Murder Simply Brewed

by Vannetta Chapman

  “What kind of brushes?”

  “And paint!”

  Amber shifted her tablet from her right hand to her left, checked Tate for his reaction, and then asked what they both were thinking. “Red paint?”

  “Ya.” Hannah began bobbing her head so hard Tate feared her prayer kapp would slip off. “Ya, it was definitely red.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Tate was in his truck following Amber, who was driving Ethan’s 1969 Ford.

  It seemed to him that she looked completely at home in the classic truck, but then, he supposed that spoke more of her personality than of the vehicle. She was probably at home . . . wherever she was planted.

  Ha! That thought had come straight from his wife. She was always admonishing the boys, “Bloom where you’re planted.” By the time they were in high school, they’d learned it did no good complaining to their mother about teachers, coaches, or chores. Her response was consistent throughout their road to adulthood.

  Is that why he was so taken with Amber Wright?

  Did she remind him of Peggy?

  No. It was more that they shared certain personality traits. They both certainly dealt with adversity well. But Peggy was content being a wife and mother, and she was also old-fashioned in a lot of ways. She had suited Tate in the same way the ranch had, and she had become his soul mate. Something a little rare if what he read in the newspapers was true.

  The thought caused him to grip the wheel more tightly as he drove east on County Road 16. He and Peggy had been like the two donkeys he owned—identical in many ways. Amber Wright was his polar opposite.

  Was he being foolish to consider a relationship with her?

  There was a surprising amount of morning traffic, and they managed to get caught behind two different buggies. Still the trip was short. Within ten minutes, they’d turned north toward the lake.

  As they pulled into a neighborhood that bordered a small pond, Tate noticed a small discreet sign that read “Grounds of Helping Hands. No solicitations.”

  Helping Hands?

  Amber parked in the driveway of a modest duplex, and Tate parked on the street.

  She waved for him to join her, so he got out of his truck and walked up the path to the door.

  As Amber raised her hand to knock, they heard a dog yipping from the house next door. They both walked toward the sound and saw a small dog—a Chihuahua mix of some sort. He was standing in a fenced yard, barking with all of his might.

  “Something about that dog seems familiar, but I can’t think of how. I can’t quite catch the image that is lurking at the corner of my mind. Do you know what I mean?”

  Tate shook his head in the affirmative but didn’t rush her. Then they heard singing coming from the back of the duplex and forgot all about the noisy dog.

  “Backyard,” he said, and they hustled around to the back.

  They found Patricia Gray moving through a row of plants, bent close to them as she walked, and singing at the top of her lungs. Tate could hardly believe he was looking at the same person who’d been by Margaret’s side at the viewing. With her facial muscles relaxed and her hair pulled back by a bandanna, she looked ten years younger.

  The entire backyard had been dug up and converted into different gardens. Some were planted in raised box beds. Others were directly in the soil where grass had probably once been. A medium-size greenhouse, complete with solar panels on the top and a rainwater recycling system, was toward the back of the property line and positioned with a view of the duplex and the pond. Two of the walls were solid glass. The other two consisted of siding about waist high and glass on the top half. Someone had spent a lot of time in the planning and design of the area. It was small for a yard, but surprisingly large for an individual’s garden.

  Patricia wore blue-striped overalls and a multicolored, longsleeve shirt. Her hair was a wreck of curls, and she paused in her singing to reach up and give it a twist. Then she resumed moving from plant to plant, pouring water from a can on them.

  Tate had the sense that she knew she wasn’t alone. Everything about her body language—back turned, shoulders pulled back, eyes pointed down at the plants and then up at the sky—indicated she wasn’t ready to speak with them yet.

  Perhaps it was the plants that surrounded her that were more surprising than Patricia’s activity. This wasn’t a vegetable garden—Tate would have recognized those plants even at the seedling stage. There were also very few flowers. What was she growing? And why so much of it? Whatever it was, there was a large variety of plants in various stages of spring growth.

