Murder Simply Brewed

by Vannetta Chapman

Hannah was unsure whether her mother was teasing her. She stood and removed her prayer kapp. She loved pulling the pins from her hair, running her hands through it, relaxing completely. “Think I’ll grab another cookie. Want some?”

  “I put back a few in the bread box. Otherwise your bruders would have eaten every one.”

  “Jesse appreciated the ones you sent home with him.” Her head was in the icebox as she called out from the kitchen. She rummaged around and came away with the milk.

  “Oatmeal and raisins seem to please everyone, plus it’s a gut way to sneak a little fruit into their diet.”

  She placed the cookies on a plate, the plate and glasses of milk on a tray, and carried it all into the sitting room. “Where is Dat?”

  “Bed already. This time of year, he’s practically asleep before the sun bids good night.”

  “Farming’s hard work.” Hannah bit into the cookie and almost moaned. She was a good cook, but no one she knew could bake like her mamm. The flavors reminded her of childhood and winter nights and standing on a stool to help mix ingredients into the batter.

  Eunice set aside her quilting and reached for one of the cookies. “If you weren’t courting out under the stars, what were you and Jesse doing?”

  So she told her—about their walk, sitting in the swings, and the kiss. They both reached for another cookie, and she confessed her worries about Ethan and what she had in mind to do, the thing that Jesse said he would help with.

  “Is it wrong, Mamm? To involve myself?”

  “Do you feel it’s wrong?”

  “Nein. I feel it’s right, but I can’t always trust my emotions about work or Jesse. Sometimes he feels like my old freind from school. Other times he seems like a person I hardly know.”

  “That will work itself out. No need to worry yourself about it.”

  “And what of Ethan? Should I be helping Amber? What would the Ordnung say?”

  “Perhaps you are confused about what the Ordnung is. It’s not a special book that holds all of the answers we seek. The word Ordnung means order and discipline, and this is what it gives to our lives.”

  “I’ve heard you speak of it since I was small. Every time I’d ask you why, you’d say, ‘Because of the Ordnung, because it is the plain way.’ ”

  “An answer that caused wrinkles on your brow even when you were a child.”

  “Since I joined the church last winter, I find myself wondering, questioning, whether the things I do are right or wrong.” Hannah finished her cookie. She was again sitting on the floor, and she drew her knees up under her dress and circled her arms around them.

  “It’s normal to question such things. It’s a sign that you are maturing.”

  “I don’t feel mature. I feel confused.”

  “Think of the Ordnung as a set of rules. Your teacher had rules at school, ya?”

  “She did.” Hannah laughed. “If there had been no rules, it would have been chaos. Forty children in a one-room schoolhouse can be a lot to handle.”

  “It is the same with the Ordnung, but it applies everywhere, not just within the walls of a schoolroom. The rules about how we dress, what technology we use, and how we interact with one another . . . they help us to live better Christian lives. But always remember that the heart of all we do is based in the Scriptures.”

  “Last time I checked, the Bible didn’t say anything about solving mysteries or catching a murderer.”

  “Nein. And it’s not your place to do so. The Englisch police will tend to that if it needs to be done.”

  “What about—”

  “Hannah, you must promise me. If you even think you are near such a dangerous person, you will come away. Together we will go to the bishop, who will accompany us to the police.”

  “I don’t plan on stepping into Dat’s field and running into Ethan’s killer!”

  “I should hope not.” Eunice stood and attended to the fire, then returned to her chair. She didn’t pick up her sewing. Instead, she rocked and studied her daughter. “Why is it you feel so strongly about helping Amber?”

  “We are freinden, Mamm. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true.”

  “One can never guess who will or won’t become important in their life.”

  “A month ago I would never have expected to find myself running the kaffi shop, supervising Seth, and speaking with Amber on a daily basis. A month ago, my life made sense.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I feel as if I should do something. The entire thing reminds me of the jigsaw puzzles we work on in the employee lunchroom during the rainy days. It’s as if I can see the piece that is missing, but from the back side. I don’t know what the picture will look like yet.”

