Murder Most Unlucky: A Cozy Mystery (A Carolyn Neville Mystery Book 5)

by John Duckworth

Mrs. Stoltzfus, taking pity on me, let me use her shower. I was too grateful to ask about washers and dryers, and figured I didn’t have the strength to use a washtub and hand wringer. Maybe tomorrow I could find a rock in the creek to pound my outfit on.

  Stephen and Stuart were sweaty too, but couldn’t seem to move. They lay on the straw in the barn, staring at their phones, their odor masked by that of the animals.

  Our state of suspendered animation was interrupted by the clang of a dinner bell. We hobbled to the house. I hoped the meal would be extra fragrant to cover our multitude of sins.

  Mrs. Stoltzfus met us at the door. “I could eat a horse,” Stephen said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, the food isn’t ready yet. Carolyn, please join us in the kitchen.” She looked doubtfully at Stephen and Stuart. “You can sit with the menfolk in the living room.”

  “Ever made chicken pot pie?” she asked me.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Come with me.”

  Four women were already chopping and mixing in the kitchen. One was lighting a massive iron wood stove. I could smell the scent of match meeting kindling.

  “You can help me make the crust,” the Bishop’s wife said. “The secret of a flakier crust is to freeze the butter first and grate it with a cheese grater.” She handed me a bowl of white stuff. “Since this is a special occasion, we’re using the churned butter. Here’s the grater.”

  I went to work, praying for my knuckles.

  “I notice that only the ladies are preparing the food,” I said. “Do the men ever help?”

  She frowned. “They do their part.”

  “Which is?”

  “The parts of men and women are different.”

  I stifled a snicker, but couldn’t help smiling. “So true.”

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Must be the joy of the Lord.” I paused. “Still, it seems to me that in Christ there is neither male nor female.”

  She shook her head. “Even though the Apostle Paul could have insisted on his rights, he made himself a servant to all that he might win them.”

  She looked more sad than angry.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Overstepped my bounds.”

  Not speaking, she started mixing the dough. Fashioning four crusts, she called for another woman to supply the filling.

  My face felt hot. I wanted to hide under the table.

  Brushing flour from her hands, she sighed. “I must remind myself not to judge. Your ways and ours are simply different. Let God sort things out.”

  “Thank you.”

  She slid the pies into the oven. There was a whoosh as the fire flared, fed by oxygen through the open door.

  Half an hour later the feast began. We all held hands as the Bishop prayed for our safety.

  When I opened my eyes, I looked around at the others.

  Only a few of them knew the danger they were in.

  What would the rest think if they knew what he was talking about?

  Chapter 8

  The Sunday morning rooster sounded just like the Saturday one.

  He crowed three times, betraying his total lack of interest in our inability to move.

  “Morning,” I muttered to the ceiling. I hoped the cows had the morning off.

  Having worked out a system, I went to a stall to freshen up. I’d filled a bucket with cold water the night before from an outside faucet. Unless the Bishop’s wife kept taking pity on me, we’d have to work on the issue of hot water later.

  The rooster crowed again, apparently feeling it necessary to make an extra effort on the Lord’s day.

  “Shut up!” Stephen yelled. I could hear him rustling in the loft. A cloud of chaff drifted down, lit by the sunrise.

  I assumed Stuart was still alive, despite having been forced light years out of his comfort zone. Perhaps he was even awake.

  There was a rap at the door, then the sideways shove that let the day inside.

  “Sabbath greetings,” Aaron said, entirely too happily.

  Stephen grunted. I tried to be glad when he said unto me, “Let us go in to the house of the Lord,” but my joy button was stuck.

  “Breakfast is served,” Aaron said as proudly as if he’d made it himself—which of course he hadn’t.

  It was a small gathering around the Stoltzfus’ table. Everyone looked solemn, dressed in their Sunday best. The men took off their hats.

  The Bishop stood. “Let us pray.”

  Heads bowed in unison. The little assumed granddaughter folded her hands, then looked at me as if to make sure I did, too. I followed suit.

  “Mighty God, the Scriptures tell us to gather on the first day of the week to acknowledge the saving resurrection of Your Son. May the nourishment of which we are about to partake give us the strength to worship you in spirit and in truth. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said everybody who was anybody.

  The lady of the house brought in a platter of cinnamon rolls. Not the kind you get at Safeway or even Cinnabon. The real thing, buttery and frosted a quarter inch deep. I could smell them from 10 feet away, and nearly swooned.

  “Yikes,” Stephen said.

  The Bishop’s wife put her hands on her hips. “Is there a problem?”

  “Only if you run out before I get one.”

  “I have asked my wife to explain our worship service,” the Bishop said, taking the first roll.

  I took the second. It was still warm from the wood stove. Stephen stared at the platter, no doubt comparing the number of diners with the number of remaining pastries.

  Mrs. Stoltzfus sat down. “Most meetings are held in people’s homes. On Sundays during tourist season we meet in the outdoor pavilion down the road.”

  “You get tourists?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Though we consider it an opportunity to introduce them to the gospel,” the Bishop hastened to add.

