout the county? “That doesn’t mean Rachel had anything to do with it.”

Willow slipped on her reading glasses and made a note in her recipe book. “I didn’t see Aaron this morning when I stepped outside to grab the paper. Usually, he’s in the bakery close to four. I see him every morning, except Sunday, like clockwork at five when I go out for my paper. Is the bakery open today?”

“I’m sure it will be. They didn’t close early yesterday.”

She pointed at the cup in front of me. “It should be cool enough to drink now.”

I did my best to keep my face neutral, but all I could think of was the horrible watermelon tea she made during the summer. It was like drinking a liquid watermelon sucker. And was it just me, or did sweet potato sound like a poor choice in tea ingredients?