Murder Freshly Baked

by Vannetta Chapman

  Cherry turned back toward them. “I want this area cleared of both personnel and customers. I have crime scene techs coming in to dust for fingerprints.”

  Tate began moving customers toward the door, suggesting they have a cup of coffee and snack in the restaurant.

  “Complimentary coffee,” Pam added. “And thank you all for your patience.”

  “I couldn’t possibly drink coffee now,” Mrs. Webster proclaimed. “And who knows when I’ll be able to eat again. This has completely upset my system.”

  “That’s a real shame.” Amber pulled a card out of her bag and handed it to the woman. “This is good for a complimentary meal in our restaurant. I do hope that you’ll stop by when you’re feeling better—”

  “I suppose I could eat something.”

  “Excellent. Pam will help you to a table.”

  Amber stepped away from the woman, wondering how long this night was going to be, when she bumped into Cherry.

  “Thank you for coming,” she mumbled.

  Tate was once again at her side. “It’s probably just some nut, craving attention. Don’t you think?”

  “Possibly, but I scanned the folks in the room, and in my opinion none of them appeared to be likely candidates.” A squawk came from Cherry’s radio and she reached to turn down the volume.

  “We should go.” Amber tugged on Tate’s jacket sleeve, but he appeared not to notice.

  “Maybe they like seeing their . . . work in the paper.” Tate glanced around the now-empty room, and then put his arm around Amber. “It doesn’t mean they were here to witness it personally.”

  “Could be.”

  “Do you have the results back from the first incident?”

  “That was less than twelve hours ago, so no. Even if there had been a murder, which there wasn’t, the crime lab couldn’t move that fast.”

  Tate pulled Amber even closer. “So we have two pies that may or may not be poisonous.”

  “You also have three incidents in two days.”

  If you only knew, Amber thought. There had been four—and the one Cherry didn’t know about scared Amber as much as the others.

  Cherry stared up at the corner of the ceiling, as if trying to remember each incident. “The e-mail Amber received last night, the pie that appeared on the counter with a warning note, and tonight’s pie and note.”

  “That’s a little too close together for my liking,” Tate said.

  Amber leaned closer to him, and murmured that she had a headache and would like to go.

  Tate nodded, but continued talking. “This time they mentioned a specific poison—cyanide. Why would they tell us what they’d put into the pie?”

  “Maybe just to frighten folks. A specific threat is more disturbing than a general one. It’s as if this person is desperate to get their point across.”

  “Which is?”

  “That pie is dangerous? That poisons are easily accessible? That the Village bakery is a terrible place to eat?”

  Amber scowled at that last one. She was proud of their bakery. It had always been a bright spot in the Village. Checkered curtains adorned the windows. Shelves were nicely spaced out, and the displays were inviting. Instrumental hymns played over the speakers. Wonderful scents floated in from the kitchen.

  “Why me?” she asked. “Haven’t we had enough trouble this last year? Why now? Why again?”

  Cherry ran her fingers over her right eyebrow, as if she could stir up a good answer. Finally she said, “It seems you attract the worst kind. Let’s just hope this time it doesn’t end in murder.”

  Preston had pulled up to the Dawdy Haus when he saw Amber and Tate pass by in their vehicle.

  “I wonder where those two have been.” Zoey gave him a suggestive smile and a wink. “Probably out on a hot date.”

  Preston shrugged.

  “Don’t you think it’s sweet? The way they found love in their later years.”

  “Neither is that old,” Preston reminded her. He reached into the backseat of the Volkswagen and pulled out several packages of dog supplies.

  Zoey picked up the dog bed and hugged it to her chest. It was made of some plush material that she was convinced Mocha would love. “They’re not that young, either. I’m thankful that you and I found each other early in our lives.”

  Preston grunted as he jostled both bags to his left arm and unlocked the front door. He’d never have guessed a dog would need so much stuff, but Zoey had walked through the discount store with Tomas’s list, rapidly filling his cart. He wasn’t sure the Dawdy Haus was big enough for him and this beast.

  While he unbagged the supplies and set them on the table, Zoey made them each a mug of hot decaffeinated coffee. Then she pulled the bag of oatmeal cookies from the refrigerator—a bag he had picked up at the Village bakery because he knew they were her favorite. It was that way between them now—easy and natural. But his life wasn’t easy or natural, and he needed to help Zoey to see that.

  “Want to sit on the front porch?”

  “Sure.” He took one of the coffee mugs and the cookies from her, then led the way outside.

  “I love it here,” Zoey said. “I know people say the Amish life is peaceful and simple, but that’s not what I mean, or it’s not the only thing. It’s that the majority of people around here have chosen to keep their life simple. They’ve embraced the quiet, rural life, and they value it.”

  Preston watched her as she pulled her feet up and tucked them underneath her. She was like a cat—finding a place she liked and luxuriating in it.

  He cleared his throat. “I feel like there are some things we need to talk about.”

  She studied him over her coffee mug and waited. He didn’t want to spoil the moment, but he’d also been waiting for a chance, waiting until they were alone and there wouldn’t be any interruptions. He’d learned in the military that when you had something unpleasant to do, you needed to do it. Procrastinating only made it worse.

