A Churn for the Worse

by Laura Bradford

  “Nah. I have been practicing for some time.”

  Jakob relinquished Claire’s hand in favor of the horse. After saying something into the animal’s ear in Pennsylvania Dutch, he turned back to Claire with an explanation for Annie’s apparent confidence. “Very often, Amish children are given a miniature horse when they are eleven or twelve. The horse is hooked up to a pony cart for the child to practice with. Younger siblings get a kick out of it because it means lots of rides around the farm.”

  Annie’s eyes skirted Jakob’s en route to Claire’s, the girl’s unease with the detective’s former Amish status juxtaposed against her own as the bishop’s daughter lessening a little each day. “I gave rides to Smokey, the barn cat. I only tipped him twice.”

  “That’s pretty impressive. I tipped my sister, Martha, at least a dozen times.” Jakob flashed a brief smile at the girl and then turned his attention back to the horse. “How many horses were there on Saturday?”

  Annie’s index finger shot out as she mentally calculated her answer. When she was done, she said, “Nine.”

  “You get her out at Weaver’s place?” Jakob asked.

  “Yah.”

  Claire stepped closer to the buggy, trying to remember everything Leroy Beiler had taught her about approaching a horse. But before she could employ any of her knowledge, Annie dropped a peppermint candy into her hand. “Here. It is the best way to become friends with Katie.”

  “Shouldn’t she be eating a carrot or something?”

  Diane, who was still fawning over the horse, laughed. “Carrots are a hit, sure. But hard candy—in particular, peppermint? That’s a horse’s equivalent to you and chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Hmmm . . . Interesting.” She held the candy in the palm of her hand and offered it to Katie. Sure enough, the horse helped herself with no prodding necessary. “Wow.”

  “Diane’s right. It is like you with chocolate chip cookies,” Jakob said.

  She pulled her hand back, wiped it along the side of her slacks, and then used it to swat Jakob’s arm. “Hey!”

  “There’s a horse in one of the more recent issues of The Stable Life who actually has a penchant for a candy called Root Beer Barrels.” Diane gave the horse one final pat on the side of its long neck and then came to stand between Annie and Claire. “The other horses in the owner’s stable had no interest in that flavor. If they were given one, they’d spit it out. But this particular horse—a Standardbred racer like Katie here—loves them so much she’ll stick her nose in her owner’s pocket looking for them.”

  “I never realized you were such a horse enthusiast, Diane,” Jakob said as he pulled Claire in for a side hug.

  Claire leaned into the hug, smiling up at him as she did. “Remind me to show you her bedroom one day. It’s covered in pictures of horses.”

  “Have you always loved horses?” Annie asked, pulling her gaze from Katie and fixing it, instead, on Claire’s aunt. “Since you were young?”

  “I’ve loved them since I was ten years old and accompanied my grandfather to my very first harness race.” Diane’s voice took on a faraway note that had Claire trying to imagine the scene no doubt playing in her aunt’s thoughts at that exact moment. “Oh, Annie, there was nothing I wouldn’t have done to have a horse of my own back then. Nothing.”

  Chapter 2

  Claire lifted the platter-sized plate of homemade cinnamon rolls from the counter, waited for Diane to claim the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then followed the woman through the kitchen doorway, down a short hallway, and into the dining room. When they reached their final destination, they parted company like the well-oiled machine that they’d become, each taking an opposite end of the large colonial-style table and making their way around it in a counterclockwise direction.

  “Now, don’t those look delicious.” Hank Turner, the community college teacher from Wisconsin, leaned to the side to afford Claire better access to his plate. “I haven’t had a cinnamon roll in entirely too long.”

  Judy Little, the one returning guest among the six bodies assembled around the table, flashed a smile at her now-filled orange juice glass and then up at Claire’s aunt. “Even if you had, it would pale in comparison to Diane’s.”

  Claire peeked across the table in time to see the innkeeper blush, a reaction that was as much a given as any her culinary efforts got no matter the meal or the guest.

  “Then I’m even more excited to try it.” Hank abandoned his egg-and-cheese casserole long enough to sample the icing-topped treat. One bite in and he proved himself a believer. “Wow. I mean—wow!”

  Continuing around the table, Claire deposited a cinnamon roll on each of the next five plates and then set the remaining rolls in the center of the table. A quick check of everyone’s coffee cups showed no refills were necessary, and she turned her attention to the rest of the guests.

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Brockman?”

  The travel agent paused, his second piece of bacon a mere inch or two from his lips, and nodded. “Please, call me Bill. And yes, very well, thank you. This town is very peaceful.”

  “Perhaps that’s something that will appeal to your clients,” Diane mused as she finished pouring juice and set the empty pitcher down on the narrow buffet table in the corner.

  “It certainly helps me narrow in on the demographic most likely to enjoy Heavenly.” Bill nibbled on his bacon and then dropped the remaining piece back on to his plate. “Question. A lot of the Amish farms have shingles out front announcing a business. I saw one that mentioned candles, one that actually sold homemade salsa, and another that caned chairs. I always thought farming was their business, no?”

