Assaulted Caramel

by Amanda Flower

  I wiped my hands on a dish cloth. “I’ll go. You stay here with Daadi and help him price.”

  Maami cocked her head. “If you don’t mind. Esther owns the pretzel shop next door.”

  I removed my cell phone from my back pocket. “I don’t mind, and besides, I should probably call Jean Pierre and give him an update about how long I’ll be gone.”

  Daadi looked up from his list. “You aren’t going home tomorrow?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t with everything that’s going on. You can’t even enter your own kitchen.”

  My typically smiling grandfather frowned. “We’re not going to allow what happened to Tyson to ruin your life as well. If you don’t return to New York this weekend, what will happen?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sure as long as I’m there by the time they make the announcement on Monday, everything will be fine,” I said, even though I knew nothing of the kind.

  Maami closed another fudge container. “But you may lose your chance.”

  I walked around the counter. “I’m staying at least until Sunday, and that’s final.”

  Daadi chuckled, and he marked a box of taffy with a price. “She gets her stubborn streak from you, Clara.”

  “Jebidiah!” my grandmother exclaimed.

  I kissed Daadi on his wrinkled cheek before I went out the front door. “I think both of you have enough stubbornness to go around.”

  They were still gently bickering over who was more stubborn when I went out the front door of the candy shop.

  Instead of going straight to the pretzel shop, or even making the call to Jean Pierre I’d said I would, I walked behind Swissmen Sweets. I wanted to look at the back door where Tyson had broken in. I came around the side of the building, but before I could make it all the way, I was stopped by a small orange cat, who couldn’t have been more than a year or two old. “Well, hello there.”

  The small cat meowed and rolled back and forth on the ground, exposing his white belly to me. I squatted next to him and held out my hand. He sniffed it, and then pressed his orange striped cheek into my hand.

  “You’re a friendly little guy, aren’t you? Where’s your owner?”

  As if on cue, a young Amish girl came running up the alley. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” The girl was in her late teens or early twenties, tall, and slim. Her hair was honey blond, and her features were small and delicate, as if they had been painted on her face with a light hand. Even her plain, navy dress and black apron couldn’t hide how beautiful she was.

  “Is that your cat?” I asked.

  She scooped up the cat. “Ya.” She scratched the cat under the chin, and he began to purr. “I mean no . . . he’s not . . . not really.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “He showed up in my family’s barn this week. I think someone just dropped him along the road, and he wandered onto our property. It happens more often than you would think. My bruder said that we couldn’t keep him, because the other barn cats didn’t seem to take a liking to him. Barn cats can be very territorial. The other cats howled the entire night he was in the barn. They kept us all up. My bruder said the new cat had to go, but I just couldn’t part with him. My sister said that I could keep him at the pretzel shop until I found a home for him. It’s only temporary,” she added regretfully.

  “Does he have a name?” I asked.

  Her face broke into a wide smile, making her even more endearing. “Esther said that I shouldn’t name him, but I’ve been calling him Nutmeg.”

  I smiled. “I think Nutmeg is a perfect name.”

  She scratched the cat behind the ear. “I think so too, but I can’t keep him.” She said this more to herself than to me, as if she were trying to prepare herself for the pending separation from Nutmeg.

  “Esther is your sister?”

  “Ya, Esther Esh is my sister.” She said this as if Esther’s was a name I should have recognized.

  “I’m Bailey,” I said. “I’m Jebidiah and Clara King’s granddaughter.”

  “I’m Emily.” She studied me curiously over the cat’s head. “Esther said that the Kings had an Englisch granddaughter, who never comes to visit.”

  I flinched when she said that. “I’m here now.”

  “That is gut.” She nodded.

  “I’m supposed to ask your sister if I can borrow her cart. My grandparents are going to sell their fudge and candy in the farmers’ market this afternoon, and it would be a great help to have the cart to move everything across the street.”

  Her eyes flitted onto a spot somewhere behind me. “I heard about the Englischer who died in Clara’s kitchen. How terrible for your grandparents that it had to happen there.”