  “You know how I feel about you, Zoey.”

  “I do?” A smile played on her lips.

  “I’m crazy about you. I’ve never met anyone who could make me feel . . . kind of like you were saying, at peace. Or maybe it’s that with you my life is more on the path it should be. My priorities are better. My spiritual life—well, it isn’t great, but it’s improving every week.”

  “Still meeting with Tate?”

  “Yes. He’s been a big help to me, and so has Pastor Mitch.”

  Zoey reached for a cookie and nibbled around the edges. “I hear a but coming.”

  He set his coffee mug down on the small table, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and leaned forward so his elbows were resting on his legs. He studied her and tried to discern her expression in the near darkness.

  “You know what I’m getting at.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I care about you, maybe too much to see you stuck with someone like me, someone who is still broken.” He held up his hand to stop her protests. “I know. It’s better. My entire life—every aspect of it—is better than a year ago, but what if this is as good as it gets? What if the nightmares never stop and the flashbacks . . . what if someday I hurt someone? What if that person I hurt is you? How could I live with that? And why would you want to risk it?”

  Zoey carefully placed her coffee mug on the table, then moved out of her chair and squatted down in front of him. Gently she placed her hands over his. “You told me you love me—”

  “I do.”

  “And I love you. For now that’s enough. We don’t have to figure out the future or even decide what happens next. God will take care of the details.”

  He reached out and touched her face, kissed her softly, allowed his hand to slide down her arm. And in that moment, sitting on his front porch with a million stars making an appearance overhead, it was easy to believe that what she said made sense. It was easy, for a little while, to stop being afraid.

  Eighteen

  Hannah had been wai
ting at the end of her lane for Mary. When she saw her friend walking toward her, she waved and stepped onto the Pumpkinvine Trail. Hannah had known Mary all her life. Though Mary was eight years older, they’d always been a part of the same church district, and then more recently they’d both worked at the Village.

  It would have been difficult for Hannah to describe the changes in her friend over the last six months, since the death of Owen Esch and since Andrew had returned home. In some ways Mary was even more pensive than before. She would get that faraway look in her eyes and forget she was in the middle of a conversation. Those times, Hannah knew she was remembering Owen, was praying for his family, and was struggling against the guilt that perhaps she could have done something more. She couldn’t have. She’d admitted as much to Hannah one cold night in the middle of winter. Still, she sometimes battled feelings of remorse. Owen had been a close friend, practically a brother to her, and she mourned his loss as one would grieve over the passing of a family member.

  But those moments of introspection were becoming less intrusive with each day that passed, and there were other changes in Mary as well—good changes. Though she had recently turned thirty-one, there was a spring in her step and a lightness in her laughter that hadn’t been there before she’d allowed herself to love Andrew Miller.

  Mary had always had a sweet tooth, and she was still on the heavy side of plump. However, that no longer seemed to affect her self-image. She now wore dresses made with fabric of lighter colors. She took more care in her appearance in general, not to the point of pride, but simple things that reflected her mood. Today for example, she carried a knitted handbag—one made of a variegated yarn with splashes of peach interwoven with sky blues and off-whites. Mary was the manager of the Village’s yarn shop, The Cat’s Meow, and Hannah was certain she’d made the new bag herself. Her blonde hair was still carefully pinned beneath her kapp. Not a strand escaped into view, but in a dozen small ways she had relaxed. She was in love. She was happy, and Hannah was beyond thrilled that they would soon be sisters-in-law.

  “Gudemariye,” Mary called.

  Hannah waited until Mary was closer, then linked her arm with her friend’s. “And gudemariye to you, Mary.”

  “You’re in a fine mood.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a beautiful April morning, both Andrew and Jesse are home today—working on our rooms—and we’re to be married in a month.”

  “Some days I feel as if I’m walking through a dream.”

  “Ya. I know. It probably won’t feel that way when we’re living together in the crowded Miller house.”

  “Andrew and Jesse, the two of us, their four younger schweschdern, and their parents.” Mary laughed as she ticked off the number of people who would be in their new home.

  “That will be—”

  “Ten! Ten people in one house. Even more crowded than our home.”

  “Or ours.” Hannah loved her family, and she would actually miss sharing a room with her little schweschder, Mattie. However, she’d only be a little ways down the road, and soon Mattie would be riding bicycles, attending school, and traveling down the Pumpkinvine Trail to visit. They would see each other often.

  “The rooms they’re adding on sound like the perfect temporary solution.”

  “I haven’t seen them yet. Have you?”

  “Nein, but Andrew described them to me—a room for each of us and a bathroom to share in between.”

  Hannah sighed. “I wouldn’t mind if we did have to share a bathroom with everyone else. It’s no different than what we’ve always known. I just want it done and finished. I’m ready to be a bride!”

  Mary smiled. “You’re young and impatient. When you’re my age you’ll learn to savor the moment, even when it includes waiting.”

  “Pooh. You sound as if you’re ancient. You’re only—”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Thirty-one is still young, and besides, Gotte had a plan for you, a plan that included Andrew coming home and falling in lieb.”

