“And there was nothing in the first two pies—nothing harmful that we could detect.”
Hannah flopped down on the stool next to the register, instantly relieved. Strangely, Amber only seemed more agitated. She tapped her fingernails against her front teeth, and continued to dart glances out the window. Something else was going on here, but Hannah had no idea what.
Pulling the strings of her prayer kapp to the front, she ran the fingers of her right hand from the top to the bottom—once, twice, three times. It was a childish gesture, one she’d indulged in since she was a six-year-old trotting off to school for the first time. Childish or not, the motion soothed her, and it helped her to think more clearly.
“This is narrisch. Why would someone claim to put poison in a pie, write notes to warn us, but then not actually do it?”
“Because they are narrisch—crazy people tend to abound in my life!” Amber again crossed her arms and let out a sigh of exasperation.
“I wish I had a video of you two,” Gordon said.
“Why?” Hannah asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because you look like Holmes and Watson—only you’re stumped!”
“Who are—”
“I’ll explain later.” Amber pointed to the note, to the words arsenic and lace. “This is plainly a case of someone more into Agatha Christie than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“I’ve heard of Agatha Christie. You even lent me a few of her books. But who is Conan Doyle?” Hannah felt as if the conversation was spiraling away from the important fact that someone had snuck into her shop and left a threatening note.
“The good sergeant is suggesting that I’m a sleuth and you’re my sidekick.”
“Oh.” Hannah pushed her kapp strings to the back. “Maybe you’re my sidekick.”
Gordon nodded at them both. “It’s good to see you both still have your sense of humor.”
“Sure we do. But Gordon, this could be serious.” Amber licked her lips, hesitated, and then plunged onward. “What if whoever this person is has a courage problem? What if they want to do something terrible but haven’t been able to yet? What if this is building up to an actual murder?”
“It’s possible, but not likely.” Gordon pulled a stool over to his side of the counter. “I understand that you two are very concerned, and I’m not discounting the seriousness of this. There’s a chance—as you suggest—that they could be building courage for the real thing. I don’t think so, though. Statistically, a perp who leaves warnings with no real threat behind them is someone craving attention.”
When they continued to stare at him, he added, “We will catch whoever is doing these things. However, I wouldn’t be too worried about another murder on your doorstep.”
“They weren’t exactly on my doorstep,” Amber muttered.
“This seems to me to be similar to a teen who repeatedly calls in a bomb threat.”
“Doesn’t that sort of person finally snap and plant a bomb?”
“Hardly. They don’t have the means or knowledge. The threats are usually a way of venting their frustration about a certain situation.”
“So you think it’s someone here at the Village? Someone who’s frustrated with their situation?” Hannah started mentally checking off each employee at the Village. It didn’t seem any of them could be capable of such a thing.
“Not necessarily.” Gordon cleared his throat. “The Village isn’t the only place these pies have shown up.”
“What?” Amber and Hannah responded in harmony.
“What do you mean this isn’t the only place?” Amber asked.
“There’ve been more? More pies?”
“And more bad poetry?”
Gordon held up a hand to stop them. “Still under investigation, which means I can’t discuss it. However, you’ll probably read the basic facts in tomorrow’s paper, so I can share those.”
Hannah felt as if she were in a dream. This was all so bizarre. In one sense she felt like she was reliving the nightmare of Ethan Gray’s murder as well as that of Owen Esch. But in another sense, it felt surreal, like a bad joke—something that couldn’t really be happening.
“Yesterday, a pie similar to the ones you found showed up at two other establishments.”
“Where—” Amber stopped herself and impatiently waited for Gordon to tell what meager details he could share.
“The grocery store as well as the other bakery here in town. The notes with them were similar to the ones you’ve received.”
“And now another one here.” Hannah stared around the small, closed coffee shop. Someone had been here, maybe even when she was in the back room. What if she’d walked in and surprised the guilty party? What would have happened?
“Yes, now here. So we have a pie first found in the Village kitchen, then one was found displayed on a shelf at your bakery.”
“The next two were off property.” Amber looked around, spinning in a circle, no doubt looking for her forgotten tablet. Not seeing it, she ticked the pies off on her fingers.
“Those two happened while your bakery was closed,” Gordon pointed out.
“So this person must have a connection to the bakery here.” Hannah pushed up on her glasses. She suddenly felt like they could figure this out, if they just kept the fear at bay and thought about it logically.
“Possibly,” Gordon said. “Or maybe it’s simply the closest target.”
“They moved to a place in town when our bakery was closed.” Amber stared out the window. “But they could have come here yesterday. The coffee shop was still open.”
“That’s true. We can’t always understand the behavior of a perpetrator, but if you look close enough you’ll usually see a pattern and possibly a motivation—though sometimes even that eludes us.”
“Knowing a motive would be good,” Hannah said. “But what we need is a name. It’s wrong to scare people, and it’s disruptive for Village personnel and guests. Even if the threats aren’t harmful in and of themselves, they create an atmosphere of fear.”
