Murder Freshly Baked

by Vannetta Chapman

“Nein, you’re not imagining it, though I don’t walk on the line so much as I was born with an inquisitive nature. If a rule has an obvious reason—for instance, the fact that we don’t own automobiles—then I have no problem with it.”

  “Because you want to keep your families close to home—no speeding back and forth to South Bend for a dinner or to Indianapolis for a day of shopping.”

  “Exactly. Those rules are for the best to uphold our community and beneficial for the members in their desire to be plain and close to Gotte. But embroidered socks or lip balm? Both are harmless.”

  “Some would say that those things encourage vanity.”

  “I’m not vain because my socks make me smile or my lips aren’t dry and cracked. Those folks—the ones who say no to anything new—they are stubborn, and their opinions are detrimental to our community.”

  “What about the Vera Bradley bag?” Amber was teasing Letha now, but it was hard to resist.

  Letha smiled as she popped a piece of her snickerdoodle cookie into her mouth. “Our Ordnung does not address handbags . . . yet.”

  Amber had bypassed the cookies and settled for a small cup of fruit for dessert. The cookie looked tastier.

  “I don’t mean to pry, and you can certainly tell me this is none of my business—”

  “But you’re my boss. I would never be so rude.”

  Both women grinned at that. Letha indeed had never been rude, but she was known to completely change the subject when the conversation entered an area that she didn’t want to discuss.

  “It really is none of my business. I’m speaking as your friend now, not as your boss.”

  “And we are freinden, Amber. That once came as a surprise to me.”

  “Why? We’re both good businesswomen, and we both care about the people of Middlebury.”

  Letha nodded, then moved her hand in a go on gesture.

  “I’ve heard a man named Ryan Duvall has been visiting the Village a lot of late.”

  When Letha didn’t respond to that, Amber pushed forward.

  “Someone said they noticed you getting a ride from him.”

  “Now you’re telling me there are rules about who I can ride with?”

  “No, I’m not. We both know there are no rules about that. But Ryan Duvall? He’s Englisch, right? What gives?”

  Letha didn’t answer immediately. Just when Amber thought there was going to be an abrupt conversation change, Letha leaned forward and tapped the table. “A solid man is sometimes hard to find. Ya? Even in the Amish community—most of the men my age are already married or else they prefer to remain single.”

  “Single Amish men?” Amber asked in a tone of pretend shock.

  “It’s rare, ya, but we have a few here in Middlebury. For whatever reason, they’ve decided the single life is preferable. Maybe they’re shy. Or maybe they’ve watched their bruders and schweschders marry and have a dozen children and decided that’s not the life for them. Who knows why—” She waved her hand as if the rationality for such behavior was inconsequential. “For whatever reason, my time for courting has certainly come and gone.”

  “And then Ryan came along.”

  “He’s been a customer for years, stopping in to purchase an item for his mamm on her birthday or Christmas.”

  Amber thought it was more likely that he was purchasing gifts for one of his many girlfriends, but she didn’t suggest as much to Letha.

  “Yet there are rules in your Ordnung about remaining separate. In all the years I’ve been here, there hasn’t been a single conversion from Englisch to Amish—not for marriage, not for any reason.”

  “Such conversions are rare. I read in the Budget about a couple in Maine—the girl was Englisch and converted. Perhaps it’s easier for women than men to give up the conveniences of modern life.”

  “So—”

  “So why am I seeing Ryan? Is that what you want to know?”

  Amber felt suddenly foolish. It wasn’t her business what Letha did in her private life. She was out of line asking such questions. And she would have let it drop, but that mothering tendency was difficult to deny. The Amish in her employ . . . it felt like her place to look after them. That was also an illusion, though. She knew better than anyone that the Amish were perfectly capable of looking after themselves.

  Letha finished her cookie and neatly folded the napkin into quarters. “You and I—we’re nearly the same age.”

  “I’m forty-five.”

  “And I’m forty-two. So you know what it’s like—to be our age and unmarried.”

  “I liked my life before I met Tate. In fact, I was rather content.” She suddenly remembered dating Gordon Avery and being dissatisfied with that relationship. She remembered putting “date” on her to-do list. “Maybe not content, but you know—”

  “I do.” Letha sat back, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Do I expect Ryan to become Amish? Nein. Do I expect him to offer me a proposal of marriage? Nein! I don’t have those kinds of pie-in-the-sky expectations. He gives me rides. We share an ice cream cone occasionally. He brings me flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “Only once or twice.”

  “Oh my—”

  “It’s a chance for me to experience something I haven’t. If I decide I like it? Perhaps I’ll turn a more favorable eye on those old grumpy Amish bachelors.”

  “Grumpy, huh?”

  “You can’t imagine.” Letha stood and nodded toward the restrooms sign. “I need to make a stop.”

  “No worries. I’ll check my e-mail while I wait.” Amber scanned the dozen e-mails that had come in since she’d left for lunch. At first she didn’t notice the anonymous note, maybe because this time the subject line was “Good Job.”

  Glancing around to make sure no one was paying her any mind, Amber clicked on the icon to open the e-mail.

