A Plain Malice: An Appleseed Creek Mystery (Appleseed Creek Mystery Series Book 4)

by Amanda Flower

  A Plain Malice

  An Appleseed Creek Mystery

  Amanda Flower

  A Plain Malice

  An Appleseed Creek Mystery

  By Amanda Flower

  Published for Kindle by Amanda Flower

  A Plain Malice

  Copyright 2014 by Amanda Flower

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by Amanda Flower

  The Appleseed Creek Mystery Series

  A Plain Death

  A Plain Scandal

  A Plain Disappearance

  The India Hayes Mystery Series

  Maid of Murder

  Murder in a Basket

  The Andi Boggs Series

  Andi Unexpected

  Andi Under Pressure

  The Amish Quilt Shop Mystery Series

  (writing as Isabella Alan)

  Plainly Murder

  Murder, Plain and Simple

  Murder, Simply Stitched

  Murder, Service Simply

  Advanced Praise for A Plain Malice

  “Another hit! Amanda Flower has done it again. A Plain Malice is the perfect conclusion to the Appleseed Creek Series. Witty, clever and filled with unexpected twists and turns, this is one book you don't want to miss.”- Amy Lillard, Carol Award-winning author

  of The Clover Ridge Series

  Praise for the Appleseed Creek Mystery Series

  "As it turns out, Amanda Flower may have just written the first Amish rom-com. And all I can say is … bring on the next one!" -USA TODAY

  "A gentle and thoughtful Christian mystery, this series debut will appeal to readers wanting to learn more about the diversity within Amish communities." -Library Journal

  "Romance and intrigue make a delightful tangle in this entertaining story. With authentic small-town instincts, Flower populates her tale with quirky characters that bring her story to life." - CBA Retailer

  "The third installment of the outstanding Appleseed Creek series is a mystery with twists and turns and an unexpected ending that will keep readers up until the wee hours of the morning. Readers are reunited with characters from the first two books and will meet some new ones. Flower has hit it out of the ballpark with this series and continues to amaze with her knowledge of the Amish way of life."- 4 1/2 stars Top Pick RT Book Reviews

  Dedication

  For Nicole Resciniti

  no one fought harder for Chloe and Timothy’s Happily Ever After

  Acknowledgements

  This novel exists because of you, the readers, who asked for it. Thank you for your love of Appleseed Creek and continued support of my writing. I couldn’t do this without you.

  Special thanks to my agent and friend Nicole Resciniti, who fought long and hard for this story and went to extraordinary lengths to make sure it ended up in print.

  Thanks to my editor Julie Gwinn and Marisa Cleveland. I’m so happy that you both were part of this book.

  Hugs to my dear friend Mariellyn Grace. Your edits and voice of reason have saved me more times than I can count and go way beyond my writing.

  Thank you to the Burns and Queen families, especially Mike, Cathy, and Meredith, who answered my endless questions about dairy farming. Any mistakes in the manuscript are my own.

  Love my mother, Rev. Pamela Flower, who edited this novel before she went home to be with the Lord. I’ll keep writing because you asked me to. And love to my family, especially Andy, Nicole, Isabella, and Andrew. You put up with a lot so I can live my dream. Thank you.

  Finally, I thank God in Heaven for allowing me the opportunity to finish this series. It ended in an unexpected way, but it is a happily ever after.

  Chapter One

  A luxury cobalt blue passenger bus sat in the middle of the Troyers’ yard. Toddler-sized white lettering announced, “Blue Suede Tours” across all four sides of the vehicle. A balding bus driver stood a few feet away wearing an equally blue polo shirt and drinking a Diet Coke. With a foul expression, he watched his southern passengers wander the grounds. The tourists milled around the Amish dairy farm, pointing at the black and white Holstein cows, plain dresses on the line, and push lawnmower leaning against the toolshed. English people wandering the Troyer farm were not common place, but then again, I hadn’t visited the farm all that much since Becky’s argument with her parents about cutting her hair over Christmas.

  Five shiny black buggies sat on the opposite side of the driveway from the blue bus. I parked my Beetle in between two of the buggies, but before I got out, I gave myself a mental pep talk. I could do this. When I’d visited the Troyers before Becky cut her hair I’d had a sense of peace on the Amish farm because I felt like I finally found a place to belong. That all changed when the Troyers saw Becky’s shoulder-length blonde locks. Her short English hairstyle was her statement that she not only left the Amish way of life but would never return.

  When Becky left her Amish home I gave her a place to stay, and after some time, her family came to accept me as her friend. Maybe because they thought I gave her a safe place to live until she was ready to return to Amish life. I gave her a comfortable English home. Perhaps, I made it too easy for her to make the opposite decision. I suspected that was how her parents felt.

  I grimaced. Timothy, their oldest son and my boyfriend, was also a complication. He left the Amish years before I met him, but I knew the Troyers wanted him to return to their way of life as much as they wanted Becky to return. I, who would never be Amish, stood in the way of their hopes for their two eldest children.