  “Patricia?” Amber stepped closer. She started to reach out and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, but apparently changed her mind and stepped back. Plainly, Patricia knew they were there. They were standing three feet in front of her.

  The singing had stopped, but not the watering.

  She still didn’t look up. “Why are you here?”

  Tate stepped closer to Amber and put his hand at her back. It helped to have some physical contact when he felt she was being threatened, like Wednesday night at Ethan’s viewing. He wasn’t worried that an older, confused woman could hurt Amber, but he was glad he’d come along.

  “I brought you something.”

  Patricia finally placed the watering can on the ground. “You brought me something?”

  Tugging on her hair again, she turned in a circle, taking in a view of her entire garden. Finally she faced Amber and Tate and dropped her gaze to her shoes. “Why would you bring me something?”

  “Ethan asked us to,” Amber replied.

  Tate nodded once.

  “I was singing to my plants.”

  “We could see that. You have a very nice voice.” Amber’s own voice remained soft.

  “Plants don’t know what you sound like. They consume the carbon dioxide from my breath, from my singing. That helps them to grow.” Patricia fidgeted with the bib of her overalls.

  “I didn’t know that. Are you done? Can you walk around to the front of your house? We brought you Ethan’s truck.”

  Tate had been worried that Patricia would freak out at the mention of her brother. So he was relieved when she clasped her hands and smiled. “Nell? The old truck? We call it Nell. I love that truck. It’s a 1969 Ford F-100 Ranger.”

  “That’s the one we brought.”

  “Let’s go look!” Patricia led the way back to the front of her house, her garden apparently forgotten.

  Tate moved close enough to Amber to whisper, “Something’s out of whack here.”

  “I’d say. Let’s give her the keys and scram.”

  It was a good plan.

  It didn’t work.

  Patricia placed her hand on the hood of the truck, standing there in the sunshine, an expression of complete satisfaction on her face. Then she turned to them and insisted they come inside for a soda. When Amber started listing the reasons she couldn’t, the hair tugging resumed with greater intensity.

  “Well, maybe for a minute.”

  “Sure,” Tate chimed in.

  “We’d love to.”

  They followed her inside, and Tate had his third surprise of the visit. He’d never have expected to find Patricia having an episode in the dirt behind her home. He had never seen or imagined a garden such as hers. And then there was the inside of the duplex. Patricia’s living room and dining room were full to overflowing—floor to ceiling—with books.

  What did he know about drugs, bad trips, and long-lasting effects? What had Peggy said to him that winter day years ago? He’d been sitting down to lunch, and she’d said, “Patricia’s not stupid. In fact, her IQ is probably higher than yours or mine.”

  “Mine’s not that high sometimes.”

  “Her problem is handling emotions and relating to others. It’s very sad. Ethan is doing his best, but it isn’t easy.”

  That conversation came back with complete clarity as he studied the rows upon rows of books in Patricia’s house.

  “You hav
e a lot of books.” Amber stayed next to the door as Patricia walked into the kitchen.

  “I love to read. I read every day. I read in the morning and at lunch. I even read at night before bed.” She set three orange sodas on the pass-through bar between the kitchen and living room. They were in glass bottles and ice cold. “We can sit down at my table.”

  Tate hadn’t had an orange soda since he was a kid. He didn’t know you could buy them anymore.

  “All right, but we can’t stay more than a few minutes.” Amber picked up their drinks, passed one to Tate, and then they followed Patricia to the small dining area. “Delicious. Is orange your favorite?”

  “Maybe. I like sweet drinks, and I like the color orange. My favorite colors are the ones you can find in nature.”

  Tate and Amber nodded as if that made sense.

  “I get to keep the truck?”

  “Yes.” Amber fished the keys out of her pocket and slid them across the dining room table where they were seated. “Ethan wanted you to have it, and Margaret asked that I bring it out here.”

