Hearse and Buggy

by Laura Bradford

  “There was a fire at Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe yesterday evening.”

  A poof of flour rose into the air as Diane dropped the spoon into the bowl. “Is Ruth okay?”

  “She wasn’t there. No one was.”

  “Oh thank heavens.” Reaching into the bowl, Diane extracted the spoon and set it on the counter, her cookie-making mission on hold. “So what happened? Did they leave the stove on?”

  Claire reached across the counter and commandeered a chocolate chip from the plated pile to the left of the mixing bowl. “No. It was gasoline.”

  “In the Kitchen?”

  She popped the tiny morsel into her mouth. “The fire wasn’t an accident.”

  Diane’s mouth dropped open. “Oh no.”

  Oh no was right.

  “I guess the broken milk bottles, stolen pie boxes, nasty note, and painted window weren’t enough to get across whatever point someone is trying to make to the Millers.”

  The kitchen door swung open behind them, signaling the arrival of the only remaining guest. “Did you see this?”

  Claire reached for the newspaper in Arnie’s hand and set it on the counter, the front headline proof positive that a special edition of the Heavenly Times had been printed overnight while residents of the close-knit town slept soundly. She skimmed the first few paragraphs of the story, while Arnie and Diane leaned over her shoulder.

  “Who’s that with you?”

  She followed Arnie’s finger to the small photograph below the fold line. Despite the side angle, the worry she’d felt the night before was on display for all to see. “That’s Howard Glick. He owns Glick’s Tools ‘n’ More. He’s the reason the fire was detected and put out so quickly.”

  “I never heard any sirens,” Diane mused.

  Arnie pointed at the second paragraph and the time of the fire. “I’m guessing that’s because you were vacuuming every inch of this place at about that same time.”

  “You didn’t hear it, either?”

  “How could I?” Arnie reached forward and grabbed a handful of chocolate chips from the plate. “I was using headphones to block out your vacuuming.”

  Diane made her way back around the counter and secured the plate of chips from Arnie’s overeager reach. “I have some fresh blueberry muffins in the basket by the stove, Mr. Streen.”

  Arnie made a beeline for the basket, helping himself to three. “So what happened? That article doesn’t say a whole lot.”

  She repeated what she’d told Diane thus far, adding the fact that she was worried for Ruth’s safety in light of the increasing severity of the crimes.

  “That’s assuming it’s aimed at her with intention to do harm rather than deflect attention.” Arnie grabbed a knife from the utensil basket and cut off a sizable chunk of butter. He slathered it across all sides of each muffin before biting into the first one.

  Claire stared at the man. “I’m not sure what you mean by deflecting attention.”

  “Well, throughout history, the most successful criminals have gotten away with their crimes by sending up smoke signals in other places.” Arnie popped the second muffin into his mouth. “Keeps the heat off them while they cover their tracks from the bigger crime.”

  Pushing the paper to the side, she considered Arnie’s words. “Okay, I get that. But what would the stuff at Ruth’s bake shop be deflecting?”

  Arnie ate the last of his three muffins and returned to the basket for two more. “That’s easy.”

  “Oh?”

  “It could be deflecting murder.”

  She heard Diane’s gasp and knew it echoed her own. “Murder?”

  Arnie shrugged. “Think about it. Some guy shows up dead in the alley behind your stores. And, lo and behold, it’s the same guy who just happens to have ripped off a number of people, including Ruth’s own family. But wait … One of her brothers got in trouble for making public threats of bodily harm to this very same dead guy. Hmmm …” Arnie scrunched up his chin and gave it a dramatic scratch. “It sure seems as if the stuff happening to this particular bake shop might be intended to make one poor Eli Miller look like a victim, too.”

  She stared at him, his freckled face giving way to a parade of images that lined up, one behind the other …

  Stolen pie boxes …

  Broken milk bottles …

  A carelessly written, nasty note …

  Splattered paint …

  When she got to the fire—a fire that had done remarkably little damage in light of its potential—she felt her stomach twist into a knot. Each and every incident thus far was relatively easy for someone like Eli to pull off. All he’d have to do is show up early—or late, as in the case of the fire—before anyone else was around. And if he were seen, no one would think it odd. After all, why would they? Eli’s devotion to his sister was admired by all of the shopkeepers on Lighted Way.

