Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery)

by Bradford, Laura

  When they reached the door, Jakob placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her inside to the waiting casket. There, just as she’d been warned, was Harley Zook as he looked in death, his clothes no different than he wore every day of his life. Yet instead of the smile both Diane and Jakob remembered him for, his mouth was open in a way that suggested a last gasp rather than a final breath of peace. Angry blue veins, dulled slightly by the passage of time, claimed the skin around his neck and face, reminding all who saw him that his death had been traumatic. She looked away and swallowed.

  “You doing okay?”

  She startled at the warm breath against her ear then found the closest thing to a smile she could muster. “The warning helped. Thank you.”

  Jakob bowed his head slightly then returned to the silent prayer he was undoubtedly offering for a man who’d been able to see Jakob’s choice as the honorable road it truly was rather than the disgrace so many others believed it to be.

  She, too, said a prayer—a prayer of thanks for a man who not only lived life with an open heart but also lived it with a forgiving one, as well.

  “Ready?” he whispered.

  At her nod, he tucked his hand beneath her elbow and guided her back toward the door, his desire to make it out of the bishop’s house without incident palpable.

  “Claire! It’s good to see—oh, I didn’t see you there, Jakob.” Howard Glick stepped through the open doorway connecting the front room from the kitchen and planted a kiss on Claire’s cheek. Then, extending his hand to Jakob, he pulled the detective into the kitchen and motioned for Claire to follow. “Everyone is in here.”

  In an instant, the hushed voices she’d been vaguely aware of while praying over Harley’s body grew eerily silent as six pairs of eyes narrowed in on Jakob’s face only to turn away in true domino style . . .

  The bishop . . .

  His wife . . .

  Abram . . .

  Eli . . .

  Martha . . .

  And, finally, reluctantly, Esther . . .

  She heard herself gasp, felt the momentary confusion that blanketed her own heart give way to a slow boiling anger she was hard-pressed to contain. “Wait a minute,” she protested. “I don’t—”

  “I should not have come, Claire. I don’t belong here.” Jakob grabbed hold of her upper arm and escorted her to the door. She considered yanking free of his grasp and saying her piece but opted, instead, to leave with Jakob.

  He needed her more at that very moment than she needed to rail against an injustice that would never change, anyway.

  “I’m sorry, Jakob.” It was such a lame statement in light of what had just transpired, but it was all she could think of as they stepped onto the sidewalk and made their way toward the car. “I . . . I have to believe the only reason Martha and Esther turned away like that was because of the bishop.”

  “They did as they should under the circumstances,” Jakob said in an emotion-chocked voice. “I had no right to expect anything different.”

  She broke into a jog to keep up with him, capturing his hand and turning him to face her as they reached the car. “But you have to know it killed them to do that. Did you see Martha’s face? Did you see the way Esther hesitated? They love you, Jakob.”

  He tilted his head upward, seemingly taking in the stars that had exploded in the sky during the short time they were inside the bishop’s house. A hand on his chest was the only hint he was also trying to catch his breath and rein in the pain he was unable to keep from his face. “I know they do. And that is why I can’t go to Esther’s wedding with you.”

  “Can’t go?” she echoed. “But you agreed that the only thing that matters that day is seeing Esther and Eli marry.”

  “That was before I saw the pain on my niece’s face just now.”

  “But—”

  Slowly, he lowered his gaze until it mingled with hers. “No, Claire. I refuse to see that look on Esther’s face on her wedding day. I can’t, and I won’t.”

  Chapter 19

  For the first time since opening the shop over the summer, Claire bypassed her office and went straight to the main room. There were only so many times she could look at the numbers. She was spending money faster than it was coming in, and at the rate she was going, Heavenly Treasures would be closed inside ten weeks, twelve at best.

  The one and only saving grace was the knowledge that Esther’s wedding would happen first. Somehow, knowing she wouldn’t have to let Esther go lessened the sting of packing up her dream and calling it a day.

  But then there was Aunt Diane . . .

  No, there was no getting around the pain Claire’s inevitable exit from Heavenly was going to cause the innkeeper.

  “You look as if the weight of the world is on your shoulders right now.”

  Startled from her thoughts, Claire grabbed hold of the counter for support and jerked her head in the direction of the front door. There, just inside the entryway of Heavenly Treasures, stood Martha, quietly clasping her hands while glancing over her shoulder toward the sidewalk. “The bishop says God will provide. He will make all things right.”

  “I think God is looking after those with far bigger problems than mine.” Claire forced herself to focus on the here and now, or, at the very least, the here and the previous night. “Do you always listen to everything Bishop Hershberger says, Martha?”

  “Yah.”

  “Seems to me you might do better to listen to your heart once in a while, too.”

  “I do not know what you speak of.”

  Warning bells began to clang in her head, the sound, she assumed, designed to keep her from saying something she’d regret. Yet, despite the mental reminder that Martha was Esther’s mother, she continued on, undeterred, the connection between Martha and Jakob every bit as important. “I respect your way of life. I have since I was a little girl. I think the way you rely on one another over technology is to be commended. I admire the way you all work so hard, making your own way in life. I admire your large families and the respect you have for one another. And I admire your ability to turn the other cheek when you are wronged . . . but I will never understand how the Amish can offer forgiveness to a stranger for something like murder, yet refuse to give it to one of their own for becoming a police officer.”