  Patricia stared down at her soda and reached up to tweak her hair. Tate could feel a change in her emotional barometer same as he could feel a storm barreling across Middlebury.

  “Margaret is not a nice person.” Wrinkles creased Patricia’s brow, and she added, “People should be nice.”

  The words were spoken in an eerily calm voice, but then her glance slid over to the nearest stack of books. Almost as if he and Amber weren’t in the room, she whispered, “If you’re not nice, something bad can happen to you.”

  A switch had flipped, and the singing woman was gone. Her shoulders hunched, and her brow furrowed. There was something hidden under the words—something bad can happen to you. Her eyes became cold, calculating even. Or maybe Tate imagined that.

  Taking another big drink of her orange soda, Patricia added, “She doesn’t like me.”

  Tate didn’t know what to say to that. Apparently, neither did Amber.

  “So you like books?” Patricia asked.

  “I do. That’s why I read them so much.” Amber turned her bottle round and round in her hands. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind do you read?” Tate prayed that reading material would be a safer topic. He needed to get Amber out of Patricia’s house before the woman had another angry outburst like the night of the viewing.

  “I read all kinds. That’s why I have so many. My favorites are about how to make things grow.” Suddenly her scowl returned. “I was pouring fertilizer on my plants as I sang. I made it myself. Maybe the mixture I used will help to kill the insects. Since the last rain, the insects have been worse.”

  “Have you tried insecticide?” Tate asked.

  “No. Ethan said not to use poison. He said it was dangerous.” A smile played on her face, but the scowl quickly returned. “I put a special ingredient in the fertilizer. If the insects eat it . . .” She slapped her hands together and smiled. “If they eat it they’ll die.”

  “One of the Amish women I work with says to use soapy water.” Amber ran her thumb down the side of the soda bottle, wiping off the condensation. “They say it works every time.”

  Patricia smiled and pulled a book off a nearby shelf. “I’ve read that before. I forgot, but it might work. I have soap! I can try to make some.”

  She frowned and squinted her eyes. Her emotions were all over the place. Was she always like this? Or was it worse because of Ethan’s death? “I used that last year, used dish soap in a mixture. Sometimes I forget things.”

  She rubbed at her brow, as if a headache was forming. “I forget some things, but I don’t forget important things.”

  Was she referring to Amber’s supposed role in Ethan’s death?

  Amber either ignored the comment or didn’t pick up on the underlying meaning. “The soap would probably work longer and be easier. It works best if you put it in a squirt bottle, if you have one.”

  “I do.”

  “Excellent.” Amber took another sip of the orange soda and then asked, “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure. It’s clean. The lady who cleans for me, Shiloh, she came yesterday. The bathroom’s clean.”

  “All right. I won’t be long.”

  “When she cleans she moves my books. I don’t like it when she moves my books. I don’t like when people touch my things.”

  “Who would?” Tate asked.

  “That’s what I told her. I told her she wouldn’t want me coming into her house and moving her books. She said it’s the only way to get rid of the dust, but I don’t mind a little dust here and there.” This was all delivered to a spot on the floor. Shrugging, she stood and turned her back to them, rocking slightly as she studied the books on the nearest shelf.

  “Okay. I’ll be right back then.” Amber leaned down and whispered, “Watch her,” and then she hurried from the room.

  “First door,” Patricia called after her. “Only the first door.”

  She added in a soft whisper, “Don’t open the second door, or you’ll be sorry . . .”

  She held out the two syllables of the last word, like the ending of a song.

  Why had she said that? And what was he going to talk to her about while Amber was gone?

  Books. Patricia loved books.

  “Which of these are your favorites?” Tate motioned to the stacks of books, hoping Amber wouldn’t take too long. He had no idea what to say to the woman.

  Patricia’s voice softened. “Come and see.”