  They continued discussing wedding details as they walked. Although they intended to keep their celebration small, they expected to be feeding nearly five hundred people. If each couple invited only twenty-five couples, they would still reach five hundred guests because most families had at least ten members. Fortunately, they’d found when they compared lists that they had many duplicated names.

  “The tables will be set up the week before,” Mary reminded her.

  “That’s in three weeks!”

  “Ya, and the food prep will start at the same time.”

  “I’ve helped in a lot of weddings, but I’m learning it’s a completely different thing when it’s your own.” Hannah shook her head, hoping to clear it. Some days she was excited, others a bit stressed, but always under that lay a stream of joy that soon she would be with Jesse every morning, every day, every night.

  “Have you begun sewing your dress?” Mary’s question pulled her from thoughts of waking next to Jesse.

  “Nein. My next day off is on Monday. Mamm and I plan to begin then. She’s a fast seamstress.”

  “It’s gut that we bought the fabric when we did.”

  Hannah nodded. “I heard there were so many weddings this year, in Middlebury and Shipshe, that the places where we normally purchase our fabric had to order more of the wedding material.”

  “Ya. I heard the same.”

  “I stopped by the downtown store last week,” Hannah confessed. “Just to walk up and down the aisles a little.”

  “Tell me you didn’t buy anything.”

  “Nein—”

  “Because you know we’ll receive gifts.”

  “I just couldn’t help looking, though. The thought of having our own home . . .”

  “We won’t have our own homes,” Mary reminded her. “But we’ll have our own rooms, which is almost as good.”

  “And someday our own homes. You’ll see.”

  They had reached the parking lot of the Village. Mary switched the bag she carried from her right arm to her left. “Just stay away from any shopping temptations.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes but nodded in agreement. She wasn’t going to buy anything. She wasn’t narrisch.

  They crossed the parking lot, waving at Henry but not walking close enough to the attendant’s hut to speak with him. As they walked between the bakery and the inn, something yellow flapping in the breeze caught Hannah’s attention. She stopped, pushed up on her glasses, and then moved in the direction of the bakery.

  “Wrong way, Hannah. Are you so in lieb you’ve forgotten where your shop is?”

  But Hannah wasn’t listening. She was hurrying toward the bakery and toward the thing she had hoped she would never see again.

  It reminded her of Ethan Gray, his death, and the turbulent weeks that had followed.

  It reminded her of Owen Esch and the tragedy that had ensnared Mary.

  It was harmless, of course, but the sight still sent her pulse racing. The tape was a mere three inches wide. As she drew closer she recognized the yellow, black stripes, and bold letters.

  CRIME SCENE.

  Its very existence across the door of the bakery proclaimed that once again the law had been broken and someone at the Village was involved.

  Nineteen

  Preston’s morning started with a nightmare.

  He stumbled out of his bed, stubbing his toe on the bedside table, unable to remember the details of his dream. He was able to taste the grit of the desert, and he knew that he’d returned, once again, to that terrible day. Had he dreamed about the attack? About his friends? Or about the countless hours of waiting for rescue?

  He couldn’t remember, so he splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror—bloodshot eyes from too little sleep and wrinkle lines that he hadn’t noticed before. Time marched on, or so he’d always heard. So why was a large part of his heart and mind trapped in the past?

  Why couldn’t he simply let it go?<
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  Cranking the shower all the way to hot, he allowed the steam that filled the room to melt away some of the tension he’d woken with. The details of the nightmare were not important. What did matter was that he’d wakened, his T-shirt wet with sweat and his hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there because he kept his firearm safely locked away.

  Would Mocha have intervened? Or did she only alert when he was in real distress, attempting to drive off a perfectly good road? Would Preston wake to find the rather large dog on his chest, barking and pleading with him to come back from his terrifying dreams?

  “Get ahold of yourself, Preston.” The habit of talking to himself was not a result of his battle experience. He’d done it since he was a teen, staring in the mirror, waiting for those first signs of manhood—actually longing to shave—and seeing only new acne.

  “Today’s a new day. Today’s the day you become a dog owner.” He stripped off the sweat-soaked clothes he’d slept in and stepped into the shower, forgetting to move the temperature away from all hot. He yelped and jumped out of the way of the searing stream of water.

  Adjusting it, waiting, slowing his breathing, he thought back over what the preacher had said on Sunday. “Listen to God. Make time to listen.” He’d always thought of himself as a good listener, but listen to God? How did a person even do that?

  As he showered, shaved, dressed, and ate a light breakfast, he attempted to slow his thoughts, to still his worries, and to listen. He did not hear a voice telling him how to straighten out his life. No direct words from God. He did hear a cardinal outside his window, a slight breeze in the trees, and Amber’s cat meowing on the doorstep.

  After putting a little feed out for the ginger cat—how could he resist, the feline practically insisted on it—he picked up his keys and cell phone and headed off to work, opting to leave his VW Beetle at home. The walk was one of his favorite parts of each day. And though he hadn’t heard God, hadn’t received a word, he felt calmer and more centered for his time spent listening. Perhaps that was sometimes how a word from God came—through the natural rhythm of nature.