Aenti Sarah, though, was the one stipulation her father and the rest of the family had put on her shop.
“We’re almost there.” Aenti Chelle punctuated the statement with a yawn. “Ach, but I was sleepy. I should enjoy the chance to nap. Once we’re back in Sarasota, it’s back to the same routine.”
Betsy nodded. “I expect I’ll have many hours of work ahead.”
“Aenti Sarah’s meeting the bus today, so I hear.” Her aunt shifted to the aisle seat.
No one had told her that. “I—I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Your daed, daadi, and oncles only want you to have some guidance and help when you need it.”
“I wish you could help me. You know how to run a business, after all.”
“True. But baking and desserts aren’t my specialty. You’ll need extra hands to help bake and prep and serve, especially if you get busy.” Aenti Chelle paused. “Also, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re … young.”
Betsy kept her features even, without letting a grimace appear on her face. “I know I’ll need help. I don’t see what my age has to do with anything. If my desserts are good, then they’re good.”
“Of course they are.” Aenti Chelle shifted on the seat and faced Betsy. “But some might want to take advantage of you, assuming because you’re young you’re not smart. Aenti Sarah will be a good, ah, buffer.”
“I couldn’t imagine anyone in Pinecraft wanting to take advantage of my youth.”
“It may be. We do look for the best in people, but we’re also to be ‘wise as serpents and harmless as doves.’ ”
Betsy nodded. Then the Sarasota city limits sign blipped past the bus. Despite Betsy’s mixed emotions over the snippets of conversation she’d just heard and her aunt’s words, her heart leapt. Her new home, her new venture. Even with Aenti Sarah and feeling everyone would be looking over her shoulder.
Then came the stop-and-go traffic until the bus swung a left onto the most familiar stretch of road for Betsy in Sarasota, Bahia Vista Avenue. A lone three-wheeled bicycle sat padlocked to a bus stop sign. The sight made her smile. Soon enough, the tricycle would be joined by others when the vacation season began.
A few more blocks, and the Tourist Church came into view, with a glimpse of Yoder’s not two blocks away. The bus slowed, and Betsy braced herself with her feet as the bus turned into the parking lot.
Like the other passengers, she craned her neck to see out the window. As was the custom of many in Pinecraft, clusters of people showed up to meet the bus. It didn’t matter if you were expecting anyone to arrive or not, because it was a thrill to see who—and what—would arrive on the massive travel bus.
They glided onto the surface of the parking lot at the rear of the church building. Bearded men in suspenders and dark trousers mingled with women wearing cape dresses and prayer coverings. A few people wore clothing designating they were either Englisch, or liberal Mennonites. Some men wore knee-length shorts, and other women wore capris.
Aenti Sarah stood with three other women, all elderly like her, all in a similar pose. They chattered and gestured as they spoke, stopping for a chuckle. She’d never seen Aenti Sarah laugh like that before, ever.
“We’re here!” someone shouted to no one in particular as the bus ground to a stop.
Then came a flurry of gathering bags and bundles. They’d all had plenty of room on the trip, with the bus being not quite half full.
“It feels good to stretch my legs,” Betsy said as she grabbed her tote bag and reached to press her hand on her waist. The envelope crackled, still there, still secure.
Inside of two minutes, they’d left the bus and the welcoming brigade surrounded them. Smiles, greetings, handshakes, and a few swift hugs.
Aenti Sarah left her group and met Betsy and Aenti Chelle beside the bus.
“You’re here, you’re here. And we have so much to do. So much to do.” She tugged on Betsy’s sleeve.
“Yes, Aenti Sarah. I want to show you my ideas.”
The older woman aunt waved away Betsy’s words like a swarm of mosquitoes “We’ll see about that. I heard you want to bake some non-Amish recipes, like some Italian and French desserts.”
“Well, yes—”
“We’ll see, we’ll see. I’ve been told to keep an eye on you.”
Betsy didn’t groan. Any protests, verbal or otherwise, wouldn’t work. The driver opened the luggage compartment and began the process of tugging out boxes, rolling suitcases. A large box took up a good part of one of the storage compartments.