  Martha met Claire’s gaze with one that was hooded, maybe even a little sad. “Jakob knew what would happen if he left.”

  “Do you really think that makes it better somehow? Do you really think that knowing what would happen and actually living it is the same thing? Because I don’t. I’ve only known your brother a few months now and even I can see how much his decision has cost him.” She brushed a shaking hand through her auburn hair and began to pace, the frustration over her financial situation and her anger over Jakob’s treatment the previous night propelling her back and forth across the room. “He gets that he will never have a real relationship with you and your husband, or with Esther and the rest of your children. But is it so wrong for him to get a smile? To get a quick wave? To squeeze his hand as you go by? Because from where I’m standing . . . and where I was standing last night, I don’t see why such tiny courtesies could be so wrong.”

  “That is how it must be in front of the bishop.”

  Claire wanted to argue, to tell Martha to be proud of the fact she and Jakob were rebuilding their foundation one clandestine meeting at a time, but to do so would be to potentially harm the progress they’d made so far. Besides, Jakob had never come out and said he was still meeting his sister by the pond. Claire only assumed and Jakob neither confirmed nor denied.

  Like it or not, Martha was not only Jakob’s sister but Esther’s mother, as well. To continue bemoaning an injustice that wasn’t going to change no matter what she said was futile. Instead, she gave up and steered all further conversation toward safer territory.

  “If you give me a second, I’ll step out to your buggy with you and help you bring in whatever creations you have for me this
week.” Any hope she had for keeping the store going until mid to late January was due, in no small part, to Martha’s hand-painted milk cans and footstools. Positioning the Amish woman’s work in the front window virtually guaranteed Claire’d make a sale by the end of the day. Unfortunately, the kind of detail Martha put into each item took time, and even two or three footstools a week wasn’t enough to keep Claire’s head above water any longer. Still, some time was better than no time.

  Especially when that time would enable her to see Esther married and happily embarking on her new life with Eli before Claire was forced to take down the Heavenly Treasures’ shingle.

  “I do not have any items for you today. There is much to do these next few weeks to prepare for Esther’s wedding. There will be many guests. My painting must wait until her wedding day is over.”

  “You—you don’t have anything with you today?” she stammered above the sudden roar in her ears. “No spoons? No milk cans? No stools?”

  Martha’s left brow raised ever so slightly beneath her kapp. “That is right. I have nothing. Is there something wrong, Claire?”

  Yes, she wanted to shout. I’m months—perhaps now, weeks away from losing the only dream that’s ever truly been my own.

  But she couldn’t say that aloud. Not yet, anyway. Not until she could say it without crying. Not until she was able to figure out her next plan. Instead, she hitched her shoulders upward in what she hoped was a casual shrug and turned back to the empty pad of paper and the day’s to-do list she’d planned to write. “So how can I help with Esther’s wedding? May I host the shower? I’m sure my aunt would let us have it at the inn. It’s big enough to accommodate a nice number of ladies.”

  “What is a shower?”

  The question took her by surprise for a moment and she looked up. She’d grown so used to the Amish dress code and the sight of their buggies that she’d almost forgotten there were more differences—vast differences.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She came around the counter once again, this time patting one cushioned stool while claiming the other. “Please. Come sit. Instead of me babbling on about the way the English prepare for a wedding, I’d much rather hear how things will be done for Esther in the days leading up to her big day.”

  Slowly, Martha crossed to the stool and sat. “I would like to hear of this shower. That is an English custom I do not know.”

  “Okay . . .” Claire scooted her stool back a smidge and did her best to describe the age-old tradition that was slowly falling by the wayside in favor of the more raucous bachelorette party preferred by a growing number of brides-to-be. “Well, a shower is essentially a big party that is thrown—usually by the bride’s friends or family—in honor of the bride-to-be. Only women are invited to the party and it’s given as a way to celebrate the new role she’ll soon have as a wife. The guests bring gifts—things she’ll use in her new home. Perhaps a toaster or a mixer . . . or sheets and a blanket for the couple’s bed . . . that sort of thing. Useful things that help them start off in their new life together.”

  “The Amish give gifts, too, but they give them after the wedding,” Martha explained. “On the day they are to be married, people come from many places to celebrate the day. There is much food and happiness. But it is later, over the next few days and weeks, that the man and wife drive to their guests’ homes to collect the gifts.”

  For the first time since she’d arrived at work that morning, Claire felt the knots of tension in her neck and shoulders dissipating, her fascination with the Amish way of life and the chance to learn yet another interesting facet of their existence providing a brief but welcome reprieve from reality. “You mean Esther and Eli will go to people’s houses after the wedding in order to get their gifts?”

  At Martha’s nod, Claire took full stock of the answer and the subsequent questions that found their way past her lips. “Esther told me there can be as many as three hundred people at a wedding. If even a third of those are adults and married, that’s still fifty-odd homes they have to visit.”