  Armed with the knowledge that had brought him to Heavenly in the first place, Hank Turner, the well-dressed forty-something at the far end of the table, pulled his spoon from his tea cup and set it beside his plate. “The Amish boast over two thousand cottage businesses in Lancaster County alone. The businesses run the gamut from the types you just mentioned, to equipment repair, horse sales, deer farms, the manufacturing of various buggy components, furniture, and on and on. They are extremely resourceful people.”

  “Why did they move away from farming?” Bill asked, leaning back in his chair and turning his attention to Diane.

  “The Amish population is doubling every twenty years. Which means they are, essentially, running out of farmland. So if a young married man doesn’t have enough land to farm, he either moves to another Amish settlement in another county or another state, or he finds another way to make a living.” Diane grabbed the coffeepot and topped off a few mugs. “The shingles you saw, Bill, denote those businesses that sell directly to the public.”

  Hank reached into his jacket pocket, plucked out a small notebook and pen, and began to write, his hand pausing midway across the page. “Businesses that sell directly to the public?”

  “Like the salsa shop, and the chair caning shop Mr. Brockman—I mean, Bill mentioned a moment ago.” Claire came around the table to stand beside her aunt, her internal clock acutely aware of the limited window she had to get to Heavenly Treasures in time to ready the store for its ten o’clock opening. “Others, like a business that makes buggy tops, would only sell to a shop that puts the buggies together.”

  “Ahhhh. I get it.” Hank flipped a page in his notebook, jotted a few more notes, and then placed it and the pen back into his pocket.

  “So if you see a shingle out front, you can just go right up to the barn or the outbuilding or whatever?” Bill asked.

  Diane and Claire nodded in unison, with Diane providing the verbal accompaniment. “That’s right. A shingle out front is an invitation to come onto the property.”

  “Could I have another one of those rolls?” Jeremy Stockton, the blog writer and youngest person at the table, straightened in his seat and pointed over the floral centerpiece that blocked his view of th
e platter. “They were really good.”

  Claire retrieved the plate from its spot on the opposite end of the table and carried it around to the mid-twenty-something. She placed a second roll on his plate and smiled at his slightly older coworker, Hayley Wright.

  “Have you been getting some good pictures for your blog?” Claire asked.

  “A few, I think.” Hayley traced her finger around the edge of her orange juice cup and then lifted her blue eyes to Claire’s. “I understand the Amish don’t like their pictures being taken?”

  “That’s true. They see photographs of themselves as being graven images, something that is in direct violation of the Ten Commandments.”

  Hayley leaned forward, cocking her head slightly as she did. “But surely they know tourists are taking pictures of them . . . their farms . . . their buggies . . . their horses. . . . their everything, right?”

  “Of course,” Diane interjected, as she moved in beside Claire. “But they don’t take them, they don’t keep them, and they don’t pose for them. They can’t control what the world around them does.” Diane placed her hand on Claire’s shoulder and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “It’s getting late, dear. You really should be heading out. I’ll finish up here.”

  Claire followed Diane’s pointed look to the small wall clock just outside the dining room and bit back the urge to groan.

  Nine thirty-five.

  So much for getting things done before unlocking the front door . . .

  Reaching behind her back, she untied the strings of her apron, pulled the fabric from around her waist, and folded it neatly in her hands. “I have to excuse myself for now as my shop is set to open in twenty-five minutes. If you find yourself on Lighted Way at any point today, I highly recommend a stop at Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe. Ruth Miller, the young Amish woman who runs it, is an absolutely amazing baker.”

  “As good as Diane here?” Jeremy asked around the last remaining bite of his second cinnamon roll.

  “Better.” Diane took the folded apron from Claire and shooed her toward the hallway. “Now skedaddle, dear. We’ll see you back here in time for dinner.”

  * * *

  She spotted his car the second she stepped out the back door, the increasingly familiar sight no less exciting than it had been the first time Jakob had shown up and driven her to work. But this time, the excitement was mixed with relief.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said as she approached the car.

  “Sore . . . or late?”

  She poked her head through the open driver’s side window, whispered a kiss across his lips, and then ran around the back of the car and into the passenger seat. “Actually, thanks to you, kind sir, I think I’ll be right on time.”

  “Good news for your customers, bad news for me.” Jakob shifted his unmarked car into drive and pulled out of the inn’s narrow parking lot and down the winding driveway.

  “Bad news for you?”

  “That’s right.” At the end of the driveway, he turned left and headed toward Lighted Way—the thoroughfare that not only linked the Amish and English sects of town but also served as a place where both groups interacted, each true to their own way of life. “I was kind of hoping we’d have a few minutes together.”

  She smiled across the center console at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were outside.”

  “I wanted to surprise you.” He took his right hand off the steering wheel and reached for Claire’s, who gave it willingly.

  “And you did. I just got busy with Diane and the guests. They were a chatty bunch this morning.”

  “Nice folks?”