  Finally the plate got to Stephen. Two rolls left. Taking one, he gave a sigh of relief.

  “Do you have music?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the Bishop’s wife said. “Usually in German, then English.”

  “But no instruments,” Aaron said.

  When the conversation ended, there was one roll left. Stephen eyed it like a hawk.

  I leaned toward him. “It is better to give than to receive,” I whispered.

  “Says who?”

  “Says me and at least One other.”

  He sank back in his chair, pouting.

  The little girl folded her hands across her chest. “I think we should give the last roll to Grandma. She made them.”

  Mrs. Stoltzfus shook her head, then nodded at Stephen. “Mr. Ames, isn’t it?”

  His eyes widened. “Yes.”

  “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

  “Um . . . okay.”

  “I cannot give you the Bread of life, but I can give you this roll. Can you acknowledge that it comes from the Lord’s hand?”

  He swallowed hard. “I guess so.”

  “Then take it with my blessing.”

  He put it on his plate. Taking a knife, he cut it in half and gave the rest to the little girl. “Give it to anyone you like.”

  She looked around, her face sober. Finally she gave it to Aaron. “He works hard,” she said.

  Aaron grinned. “Want some?” he asked me.

  “I’m full. And she’s right.”

  The Bishop looked at the antique clock on the wall. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  Aaron ate the rest of the roll in three bites and washed it down with coffee. We all rose and followed the Bishop out the door.

  Like the children of Israel, we marched down the road to the pavilion. It was fashioned of hand-hewn logs, mostly open on the sides. I could imagine Noah building something similar, though he’d have done it in more of a hurry.

  Aaron led us to the third row. The back was full of
tourists sneaking pictures of the “plain people” with their phones, probably not realizing that most of the younger ones used the devices themselves.

  “Testing. Testing.” A baby-faced blond man of about 30, his beard almost transparent, stood in front of a microphone.”

  “They have a sound system?” Stephen asked, incredulous.

  “It’s new,” Aaron said. “For the convenience of our guests, of course. Not everyone agreed, but after a season of fasting the Bishop made the decision.”

  Mr. Stoltzfus went to the front and prayed an invocation.

  “Welcome to our guests. And now, as is our custom, let us pause for silent prayer and meditation.”

  Heads bowed. I tried to concentrate on my parents and persecuted Christians in China, but kept thinking of Jeremy and the Nameless Girl instead.

  It seemed to take forever. I could feel Stephen squirming next to me.

  At last the Bishop cleared his throat. When you don’t have any instruments, it’s hard to make a smooth transition, I guess.

  He set a huge Bible on the pulpit, opened it, and began to preach.

  “Let it please the Holy Spirit, our subject this morning is staying true to Christ and the Order.” After reading a passage from Philippians, he began.

  I have long believed most sermons should be shorter, and this one did not alter that conviction. I began to doze off after half an hour or so. Stephen and Stuart didn’t last quite that long. The dear Bishop was sincere, but could have put a whole sanctuary full of Eutychuses to sleep.

  I’m not sure when, but a blast of microphone feedback shocked me awake. The Bishop was closing his Bible.

  “Thank God that’s over,” Stephen whispered.

  But it was only the beginning. The baby-faced guy got up, opened his own Bible, and explained he was a deacon. Then he launched into the second half of a double feature.

  Stuart and Stephen looked at each other. I could swear I saw tears in their eyes.

  The deacon, God bless him, probably had a spiritual gift. This wasn’t it.

  If only a woman were allowed to speak, I thought. Not me, but somebody.

  On the other hand, I’d already learned it wasn’t my place to change this particular corner of the world.

  When the exhortation ended, they sang “There is a Balm in Gilead”—first in German, then English. I could remember hearing it as a girl at home, on a record by Mahalia Jackson.

  There is a balm in Gilead

  To make the wounded whole

  There is a balm in Gilead

  To save a sin-sick soul.

  If you cannot preach like Peter

  If you cannot preach like Paul

  Oh, you can tell the love of Jesus

  You can say He died for us all . . .

  When the service finally finished, there was much handshaking. Stuart and Stephen rubbed their lower backs and groaned about having to sit for so long.

  The tourists got into their cars and drove away. Most of the congregation left, followed by my colleagues.

  I lingered, approaching Aaron and another young man who were unplugging the sound system. “Can I help?” I asked.

  Aaron scratched his chin. “Not that I know of.”

  I looked around. The hymnals were still on the seats. I started collecting them and stacking them up.

  “That’s man’s work,” he said. “But I can’t stop you, can I?”

  He gave me one of those shy smiles.

  “Not if you know what’s good for you,” I said.

  For the next three days I checked in with ex-agent Gallagher every morning after breakfast. He was on the move.

  He was off the wagon, though, when it came to cigarettes. I could tell because he sounded so relaxed. No snapping at me, no snapping that obnoxious gum.

  “I’m a new man,” he said, then went into a coughing fit.

  “Congratulations. I’ll be sure to quote you at your funeral.”