  Good job last night.

  It would have been a mistake to show sassy Cherry Brookstone our private correspondence. Too bad the police already knew about my first e-mail, but you won’t make that mistake again.

  Will you, Amber?

  Because you have so many friends and loved ones, and you want to protect them. Always the mother hen, always wanting to have your cake and eat it too.

  Which is why you’ll do whatever I demand.

  I’ll send you instructions soon.

  Amber started to read the e-mail again, but then Letha was at her side and she quickly stuck her phone into her purse.

  “Bad news?”

  “What? No. Why do you say that?”

  “I suppose it was your expression. You looked as if someone had died.”

  “Oh. No.” Amber gathered her things together. “Just work stuff.”

  She darted out of the coffee shop before Letha could ask any other questions.

  A few folks said hello as they made their way through the furniture store, but Amber barely heard them. She needed to hurry back to her office. She needed to figure out what she was going to do. This person was sending her instructions? About what?

  Amber and Letha had stopped outside the store entrance, staring at the rain that had begun to fall. Standing under the awning, they waited for a letup and watched an elderly couple. The man had parked as close as possible to the front steps. He walked slowly to his wife’s side of the car—and yes, it was obvious that the white-haired woman was his wife. Anyone could tell in one glance. From the way their eyes met and how words were unnecessary, from the small smile on her face and the softness in his eyes. Theirs was a marriage forged through time and strong as the tallest of trees that lined Main Street. Amber couldn’t have said how she knew that, but she did.

  He popped open an umbrella, and then helped her out of the car. She tucked her hand in the bend of his arm. Slowly they made their way into the store, pausing to nod a greeting and collapse the umbrella.

  Letha turned toward her, the smile now gone, her voice suddenly serious. “Who doesn’t want that, Amber? Devotion is a beaut
iful thing.”

  Amber didn’t answer, because she was thinking of Tate and the many ways he had changed her life. She was thanking God that he had offered her a second chance the year before, a different chance, even at the age of forty-four.

  “The bigger question, the one I think you wanted to ask me, was whether I know that Ryan is also seeing Martha and Georgia.”

  Amber tried not to react to that, but apparently her expression gave away her shock. Letha knew? But then why . . .

  “Martha is a child. Ryan will tire of her quickly enough. And Georgia? Well, she’s an efficient baker, but she’s not a barrel of laughs to be with. A new hairstyle and trimmer waistline doesn’t change a person’s personality. And no, I’m not saying that I am the perfect date.” Letha leaned forward and reached out a hand, allowing the rain to splash through her fingers. “I believe I’ve learned to appreciate life, though.”

  She tossed a smile over her shoulder, then dashed for the car. Amber blipped the “Unlock” button and darted after her.

  They drove back to the Village in silence. When they’d entered the parking lot, Amber reached out a hand to stop Letha from leaving the car. “If there’s anything you need from me—”

  “I’m gut. Besides, you are too busy to bother with my personal life. You have your hands full with running this place and catching the poison poet.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan to—”

  “People are actually betting on who will catch the perpetrator this time—you or Hannah.”

  “They’re betting?”

  “I’m not. That would be wrong.” Letha clasped Amber’s hand and squeezed it. “Danki for lunch, and for caring about me enough to ask the hard questions.”

  Then before Amber could grab her umbrella—the one she’d left in the car before—and follow her, Letha was gone, hurrying toward her shop in the rain, which had at least lightened.

  So she sat in her car and thought about the most recent e-mail. The sender said Amber would do whatever was demanded because she “had so many friends and loved ones.” Was she reading too much between the lines, or did that ring of jealousy? Was this person a loner? Did they envy Amber for her friends or for her recent marriage?

  As she stared out at the rain, her thoughts turned to love and marriage and dating and aging. She could see the corner of her and Tate’s property from where she sat, and she could see the back side of the Village. Her life was so full, so satisfying, and she wanted others to experience the same—even her employees like Letha. But she had to admit that people were often at a different place in their lives. God was still in control, and he would certainly look out for Letha and Martha and Georgia.

  She’d probably be better off turning her attention and efforts to the person who was fascinated with poison pies and bad poetry, to the person sending her the anonymous e-mails. Surely they were all from the same person. She had absolutely no intention of attempting to “catch the perpetrator.” She’d be happy to leave this one in Gordon’s capable hands. She had sworn that her days as an amateur sleuth were done.

  Now it seemed as if she was being pushed back into that role again, and this time she was going to have to solve the mystery on her own.

  And she was not going to let this person dictate every aspect of what she would and wouldn’t do. She’d follow their instructions to a point. She’d keep the e-mails to herself. What good would it do to share them? Gordon already had the one. Perhaps he would find out who was sending them before anything terrible happened. Until then, it never hurt to ask a few questions, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

  Twenty-One

  Disaster struck on Friday. Hannah was cleaning up A Simple Blend. Seth had the day off, so she had stayed through the lunch rush and was now preparing to close the coffee shop.

  She’d swept the floor and returned the broom to the utility closet. Then she’d remembered that it was her day to put out food for the lanky cat haunting their shrubs. Hannah would have been happy to catch the pitiful thing and carry it home. They could always use another barn cat. But the stray was not interested in being caught.

