“It was a long time ago, maybe the police will be lenient,” I said with no idea whether or not that was true.
“They won’t be.” His voice was bitter. “The Englisch police will enjoy throwing an Amish man into prison. They will happily close my store altogether and open an Englisch business here and leave my family with nothing.”
The back door slammed open. “Mamm, where is Daed? I’m cold.” There was a slight whine in Kenneth’s voice.
“I don’t know where your father got to. He must be out front. Knock the snow off of your boots before you track it all over the store,” Lily replied somewhere in the store.
Kenneth said something in reply to his mother.
The broom lowered ever so slightly in Ira’s hands, and I edged away from its reach.
Ira noticed my movements. “Stay there.” He stabbed the end of the broom at me again. This time, he connected with my forearm. It felt like a blunt ice pick.
“Daed,” Kenneth said and ran into the room. His rubber-soled boots squeaked on the floor as he saw me pinned against the display case of spices. “Daed?”
Lily stepped into the room after her son. “Ira, what are you doing?”
“Go home,” Ira said. “I will talk to both of you later.”
Lily said something to him in Pennsylvania Dutch.
He replied in their language.
While Ira was distracted, Oliver appeared behind him. He was pushing something with his snub nose. It was Kenneth’s large blue marble. Oliver must have found it somewhere in the shop. He pushed it just behind Ira’s right shoe and stepped away. What was that crazy dog up to?
Ira was too distracted by the argument that he was having with his wife to notice my dog’s odd behavior.
Lily began to cry. “You? You killed Eric?” she said in English.
As if his wife slapped his across the face, he stumbled back, stepping onto the marble. For half a second he teetered in place and then his feet went out from under him. He flew back and his head made a deafening thud on the hardwood floor.
Lily knelt by her husband, and Kenneth ran forward and collected his marble. With wide eyes, he slipped it into his pocket. The commotion gave me enough time to escape out of the reach of Ira’s broom. Oliver ran over to me, and I picked him up. “You are the smartest dog ever,” I whispered to him. He licked my cheek.
Ira grasped the back of his head. He was conscious, so there couldn’t be too much damage. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep this secret.” With tears in his eyes, he turned to me. “Call the Englisch police.”
Lily grabbed her husband’s arm. “Ira, what have you done?”
He shook his head, unable to speak, and I did what I was asked to do.
Epilogue
Three days later, I stuck my suitcase into the back of the Expedition with my aunt looking on. Despite the cold, she insisted on following me outside to watch me load the car. Oliver took last-minute bites of snow. He was going to miss that. The chickens watched him with their beady eyes from their pen. He wouldn’t miss them, just like I wouldn’t miss thinking about Eric’s Schmidt’s death. Ira Eby sat in county jail, waiting for trial or for someone to bail him out.
I hugged Aunt Eleanor. “I’ll come again, Aenti, I promise.”
“I will miss you.” She bent over and scratched Oliver behind the ear. “I’ve grown quite fond of this little guy, too.”
He licked her hand.
I closed the SUV’s hatch. “We are both going to miss you.”
“As you should.” Her eyes twinkled, and for a moment, she didn’t look nearly as ill and tired as I knew she felt. She was going to beat this, I knew it.
“Oliver and I will be back. After the wedding, I’ll bring Ryan, too.” Even if I have to drag him to Holmes County, I mentally added.
“Gut. I would like to meet this young man who believes he is gut enough to marry my niece. I don’t think anyone is.” She hugged me tight, more tightly than I thought possible in her weakened condition. “You’re the daughter I never had, and I love you dearly. The Good Lord will show you the way as to what is best for you.”
My forehead wrinkled as I wondered what she meant. I already knew the way that was best: Ryan, Dallas, and my advertising job. These are the things I had and I wanted. I could do without the ice sculptures at the wedding, but I wasn’t complaining. My future was set out before me, and it was bright. I hugged her back and then opened the door to the backseat. I helped Oliver onto the seat. My canine hero gave me his best doggy grin. He was ready to go home to warmer climes. As much as I wanted to go home, too, I felt my throat close up. “I love you, Aenti.”
“I know.” She kissed my cheek. “Remember I will always love you, wherever I am.”