  “And this thing you will do with Jesse, going to see Minerva, you think it will reveal the picture to you.”

  “Ya. I do.”

  “Then you have my blessing, Hannah. After we finish cleaning tomorrow, you and Jesse may go and visit her. We’ll make an extra pie for you to take. Minerva doesn’t bake much anymore, since she’s alone now.”

  “That would be gut.”

  “Promise me that you will be careful, and that you will remember your baptism in Christ and your commitment to the church. Always, even when completing puzzles, conduct yourself in a plain way.”

  Hannah finally smiled. She couldn’t help it. Her mother’s face was so serious, so grave. “I can do that. You don’t have to look so worried.”

  “It’s normal to worry. It’s what a mother does.” Eunice stood and darkened the gas lantern, then made sure the fire had safely died out. There was enough light coming through the window—from the moon and the stars—to make their way across the room, into the entryway, and up the stairs. She looped her arm through Hannah’s before adding, “You’ll know what that’s like one day. And then you’ll remember this old woman’s fussing and you’ll understand.”

  “You’re not old!”

  “I’m not young.”

  “Which means you are as you’re supposed to be.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” She kissed Hannah on the forehead and said good night.

  Hannah made her way into her room, preparing for bed quietly so as not to wake Mattie. It wasn’t until she had snuggled under the sheets and blankets and quilt that she realized her mother hadn’t questioned why Minerva—why the answer might be brought to light by the woman who tended a garden of herbs.

  The idea had come to Hannah as she’d walked with Jesse. If Ethan’s death wasn’t natural, then it was murder. But it was murder made to look natural.

  Had someone poisoned Ethan?

  And if they’d used herbs, was the person Englisch or Amish?

  It was with that final troubling thought that she tumbled into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Twenty-Four

  Amber and Tate walked quietly toward the giant mushroom. Amber hadn’t been there in years. Why didn’t she take the time to walk this portion of the path? The gardens were a special place. Small lights had been placed at intervals along the footpath, but they provided barely enough light to keep one from walking off into the trees by mistake. In the near darkness, she couldn’t see the flowers that had been planted, but she could smell them.

  It was the heady, sweet smell of spring.

  They stopped near the mushroom sculpture.

  There was no sign of Preston. Had he heard them coming and skedaddled? Or had he moved on to a different spot?

  Tate used a small flashlight on his keychain to scan the area. He focused its beam on the bench. Pushed underneath it, into the far corner, were a green backpack and a folded tarp.

  “At least we know he’s staying here.” Tate toggled off the light.

  “So what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  Tate sat on the bench, and Amber joined him.

  She didn’t say a word. Her mind was locked up with the endless possibilities of what they might find.

  “Do you know the history of Krider’s
?”

  “Who?”

  “Krider’s.” Tate bumped her shoulder with his. “That’s who this garden is named after.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I remember reading something about that.”

  “There’s a plaque.” He pointed to the right in the darkness. “Over there.”

  “They were some sort of wholesale nursery?”

  “One of Middlebury’s largest. Their business lasted nearly one hundred years. Closed in 1990. Real shame too, as they employed quite a few folks.”

  “So why the gardens?”

  “Vernon Krider designed the gardens for the Chicago World Fair. That was in the thirties. This is a miniature replica of that. Right down to the giant toadstool in front of you.”

  “I thought it was a mushroom.”

  Tate’s laughter surprised her. How was he able to stay so relaxed? She felt wound tight sitting beside him, but it was tempting—oh, so tempting—to allow his mood to be contagious.

  “They’re the same thing. Some folks say toadstools are the poisonous kind, but basically they’re the same thing.”

  Poisonous mushrooms? She’d forgotten that so many things could be dangerous, so many things you passed in your everyday comings and goings. Somehow she had started taking life for granted, but the last week had wakened her.