  I couldn’t help but note that she didn’t mention she felt sorry that Tyson was dead. She was only sorry that it had happened in my grandparents’ kitchen.

  “I’m sure my sister will let you borrow the cart. The Kings have always been gut neighbors to us.” She turned away from the sidewalk and toward the street that faced the village square. “I can introduce you to her.”

  Checking on Swissmen Sweets’ backdoor would have to wait. I followed Emily back to the front of the building.

  Across Main Street, dozens of Amish farmers had set up white tents and canopies to protect their produce and homemade jams and jellies from the afternoon sun. There was a late September bite in the air, but the sun was still strong. I stood there for a moment watching them work. Young Amish men handed down crates of vegetables from buggies and horse drawn wagons. Amish women neatly arranged their goods on wooden folding tables decorated with dark plain cloths or nothing at all.

  Emily turned. “Are you coming?” She still held Nutmeg in her arms, and the ginger-colored cat appeared perfectly content in her embrace.

  “Right.”

  ESH FAMILY PRETZELS was stenciled on the window of the shop’s front door. Emily opened the door to the pretzel shop; there was a petite woman behind the counter with the same coloring as Emily. I knew at once it must be Esther. While the honey-blond hair on Emily made her beautiful, the honey-blond hair on this woman—who I guessed was close to my own age of twenty-seven—was almost too close to the color of her complexion, and it washed her out.

  “I see you found him,” Esther said as we walked into the shop. “If that cat keeps running away, we’ll have to take him to a shelter. I can’t have a cat running loose in the shop.”

  “He won’t run away anymore,” Emily said, holding the cat a little more tightly. “I promise.”

  Her sister shook her head as she spun a long piece of dough into a pretzel with such ease, I knew that she must have done it a thousand, if not a million, times before. “It doesn’t do any good for you to promise. It’s up to the cat to behave.” Esther raised her eyebrows at me. “What would you like, Miss? Can I make you a fresh pretzel?”

  The granite counter in front of Esther was covered with a layer of white flour.

  In a display case to the left of the counter there were dozens of soft pretzels of varying sizes and flavors waiting to be sold. My stomach rumbled as I stared at the display case, and a cinnamon-sugar pretzel caught my eye. Earlier that morning, my grandmother had attempted to feed me breakfast, but I had been too upset by Tyson’s death to eat. I was surprised how quickly my appetite had returned. Had I already gotten used to the idea that a man had been murdered in my grandparents’ candy shop?

  “Esther,” Emily said. “This is Bailey King, Jebidiah and Clara’s granddaughter.”

  Esther’s brows rose, and she studied me with renewed interest. “You’re the Englisch granddaughter from New York they speak so highly of. You’re some kind of chef.”

  “A chocolatier, actually,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Emily asked as she set the cat on the floor.

  Nutmeg walked across the room and curled up on a pillow under the front window. It wasn’t hard to guess which of the two Esh sisters had placed the pillow there for the c
at.

  “It’s just a fancy name for someone who makes things out of chocolate.” I smiled at the girl.

  “So you are a candy maker like your grandfather,” she said.

  That wasn’t exactly true, but I nodded anyway. “Basically.”

  Esther twirled another pretzel into shape. “I’m sure that your chocolate is much more expensive than what your grandfather sells in his shop.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a different place,” I said, thinking it was a different planet. “Actually, I’m here because my grandmother sent me. We would like to borrow your cart. Swissmen Sweets is closed today. I’m sure you know why.” When she didn’t say anything, I went on. “So we’re going to sell what chocolates and candies we can at the farmers’ market across the street.”

  “I’m happy to lend my little cart if it will help.” She dusted flour from her hands. “Emily, go fetch the cart for Bailey, will you?”

  The girl disappeared through a door into a backroom.

  While Emily was gone, Esther walked over to the display case and plucked out the largest cinnamon-sugar pretzel. She wrapped it in a piece of thin wax paper and held it out to me. “Here. I saw you eyeing it while we were talking.”