  He cleared his throat so loudly I had to hold my phone away from my head. “I’m about twelve hours away. Is there a place to stay where you are?”

  “Yeah. It’s called a barn.”

  “Not interested. I’m thinking more of a motel.”

  “There’s one down the road. Not exactly the Holiday Inn.”

  “I’ll get a room in case somebody from the family discovers where you are. If that happens, I’ll try to get backup. I’ve still got a few contacts at the FBI, but managed to alienate most of them with my so-called Boudreaux obsession.”

  “What are they going to do, sweep in like a SWAT team? How far away are they?”

  “Three hours, maybe.”

  “And in the meantime, what do we do?”

  “Pray to heaven and run like—”

  “These people are in danger. I wake up every morning worrying we’re all going to end up as the latest mass shooting on the national news.”

  “Ma’am, as I recall this wasn’t my idea.”

  “I know, it was stupid. But at the time it seemed better than a shooting involving just three of us.”

  “What are you doing there, anyway? Sitting around in a barn, eating watermelon and summer sausage?”

  I had a mind to press the END button, but figured we might need him later. “Of the three of us, I’ve gained a reputation for being the least incompetent outsider when it comes to making beef jerky. Stephen consumes it in disturbing amounts. I’m afraid he’s going to die of colon cancer.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Stuart’s still nervous, but he learned how to drive a tractor. Nearly ran down a deacon in the bean field yesterday. Tried to make up for it by offering to draw a caricature of him.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a fair trade. Especially if you think making a picture of yourself sucks the soul out of you.”

  I closed my eyes. “No, no. That’s not what they believe. It’s about graven . . . . Never mind. Let’s just say the deacon politely declined.”

  “Whatever.” He paused. “I’ll call when I get there, okay?” He started hacking again just before the line went dead.

  There was a knock at the open barn door. “Sister Neville?”

  The Bishop stuck his head in. He looked as tired as I felt.

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

  I swallowed. I’d been sent to the principal’s office once in fifth grade for mouthing off to the teacher. This felt the same, only worse.

  He sat down on a bale of hay. I found a three-legged stool.

  “It’s about Brother Aaron.”

  “Is he . . . all right?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. It’s a spiritual matter.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Not to pry, but it’s obvious that he is . . . interested in you.”

  “Really?”

  “I may be an old man, but the doctor tells me my vision is 20/20 when I’m not trying to read.”

  “Aaron seems to be a fine young man.”

  He nodded. “But even the Amish have hormones.”

  My face was getting hot. “I haven’t tried to—”

  “I know. But being a shepherd requires me to guard the members of my flock.”

  “Does that make me a wolf?”

  He almost smiled. “Of course not. I just want you to know that Aaron is all too human. And whatever you and he may have in common, it is not wise to be unequally yoked.”

  I started to protest that I, too, was a Christian, but knew deep down that we were miles apart in other ways.

  I sighed. “You’re a wise man.”

  “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. I’m just getting started.” He rose slowly to his feet. “I trust you’ll ponder these things in your heart.”

  “I promise.”

  He touched the brim of his straw hat, turned, and trudged toward the farmhouse.

  He was right. I had to stop acting like an infatuated teenager.

  Next time Aaron and I talked, it would have to be about the danger we faced.

 
We met after dinner in a grove of white pines, where the gravel drive met the highway. In Stephen’s absence, Aaron identified the species and told me the tallest tree in Lancaster County was one of these, 128 feet. They seemed to grow in all directions, an army of bristling creatures that reminded me of Swamp Thing. But I digress.

  The sun had dropped behind the purple hills, with just enough afterglow to conceal the stars. I could see the lights of surrounding villages.

  We stood a respectable six feet apart, no hand holding. I shivered a little.

  “You know, I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “I said we were here on a spiritual retreat. The truth is we’re hiding.”

  “From what?”

  “Some people who are trying to kill Stuart. And the rest of us.”

  He took a step back. “By ‘the rest of us,’ what do you mean?”

  “Mainly Stephen and me. But these people aren’t particular. The whole community could be in danger.”

  “Why do they want to kill Stuart?”

  “He’s got a gambling problem. He borrowed too much, and now he can’t pay it back.”

  “So they’re loan sharks.”

  It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “You know about those?”

  “I may be old-fashioned, but I haven’t been locked in the root cellar for the last thirty years.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Why are you putting your lives on the line for Stuart?”

  “We’re friends. Business acquaintances, but a little more—at least in my case. Besides, these criminals are after us, too.”

  “But he seems a bit . . . different.”

  “How?”

  He looked at the gathering shadows on the ground. “He’s . . . well . . . not a normal man.”

  “Neither is Stephen.”

  “Probably not, but he’s more . . .”

  “Overweight?”

  He shook his head, clearly wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject.

  “The Scripture calls it effeminate, I believe.”

  “Ah. Gay.”

  “Sorry to offend you. I suppose we’re not all of the same mind in this matter.”

  I sighed. “I’ll allow that the Bible is fairly clear. But what about the grace of Christ?”