  The sound of feet on the pathway pulled her back to the present.

  A man stepped into the clearing. Amber could see no more than the outline of him by the glow of the path lighting.

  He was medium height, and he apparently didn’t trust them.

  He stepped closer, and she understood he was concerned about his bedroll. His body turned ever so slightly toward the far end of their bench and then back toward Tate and Amber. She realized that Tate had purposely chosen the opposite side of the bench for them to sit on.

  Had he been worried they might spook Preston away?

  Did they appear threatening to him?

  “Preston.”

  “Tate.”

  Neither man moved, and Preston seemed to be making a choice. Stay? Or run?

  “Wondered if you might have a minute to talk with us.”

  “You a cop now?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Ethan Gray.”

  Preston reached up and tugged his wool camo-colored cap farther over his ears. “I figured someone would come about that eventually. Never did feel good about any of it.”

  “What do you mean—”

  Tate’s hand on her arm quieted her. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  Preston ran his thumbs under the straps of his backpack.

  “And maybe some pie.”

  Even in the dim lighting, Amber could see the way his body relaxed. “Pie would be good.”

  She tried to study him, without being obvious about it, as they walked to a diner a block down the road. Preston had a scruffy beard, and he wore an old army jacket that matched the cap. The black straps of his green backpack were fitted over the jacket.

  After the waitress had brought coffee and taken their orders for pie, Amber looked to Tate. He nodded, and she pulled out the letter—the one Carol had allowed them to keep.

  “Preston, my name is Amber. I manage the Village. Do you know where that is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ethan Gray worked for me there, and we’re trying to figure out what happened to him, what exactly he was doing in the last few weeks. Did you know Ethan?”

  Preston shrugged as he stirred cream and sugar into his coffee. “How well does one person know another? We would have spoken to each other if we’d passed on the street. That was the extent of it. I was surprised when he came looking for me.”

  Now that they were in the light, she could see that he was cleaner than she’d expected. But then, what did she know about being homeless? What did she know about how he lived or why he chose to live that way?

  “Have you heard he recently died?”

  “I didn’t know it when I mailed that letter. It was the following day when I read about his death in the paper.”

  Amber’s pulse ratcheted up a notch. She set the letter on the table and wiped her palms on her pants. “Did you read it?”

  “Not at first. Not when he gave it to me. That seemed like an invasion of his . . . I don’t know, his personal things. Everyone needs privacy. You know?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I never did feel right about what he asked me to do, about taking money for it.”

  The waitress returned, and Amber spent an agonizing moment waiting for her to dole out the pie and refill their coffee mugs. Finally she left them alone, or as alone as you could be in a small-town diner on a Friday night.

  “What did Ethan ask you to do?” Tate sipped his coffee and waited.

  Preston didn’t answer immediately. He focused on the plate in front of him, swallowing half of the chocolate pie in two bites. “Hold on to what he gave me. Said he’d pay me twenty bucks a week. All I had to do was hold on to it, and if he didn’t show, put it in the mail.”

  “If he didn’t show?”

  “Yes. He knew where to find me, down in the park, and he’d come by every day after work.” He finished the pie and slugged it down with the rest of his coffee.

  Tate signaled the waitress to once again refill their mugs. “When did this start?”

  “Is this Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two weeks ago this coming Monday was the first time I spoke with him. A crew always comes to do the garden work on Mondays, and I stay out of their way. When I go back, the place always smells of cut grass.” He watched Amber, though he was answering Tate’s question. “It was on Monday. I’m sure.”

  Amber glanced at Tate, who shrugged and pushed his pie toward Preston.

  “That’s yours.” Preston didn’t touch the second piece of pie, though he eyeballed the dessert with a hint of a smile.

  “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. You eat it.”

