Murder Simply Brewed

by Vannetta Chapman

  Amber ran her fingers over the address penned on the front of the envelope. “So you agreed to keep it?”

  “Sure. Ethan gave me the first week’s money up front, said he’d pay on Mondays, but he might bring a letter by every day. I didn’t expect that to happen. None of it made sense to me. But he did start showing up daily to talk a little, and then he’d leave. He did pay me another twenty. I don’t mind admitting I could use the money. It’s hard to find work, especially in the winter, and especially . . . given my circumstances.”

  “He came back to see you again this past Monday? The day he died?”

  “I know. It’s strange, right? He looked even worse than the week before, and he showed up early in the morning. The times before he came in the evening, like you did.”

  “But the day he died he came before work.” Tate was beginning to visualize the sequence of events.

  “It was still dark. I knew it was him though, before I even saw him. Hard to mask the sound of that old truck.”

  “And?” Amber was practically leaning across the table.

  “And he was a mess, completely reamed out. I tried to help, offered to go with him to a hospital, or wherever he needed to go. But he refused.”

  “Refused? Why didn’t you make him?” Amber’s hands came out, waving as she spoke.

  Preston didn’t answer right away. He sat calmly and quietly. Somehow Tate knew what his next words would be. They were words he had said to the boy when he’d initially returned to Middlebury, when it was first obvious that he wasn’t adjusting.

  “Can’t force anyone to do anything. Not really.” Preston was staring at him now. “A good friend told me that once. You can offer, and you can pray, but you can’t force.”

  Silence settled once again over their table.

  Tate fiddled with the fork, scraping it across the crumbs on his plate.

  Amber sat back, looking deflated—and maybe a little embarrassed.

  Preston had turned his attention to the scene outside the window—a few folks walking by, the soft glow of streetlights, and beyond that the pitch-black night.

  Finally he scrubbed a hand across his face and finished his story. “When he didn’t show up after work on Monday, I thought maybe the morning visit was all I’d get. Then he didn’t show by Tuesday late, and I knew something had happened. Wednesday morning I opened the letter and read it. Some things it seemed to explain, but mostly I found more questions. So I did what I promised. I resealed the letter and mailed it.”

  When Amber pulled out her wallet, Tate stayed her hand. “I got it.” He dropped a bill on the table, one that would cover the pie, the coffee, and the tip, and then he stood up.

  Reaching across the table, he shook Preston’s hand. “Thank you, Preston. You’ve been a lot of help, and I want you to know I’m still praying for you.”

  “I know you are.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  Preston waved away the offer. “I’m good. Much better than I’ve been in a long time.”

  Amber murmured her thanks, then reached down to pick up the letter Ethan had written, the one Preston had mailed and Carol had brought to them.

  They had turned to go when Preston spoke up again. “What should I do with the rest?”

  “The rest?” As they turned back, Amber glanced from the letter in her hand to Preston to Tate. “What rest?”

  “The rest of the letters from Ethan.”

  Twenty-Five

  Preston pulled the stack of letters from his pack as Amber and Tate sat back down. “I only mailed the one, per Ethan’s instructions. At that point he was acting pretty paranoid. He’d show up and give me a new letter that was the letter. He didn’t seem to realize he was building up quite a stash of them. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with the rest. Seemed wrong to toss them in the trash.”

  At Preston’s words, Amber’s heart had felt as if it stopped, but now it began to thump against her rib cage again—a steady, urgent beat. She accepted the letters from Preston and stared at them. There were six in all, seven if you counted the one they’d already read. Preston had stacked the six neatly and bound them with a rubber band. He explained that the letter on top was the first one, the one Ethan had brought to him that evening two weeks ago.

  Tate motioned the waitress over, handed her the money he had put on the table and the check, and asked for more coffee.

  “Sure thing, hon. Everything all right here?”

  “Yeah, we’re good. We’re going to be a little longer. Hate to hold up your booth, but we’ll leave a tip big enough to cover another party.”

  “No problem. You all take as long as you want.” She topped off their coffees, picked up the dirty dishes, and left.

  Amber heard the conversation between Tate and the waitress, and she felt Preston’s eyes on her, gauging her reaction. But she could only stare at the letters. Was the answer on the pieces of paper she held? Would they learn the identity of Ethan’s killer?

  They began with the first one.

  April 10

  A grown man putting pen to paper because he has no friends is a pitiful thing indeed. Yet here I am. Can’t say that it ever bothered me much before. Life was always too busy with work and family to give friendship much thought.

  Now it seems to be on my mind often.

  So what has changed?

  Don’t know that I’m able to explain that, not even to myself.

  These are the things I know—

  There is no one I can talk to, no one I can trust with my suspicions.

  It’s important that I leave a trail that someone can follow, in case the worst happens.

  Someone—may the Lord help me because I don’t know who—but someone wants me dead.

  April 12

  I remain convinced I’m being watched . . . watched and possibly followed.

  Not that I’ve seen anyone. No. Whoever would harm me is crafty. But a man knows. When he’s spent the entirety of his life alone, working in the same place, married to the same woman, and living in the same house . . . a man can tell.

