A Churn for the Worse

by Laura Bradford

  “Gee, I wonder why, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Stop-Moving-Until-My-Head-Hits-The-Pillow-At-Night,” Claire joked as she rested her hand atop her aunt’s shoulder and squeezed. “So what’s so sad?”

  “Carrot Thief is gone.”

  “Carrot Thief?” she repeated.

  Diane looked up long enough to nod before filling in the gaps. “Carrot Thief was a Standardbred racer. She’s been a trotter for a few years, although not necessarily a race-winning trotter. In last month’s issue, her owner, Valerie Palermo, was the lead feature story. This woman owns a number of horses who win on a regular basis. And while that article was focused primarily on those horses, she talked about Carrot Thief, too. About the bond they have. It was a beautiful story.”

  “I take it the horse passed away?”

  “It might have, but as of this most recent update to a story that apparently broke two weeks ago, they still don’t know.” Diane pushed a strand of gray-streaked hair off her cheek and readjusted her bifocals. “I can only imagine how devastated Ms. Palermo must be right now. There was something mighty special about the two of them together.”

  “How could they not know whether the horse is dead or not?”

  Diane closed out of the email, checked the rest of her inbox, and then signed off of her account with a rare and prolonged sigh. “I would imagine, after all the specifics they gave about the horse in this most recent update, if we don’t hear anything positive in the report that should be due to post next week, the likelihood she’s still alive is slim to none.”

  Hank’s glass thumped against the coffee table as he placed it down on one of the coasters Claire had given Diane as a just-because present the previous month. The moment Jakob’s sister, Martha, had brought the hand-painted set of eight into the shop, Claire knew they were destined to belong to her aunt. What she hadn’t expected was the coaxing it would take to get Diane to use them.

  “They’re too pretty, Claire. I don’t want water glass–stains on these pictures . . .”

  “Did someone leave the horse’s stall open?” Hank asked, returning Claire’s attention to the subject at hand.

  She followed Hank’s gaze back to Diane and waited for the woman’s answer.

  “No. Carrot Thief was on her way to the farm between races and the van she was in overturned on a back road. The driver was killed.”

  Claire’s gasp matched Hank’s. “How awful!”

  “Because it was a back road, the accident went unnoticed for hours. By the time it was discovered, Carrot Thief was gone.”

  “Wow.”

  Diane pushed her chair back from the desk and stood, the large plate glass window that overlooked the Amish countryside in the distance claiming her attention just as surely as news about the missing horse had done for the past twenty minutes. Whether the woman was actually seeing the farms or the cows or the crops, though, Claire couldn’t be sure.

  “I can’t help but feel like the information they released in this most recent update might have been too much.”

  “How so?”

  “Anyone who read last month’s issue of The Stable Life knew Carrot Thief wasn’t a great racer. Loveable, yes, but a racer, not so much . . .”

  Claire joined her aunt at the window, but kept her body turned so as not to cut off Hank. “Okay . . .”

  “The first email report that arrived after the accident was really just a breaking news piece—one that was especially moving on account of the magazine’s subscriber base having just fallen in love with this particular horse two weeks earlier. Basic facts about the crash scene, the dead driver, etcetera, were provided, and a promise was issued to keep readers informed of any updates.” Diane, suddenly aware of the fact she was standing still, pulled a cloth from her apron pocket and began flitting around the cozy parlor, dusting shelves, picture frames, and assorted knickknacks, her mouth moving as quickly as her hands. “Then, on Monday, they send out this latest update and it shows a snapshot of her sister. I’m not an expert on these matters by any means, but even I think that’s information that was better left unshared.”

  “You lost me, Aunt Diane.”

  She watched her father’s oldest sister move on to the mantel, her thoughts briefly visiting the many evenings spent in this very room in front of a roaring fire. “The wrong person comes across that horse and, well, she may never be returned.”

  “I’m still not following. You said something a minute ago about a sister. Is this the owner’s sister?”

  “No. Carrot Thief’s sister, Idle Ruler.”

  She mulled her aunt’s words over and came up with the only thing that made sense. “I take it Idle Ruler is someone special?”

  “Idle Ruler is a champion trotter.”

  “So even if Carrot Thief isn’t a good racer herself, her bloodlines are good, yes?” Hank posed from his chair.

  “Exactly.” Diane stopped dusting and turned, her eyes wide. “Hank, I’m sorry. I’m going on and on about some horse I’ve never seen while you’re trying to relax and read.”

  “I could read through a natural disaster, Diane. I stopped reading because I was more interested in the conversation.” Hank took a sip of his tea and then tapped the notebook that sat, opened, on his knee, a pen resting halfway down the page. “Hey, can I share a thought with the two of you?”

  “Of course,” Diane and Claire said in unison.

  “I know this is taking my research for my business classes in a different direction, but I find it interesting how, at least with the Amish, the implementation of cottage industries has changed them.”

  Diane wandered over to the upholstered lounge chair she often selected for a rare evening of reading and sat down. “Changed them?”