“Ah, a casket.” Aenti Sarah nodded. “A fresh order from up north.”
Betsy shivered.
“Are you chilled, child? You must be, after being in Ohio. Well, you’re home now. It won’t take long for you to warm up.” Another pluck on Betsy’s sleeve.
“Oh, there’s one of my bags.” Betsy pulled up the handle on the wheeled suitcase. It dawned on her she’d have to drag both of them to Aenti Chelle’s house.
“I’ll walk with you both,” Aenti Sarah said.
*
The office of Dish and Spoon was, for lack of a better term, a mess. And Pete Stucenski hadn’t even touched it yet. He’d spread the news that the restaurant would stay closed indefinitely. Good thing. The last thing he needed was someone sniffing around, wondering why Pete was rummaging through Mitch’s things.
“Mitchie, old pal, if you’d only told me where you put it.” Pete shook his head at the stacks of papers on the desk, boxes in the corner of the room. Something smelled. Dead mouse? He wouldn’t be surprised.
Mitch, the wiseacre, was mocking him from the grave. Too smart for his own good. Pete’s throat tightened at what could happen to his own hide if he didn’t find what Mitch hid. Lives were at stake. Shoot, an election was at stake.
The police had noted a few missing video surveillance files over the last six months. Server error, Pete and Mitch had told them. Mitch had made some of those “disappear” until an opportune time.
But Mitch had to get greedy, had to open his mouth to the wrong person at the wrong time, and nothing Pete could say would save his friend. As soon as Pete had heard the news about Mitch, he knew Mitch had forced their boss—and future senator’s—hand.
Pete sank onto the office chair and it groaned. “Yep, me too.”
He pulled out the top drawer of the desk. It might as well have been someone’s junk drawer, with all the doodads inside. Rubber bands, sticks of gum, staples, pens, pencils, packets of sugar and sweetener—no wonder the place reeked of mice. What would he be looking for? A DVD, a digital memory card, USB drive—what had Mitch done with the video feed from those key nights? Pete had already made one of the files disappear—the night Mitch was gunned down.
His phone bleeped. The boss, Channing Bright.
“Well? Did you find it?”
“I just sat down. As in, just five seconds ago.”
“I don’t have time for this. Go through the office. Then start talking to employees.”
“No problem.”
“Of course, it’s not a problem.”
Pete pushed away a few drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Be quick about it. Time’s ticking away. Mitch either stashed it or gave it to someone else for safekeeping. Did the police mention anything about it?”
“They asked about the missing days of security videos. But I think Mitch made some other files disappear, too.”
“Just find the files.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“Of course you won’t. No one is going to be able to tie anything about this back to me.” Channing Bright was used to getting his way from childhood to one of Ohio’s top businesses. Now he was poised to win the biggest game of his life—a United States Senate seat.
Pete debated about sneaking to the kitchen and brewing a cup of coffee. It didn’t seem right, even though the police had released the restaurant after clea
ring the crime scene. But if Mitch were around, he wouldn’t care if Pete, his old pal, made himself a fresh cup of joe.
In a twisted way, Pete was doing Mitch a favor, ferreting out this secret. No one else needed to die because of Mitch’s folly. Especially not Pete. Channing Bright had better remember the little people, after all Mitch and Pete had done to help him.
4
Thad slowed his motorcycle down and let the vehicle glide onto Kaufman Avenue, off the bustling Bahia Vista. One sign made him pause, and it wasn’t the sign for Yoder’s Restaurant and Gift Shop, nor the sign for Big Olaf’s Ice Cream.
Village Pizzas by Emma? Pizza. In Pinecraft? Maybe there was hope for a prodigal baker yet. The idea almost tugged a grin from his lips. Almost.
He yawned. After his night on the road, then sleeping on the lumpy mattress in a cheap motel off the interstate, he hoped his mammmi would welcome him. He hadn’t written, hadn’t called. Of course, she had no phone. But Thad knew where her home was. As soon as he’d entered the neighborhood, it all came back to him. Pinecraft had changed a little from what he remembered in childhood.