  She drew in a second and longer breath. Was Arnie right? Was Eli staging everything to deflect focus for the murder?

  “You can’t be right, Mr. Streen.” Diane’s voice, steady and firm, rose up amid all of Claire’s worry, wiping it away with her usual no-nonsense approach. “Two of those incidents happened before Mr. Snow’s murder. That alone proves it has nothing to do with deflection.”

  Claire clapped her hands. “Yes! Aunt Diane is right. Only three of those things happened before the murder, not just two.”

  “He had to know this Snow guy was gonna come back at some point, right?”

  She met Diane’s confused gaze and followed it back to the redhead. “Huh?”

  “Wasn’t his wife still here?”

  She nodded, along with her aunt.

  “Then, I think it stands to reason that he couldn’t stay away forever.”

  The meaning behind Arnie’s words finally sunk in. “Oh, c’mon,” she pleaded. “You’re trying to say that Eli set these little pranks in motion before the murder?”

  “I think it might be more accurate to say in preparation for the murder.”

  She looked back at Diane, waiting for her aunt’s infinite wisdom to counter yet another round of Arnie’s amateur sleuthing, but nothing came. Instead, Claire struck out on her own. “Assuming you’re right, Mr. Streen—and I’m not saying you are—wouldn’t all that … that preparation, as you call it, be a bit over the top?”

  “The timing of the first three pranks threw”—he pointed a buttery finger at Diane and then Claire—“the two of you off just now, didn’t it?”

  Before she could answer, he continued, his mouth working around yet another muffin in the process. “If a person’s eye is steady on the prize, he’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Like me with wanting to go to grad school. If I hadn’t wanted it bad enough, I wouldn’t have all these scars.” He lifted his battered and crumb-coated hands into the air. “But shucking oysters all day long for two years is the only way I could make that happen. And let’s not forget your detective, Claire …”

  “My detective?” she repeated.

  “That’s who you were out in the parking lot with last night around midnight, isn’t it?”

  She felt her mouth gape as Diane turned to her with questioning eyes.

  “I …”

  “He worked his way back home, didn’t he?” Arnie lurched forward across the kitchen in search of a glass. “Though, now that I’m saying it, he might not be such a good example, seeing as how his hard work is never going to pay off with anything more than slammed doors and the silent treatment to end all silent treatments.”

  All she could do was blink and swallow.

  And then blink and swallow some more.

  Arnie Streen was downright infuriating. He’d demonstrated that within ten minutes of checking into Sleep Heavenly. But this time, she didn’t want to just walk away, muttering her frustrations under her breath. This time she wanted to stand her ground and argue back until the man was begging for mercy.

  The problem, though, was where to start.

  “I think you’re way
off base where Eli Miller is concerned.” There. That was a good start …

  He plunked his fresh-from-the-dishwasher glass on the counter and then filled it with the orange juice Diane had surely squeezed just prior to Claire’s arrival in the kitchen. With little more than three gulps, eight ounces disappeared in the blink of an eye. “I wonder whether your detective would agree.”

  Diane looked at Arnie and then gestured toward the cookie ingredients spread out on the counter. “Mr. Streen, if you’ve had enough for the moment, I will see that your full breakfast is ready to be served in the dining room at nine o’clock as usual. In the meantime, I must get back to my work.”

  If he picked up the edge to Diane’s voice, he didn’t show it as he pivoted on his feet and headed for the same swinging door that had allowed him into their midst in the first place. “French toast with a side of eggs and bacon this morning, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m starved.” He paused, his hand in the center of the door, taking in first Diane and then Claire with a turn of his head. “And Claire?”

  The stool creaked softly beneath her as her shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mr. Streen?”