  Small things like a pen left out on my desk in the stockroom, my accounts ledger put back in the drawer the wrong way, the echo of footsteps when I’m certain that I’m alone.

  So why don’t I go to the police?

  Because I have no proof.

  I mentioned my suspicions to Karl. I’ve known that man for years. He delivers pastries to my shop every morning. He looked concerned, but what could he do?

  I need proof, and I will find it. I promise that I will.

  April 14

  Lost my temper this evening with my boss, though I’m loath to call that man by such a name.

  Larry’s a poor excuse for a supervisor—arrogant and inept. My mistake might have been in telling him so. The fury in his face provoked my own.

  At the time, it almost seemed like he was baiting me, trying to push me over some proverbial edge.

  And I took it out on Nell. I’ve always treated that truck with complete respect, but not this evening.

  I slammed the door.

  Ground the gears.

  Pushed the engine as fast as I dared.

  Tore out of the Village as if the demons of hell were chasing me.

  Somehow, it seemed they were.

  April 15

  I am more anxious than I’ve been at any other time in my life.

  I’m tempted to go and see the doctor again, but he told me his opinion a year ago. My heart isn’t as young as it used to be. I need to work less, relax more, and ease up on the stress. Watch what I eat and drink. I’m old, yes. But more than time can take its toll on a heart. What about the futility of a life spent unwisely? I’m consumed by fear and my shattered dreams.

  If I told him what’s happening, he’d probably prescribe more medicine, which I wouldn’t take. How can I know if it’s been switched out by whoever wants me dead? I found a message in the coffee shop drawer today. It said, “Daniel 5:2
5–26.” The message was typed, so there’s no sense in taking it to the police.

  When I looked it up, I read about the fall of a kingdom. But I have no kingdom. So what does my attacker want?

  I found myself flipping through the Bible, reading words of God’s love I had forgotten. For a brief time—less than an hour—I was able to rest.

  April 17

  I’ve found someone to leave my letters with. Someone I can depend on, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a friend. He is a patriot, in spite of how he looks, and a patriot is someone you can trust with your most prized possession—which would be this pitiful stack of letters, I suppose. A month ago I would have said Nell was my most precious thing, but a truck is of no use if you’re dead.

  Am I a good judge of character? I like to think so. If someone is reading these letters, then I have chosen my confidant well.

  I remain convinced that someone means me harm. Whoever that is has increased the pressure—following me in the dark, listening in on my phone, reading my mail, even tampering with my food.

  Yes, tampering with my food! Yesterday I left my lunch for a brief moment, came back, and it had been moved. Instead of eating it, I set it out for the old tomcat that burrows in the bushes at the back of the shop. He sniffed it once and walked away.

  Maybe I should have taken it to the police. Had it analyzed. But how do I know the police aren’t in on this? And what does the person torturing me want?

  April 19

  Today someone stole my key to A Simple Blend. I have a backup, but what does it mean?

  Do they plan to attack me at work?

  Will they wait until I walk to my truck?

  What is it they want? Retribution? I fully realize I’m not the most social of souls, but would that cause one man to kill another? Maybe it’s a sick sort of entertainment.

  Perhaps they want to rob me, but then why the cloak-and-dagger tactics? I tremble, even while I write, as if I’m a character in a spy novel. Not one of those happily-ever-after stories either.

  I’m afraid to eat, though I keep pushing the coffee down. It’s decaffeinated like the doc insisted, but the smell and warmth help me stay awake. Sleep has been difficult. I stay awake at night—puzzling, worrying, and watching. I’ll see Preston again tonight. I’ve given him instructions, what to do if I don’t show. And he’s given me his word.

  Amber finished the last letter and handed it to Tate. He had been reading them and passing them to Preston. She excused herself to use the ladies’ room, and by the time she had returned, the letters were back in a stack, bound once again by the rubber band Preston had originally put around them.

  “Thoughts?” Tate sighed and pushed his coffee cup away.

  Preston drummed his fingers against the table. “It doesn’t actually explain anything, though it does raise more questions.”

  Amber stared at the letters, and suddenly she felt so tired she wanted to cross her arms on the table, place her head down on her arms, and sleep.

  “Do you mind if we take these?” Tate was up and pulling on his jacket.

  “They’re not mine.”

  “We’re going to head home, get some rest, and maybe tomorrow it will make more sense. Can we come back to see you if we have more questions?”

  “Sure. I might be gone during the day, but I’m always back at the same spot in the evenings. No one has run me off yet.”

  Tate seemed about to say something, but instead he handed Amber her wrap and helped her shrug into it. Ten minutes later they’d walked back to the gardens, Preston had disappeared into the darkness, and they were driving back toward the Village.

  Amber wanted to talk about those letters, the ones that were tucked safely into her handbag. She wanted to go over each one, line by line. She wanted answers.

  When she admitted as much to Tate, he disagreed. “Not tonight. We’re both too tired to make much sense of it.”

  “Should we take them to Avery?”