  I took the pretzel from her hand, and my mouth was already watering. “How much is it?”

  She shook her head. “Your grandparents have been gut neighbors to us. It is a gift.”

  “Thank you.” I took a bite of the pretzel and closed my eyes. “This is the best pretzel I’ve ever tasted. You would stomp all the bakeries in New York with this.” I wiped cinnamon and sugar from my mouth.

  She laughed and held out a napkin to me. “It is gut to hear that that the Amish can do something better than the Englisch.”

  “You certainly make pretzels better. How long have you been in business?” I asked.

  She beamed. “Danki. The pretzel shop was started by my grandfather and has been passed down through the family to my siblings and me. My bruder would much rather farm than work in the shop, so he gave it to me to manage, day to day.”

  I remembered coming into this very shop during the summers I spent with my grandparents when I was a child, and there had always been an elderly Amish man behind the counter, whom my grandfather would chat with while I took an inordinate amount of time deciding which of the pretzels I wanted. I realized now that he must have been Emily and Esther’s grandfather.

  “Is your farm far from here?”

  She shook her head. “It’s on Barrington Road, just two or three miles from here.”

  I remembered my grandparents had been friends with an elderly couple who lived on that road. We had visited them often. They had since passed away, but I knew the road well. There wasn’t much else out there except for the farm.

  “How long have been minding the shop?” I asked.

  “Since I was sixteen,” she said proudly.

  “I’m impressed.” I wiped more sugar from my face. I was starting to believe that it was a futile act, and that I would need to wash my face when I got back to Swissmen Sweets. “I can’t imagine running a business when I was sixteen. I could barely make it to class on time.”

  She smiled. “It’s not very Amish to say, but I am proud of it.”

  I saw my opportunity. “If you are so proud of the shop, why would you sell the building to Tyson Colton?”

  She stepped back and her eyes narrowed. In an instant, all the goodwill I had won by complimenting her pretzels was lost. “Pardon me?”

  I wrapped what was left of my delicious pretzel, which admittedly wasn’t much, in the piece of wax paper. “My grandfather told me that the merchants on either side of him had sold their buildings to Tyson, and that was why Tyson wanted to buy Swissmen Sweets.”

  “The building isn’t sold yet,” she corrected me. “Not officially. We had just begun the process.”

  This was interesting. I tried to keep my face neutral. “Will you find another buyer now?”

  Esther glared at me.

  The cowbell hanging from the front entrance’s doorknob rang behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and a large Amish man entered the shop.

  Nutmeg jumped off of his pillow as if someone had stepped on his tail and dashed into the back room. The fur on his back stood on end.

  The man was clean shaven, his head uncovered, and he had red hair. By his lack of beard, I knew he wasn’t married. He ignored me and spoke to Esther in Pennsylvania Dutch. I couldn’t understand his words, but it was clear that he was upset.

  Esther replied in kind and then caught me staring at them. “Abel, we will talk about this later. Emily is in the back.”

  He fisted his large hands at his sides.

  “We have a guest,” Esther said through clenched teeth. “Bailey, this is my bruder, Abel. Bailey is Jebidiah and Clara’s granddaughter.”

  Abel looked me up and down with obvious interest. “We have met.”

  I blinked at him. “No, I don’t think we have.” I had been in Harvest for less than twenty-four hours. I would remember if I had run into a red-headed, burly, Amish man.

  “When we were children.” He watched me.

  The memory came back in a rush. Heat flushed my cheeks as I remembered an encounter with a young red-headed boy behind the village gazebo. The pretzel maker’s grandson had taken a liking to me when I was ten, but I’d wanted nothing to do with him. He was older than I was, Amish, scrawny, and I was in love with a boy in my class back in Connecticut. One summer day, he’d tried to steal a kiss me from me behind the gazebo, and I’d run away. That was the last time I had seen him until today. Abel wasn’t scrawny anymore.