Pizza. The thought made his stomach grumble.
Arriving at Mammi’s would wait for a few minutes. He parked in an empty parking space and noted the pizza shop was open for business now. The late morning sun felt good on his skin. He’d shed his jacket in the morning, and it was strapped to his duffel bag on the rear of his bike.
Thad entered the tiny shop behind Big Olaf’s. The chilled air made the hair on his arms rise up, and he rubbed it back down.
The young lady—probably Mennonite, he judged by her hair and clothing—stared at the tattoo on his arm, then snapped her gaze to his face.
He smiled at her. “One slice of pizza, pepperoni. And a bottle of pop from the case.”
“Right away.”
Thad stepped over to the glass-doored cooler holding the pop. While the young lady dished up his pizza, a pair of older women entered, chattering about the bus that just arrived. They stopped short when the saw him, then continued past him to the counter.
Thad gave them a nod as he stepped up to pay for his pizza. “I can just grab the pop on the way out?”
“Right. Help yourself,” the young lady replied with a smile.
He grabbed a Mountain Dew for a caffeine jolt. He’d have plenty of time to sleep. If Mammi let him in.
Once outside, he settled down at a table on the deck and munched on his pizza. He didn’t need to gulp down the whole slice in four bites, but did anyway. The motel had promised a hot breakfast, but it included frozen waffles resembling warmed-up plastic.
Amish and Mennonites selling pizza. He shook his head over the idea, even as his taste buds soaked up the flavor of the cheese.
The two older women left the shop. One carried a pizza box, the other two small bottles of pop and a stack of plastic-wrapped sandwiches. The sight made him smile.
He took a swig of his Mountain Dew, then replaced the cap on the bottle. Time to see Mammi. He revved up the cycle, then passed the ladies who strolled along the street. The neighborhood was relatively deserted, which suited him fine for now.
One block over from Pinecraft Park, he turned onto Good Avenue and headed for Mammi’s house. A neat little flower garden gave the simple white cottage some color. A minivan sat in the driveway, with five three-wheeled bicycles clustered around it.
So, she had company.
So, he couldn’t arrive quietly.
He parked his bike in the sliver of remaining parking space, then unfastened his jacket and duffel bag from the rear of the bike. Then he slung the bag over one shoulder and stepped up to the storm door. He could see inside through its large glass pane.
A quilting frame filled the living room, and no fewer than six figures were huddled around it. One of them sat up straight and looked in his direction, then rose from her seat. She wore a cape dress of deep sapphire blue, covered by a navy blue apron. She stopped at the door and spoke through the glass.
“Thaddeus. Thaddeus Zook?”
“Yes, yes Mammi. It’s me.”
“Well, come in, come in.” She opened the door and tugged him inside, probably to get the sight of him off her front step before someone happened by and saw him standing there.
Five pairs of eyes regarded him from around the quilt frame. But his attention was focused on his mammi. When had she grown so … old? Wrinkles lined her face. The fingers smoothing her apron had age spots. But her eyes were warm. Inside them, he saw a bit of the hurt he’d inflicted on his family by leaving the Order.
“Danke,” he replied to her, taking care to wipe his boots on the mat just inside the door. Funny, how the language he knew and had left behind him came so readily to his lips. He let the duffel slide to the floor beside a pair of clogs.
“We’re quilting today,” Mammi said, gesturing to the work-in-progress filling most of the small front room, along with the frame, chairs, and five other women.
“I see.”
No, she wasn’t about to say much in front of her friends. No questions, no sermons. None of it yet.
“Would you like some orange juice, fresh squeezed this morning?”
“Yes, please.”
“Come, come.” She waved him along toward the kitchen, where she fetched a clean glass from the cupboard. “The juice is in the refrigerator, so help yourself.”
“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the glass with one hand and stifling a yawn with the other.
“You’re tired.” Mammi paused in the kitchen doorway separating it from the dining table.