  “I guess I should amend that to say how I think it’s changed them.” Hank nodded at Claire as she made her way back to the sofa. “I mean, I’d always heard that the Amish kept to themselves. But the ones I’ve met while checking out some of their small businesses aren’t that way at all. They ask questions, they answer questions, they even joke around a little on occasion.”

  “The increase in population and the lack of available farmland has made it so they have to turn to industries that put them in touch with the English on a daily basis. They’ve had to change.” Diane folded her dust cloth and then slipped it back into her apron pocket. “Though, honestly, I’ve always found them to be delightful.”

  “Do they still put work aside on Sundays?” Hank asked, retrieving his pen and preparing to write.

  Claire nodded, her gaze shifting between the book she knew she wasn’t going to get back to and her aunt’s handsome guest. “They do. Sunday is for church and family.”

  “Can you imagine the money they are missing out on by closing businesses that cater to tourists on a weekend? Amazing.”

  “They’ll close on occasional Tuesdays and Thursdays during wedding season, too,” Diane offered. “They do well, financially, but money is not the end goal for them as it so often is for the general population.”

  “They close up for funerals, too.” Claire took in the clock and its advancing post-dinner hour and continued. “In fact, from what I’m hearing, many of the shops will be closed on Saturday for the funeral of Wayne Stutzman, a local Amish farmer who was found dead in his barn Tuesday night.”

  “Did he live next to a farm with a small engine repair shop out back?” Before Claire could respond, he added, “Because I saw a cop car parked outside that home on Wednesday afternoon and again earlier today, and that surprised me. I thought the Amish stayed away from the police.”

  “They do. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

  “Why?”

  Diane picked up the conversation, shaking her head slowly as she did. “The Amish, sadly, are easy targets. I wish that wasn’t so, but it is.”

  Hank rested his pen atop the notebook and looked from Clai
re to Diane and back again. “Wait. I sort of remember reading something about the Amish keeping their money in their homes rather than banks. Is that why you say they’re easy targets?”

  “That’s one of the reasons.”

  “Do they all do that?” Hank asked, wide-eyed.

  “There are always a few exceptions to any rule, but I think it’s safe to say that most do.”

  Claire pulled her book off the armrest of the sofa and inserted a bookmark into the place where she’d left off. “They’re also easy targets because of their reluctance in seeking out police, as you mentioned a few moments ago.”

  “How do they keep track of that kind of money?” Hank asked, his eyes wide with intrigue. “I mean, if their business or their crops are even moderately successful, that could translate to a lot of cash sitting around their homes.”

  “They use paper and pencil.” Diane returned to her feet, adjusted the throw pillow she’d dislodged by sitting, and made her way toward the hallway. “It works well for them.”

  “Maybe. But that’s the one thing I would tell my students not to do. Money can’t grow in a jar. It can only grow in a bank.”

  Diane paused at the door long enough to welcome Hayley and Jeremy all the way into the room and to address Hank’s claim. “Oh, trust me, their money grows in those jars, and it grows well. But that’s because of their choices and spending habits rather than interest and dividends. So maybe that is something your students should hear.”

  “Touché.” Hank grinned at Claire as Diane disappeared into the hall. “Your aunt is one smart cookie.”

  “That she is.” Claire scooted closer to the end of the sofa and smiled at the tall, lanky blonde and her dark-haired companion. “Hayley. Jeremy. Please. Come join us.”

  Hayley pushed a piece of hair behind her ear and strode over to Diane’s chair, stopping short of actually sitting. Jeremy, on the other hand, took Claire’s invitation.

  “What smells so good?” the writer half of the blog duo asked, his gaze shifting around the room. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else since that smell started pumping up the steps.”

  Claire laughed. “That, Jeremy, is the smell of my aunt’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. They are, without a doubt, the best I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Well, that isn’t making the wait any easier.” Jeremy drummed the fingers of his left hand on the armrest and then sank back against the sofa.

  “Busy day?” Hank asked.

  “You could say that.”

  Hayley rolled her eyes, waving Jeremy’s answer aside as she did. “My cohort, here, is struggling with the concept of work. To him, being busy is somehow bad. To me, it means getting the job done.”

  “So you’re finding what you need here?” Claire asked.

  “Not yet, but I will.” Hayley made a face at Jeremy. “Assuming, of course, he gets off the couch and stops yammering on and on about nothing.”

  “I’m offended by what you said, Hayley. Deeply, deeply offended.” Holding his hand to his wide chest, Jeremy feigned injury with such theatrics Claire and Hank both laughed. “First, I don’t yammer—whatever that means. Second, contrary to what you have portrayed to these good people, I don’t mind being busy. I simply want a chance to get some of these highly endorsed cookies before we’re off and running again. Is that really too much to ask? Sheesh.”

  Claire met Hayley’s baby blue eyes across the coffee table and smiled. “For what it’s worth, Diane’s cookies are worth the wait. I promise.”

  Chapter 9

  It was, bar none, her favorite part of the evening and the one she looked forward to from the moment post-dinner cleanup was done. Yes, she treasured the time in between—time that included reading, cookies, and talking with Diane—but ending her day with Jakob had become something special, something both exhilarating and calming.