  “If I’m right about Eli Miller, as I suspect I am, your detective is going to have his work cut out for him trying to get answers out of a community hell-bent on pretending he doesn’t exist.”

  Chapter 22

  For the first time since opening her shop, Claire didn’t stroll down Lighted Way with a spring in her step. She didn’t drink in the distant clip-clop of horses or wave at the smattering of fellow shopkeepers who swept their front porches in anticipation of yet another day in Heavenly. No, this time she walked with her head down, her thoughts anything but peaceful and happy.

  Try as she might, she simply couldn’t shake the seeds Arnie Streen had planted. Nor could she forget the way she’d brushed off Diane’s questions about Jakob. She hadn’t meant to be evasive; she really hadn’t. But she just wasn’t ready to dissect feelings she wasn’t even sure she had. Especially when her stomach was a mess with worry over Eli’s potential role in Ruth’s ongoing troubles.

  Instead of lifting her face to the morning sun the way she normally did, Claire lifted her nose and sniffed. The smell of old fire still peppered the air like a post-campfire with a side order of faint gasoline.

  She stopped in her tracks, her feet rooted to the ground by reality.

  Had Howard Glick not been on the ball, Heavenly Treasures could have burned just as easily as Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe. The alleyways between most of the stores were just large enough for a buggy to fill. A slight breeze or a few early drops of gasoline, and she’d be looking at the same mess Ruth was faced with that morning.

  She continued her walk, her destination clear. Esther was on tap to open with her at ten o’clock. The double coverage would enable her to turn her attention elsewhere for as long as it was needed.

  When she reached the sidewalk that led to the bake shop, she turned and made her way up the porch steps, the lingering smell of smoke growing stronger as she reached the wide-open door.

  “Ruth? Are you here?” She took a few tentative steps into the main room of the bakery and stopped. Everything in the room was as exactly as it appeared earlier in the week—the wood-planked floor mopped to a fine glow, the wood-trimmed glass case sparkling in the early-morning rays cascading through the open windows, and the freshly picked wildflowers featured in the basic vases strewn about the room. The only difference was the repugnant odor, a first for anything connected to Ruth Miller. “Ruth?”

  The soft pitter-patter of Ruth’s simple black ankle boots preceded Eli’s twin into the main room. “Good morning, Claire.”

  She studied her shy friend closely, noted the tired eyes, the strands of hair that had strayed from the confines of the head cap, and the soot-stained dress. Yet somehow, someway, Ruth Miller still looked as if she belonged on the page of a beauty magazine.

  “I’m so sorry, Ruth. I truly am. I … I can’t imagine who would do such a thing to you and to this shop.”

  A flicker of pain darkened the young woman’s ocean-blue eyes momentarily only to disappear behind a show of false bravado. “It is my mistake. I did not check carefully.”

  “What are you talking about?” Claire asked. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  “But it is. I know someone is angry at me. And I did not check. This … this”—Ruth brushed her hands down the front of her lavender dress—“mess would not have happened if I had.”

  Claire took a step backward, unsure of what to say. Granted, she hadn’t stayed through the night after the fire, but she’d left with Jakob. What else could have happened to change the facts of the fire so drastically that Ruth would be standing there, taking the blame on herself?

  “I was in a rush,” Ruth continued. “I wanted to bake a cake for Dat’s birthday. I must not have checked the lock.”

  “Ruth. Someone poured gasoline in your kitchen and then lit a match or flicked a lighter. How on earth is that your fault?”

  “They could not have started a fire if I locked the back door.”

  She heard the words, even saw the expression on Ruth’s face, yet it was still incomprehensible. Ruth Miller was the most meticulous person she’d ever met. Her shop was always clean, her display case always stocked, and her customers always pleased. Leaving a door unlocked simply didn’t fit the picture. At all.

  “Eli is furious.”

  Claire teed her hands. “Wait a minute. I don’t care whether you locked the door or not. That doesn’t change the fact that someone went inside without permission and tried to set your shop on fire. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

  Ruth’s bottom lip quivered.