“It’s been a long ride.”
She continued their conversation in Dietsch. “Well, drink your juice. You can nap in your old room. Do you remember where it is?”
“Yes, Mammi.” He was six years old again, with newly chopped hair just above his ears, his feet dangling a few inches from the floor when he sat at her table.
“Gut, gut. Will you stay for a while?”
He nodded.
“Gut.” She headed back into the front room.
He tried not to guzzle the juice, but at first taste he remembered the freshness of real juice, straight from the orange. He emptied the glass, then set it inside the gleaming sink. A coffee pot gurgled on the counter, and the sound of laughter echoed from the other room.
Thad yawned again and left the kitchen, his boots taking him to the other side of the house where three bedrooms and the bathroom made a square, with the master bedroom getting the larger chunk of the area. Last door on the right, and he entered the room he used to pile into every winter with his brothers and sometimes a cousin or two.
The bed looked smaller. Or maybe Mammi had downsized to a twin bed for this room. A simple chest of drawers stood against a wall. A lamp rested on a nightstand to match the chest. A calendar, two years old, hung on the wall. The irony made him smirk. Yes, the place might as well be stuck in time. But time didn’t matter if you were Amish. Which he wasn’t, anymore.
He sank onto the quilt, then tugged off his boots. He stretched his aching feet and caught the pungent aroma from his socks. Yep, he’d been on the road all right. As he stretched out onto the quilt without pulling it back, he thought of his duffel bag and jacket in a heap near the front door. He’d pick them up, in just a few minutes.
Nice, soft pillows. A quiet place to close his eyes.
Someone cackled in the front room.
Well, mostly quiet.
*
All Betsy wanted to do was curl up in bed, pull her favorite quilt over her head, and get a few hours’ sleep. She found herself in Yoder’s Restaurant, tucked next to Aenti Chelle in a booth, with Aenti Sarah across the table from them.
The restaurant, a fixture in Pinecraft since the 1970s, also had a gift shop nearby, which Betsy had walked through once and left before she succumbed to a sudden urge to purchase a beautiful pin. In the building on the other side of the restaurant stood a fresh market stocked with Florida produce and a s
hop selling various Amish items and baked goods.
With their suitcases and other luggage now back at Aenti Chelle’s, they studied the menu. Rather, Betsy and Aenti Chelle studied the menu while Aenti Sarah studied Betsy’s folder marked “Pinecraft Pies and Pastries.”
“After we eat, I want to stop by the market to get some fruit, vegetables, and bread,” said Aenti Chelle. “I’m sure my fridge is barren.”
Betsy nodded. “I’m so tired.”
“When I was younger, we had more stamina.” Aenti Sarah shook her head.
Betsy ignored the remark. Thankfully, Aenti Chelle had driven them to the restaurant in her van.
Would it be wrong of her to order pie from the competition? The peanut butter pie was her favorite and more than once she wished she could put something like it on her menu. But she wasn’t planning to copy Yoder’s.
She didn’t think of her business as competition. She wasn’t sure if the other food service businesses nearby would think so either. Her mouth watered, and she yawned. Her two weeks away might as well have been two months.
“You have a shopping list of display cases, a cash register, a triple oven—electric?” Aenti Sarah shook her head. “If only we could bring in a good wood-burning stove to bake with. Using electric or gas isn’t the same.”
Aenti Chelle chuckled. “Imagine, a wood-burning stove, in Florida.”
Betsy glanced from her Mennonite aunt to her elderly Old Order aunt. “I certainly never have.”
“This is why I wanted to be part of your shop,” said Aenti Sarah. “We need to do things the right way.”
The waitress came and took their orders, but only after Aenti Sarah had changed her mind three times, finally settling on the chicken pot pie.
“You’ll see the list I made, Aenti Sarah. Besides the equipment list, I mean.” Betsy pointed at set of photos of the building, taken by Imogene Brubaker. “I need to get the inside painted, the electricity turned on …”
A Path Made Plain Page 3