Amber jumped at the word fear. Clearing her throat, she said, “Like the woman in the bakery Tuesday evening. Some of her response was drama, but I think she might have really been frightened when she read the note from the poison poet.”
“We’ll dust again for prints here in the shop and especially on the tray holding the pie. Whoever is doing this will slip up, and when they do we’ll catch them.”
But suddenly Hannah had new things to worry about. Sergeant Avery would catch this person—she had no doubt about that. But what was wrong with Amber?
And what was she going to do about it?
Twenty-Two
Hannah’s day had been a disaster, but it took a turn for the better on the way home. She didn’t end up leaving the shop until nearly four. Since she’d arrived in time to open early that morning, she felt as if she’d worked two days in one—which probably explained why she nearly walked into Preston as she made her way toward the Pumpkinvine Trail. The rain had pushed through and the afternoon was cool but clear.
“Hi there. Where are you going with such a dour look?”
Hannah started to explain, but then she noticed the yellow dog waiting patiently at Preston’s side.
“Oh my. Preston, you didn’t tell me you got your dog. You didn’t come to see me!”
“Yes, well, we’ve spent the last couple of days adjusting.”
“He’s beautiful.”
“She.”
Hannah covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the giggles that threatened to escape. “She. I’m so sorry.”
“No worries. Hannah, meet Mocha. Mocha, this is my friend, Hannah. You can pet her if you want.”
“But her jacket says ‘Service dog, do not pet.’ ”
“Yes, well, that’s for the general public. You’re like family.”
Hannah knelt on the ground so that she was eye-to-eye with the dog. Mocha was large, nearly two feet tall if Hannah were to guess. She
had a long, dense coat that apparently was brushed often—it fairly sparkled in the sun. It was her color that captivated Hannah—a lovely blend of gold and cream.
Mocha.
Perfect.
“I take it you approve.”
“I do!” Hannah scratched the spot between Mocha’s ears and gazed once more into the dog’s warm brown eyes, then sighed and stood. “She’s lovely, and so well trained!”
“Mostly well trained, though she does like to chase Leo.”
“Amber’s cat?”
“Yes. He insists on coming back to the Dawdy Haus each day. I never minded the company, and we’ve sort of fallen into a habit of me feeding the guy each morning.”
“What does Mocha think of that?”
“The two haven’t exactly made friends yet.”
They had stepped onto the Pumpkinvine Trail. “You don’t have to walk me home. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
“Actually, I spent most of the day in safety training.”
“Safety?”
“OSHA stuff.” When Hannah only stared at him, he added, “Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Half the managers went today. The other half will have the pleasure next week, including you.”
“Oh, yes. I did receive that notice. Sounds boring.”
“It is, though I suppose we should all learn to deal with blood-borne pathogens.”
“Yuck.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m more worried about poisons than pathogens.” She proceeded to tell Preston about the day’s events.
“Sounds irritating, but not exactly dangerous. Not yet, anyway. Are you sure you read Amber’s response correctly?”
“I’m telling you, she was more nervous than I’ve ever seen her.”
“And she wouldn’t talk to you about it?”
“We had no chance. As soon as Sergeant Avery left, she took off. It was almost as if . . .” Hannah stopped, feeling strange even uttering the words, feeling as if she was betraying her friend.
“Spit it out, kid.”
“It was almost as if she was afraid to be alone with me. I know how bizarre that sounds.”
“Maybe she had something else on her mind, or somewhere else she needed to be.”
“Ya, that explains her being in a hurry, but it doesn’t explain her strange reaction. I’m telling you, she was about to jump out of her skin.” Hannah paused and glanced around, surprised to see they’d reached the lane that led to her house. She’d been so caught up in recounting the day’s events that she hadn’t noticed they’d walked the entire way from the Village to her home.
“Thanks for letting me share my worries with you, Preston. And congratulations on getting Mocha.”
Preston reached down and touched the top of Mocha’s head.
Hannah had turned away and was starting down the lane when Preston called out to her. He closed the gap between them, maybe so he wouldn’t have to shout.
“Would you like me to check on Amber? Do you think it’s that serious?”
“I do believe it’s serious, and yes—I think it would be gut if you stopped in to see her.”
“All right. Mocha and I are going to walk a little farther, then turn around. I’ll go by her house. I’ve been meaning to introduce Mocha to Tate.”
“Danki, Preston. You’re a gut friend.”
Her burden lighter, she turned back toward home. Whatever was wrong, Preston would figure it out. He had a knack for that sort of thing. And Amber wouldn’t be able to resist Mocha. She’d see the dog and stop to pet it, and then the barrier that she’d created around herself would fall. She’d share whatever was bothering her. Hannah felt sure of it, sure enough to put her worries away and focus on home and her wedding plans.
Preston was surprised when he reached Amber’s house and she wasn’t home. He’d purposefully extended Mocha’s walk so he would arrive there after five.
But no little red car sat in the driveway.
So he walked up the steps and rapped on the door.
Tate answered, wearing an apron and holding a large spoon in his right hand. “Come on in. I was just stirring the pot.”
“What pot?”