  “You know Aunt Diane, she’s a magnet for nice people.” She squeezed his hand, then pulled hers away so he could focus on the change from pavement to cobblestones that denoted the Lighted Way shopping district. Even now, after nearly eighteen months in Heavenly, Claire still felt a twinge of excitement and awe at her ability to call the quiet town home—a place where her tastes and interests didn’t stick out as being hokey or silly. “But maybe, if you’re not too busy at the station this afternoon, we could have lunch together. Annie is scheduled to come in around noon and stay with me until closing.”

  “You’re on.”

  Jakob slowed the car to a crawl to allow a buggy to enter the flow of traffic from the alleyway between Heavenly Treasures and Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe and waved at the familiar hatted man who now sported a beard where a year earlier there had been none.

  Claire held her breath a beat to see how Eli Miller would respond, but true to the Amish man’s nature and his marital status with the detective’s niece, he returned Jakob’s gesture with a slight nod and a smile.

  She retrieved her purse from the floor beside her feet and rested her hand on the door handle as Jakob pulled to a stop in front of Heavenly Treasures. “If you get to work and find that something has changed and lunch isn’t an option, maybe we can go for a walk after dinner or something.”

  “We can do that, too. But nothing is going to change.”

  “You sound mighty confident of that, Detective,” she teased.

  Jakob shrugged and then leaned across the seat to kiss Claire. “I am. Things have been blissfully quiet around this town lately. The way it should be.”

  Chapter 3

  Claire placed the Amish doll in the bag alongside the hand-drawn note cards and lavender-scented candle and handed it to the gray-haired woman on the other side of the counter. “I hope your granddaughter enjoys the doll.”

  “I’m sure she will. It’s absolutely darling.” Transferring the bag to her left hand, the woman widened her eyes as she took one last look around the shop. “There are so many things in here I’d love to take home, but my husband would have my neck if I did.”

  “There’s always next time.”

  Bringing her gaze back onto Claire, she nodded. “And there will be a next time. This town is lovely. Only”—the woman lowered her voice and leaned across the counter—“next time, I want to stay in that beautiful Victorian bed and breakfast just up the road.”

  “Sleep Heavenly.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Claire opened the drawer beneath the register and fished out the tri-fold brochure she’d helped Diane create over the winter. The picture of the inn on the cover, as well as the interior shots she’d snapped for the center section, beckoned as planned. She held the brochure out to the woman. “I have it on good authority that you won’t be sorry if you do.”

  “Oh?” the woman asked, glancing down at the brochure.

  “My aunt owns the inn, and I can attest to the fact that her guests are always sad to leave.”

  “I’ll have to make sure to tell my husband that.”

  “Does your husband like to eat?”

  “Does he ever . . .”

  “Then make sure to add in the fact that Aunt Diane’s dinners are out of this world. And I mean, out of this world. My favorite is the pot roast.”

  The woman’s face glowed with pleasure. “You just spoke the magic words, young lady. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Claire closed the drawer, walked around the counter, and accompanied the woman toward the front of the shop. “Now go home and see your granddaughter.”

  At the door, the woman peeked inside her bag and then back up at Claire. “And this doll was made by a real Amish woman?”

  “It was, indeed. By my friend Esther, in fact. She worked here at the shop with me until last December when she got married.”

  “An Amish woman can work in an English store?”

  “Sure. But once she marries, her focus must turn to her home, her husband, and the children they will soon have.” It was funny how, after all these months, her voice still hitched over losing Esther from the shop. Granted, they still saw each other once or twice a week, but she missed the day-to-day inte
raction with her friend.

  “Very interesting. Thank you.” The woman headed out into the summer heat and made a beeline for a similarly aged man seated on a bench in front of the shop, the Sleep Heavenly brochure in one hand and her purchases in the other.

  “Good afternoon, Claire.”

  Stepping back into the shop, Claire closed the front door and turned toward the Amish teenager standing just inside the back hallway. “Hi, Annie. Ready to . . .” The words fell away as she took in the dark shadows surrounding Annie’s bloodshot eyes. “Annie? Are you okay?”

  “My heart is heavy.”

  Claire met the girl in the center of the shop and then motioned her over to the pair of stools just inside the partial enclosure made by the counter. Gently, she liberated the simple lunch pail from Annie’s trembling hands, deposited it on a shelf not visible to customers, and patted the top of the stool. “C’mon, sweetie. Sit. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Pitching forward on the stool, Annie dropped her head into her palms. “Henry will now know what I know.”

  “Henry?”

  “Henry Stutzman. My friend. He is sixteen, like me.”

  “Oh, wait, Henry is the one you mentioned last night—the one who just got a new horse, too, right?” Claire perched on the edge of her stool and waited for Annie to lift her head.

  “Yah. Her name is Mary.”

  Hooking her finger beneath Annie’s chin, Claire lifted the girl’s gaze to hers. “So what has you so upset?”

  “It is hard to not have Mamm. My sister, Eva, tries, but it is not the same. Eva has her own family and does not need to worry about me.” Annie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and then inhaled sharply, as if she was trying to muster the courage she needed to continue despite the sadness in her voice. “I know it will be hard for Henry to not have his dat.”

  “Your friend lost his father?” she asked, honing in on the part of the conversation that had Annie so upset.

  “Yah. Last night.”