Sleep claimed her, and soon she was dreaming of running through a storm, running from someone or something. Tate was holding her hand, and he gripped it so firmly she knew that he wouldn’t let go. She knew, even though they were being pursued, that she was safe.
A thunderclap startled her out of her dream, but then she realized that the rain had stopped. There was no thunder, not even a whisper of wind outside her window. So what was the sound she’d heard?
She reached for her cell phone, unplugged it from the charger on her nightstand, and shrugged into her robe. Perhaps she had imagined the noise. Leo padded out of the room in front of her. He headed straight for the front window and jumped up onto the sill. Moonlight was shining in through the window, and Amber could barely make out her cat’s silhouette. Then he turned to look at her, and she wondered if a cat could act like a guard dog.
Clutching her phone just in case—in case of what, she didn’t know—she moved next to him and peered out into the night. At first she didn’t notice the lump on her front porch. Leo became agitated, pacing back and forth on the windowsill and pushing against her hand, which was braced on the pane of glass. She tried to calm him, but he jumped down, his paws thudding against the floor and causing her heart to jump into an erratic rhythm. He walked to the front door and sat, waiting. Amber didn’t hesitate. Her cat never asked to go out at night, but she knew from his posture that he was expecting her to let him outside.
When she had opened the inside door and caught a good look through the storm door at what had been left on her doorstep, her knees went weak, shaking like Jell-O. She grasped the door frame and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Checking the porch again, she convinced herself she wasn’t still dreaming. What she saw—bloodied and thrown onto her porch—was worse, much worse, than the nightmare she’d been having.
Pushing Leo back into the room with her foot, she closed the inside door and locked it. Then she dialed 9-1-1.
Seven
Hannah arrived at the Village thirty minutes earlier than usual the next morning. She wanted to have time to look over the instructions folder at A Simple Blend. The folder only held a few sheets, but they were better than nothing. Ethan had created it when she first began to fill in for him, which only happened once every few weeks. He would have an appointment in the morning, and his kaffi shop didn’t close until noon. His hours had been seven to noon—not bad hours, come to think of it.
Amber had suggested that she leave the shop open until two. By the time she spent an hour cleaning up, that would give her a full eight hours of work since she was arriving at seven. The one catch had been finding someone to stand in for Hannah so she could take a short break in the morning and a lunch break. Amber assured her she’d take care of that issue very soon. Until then, Hannah had permission to eat on the job or hang up the “Back Soon” sign if she had to step out to the restroom.
Hannah wasn’t worried about the long hours without a break, though she understood Englisch laws required Amber to give her those moments away from the shop. She trusted Amber would work out the details. She was worried about how to make the different types of kaffi folks were accustomed to. The times she had filled in for Ethan, everything was already made and she only had to wait on customers and take their money—something she was accustomed to doing in the quilt shop.
She gazed at her old shop longingly as she passed it, even slowed down to stare at the spring window display. Pushing up her glasses, she stepped close to the window and stared inside. Quilting was what she loved. Making kaffi? She didn’t even drink kaffi.
Squaring her shoulders, she moved past the quilt shop and unlocked the door to A Simple Blend, using the key Amber had given her. The place had been completely cleaned since she had gone home the day before. She was relieved to smell the Pine-Sol someone had used when mopping the floor. Her muddy footprints were gone, and the spilled coffee beans had been swept up. The counters sparkled and the front glass panel had been replaced.
There was no indication at all that a tragedy had taken place within the store. One would never know from glancing around the small shop that Ethan Gray had died there barely twenty-four hours ago.
A shiver traveled down Hannah’s spine, but she ignored it as she locked the door behind her, flipped on the lights, and opened the drawer near the cash register in search of Ethan’s instructions folder.
The folder was gone.
In its place was a binder. She pulled it out from the drawer and set it on the countertop. On the cover, someone had placed a label that read “Barista Instructions.” Opening the binder, she was surprised to see a typed index and headings for every question she could possibly have. The first section was a single page titled “How to Open the Shop.”
When had Ethan done this?
Why had he done it?
Hannah didn’t have any answers, but she was certain that wouldn’t stop the questions from circling in her mind. She’d have to puzzle over it later. She began by dumping fresh beans into the espresso machine, and then she started the three different pots of kaffi—regular, bold, and decaffeinated. The rich aroma of fresh kaffi filled the shop as she pulled the pastry items from the day before out of their case. None of them had been sold because Ethan had died before the shop had opened. Still, the binder said she was to pull out everything left over from the day before and set it aside. The binder also said fresh pastries would be delivered by—
The knock on the shop’s back door caused her to jump and nearly fall off the stool she was perched on. She walked slowly through the back of the shop, past the stockroom and the tiny office, to the rear door.
“Who is it?”
“Pastry delivery.”
What if it wasn’t? What if it was the person who had shot out Ethan’s front window? What if they’d come back to attack her?
Hannah peeked through the peephole in the door.
An old man with a rather large belly and short wiry gray hair waited, holding a tray full of food.