  “It is done to encourage Esther and Eli to visit. We do not telephone as the English do. We talk on the porch or in the kitchen. It is what we do on non-church Sundays. It is what we do when the work is done.”

  “It is a part of your life I truly envy. People spend so much of their time these days looking down at their contraptions instead of looking up and saying hello to one another.” Claire lifted the pen from the top of her to-do list and lazily twirled it between her fingers. “Being able to connect with people again is one of the things I will treasure most about my time here in Heavenly. It has been such a blessing.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  Uh-oh . . .

  Dropping the pen onto the pad of paper, Claire slid off her stool and clapped her hands together in what she hoped was an award-worthy attempt at changing the subject. “Do you know what sorts of things would help Esther and Eli as they go off on their own? Any particular items they need for their kitchen?”

  “Esther thinks fondly of you, Claire. She would be saddened if you left.”

  She blinked against the prick of tears that burned at the corners of her eyes. Should she tell Martha? Impress upon the woman how badly she needed new items if the shop was to last through the holiday season?

  No. When the time came to share the news of her closing, Esther should be the one she told. Not Martha. “I am so happy Esther has Eli. He will look after her and give her a good life.”

  “Eli will be a good husband for my daughter. When God sees fit to give them children, he will be a good father, too. But you, Claire, are a good friend. To Esther, to Eli, and to me.”

  She swallowed in a futile attempt to clear the lump Martha’s words lodged in her throat, the tears she worked valiantly to thwart ready to spill down her cheeks at a moment’s notice. “Esther is the first real friend I’ve had in a very long time and I treasure every moment I get to spend with her. Through her, I have met so many wonderful people—people like you and Eli.”

  “You will come to the wedding, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.” And it was true. Wild horses couldn’t drag her from Esther’s wedding. “It will be my honor to be there to celebrate her special day with all of you.”

  Martha stilled her fidgeting hands atop her lap and eyed Claire closely. “Perhaps, one day, we can all share your day with you.”

  Confused, she drew back. “My day?”

  “Yah. The day you will marry my brother.”

  Chapter 20

  For more years than Claire cared to admit, cooking had been a source of pain. Night after night she’d spend an hour or more in the kitchen in the hopes that a good meal and any accompanying conversation might save her failing marriage. More times than not, though, she ate alone, the candles she’d lit burning down to nothing as she watched the hands of the clock rob her of her latest round of hope and slowly seal the fate of a union entered into by two, yet nurtured by one.

  Yet, somehow, in ways she couldn’t quite pinpoint, cooking had undergone a rebirth in her heart since moving in to her aunt’s inn. Suddenly, the act of experimenting with flavors and spices was no longer done out of desperation but, rather, served as a way to unwind after a busy day at work.

  And the conversation she’d longed to have with Peter all those nights was hers for the taking now every time she sat down across the kitchen counter from Diane for a post-guest meal or took a place at the dining room table with new and interesting people eager to share tidbits about their lives while learning everything they could about life in Amish country.

  Perhaps the best part of cooking these days, though, was doing it alongside her aunt. Some nights they’d chatter nonstop while they prepared the various parts of the evening’s menu. Other nights, they relished the peace and quiet while knowing the other was there beside them, softly humming or singing a favorite tune.

  It was a nightly routine Claire’d come to t
reasure along with so many other aspects of life in Heavenly the past nine months, and it was a nightly routine she’d looked forward to enjoying for many more to come. Unfortunately, her bank account had other ideas . . .

  Shaking her head free from the kind of thoughts destined to put her in a funk for the rest of the night, Claire looked up from the potatoes she was mashing to find her aunt studying her closely. “Do I have potatoes on my nose or something?” she joked before ducking her head to check her reflection against the side of the pot. “Because if I do, you could just say so, you know.”

  “And if there’s something bothering you, you could just say so rather than make me guess.” Diane crossed to the refrigerator, removed the butter dish from the upper shelf, and then handed it to Claire along with a knife. “The McCormicks like lots of butter in their potatoes.”

  She traded the masher for the knife and sliced several pats of butter into the pot, watching with minimal interest as they hit the warm potatoes and began to melt almost immediately. “Nothing is bothering me. Really.”

  Diane’s left eyebrow rose upward. “Nothing? Then why have I heard you pacing in your room until the wee hours of the morning virtually every night for the past week?”

  She paused mid-stir and contemplated her response. If she admitted the problems at the gift shop, Diane would try to step in and help despite her own financial responsibilities at the inn. And while her aunt was in better shape than Claire was in that department, Diane wasn’t made of cash, either. Besides, the whole point of opening Heavenly Treasures in the first place was so Claire could realize a dream on her own.

  Realize or sink, that is . . .

  “There! That’s the look you’ve had on your face more times than not these past few days.”

  She consulted the side of the pot once again, the tired eyes and worry lines she saw reflected back forcing her to come up with a response, fast.

  “There’s been a lot going on with the murder and everything. I mean, finding a body the way I did doesn’t exactly make for a restful night’s sleep.”