  Tate stared out the car window, considered what she was suggesting, and then shook his head no. “Avery’s a good cop, Amber. Don’t think otherwise.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

  “No. But it’s easy to believe he dropped the ball on this one. I don’t think he has. He did what had to be done, what should have been done, and it revealed nothing.”

  “So what do we do with the letters? What do they tell us?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe they simply speak to Ethan’s state of mind the final few days. Maybe more.”

  She’d pulled up in front of her house and turned off the car with her little push button. Neither of them moved. Amber was too tired, and she expected Tate felt the same. Truthfully, it was nice to simply sit in the darkness, Tate beside her, and allow the questions in her mind to stop whirling for a few moments.

  Gradually she became aware of a few cars passing out on the main road, a night bird singing from a nearby bush, and someone’s cow calling out.

  With a sigh, she opened the car door.

  A little luck and she’d be able to make it inside before she crashed.

  Tate followed her up the porch steps and waited for her to unlock the door, but declined when she invited him in. He did lean forward and kiss her gently on the lips. Without another word, he turned, walked to his truck, and drove away.

  Twenty-Six

  Hannah and Jesse did not go to see Minerva on Saturday.

  Jesse’s youngest sister, Teresa, fell off a fence rail and broke her leg. It wasn’t a bad break, only a fracture, but he ended up driving his mom and sister into town to see the doctor.

  Hannah learned all this from Jesse’s oldest sister, Susan, who was sixteen and worked at the furniture store on Main Street. She actually worked in the small coffee shop in the back of the store. They sold coffee, deli sandwiches, and a variety of pastries. Since she worked in the downtown area, she accessed the trail at a different point than the Village, and she passed Hannah’s house on the way to and from work.

  “Jesse tells me you are coming up with new drinks. Want to share?” Susan had blonde hair the color of new wheat. She also had the prettiest blue eyes and the sweetest smile, with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. She was a bit on the heavy side, but probably she would grow out of that in the next few years—though working in a shop full of sweets apparently wasn’t helping.

  “Will your boss allow you to order some different syrups?”

  “Ya. I asked him about it today.”

  “Gut. Then I’ll give you some of the recipes I found, if you’ll promise not to steal my customers.”

  “Steal them? They drink kaffi at your place, then mosey into town and drink more kaffi at mine. I’m not sure we could fill them up if we had a kaffi trough running the length of Main Street.”

  “You’re right, though I’m also noticing an increased interest in different decaffeinated blends. You might want to stock up on some of those.”

  They were in the kitchen, examining the spiral notebook Hannah used to write her recipes in. A soft rain was falling outside. Hannah had been working since sunrise, first filling orders at the Village—though Amber had suggested she shorten the hours for the first Saturday. Then she had come home, grabbed a quick lunch, and begun cleaning and cooking. She was grateful to rest a few moments and visit with Susan.

  “Where did you find all of these? This toffee latte sounds yummy.”

  “Praline, chocolate, and caramel syrup. What’s not to like?” Hannah pushed up on her glasses and walked over to the counter. She poured two glasses of lemonade and carried them back to the table. “I found some of the recipes in books at the library, and some in magazines. Keep your eyes open. You’ll start noticing recipes in all sorts of places.”

  “I’ll keep a notebook too, and we can swap!”

  “Wunderbaar. Also, after you try a new recipe or blend, make a note in your book as to how the customers liked it. You think you’ll remember, but it all starts blurring together for
me.”

  “Same here.”

  “Now tell me about Teresa.”

  Susan sipped at the lemonade. When Hannah offered cookies, Susan waved them away, but not before a look of pure longing had covered her face. Hannah placed a dishcloth over the plate and set it back on the counter so she wouldn’t be tempted.

  “Teresa was climbing on the fence, you know the one—it separates our west field from the goat pasture.”

  “It’s an old wooden thing.”

  “Right. Mamm had told her more than once not to climb on it. Dat’s been meaning to replace the boards, but somehow that always gets put off for another day. Since it’s an interior fence, it doesn’t matter so much. This morning she was out there again.”

  “In the rain?”

  “Ya. Supposedly she was checking on the goats. It hadn’t started raining in earnest yet, but I’m sure the boards were slightly wet. We think that’s why she slipped. We heard her scream from inside the house. If there’s one thing my schweschder can do it’s let out a holler. She told us she was trying to walk across the top rail of the fence.”

  “I can picture Teresa doing that. She’s like a butterfly the way she flutters about.”

  “A slow-learning butterfly. It hasn’t been a week since she tore a scrape down the entire length of her arm.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Climbing down from the tall maple in our backyard.”

  They shared a smile. Younger siblings were always into some sort of trouble, or so it seemed to Hannah. “What about her leg? You’re sure she’s all right? What did the doc say?”

  “Ya, she’ll be fine. Jesse stopped by the store on his way back home. Mamm wanted me to pick up some groceries, and he left the list. Doc said it’s a minor fracture, but he does want to put her in a cast. With my little schweschder’s energy, one of those black boots that go up your leg probably wouldn’t slow her down much.”