She opened the door.
“I wondered if anyone would be here. I’m Karl.”
“Hannah.”
“Didn’t take long to replace Ethan.” Karl scowled at her as if she had been responsible for Ethan’s sudden death. “Are you going to let me in or not? Maybe you want me to take this stuff back to the truck.”
“Nein. Please, come in.”
Hannah stepped to the side as Karl trudged through the shop. There was no other word for the way he walked. He reminded her of one of her father’s work horses as it pulled the plow down a row in the field. Instead, Karl plodded down the hall.
No taller than she was, Karl looked old, overweight, and gloomy. He certainly seemed unhappy, based on the scowl he maintained as he unloaded the fresh goods and tossed the day-old items into several large paper bags. The bags had been stamped on the side with the words “Food Pantry.”
Amber tried not to stare, but there wasn’t much she could do as he finished with his work. The area behind the counter was small, and he had trouble maneuvering. She would guess that his weight was a good forty pounds over what it should be. Perhaps he snacked on the goods he delivered.
As to being old though, he wasn’t as elderly as he had appeared when she had first peeked through the peephole. He handled the large tray of items he brought in as if it weighed nothing, and the muscles in his arms bulged when he hoisted it back onto his shoulder, now filled with the bag of sweets for the community pantry. At least Hannah assumed that’s where the items were headed.
“So you . . . you know about Ethan?”
“I heard. Didn’t take you long to snatch his job.”
“Oh, it wasn’t like that at all. Amber—”
“Seems you could have at least waited until his body was in the ground.”
“Yes, but—”
“I understand you people don’t pause for death, but there are certain boundaries. We call it respect.”
Hannah took a step back. “Everyone here will m
iss Ethan, but I believe he would have wanted the shop opened today.”
Karl grunted and shoved past her, making his way back through the shop. Hannah followed to lock the door behind him. There was no use inviting trouble, and although they didn’t lock their doors at home, she was determined to be extra careful in the hours before the Village came to life.
When Karl turned on her suddenly, she had to jump backward to keep from bumping into him.
“Ethan told me what you people were doing. Don’t think that you can get away with it!”
He was out the door before Hannah completely understood what he’d said. He thought she was responsible for Ethan’s death? Or did he think it was a plot several of the employees had thought up together? Which was ridiculous. It had been a heart attack, plain and simple.
She would have explained that to him, but he flung the tray into the back of his truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. Before she could say a word, he sped away.
Amber was finishing the paperwork on her desk when Elizabeth stepped into her office.
Her eyes were crinkled in concern. She’d already popped in once to offer to fetch her breakfast and extra coffee. It was only ten in the morning, and twice she had suggested Amber take off early.
Amber was certain the entire Village already knew about the incident at her home during the night. The police had finished collecting evidence by the time she left for work, and they had given her permission to clean up. She’d called a cleaning crew to the Dawdy Haus as soon as she’d arrived at the office. And she told Elizabeth all about it.
Elizabeth would never mention what happened to any employee, but the word would definitely be out anyway. Everyone would know about the sinister message left on her porch, and everyone would have a theory as to what was going on. They were a close community. She understood that nothing remained a secret for long, and everything was everyone’s business. Or at least they thought it was.
“Gordon would like to see you.”
“He’s here?”
“Yes. He said it’s about the incident at your house.”
“All right. Show him in.”
Elizabeth hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded and walked back out of the office.
Gordon ambled into the room and dropped into the chair across from her desk. He looked fresh and full of energy in spite of the hours he’d spent at her house. He looked exactly the opposite of how she felt. Had he even had time to go back home and sleep?
“How are you doing?”
“Fine. I guess.” She adjusted her outgoing mail that was already neatly stacked. “I don’t know. I’m still a little shocked that so much has happened in, what? Twenty-four hours?”
Gordon nodded. “There’s still no evidence that either the vandalism on the trail or at your home is connected to Ethan’s death.”
“But there was destruction at his shop as well—the busted window.”
“True. But in the two most recent instances, the perp left a message.”
Amber sighed and closed her eyes.
The Village was supposed to be a peaceful, tranquil spot to visit. This was turning into a nightmare.
Gordon cleared his throat. “We received preliminary results from the . . . package left on your porch.”
“And?”
“It was from the local butcher, soaked in red soda to appear more gruesome.”
“Certainly worked. I thought a calf had been butchered on my front porch. I wouldn’t be surprised if the grounds crew has to repaint the front of my house, and even then it could take several coats to cover the graffiti.”
Gordon pulled two photos from his shirt pocket and placed them on her desk. One was of her front porch at three that morning. The other was of the message left on the trail the night before. She had forwarded him the pictures from her camera after he’d shown up at her home when she’d placed the 9-1-1 call.
“Same writing.” She picked up the photos and studied them, though touching them made her skin crawl.
“Yes.”