  He scowled as if he didn’t enjoy the memory either.

  At that moment, Emily returned, pushing a small silver cart. “I’m sorry that took so long,” the young Amish girl said breathlessly. “There were a bunch of bakery supplies piled on top of it, and I had to find a place to put them.” Emily looked from one of us to the other. “Is everything all right?”

  Esther broke eye contact with me. “Everything is fine, Emily.” She turned back to me. “Please tell Clara she can have the cart for as long as she needs it.”

  I stepped back at the abrupt change in her demeanor. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “Like I said, she can keep it as long as she needs,” Esther said, still with her body turned away from me.

  “Thank you for the pretzel, and thank you for the cart.” I grabbed the handles of the cart and rolled it to the door. “It was nice to meet you both.”

  “Bye.” Emily gave me a little wave, and her older sister went back to twirling dough into pretzels. This time she used a little more force than she had before.

  Abel leaned on the counter and folded his arms, watching me all the while.

  Before I left the pretzel shop, I wondered where Nutmeg had gone when he’d fled. I hoped for Emily’s sake that he hadn’t run far.

  Chapter 9

  Before entering my grandparents’ shop, I needed to call Jean Pierre. It wasn’t a conversation I looked forward to, and I still wanted to look at Swissmen Sweets’ back door. I left the cart at the corner of my grandfather’s building, and walked between the candy shop and Esther’s pretzel shop to the alley behind my grandparents’ store.

  I walked up the three short steps to the back door and peered at the lock. There did seem to be tool marks around the door’s handle, but not knowing what condition the handle was in before Tyson died, it was difficult to determine what was new and what had been there previously. I was happy to see two new deadbolts installed in the door, so I reassured myself that at least what Aiden had said about the new locks was true.

  I tried the doorknob, and it was locked. I stared at the tool marks a little harder, but nothing came to me. I didn’t know what I had expected to learn by staring at the lock, and I had put off my call to Jean Pierre long enough. It was time to get it over with. I felt the same way I did when I was asked to supply a chocolate fountain at a wedding or anniversa
ry party for one of Jean Pierre’s wealthy clients. I hated chocolate fountains, but I always did it first during set up, because the sooner I started it, the sooner it would be over.

  There wasn’t anywhere to sit other than on the steps themselves, so I perched on the back stoop and removed my cell phone from my pocket. I looked at my text messages for the first time. I had at least a dozen from Cass demanding to know when I would be returning to New York, but none from Eric. I supposed he thought his abrupt phone call early that morning was sufficient. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that our relationship was doomed. Perhaps I had even known it when I’d first accepted Eric’s invitation to go out. I wasn’t any better than the countless girls who had fallen under the spell of a famous man’s attention, but my trip to Ohio was a hard slap to the face, waking me up to the truth. I would worry about Eric when I returned to New York. I had enough problems to cope with in Ohio.

  I scrolled to Jean Pierre’s cell phone number in my favorites. The phone rang and rang. It wouldn’t be too long before the call clicked over to voicemail. I didn’t know if that was better or worse. It would certainly be easier to leave Jean Pierre a message, but there was always a chance he would never hear it. As he had told me many times during my tenure as his first chocolatier, “A famous chocolatier does not have time to check his messages.”

  I was about to give up and call back later, when he picked up. “Hello?” he asked in a heavy French accent.

  “Hi, Jean Pierre,” I said.

  “Bon sang, I need you at the shop. Caden is not your worthy replacement.” He added some French curses to the end of that statement. I knew French profanity well from working with the famous chocolatier for so long.

  A small part of me was happy Jean Pierre was dissatisfied with Caden’s work. That meant that Cass had to be wrong about the selection committee giving the head chocolatier job to Caden. They would never choose anyone without Jean Pierre’s support. You did not make a world famous chocolatier—one who could carve a block of chocolate into a replica of Michelangelo’s David with one knife—angry, if you knew what was good for you. If what Jean Pierre said next was any indication, apparently this was a lesson I still needed to learn.