  Settling her bare shoulders against the padded headrest of her bed, Claire plucked her phone off the nightstand and dialed the detective’s number. Sure enough, before the first ring was complete, the man’s warm voice came across the line.

  “I was just about to call you,” he said, his tone depicting the smile she imagined in her head. “How was your evening? Dinner? Time with Diane?”

  “The evening was nice. I didn’t read as much as normal, but that’s because Hank, one of the guests, spent a chunk of the time with us.”

  “This is the college teacher, right?”

  “Yes, and I suspect he’s good at what he does. He really seems to love his subject matter, that’s for sure. Couple that with an engaging personality and, well, I imagine his students learn a lot in his classes.” Claire took a sip of water and then placed her glass back on the nightstand. “How was the rest of your day?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t you go changing the subject just yet,” Jakob teased. “You haven’t told me what kind of cookie I missed.”

  Claire laughed and scooted down onto her pillow, her gaze landing on the ceiling. “I’m almost afraid to tell you.”

  A protracted pause was followed by a sigh. “She made chocolate chip, didn’t she?”

  “She did.”

  “I think it’s time to lodge a formal complaint. No chocolate chip cookies unless I’m present.”

  “I’ll see if Aunt Diane will take that under consideration. Though, knowing it’s you making the complaint, I suspect she’ll make the necessary changes.” And it was true. Diane was in love with the idea of Claire and the detective being in love. In the beginning, it had been bothersome, maybe even a little bit annoying, but now, Claire couldn’t agree more.

  “Anyway, moving on from the cookies . . . How was your day?”

  This time, when he sighed, there wasn’t anything playful about it. Instead, the sound was laced with palpable exhaustion and frustration. “Well, I followed up your call about money missing from the Stutzman farm.”

  “And?”

  “We’re talking about several thousand dollars here.”

  “Several thousand?” she echoed, struggling back up onto her elbow. “Are you serious?”

  “Trust me, it could have been a lot more.”

  “It’s just gone?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Poof! Gone!” Jakob cleared his throat and then continued, “Wayne kept it in an old milk can that sat in the corner of the kitchen. A large amount is still there, but it falls several thousand short of what’s recorded in the victim’s handwritten ledger.”

  “Maybe he’d simply fallen behind on his bookkeeping,” she suggested.

  “I thought the same thing until Henry showed me the updated total his father had logged the previous night. And considering Wayne was on the farm the entire day he died, and then at the dinner table with his family, there’s nothing to suggest he spent that kind of money in twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay, so then what?”

  “At first, I wasn’t sure. I mean, the money could have disappeared at any time after Wayne made his final entry in his ledger. But while I was trying to piece together possible scenarios, one of Henry’s younger sisters mentioned a man who’d stopped at the house to ask directions the same night Wayne was killed.”

  She sat up tall, hiking her knees against her chest as she did. “The killer?”

  “Quite likely.” A beat or two of silence was followed by a third sigh. “All I’ve really got, though, is a time frame that seems to work. This man stopped by and asked for directions after Wayne had already left for the barn. After Henry gave them, the man asked for a drink of water. Henry took him into the house to oblige, but by the time he filled the glass, the man said he was no longer thirsty and needed to get on his way. My guess is he stuck his hand in the milk can while Henry was occupied at the sink, helped himself to a bundle or two of cash, and then thought it best to get out. Thirty minutes later, when Wayne didn’t join his family on the
side porch, Henry went looking for his dat in the barn.”

  “So you think this guy went into the barn after walking out of the house? Maybe looking for more cash or something else to steal, and killed Wayne in the process?”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve got at the moment.”

  “It’s more than you had yesterday,” she reminded him softly.

  “In terms of motive, maybe. In terms of who, not so much.”

  “Can’t a sketch artist help to fill in that blank?”

  “That’s the first thing I did.” Jakob’s voice softened as if in thought, only to resume its normal volume in short order. “It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that. At first, Emma refused the very idea of a sketch artist, but when I explained to her my belief that the missing cash is linked to Wayne’s death, she relented under the condition the sketch artist came to them. So I obliged.”

  “And?”

  “Henry described the man who’d stopped for directions while his father was in the barn, and the artist sketched him.”

  Claire hugged her free hand around her calves and took a slow, measured breath. “Okay . . . That’s good, right?”

  “It would be if we got something we could work with. A detail that we could put out to the community—freckles, bushy eyebrows, an identifying mark, eye color, something.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Essentially all we’ve got is brown hair—similar to mine, no beard, and English.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” A momentary pause gave way to a last-minute addendum. “Oh. And no hat.”

  “But that’s more than half of the people we see on any given day,” she summarized.

  “Yep.”

  She released her hold on her legs and straightened them out once again, the seemingly insurmountable obstacle Jakob was facing almost depressing. “So now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As much as she wished she could be sitting on the couch in his living room having this conversation in person, she didn’t need to see his face to know he was at a loss. “You’ll figure this out, Jakob. I know it. And so does Ben.”