  As I unbuckled my seatbelt, I spotted Timothy talking with a stout English man a few yards away. The medium-height thin man wearing the same blue polo shirt as the bus driver gripped a neon yellow umbrella in his hand like a riot club. Overhead, the periwinkle sky was clear and cloud free. It was a perfect spring day. The umbrella wasn’t needed as raingear. Perhaps, crowd control?

  Sunlight reflected off Timothy’s white-blond hair giving him a halo effect. The sleeves of his long sleeve T-shirt were pushed up, revealing his muscular forearms, permanently tanned from hours of laboring in the sun.

  Bang! Something hit the door on my side of the car. I jumped in my seat and smacked my wrist on the bottom of the steering wheel.

  Grandfather Zook’s concerned face peered at me through the open window. His long white beard spilled over the windowsill. “Chloe, are you all right? I’m sorry to scare you so. One of my braces got away from me and walloped the Cockroach.” He glanced at the side of the car. “No harm done. What were you doing still in your car? There’s work to be done.”

  Heat rushed to my face. Did Timothy’s grandfather catch me staring at his grandson? I willed myself to stop blushing, but it was no use as any true redhead knew. Grandfather Zook backed away from my VW Bug’s door on the metal braces he used to help him walk. I stepped out of the car, and as I shut the door, I slipped my car keys and cell phone into my jacket pockets.

  Across the yard, the man with the umbrella stalked away from Timothy, muttering under his breath. He was too far away for me to make out the words but clearly
whatever Timothy said had not been welcome news.

  Timothy spotted me standing with his grandfather, and his face lit up. I felt a smile curve my own mouth. He started our way, but a cluster of elderly tourists stopped him with a flurry of questions. He gave me a half smile and then chatted with the visitors.

  Grandfather Zook cleared his throat. “I used to look at my sweet wife that way.” He winked at me. “I’m happy my grandson has found someone to love as dear.”

  His comment only made me blush more. My fair complexion would be my undoing. That much was certain.

  “Chloe!” a high pitch voice cried.

  Seven-year-old Thomas Troyer and four-year-old Naomi raced to my side. The wisps of Naomi’s blonde hair escaped her braid and flew behind her like silken thread. Thomas’s Amish bowl hair bounced in tandem with his energetic steps. He reached me first and threw his arms around my waist. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you in weeks and weeks. And when we do, you never stay.”

  My heart constricted as Naomi wrapped her arms around me on my other side. “We missed you, Chloe. Don’t you like us?”

  Naomi’s question was harder to digest than her brother’s. When I had moved to Appleseed Creek eight months ago, she was only three and couldn’t speak a word of English since she wasn’t in school yet. She’d learned English because the Troyers spoke it when I visited since I didn’t understand Pennsylvania Dutch. Now, she spoke it almost as well as Thomas, who I suspected came out of the womb bilingual with something to say.

  “I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry I haven’t visited lately.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I’ve been so busy this school year.”

  Grandfather Zook frowned at me over the children’s heads. Yes, I was busy as the Director of Computer Services at Harshberger College, but we both knew that wasn’t the reason I’d avoided the Troyer farm. I stayed away because Mr. Troyer, and even to some extent Mrs. Troyer, didn’t want me there. When Timothy told me his father asked for me to help with the bus tour today, I had been hopeful things would go back to normal, but since Becky had not been invited that told me the dispute between parents and child was long from over. Some in the Troyer’s district, most notably the deacon, expected the family to shun Becky for her haircut. Even though no one said aloud that was happening to Becky, her absence spoke volumes. I understood Becky’s hurt. Estrangement with a parent was something with which I was all too familiar.

  “Did you see the bus people?” Thomas asked.

  I patted his head. His hair felt like silk. I didn’t tell him that because a rough-and-tumble boy like Thomas would find the comparison insulting. “I did.”

  Naomi tugged on my arm. She had her favorite faceless doll tucked into her left elbow. The doll wore the purple dress I had given Naomi for Christmas. “They talk different.”

  I smiled. “That’s because they’re from another part of the country and have a different accent than we do. We probably sound strange to them too.”

  Thomas frowned. “They can be hard to understand.”

  “I’m sure they think the same of us.”

  Grandfather stamped his right braces into the ground, but his eyes belied his good humor. “Enough yapping. Let’s head to the barn. Simon’s giving an old fashioned milking lesson.”

  “Am I late?” I asked. “Timothy told me to be here at ten.” I slipped my cell phone from my pocket. The readout said I was ten minutes early.

  He started across the bright green spring grass to the barn. “Nee, you’re right on time. It’s the bus of Mississippi Englischers who are early. They were supposed to go to the Zug sheep farm first, but one of Zug’s sheep broke out of their pasture and made a run for it. He’s got to go find it.”

  I fell into step beside him. Thomas and Naomi still clung to my sides. “How long have the tourists been here?”

  Grandfather Zook frowned. “Maybe a half hour, not too long.”

  Why didn’t Timothy call me to ask me to come sooner?

  Carefully, I stepped out of Thomas’s and Naomi’s arms. “Do you have any idea what Mr. Troyer wants me to do?”