“The dinner pot.” Tate clapped him on the back, and then said to the dog, “You must be Mocha. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Preston couldn’t help smiling when Mocha lifted a paw to shake.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Perhaps some water for Mocha, if you have an old butter tub or something else to put it in.”
“I can do you one better than that.”
Leo arched his back and hissed when they walked into the large kitchen/dining room.
“Do these two know each other?”
“Yeah. They met yesterday morning and again today.”
“I know Leo is still going to your house every morning. I can sit on my front porch and watch him make his way down to your back porch.”
“Probably I shouldn’t be feeding him. It just encourages his wanderings.”
“Do you remember what happened with Ethan Gray? Given the way that ended, I’d say we should spoil the cat in any way possible.”
Leo had resettled in the window seat, which offered a view out over the back of the property, his paws tucked underneath, his eyes still on Mocha.
Tate walked to a far cabinet, opened it, and pulled out a large red water bowl.
“For the granddogs,” he explained as he filled it with tap water and set it on the floor.
Mocha looked up at Preston, waiting for permission. Preston nodded, and the dog trotted to the bowl and began to lap up the water.
“I’d heard she was well trained,” Tate said, “but that’s amazing.”
“You haven’t seen anything. They actually taught her how to dial nine-one-one, in case . . . you know, in case I have an incident.”
“Special phone?” Tate asked.
“Yes. Large numbers. Tomas brought one when he first delivered her to my place. Mocha—she’s a special dog.”
“And have you, you know, had a need to check out her skills yet?”
Preston smiled as Tate set a glass of water on the counter for him, next to his own glass with iced tea. The man knew him well, knew that water was his drink of preference. “It’s hard to be sure about that. I’ve only had her two days. I might have had the beginnings of a flashback last night. I woke to Mocha standing beside the bed, whining, and pushing her cold nose into my hand.”
Tate shook his head. “I’d say this dog is a godsend.”
“Indeed.”
“Thanks for coming by and bringing her.”
As the minutes ticked by and Amber still didn’t show, Preston and Tate took their drinks out to the front porch. Sitting in the rockers, watching the sun begin to set, with Mocha lying at his feet, the day seemed almost perfect to Preston.
But it wasn’t perfect.
Something was wrong. Preston could sense it like a storm arriving from the west.
He could tell Tate was aware of it too. He drummed the fingers of his left hand against the arm of the chair, and twice he checked the phone in his shirt pocket.
Finally Preston cleared his throat and broached the subject they were both avoiding. “Hannah’s pretty worked up about this poison poet.”
“Given what she’s been through—what we’ve all been through—the last year, that’s not surprising.”
“I believe she’s more concerned for Amber than she is for herself.”
Tate didn’t comment on that directly, but he nodded and the lines across his forehead deepened.
When Amber finally drove up, Tate let out an audible sigh. “Don’t know why I was worried. She would have called if there had been a problem.”
Preston wasn’t so sure.
Something was definitely off-kilter, and it didn’t take a genius to see the toll it was taking on Amber. Her eyes continually darted left then right. The scarf she’d been wearing had worked its way nearly off her ne
ck, but she didn’t seem to notice. And she repeatedly ran her right hand through her hair, as if the gesture comforted her in some way.
“Late day at the office?” Tate aimed for a breezy tone.
“Yeah. I had . . . had some things I needed to take care of.”
“Preston stopped by to introduce me to Mocha.”
The dog had sat up as soon as Amber pulled into the driveway. Now she cocked her head, keeping her eyes on Amber and waiting. But Amber barely seemed aware that she was petting the dog on top of her head as she walked into the house, murmuring that she needed a minute to clean up before dinner.
“Do you think Hannah was overreacting?”
“No. I don’t.” Tate leaned forward, elbows braced on his legs. “I knew she hadn’t been sleeping well, but I thought it was due to this poison thing going on at the Village.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Could be, but that answer doesn’t feel right. We made it through Ethan Gray’s investigation just fine. I don’t need to remind you how that ended.”
Preston shook his head. That investigation was the reason he wasn’t still living on the streets. No, maybe he wasn’t giving credit where credit was due when he looked at it that way. God had used that investigation to bring Tate and Amber into his life, and coming back into the community—back into the fold—had cleared the way for Preston to find his way off the streets.
“Could be the stress is taking its toll,” Preston said.
“It’s possible, but this doesn’t seem nearly as stressful as finding an employee dead in the coffee shop as with Ethan’s death, or having someone killed with a bow and arrow.”
“Owen’s murder was difficult for the entire community.”
“And especially Amber. After all, it happened a little over a mile from our home.”
They both considered those past two incidents for a few moments.
“Maybe it’s more cumulative. We saw that a lot in the military.” Mocha moved closer to Preston as he allowed his thoughts to comb back through those memories. Although they weren’t as painful as they had once been, he supposed he would always have a physiological reaction to those days. “We had one guy . . . he did great in every encounter. Never cracked under pressure, always performed his duties superbly. Then on the way home, he fell apart—just seemed to emotionally and physically collapse. The medic said it was the cumulative stress that got him. Took three months in a VA hospital to pull him out of it.”
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