“ ‘A rock was cut out, but not by human hands.’ ” Amber stared at the photo of the words smeared onto the front wall of her house. She didn’t know what offended her more, the words, the slabs of meat on the porch, or the fact that someone had been on her porch long enough to do such a thing—while she slept.
“Both the message written on the trail and the one on your porch are from the book of Daniel.”
Amber tore her gaze from the photos. She forced herself to look at Gordon, though what he was saying made no sense.
“Daniel?”
“Old Testament prophet.”
“I know who Daniel was.” The answer came out snippier than she intended. “How did you figure that out?”
“Internet search. Jasmine is very talented with a computer.”
Amber had met the newest addition to the Middlebury Police Department once. She was young and beautiful, with ebony skin and boundless energy. It made her feel older and even more tired to think about Jasmine, so she pushed away that part of what Gordon said and focused on the one clue they had.
“Why would someone scrawl Old Testament verses near and on Village property?”
“It’s a good question. One thing is certain. With these two incidents happening so close together . . .”
He paused, and Amber knew he was preparing to chastise her again for not calling immediately when she’d seen the damage done to the trail. Their eyes met, and Gordon shrugged.
“The two incidents occurred a few hours apart, so whoever is doing it is feeling pressure. Something has caused him—or her—to act rashly and impatiently. I’d expect another event soon. I have officers rotating onto the property in four-hour shifts.”
“Including Cherry and Jasmine?”
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Well no, but it’s like asking children to look after the zoo once the animals are out. They’re more likely to be eaten by a lion than provide any real help.”
“That’s not fair and you know it.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Look. Officers will rotate in and out. They’re not in uniform, but you won’t have any problem recognizing them.”
Indeed she wouldn’t. Their local department had seventeen officers, including Gordon, Jasmine, Cherry, and the reserve deputies. Amber knew them all, not from official business as much as that they liked to stop by and eat at the restaurant.
“Are you sure that’s necessary?”
Gordon stared at her for a moment, and suddenly she did see the exhaustion he was feeling. He hid it well in his posture and demeanor, but she could read it in his eyes. He had wanted to put an officer on her front porch the night before, but she’d refused.
He nodded brusquely. “I’m sure,” he said as he stood to go.
Amber realized there was a tension between them, one that wasn’t normally there, but she couldn’t figure out what it was about. Probably because of the headache she had and the exhaustion seeping through her bones. Maybe it wasn’t even important.
“All right. If you think it’s that serious.”
“I think this is the work of punks, and I plan to catch them.”
“How?”
“With each incident we gather more evidence, and they stand a greater chance of slipping up. It’s not a matter of if we’ll catch them. We will and when we do—”
Gordon’s phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and thumbed through a text.
He stuffed the phone back into his pocket.
“We’ve located Ethan’s wife. She was out of town, but now she’s back in Middlebury.”
“Oh my goodness. Does she know he’s dead?”
“Yes. We went by her house several times, but no one was ever home. So we left a message on her cell phone asking her to call the station. Brookstone took the call and explained about Ethan.”
Amber had a curious relationship with Cherry Brookstone. She’d been with
the Middlebury Police Department for a few years, was in her midtwenties, thin and fit, with long red hair and green eyes. Things had always been awkward between Cherry and Amber, perhaps because they’d both dated Gordon. How could Gordon date someone twenty years younger than he was? The idea struck her as ludicrous. But there was more to her distrust of Cherry. The officer seemed young and immature—too quick to think she knew the answers when she hadn’t even asked the right questions.
“That poor woman.”
“I’m headed out there now to see if she has any questions.”
When Amber picked up her keys and her tablet, Gordon put a hand on top of hers.
“Where are you going?”
“With you.”
He stepped back. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Amber, I don’t think—”
“He was my employee, Gordon. He died on my property, and I have a box of personal things—”
“What kind of things?”
“A photo that was on his desk, a personal mug he’d brought from home . . . what difference does it make? I need to give these items to his wife. Not to mention the truck—”
“Don’t worry about the truck, and I can take the box with me.”
“I’m going.” Amber couldn’t have said why it was so important to her, but it was. She needed to go to Ethan’s home, offer her condolences, and close this chapter in the history of Village events. It was the right thing to do.
Gordon’s mouth was set in a straight line, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. She wanted to reach out and smooth it away. She wanted this to be over.
“I’ll wait for you out front then.” He turned and left before she could think of anything to say.
Elizabeth fetched the box of Ethan’s personal items from beneath her desk. As Amber made her way downstairs, she found herself thinking of Tate Bowman and his two donkeys. She had never wanted to be a farmer, but suddenly the thought was appealing. A few hours in a barn would be perfect. She could spend the time brushing down Trixie and Velvet. The names still made her smile.
She didn’t head to Tate’s barn.
Instead, she finished making her way down the stairs, out the front door, and into her new little red Ford Focus. She’d do her duty, see Ethan’s widow, and try to set things right. As she followed Gordon off the property, she glanced over toward Tate’s farm. Hopefully he was having a better day than she was.
Murder Simply Brewed Page 7