  The tenseness that had grown more apparent while they were drinking their sodas vanished. Tate had the disoriented feeling that he was looking again at a completely different person. She studied the shelf a moment and then walked across the small room to a different shelf of books, one where the titles were at eye-level. She glanced at him, never for more than a second, and said again, “Come and see.”

  “Herpetology books are the best. Horticulture books are good too.” She reached out and caressed a book cover with her fingertips, seemed about to select it, but then she moved on to the next.

  Tate again remembered what Peggy had said: “Patricia’s not stupid. In fact, her IQ is probably higher than yours or mine.”

  “Books with herbal remedies are good.”

  She pulled out a thick volume. When she opened it, Tate saw that the text was quite dense, certainly at a college level, and there were detailed illustrations on each page. There were also notes that someone, perhaps Patricia, had written in the margins.

  “Do you know anything about herbs?” She flipped the pages quickly.

  “No. Can’t say I do.”

  “They work! They can be used for different reasons, different maladies. You have to be careful though. Some herbs are dangerous. Some can even kill.”

  Eighteen

  Amber stared at Tate as he drove his truck, making their way back toward the Village.

  “She said that?” Amber’s words came out too loud, but she’d had the heebie-jeebies since they’d arrived at Patricia’s. She worried her thumbnail and spoke more softly. “You’re sure?”

  “Word for word—‘Some herbs are dangerous. Some can even kill.’ ” Tate paused, then suggested, “Maybe we should tell Gordon. He might still be at the Village when we get back.”

  “I had the distinct feeling, last time I spoke with Gordon, that he’s tired of handling this case. He’s convinced we’re dealing with some bored teens. Besides, tell him what? She didn’t threaten us.”

  “And she certainly didn’t confess to anything.” Tate rubbed his hand along his jaw.

  “But something’s wrong there.” Amber tapped her tablet and typed something on it. “There are too many oddities popping up. I don’t like it at all.”

  “I’ll agree with you there. The list you’re making on your tablet is getting awfully long.” When she gave him a pointed look, he couldn’t help grinning and then agreeing with her. “I suppose it wouldn’t hur
t to speak with the good sergeant. Maybe he can make sense of it. But don’t you need to get back to the Village?”

  Amber studied her watch. “Yes, I have a meeting, and it starts in thirty minutes.”

  “I could tell him.”

  “Do you have time?”

  “I do. Though I’ll have to be heading back home after that. I have two rambunctious donkeys who can’t be left alone for long.”

  The thought of Trixie and Velvet made Amber smile. Then she remembered what she’d seen at Patricia’s, and a shiver tiptoed down her spine.

  “Patricia worries me.”

  “She’s an odd one, that’s for sure. But being odd isn’t a crime.” Tate could have been speaking to himself. He kept brushing his hand over the top of his head. Amber could tell that he was worried. It was both endearing and comforting at the same time.

  He glanced at her, then refocused on the road. “We don’t even know that Ethan was killed, and the thought that his sister might have done it seems far-fetched. Does she even drive? If not, how could she have made it to the Village? Take a taxi to a murder? That might be a first. What would her motive have been? And what was her weapon? He died of a heart attack.”

  “There is something else.” Amber reached out and touched his arm. “Something I saw when I went to the restroom.”

  “I’m all ears. This is the most mystery we’ve had in Middlebury since the Amish buggy stopped appearing on rooftops.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of that. It was always at Halloween.”

  “Correct.” Tate propped his elbow on the side panel of the door. “It was in the ’60s and ’70s. I remember clearly, when I was eight years old, seeing it on the top of the old building down on Main Street.”

  “I wish this were as harmless as a small-town prank.” She paused, trying to think of how best to admit she’d nosed around. She couldn’t even explain to herself why she’d done it. Perhaps it was the prevalent feeling that something in that house was not right. “Remember when Patricia told me not to open the second door?”

  “She said you’d be sorry. I thought it was an odd thing to say at the time, but then, Patricia is a little strange. A mixture of child and adult.”