  Seth had named him Buttons because his black nose looked like a button set in the middle of his white face. His tail and paws were a dark gray, and though he was on the small side, he was mighty in his own eyes. Hannah had watched him stalk birds, hiss at dogs, and sidle up to folks and purr as if he were the sweetest thing this side of a whoopie pie.

  At first she’d been worried the feline might have rabies, but Jesse caught Buttons the previous week and studied his collar. Attached to it was a tag. He confirmed that Buttons had his current vaccinations before dropping him with a shout when the cat swiped and drew blood.

  “Guess he doesn’t like to be studied.” Hannah had laughed in spite of the look on Jesse’s face.

  “You can never know the mind of a cat—sort of like a woman.”

  “Let me disinfect that.” She’d insisted he come inside and wash the scratch. Then she had found the antibiotic ointment in their new first aid kit, applied it, and covered the entire thing with a bandage.

  “It’s a cat scratch, Hannah Bell. Are you going to worry over every little injury when we marry?”

  “Of course I will. It’s part of a woman’s job.” She’d dodged out of his way when he’d tried to kiss her, but her heart had skipped a beat and she’d once again counted the days until their wedding.

  The cat was apparently from over in Goshen. When they called the number on the collar, it was a veterinary clinic. The receptionist looked up the tag number and told them the family had moved out of town and left no forwarding address. Buttons officially became the Village cat that afternoon, and each shop manager took turns feeding him.

  After setting out food and clean water for Buttons, Hannah stepped inside the shop and locked the back door. She fetched her purse from the storage room and returned to the front of the shop to check things one last time. Seth would be working Saturday morning on his own, and she wanted to make sure everything was perfect for him. Yes, Seth’s infamous accidents were becoming fewer and farther between; however, an ounce of prevention went a long way toward ensuring another wouldn’t pop up the next morning.

  She made certain his checklist was on the back counter where they mixed drinks, made sure it was in plain sight, and then turned back toward the front of the store.

  The thumping of her heart skidded to a stop.

  She was staring at the pie, sitting in the middle of the fresh baked goods case. The pie that had not been there ten minutes ago. It had not been there when she’d walked out back to feed Buttons. She would have noticed it.

  The note was typed on a sheet of paper that had been folded in half, then tented beside the pastry, as if it were announcing a special.

  Arsenic and lace

  May sound very quaint

  But it will leave you thirsty, damp, and cold

  This poison pie is deadly to behold

  How did the pie and note end up in her pastry case?

  Who had put them there?

  And why?

  Her hand shook slightly as she picked up the phone on the counter. Should she call Amber? Or the police?

  She opted for her boss, since this wasn’t technically an emergency. No one had been hurt—yet.

  Ten minutes later Amber was standing in her shop.

  “Why are you acting so naerfich?”

  “Huh?”

  “Nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous. Well, I am. This whole”—Amber waved her hand to encompass the baked goods case, the coffee machines, and the entire shop—“thing makes me angry and nervous. It’s crazy that we’re going through a criminal investigation again.”

  “Ya, but you keep looking out the window as if you expect someone to jump inside and force pie down our throats. You’re making me naerfich.”

  “Sorry.” Amber continued to pace back and forth.

  Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long for Sergeant Avery
.

  “Arsenic, huh? Seems our poet has a wide range of taste in poisons.”

  “Is there poison in it?” Hannah asked.

  “We can’t know until we have it tested, but arsenic is fairly simple to test for. Unless the perp is messing with us and actually has a different poison hidden inside this apple pie.”

  Amber hugged her arms around herself. She’d forgotten her tablet, which she always carried with her, and she was still splitting her attention between the shop and the windows. “What about the other pies? Was there anything in them? I left you a message earlier, but—”

  “I know, Amber. I was planning on returning your call.”

  Hannah was aware of the fact that Gordon and Amber once dated, but since Amber’s marriage to Tate it seemed the two had become good friends. It was almost like watching a brother and sister toss around a subject, only this subject was a deadly one.

  “Why was this in my shop?” Hannah asked. “I don’t know if I’m more frightened than angry or more angry than frightened.”

  Amber reached out and rubbed her back. “I know the feeling. This is getting old very fast.”

  Gordon walked to the window, pulled out his cell phone, and had a private conversation. He paced back and forth a few moments, saying inane things like, “Uh-huh. You’re sure? Got it.”

  Nothing he said helped Hannah at all, though she and Amber were listening with all their might.

  Then he turned back to them. “I’ve called this in to the crime scene tech. They’ll be here in an hour or so.”

  “An hour?” Amber’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “They’ve been a little busy. I’ll get to that in a minute. Now back to your phone call. The reason I didn’t return it was that I was waiting to hear from the lab.” Gordon walked back across the little shop, and he didn’t stop until he was standing directly in front of them. “The lab sent me an e-mail on my way over, which I checked in the parking lot. I called them just now to confirm their results.”

  “And?” Amber was standing behind the counter with Hannah. Now she leaned across, as if she could shake the answer from the sergeant.