  Naomi grabbed hold of my hand, and I squeezed it.

  Grandfather Zook gripped his braces and was careful not to put them down on any dips or ruts in the yard. “Nee, but I’m sure there is plenty for you to do. My daughter, Ruth, and Ruth’s friend Anna Lambright have been in the kitchen most of the morning.” He lowered his voice. “You’d think the tour director didn’t feed them by the way they ate my daughter’s cooking. She had to send Anna home for more eggs and flour, so that Martha could bake more muffins.” Grandfather Zook edged around an indentation in the lawn. “I had hoped Becky would come with you.”

  Naomi gripped my hand more tightly at the mention of her oldest sister’s name. As young as she was she still felt tension between Becky and her parents even if she didn’t know the cause.

  “She’s working at the restaurant today,” I said, hoping Grandfather Zook would leave it at that.

  “Strange that Ellie wouldn’t give her the morning off. She knew this tour was coming through.” Ellie Young was the proprietress of Young’s Family Kitchen and Flea Market, the largest Amish business in Knox County, and a close family friend to Grandfather Zook and the Troyers.

  “I don’t think that was the issue.” I let my statement hang in the air.

  Thankfully, Grandfather Zook dropped the topic at least for the time being.

  Ten yards from the barn, I saw Bishop Hooley standing with Deacon Sutter. The two men studied the tourists milling around the Troyer farm. Bishop Hooley smiled and stroked his brown grizzled beard as he watched the travelers. In contrast, black-bearded Deacon Sutter looked like he was ready to excommunicate everyone within a twenty foot radius, including the non-Amish. I nodded in their direction. “What are they doing here? Isn’t this the last thing they would want to see in the district?”

  Grandfather Zook dug the end of his brace into bright green grass. “The tour was Bishop Hooley’s idea.”

  I pulled up short. “It was?”

  The older man nodded. “Ya. Bus tours like this have been traveling through Holmes County for decades. The bishop contacted some travel agencies and found one to come to Knox County instead of Holmes. If it goes well, this could go on all spring and summer.”

  “Deacon Sutter was okay with that?” I stole a glance at the deacon. He glared in return.

  Grandfather Zook shrugged. “He might not agree with the bishop, but he won’t cross him. What the bishop says goes.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. “Why did the bishop do this?”

  “He saw this tour as a way to attract tourists to our district. Many times they pass Knox County on their way to Holmes.” He snorted. “Holmes County doesn’t have anything we don’t have.”

  I smiled. “Just a few thousand more Amish and five times the businesses.”

  Thomas and Naomi ran ahead. Again wisps of hair flew behind the small girl.

  Grandfather Zook tugged at his beard. “There is that. It is gut for the district. Bishop Hooley is turning into a fine bishop.” He grinned. “All the families taking part will get a portion of the money the district earns from the tours. I think that’s why my son-in-law agreed to participate. We could always use the money.”

  We’d almost reached the large white dairy barn. The familiar scent of dry milk, manure, and hay washed over me, and the sound of the cows mooing mixed with the German-sounding Pennsylvania Dutch and Southern drawled English voices. Thomas and Naomi dashed into the barn. I touched Grandfather Zook’s arm. “Is the farm in financial trouble?”

  “Nee. It’s not in any more trouble than usual, but it is hard to compete with those big corporate farms buying up land. They’re so large they can undersell us until we go under. They can take a loss on the sale of milk, we can’t. After all the small farms go out of business, they can hike their prices.”

  I stared at Grandfather Zook, surprised by his bleak comment. He was more cheerful a
fter the attack that sheared off his beloved beard.

  He must have noticed my expression. “Es dutt mir leed. I’m sorry. We’re here to promote the farm. Instead I am scaring you.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  He laughed. “You’re face tells me something different.”

  Thomas and Naomi stood just inside the barn door as if too shy to enter. This was nothing new for Naomi, but Thomas was typically more fearless.

  “Aren’t they sweet? Don’t you love the little girl’s dress and the little boy’s suspenders?” an African American woman with close cropped gray hair asked. “My, I wish I could take a picture of them. The photo would look so nice in my country style kitchen. I know right where I’d hang it too. Between the buffet and my plate collection.”

  “Now, LeeAnne, you know the Amish don’t like their photographs taken,” her companion, a white woman with a half dozen rings on her fingers and beads around her neck, said.

  LeeAnne lifted her tiny digital camera. “One little picture won’t hurt.”

  Grandfather Zook cleared his throat behind them.

  The two women turned around and a blush flew up both of their cheeks.

  “Those are my grandchildren you are talking about,” he said.

  The lady’s hands with the rings fluttered into her face. “I’m so sorry. We were only saying how much we would like a photo of them. We would never take one. We would never disrespect your culture like that. Isn’t that right, LeeAnne?”

  LeeAnne hastily tucked her small camera into her tapestry purse, which was large enough to conceal a bowling ball or two. “Raellen is right. We would never do that.”

  Grandfather Zook folded his arms, trying to look gruff but failing horribly at it. “Gut. Because I would hate to have Chloe escort you off the farm. She’s in charge of security today.”