  Preston didn’t hesitate long. He dug into the apple with the same gusto he’d used on the chocolate. The food seemed to relax him, or maybe he’d decided they could be trusted.

  Finally he pushed back the plate and studied them both, and that was when Amber realized she had completely misjudged this man. It was a thought that was immediately followed by embarrassment that she had presumed to judge him at all.

  Tate was relieved by what he was seeing across the table, even while he was troubled by what he was hearing.

  Preston Johnstone looked better than he had in years. His eyes were clear, he was clean, and he wasn’t fidgeting—scratching or jumpy. Whatever difficulties Preston had faced when exiting the US Army, he had found a way to overcome them. Or perhaps he’d had help. The last conversation they’d had played through Tate’s mind. Had it been two years ago?

  Preston was still living on the streets, but he had come a far, far distance from where he’d been the last time Tate had seen him. Since then it had been an occasional wave from his truck when he’d passed him on the street. Should he have done more? Could he have done more? The questions circled in his mind as he listened to the boy—the man—who had graduated from Middlebury High School two years ahead of his own son.

  Tate cleared his throat and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “Carol Jennings brought us this letter a few hours ago. We had suspected that something was going on with Ethan, that his death might not have been unintentional.”

  He noticed Preston didn’t even blink at that, so he pushed on. “We want to be clear. The Middlebury police believe the cause of death was a heart attack, plain and simple.”

  “But there are other . . . factors.” Amber stuck her fork into her peach pie. “This letter for instance, and the way he had been acting the days and weeks before his death.”

  She set down the fork, as if reconsidering Ethan’s circumstances had caused her to lose her appetite.

  Tate eyed the remaining portion of p
ie. “Are you going to eat that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Tate pulled it toward himself and forked a big chunk of peaches and piecrust and sugar into his mouth. Heavenly.

  “Thought you weren’t hungry.” Preston almost smiled.

  “Can’t let good pie go to waste. You want some of it?”

  Preston shook his head and stared down into his coffee. “Ethan was acting differently. As I said, I hadn’t spoken with him in a couple years. I’d see him sometimes, and he’d nod like most folks. But he didn’t seem to know what to say.”

  “That changed? Almost two weeks ago?”

  “Yeah. He showed up—on Monday—and asked if I could do something for him. He asked if he could trust me. I thought that was a funny question. Why wouldn’t he be able to trust me? And why did he need to?” Preston sipped his coffee, which had cooled. He didn’t seem to notice. “There’s something else that might help you. He looked strung out to me.”

  “Strung out?” Amber leaned forward. “Drunk?”

  “No. I’ve never seen anyone that hyper from alcohol, though I suppose it’s possible. Alcohol is a depressant. It might have caused him to react differently, sluggishly even, but not agitated and restless.”

  “Drugs?” Tate asked around the last bite of pie.

  “Maybe. I couldn’t say, and I don’t mean to speak ill of him. It was something I noticed, and it bothered me at the time. He would pace back and forth, couldn’t look me in the eye as he spoke, and was constantly fidgeting with his clothing, almost like it was bothering him. It was plain he wasn’t sleeping much—eyes were bloodshot, and he’d scan the area constantly. Strung out is the best way I know to describe it.”

  Silence enveloped the café when someone in the back dropped a plate. The sound of its shattering on the floor carried throughout the restaurant. The hush was followed by a smattering of applause, and then the low hum of chatter resumed.

  “So what did he ask you to do, exactly?” Amber stared at Preston with those beautiful hazel eyes, and Tate knew the man wouldn’t be able to resist her. Who could?

  “He said he needed someone to keep something for him.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yes, and he offered to pay me twenty dollars a week, as I said. I told him there was no need. It’s nothing off my back to hold on to somebody’s mail, but he insisted. Said this was important—vitally important. Those were his exact words. He didn’t give it to me that first day. It was like he was checking me out. But he came back each night and on . . .” He hesitated, staring again out the window. “On Thursday he did give me a letter.”