  “Ruth, please. Tell me you don’t really believe this was your fault.”

  Slowly, the girl looked up and met Claire’s eyes. “I really thought I used the lock. Like I do every night.”

  Claire took hold of Ruth’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Let’s think, okay? Walk me through everything you did when you were closing yesterday.”

  “I was out of pies. Cakes, too.”

  She smiled in hopes of lightening the tension that hovered around Ruth like a pesky mosquito. “Well, that’s not any different than any other day for you, is it?”

  Ruth’s cheeks reddened at the compliment. “I do not know.”

  “Oh, yes, you do.”

  “I had cookies left. I put them in a bag as I always do.” Ruth’s eyebrows scrunched in thought, then returned to their normal positions as she continued. “I wipe the display counter. I wipe the window. I wipe the door. Then I wipe the kitchen counter and stove. Oven door, too. Then I take my bag, I take my key, lock the door, and I leave. It is what I do each day.”

  “How sure are you that you did all of that yesterday?” she asked even as her thoughts worked through each step Ruth mentioned.

  “I must not have locked the door.”

  Claire bobbed her head to the left until she recaptured Ruth’s gaze. “I’m not asking what you think you did based on the fire. I’m asking you what you remember doing.”

  Ruth looked over her shoulder at the kitchen doorway, then turned back. “I locked the door.”

  “You said you take the key and lock the door each night, yes?”

  Ruth gave a quick nod.

  “Where do you take the key from?”

  The faintest hint of a smile twitched at the corners of the Amish woman’s mouth. “I will show you.” Turning on her heel, Ruth led the way into the kitchen, the blackened walls and heightened odor eliciting a soft groan from Claire. “I found box in Mr. Snow’s shop one day. It was made by”—Ruth’s cheeks tinged red once again—“Samuel Yoder.”

  Before Claire could inquire as to Ruth’s reaction to the man’s name, the moment was gone, lost in an uncharacteristic flurry of words for a young woman who normally spoke very little.

  “See? Isn’t it lovely?” Ruth lifted a tiny treasure box from the cou
nter across from the stove and held it out for Claire to see, its carefully carved floral design covered by a fine layer of soot. At Claire’s nod, Ruth pulled the box close once again, wiping at the soot with a damp cloth. “We can not have decoration unless it has purpose. That is why I keep the shop key inside.”

  Claire walked to the back wall of the kitchen and squatted beside the spot where the fire started, her knees narrowly missing the finely crafted hope chest she’d uncovered in her stockroom. “The fire department certainly moved fast, didn’t they?” Then, without waiting for a response, she glanced up at Ruth and the treasure box. “Open it.”

  Ruth hesitated a beat before doing as she was told, her long graceful fingers slowly guiding the lid up and over.

  At Ruth’s widened eyes, Claire skipped the question and went straight for the answer. “It’s not there, is it?”

  “No. It is not.”

  Claire turned her head and took in the origins of the fire, the darkened wall and still-damp floor a reminder that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. “Where do you put your key after you lock the door each night?”

  “I put it in the flower pot outside. But do not tell Benjamin. He would not approve.”

  “Why?”

  Ruth squared her shoulders. “He worries. He says I should bring the key home.”

  “He’s probably right,” she said. “So why don’t you bring it home?”

  “Because it is long walk if I forget the key the next day.”

  Claire rested a hand on the top of the hope chest and hoisted herself upward. When she regained her balance, she made her way over to the door, gesturing for Ruth to follow. “Would Eli be mad, too?”

  “No. He is glad. He does not want me to walk home for the key.”

  A nagging doubt began to gnaw at her stomach. “Does Eli know where you keep the key?”

  Ruth took the lead as they entered the alley and looped around to the back of the bake shop. “He found the pot. Showed me the best place to keep the key.” When they reached the pot in question, Ruth reached into the soil and extracted a small wooden box. “You can not see it because of the dirt.”

  Claire took the box from Ruth’s outstretched hand and opened it to reveal the key. “Is this it?”