Wherever she was? She wasn’t going anywhere. My aunt would always be in Holmes County just as I would always be in Dallas.
Read on for a peek at the first book in the Amish Quilt Shop Mystery Series,
MURDER, PLAIN AND SIMPLE
Available in September 2013 from Obsidian
There it was—the empty white bakery box. Just a light dusting of powdered sugar surrounded it on the blond wood kitchen table in my new home in Holmes County, Ohio. A streak of red jelly ran along its side with my fingerprint perfectly preserved in raspberry red. It was a crime scene.
My stomach ached as I remembered the enormous jelly doughnut that had been inside the box. Did I really eat the entire thing? After weeks of starving myself for my big Texas wedding that was not to be, I’d gone on a bender. I shivered when I thought about the two-week juice cleanse. What a waste.
Oliver, my black-and-white French bulldog, whimpered.
I grabbed the box off the table and shoved it into the wastebasket under the sink. “Don’t judge. I was under extreme distress. Moving across the country is stressful, you know. Besides, lugging all the boxes into the house yesterday burned off the calories.”
He butted the back of my knee with his head as if he understood. My überathletic ex-fiancé, Ryan Dickinson, Esq., would not have been so sympathetic. But what Ryan thought shouldn’t matter to me now. Unfortunately, it did—a lot.
I wanted to lie on the couch and take a nap. I could blame it on carb overload, but I knew the true cause of my lethargy was fear. What was I doing in Ohio? I’d quit my well-paying advertising job in Dallas, Texas, to move to Amish Country. Was I crazy? Had I finally hit my quarter-life crisis at thirty-four, almost ten years late, or was I experiencing a midlife crisis a few years early? I couldn’t decide which of those would be worse.
On the heels of my broken engagement, I learned I’d inherited my Amish aunt’s quilt shop, Running Stitch. I saw the inheritance as a divine sign to get out of Texas.
Aunt Eleanor had not grown up Amish. She had left her modern life when she fell in love with an Amish man. She gave up her culture to be baptized into the Amish church. The hopeless romantic in me wished someone would make such a sacrifice for me. Ryan could not. He’d called off the wedding because of “commitment issues.” After six years of dating and one year of being engaged, you’d think he’d have been over those.
As a young child, I’d spent countless hours at my aunt’s quilt shop, watching my aunt’s quilting circle and learning the craft myself. When I was ten years old, my father got a high-powered executive job and we moved to Dallas, Texas. Until I reached high school and became too preoccupied with my own life, I returned to Holmes County every summer to quilt with my aunt and tramp around the Ohio countryside with my childhood friend Jo-Jo. Even after I stopped visiting Ohio, I kept quilting and looked forward to my aunt’s letters, which always included a quilting tip or pattern inside. From hundreds of miles away, she continued to teach me the craft. I saw moving to Ohio as an opportunity to dedicate myself to the craft I loved. I may have thought this was an excellent idea, but my friends back in Dallas thought I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Standing in the middle of my Ohio kitchen, I wondered whether they were right
.
This called for the big guns—er . . . boots, I meant. I hurried through the small two-bedroom house I rented in Millersburg. I opened box after box until finally I found them, my cowboy boots.
The boots were made of aged leather and the yellow daisy and blue cornflower pattern was stitched along the side of the foot and up the calf. The fine hand stitching reminded me of Aunt Eleanor’s quilts. I think that’s what drew me to the boots in the first place. It certainly wasn’t the price, which had been a month’s worth of my advertising salary. I didn’t wear the boots often, only when I needed a boost of rawhide courage. Starting a brand-new career hundreds of miles away from any family and friends qualified.
Solemnly, Oliver watched me wrestle the boots onto my feet. He knew to respect the boots.
With the proper footwear intact, I felt ready to face the appointment that morning at my aunt’s shop—my shop. Running Stitch was in Rolling Brook, a small, mostly Amish town two miles south on Ohio’s Route 83, five minutes from my new home.
In front of Running Stitch, I climbed out of my little SUV to find my aunt’s lawyer, Harvey Lemontop, waiting for me on the sidewalk. Martha Yoder, who had managed the shop during my aunt’s illness, was with him. Harvey was a short man and resembled a pillow with arms because of the way his belly hung out over his belt. His dress shirt was open at the throat and his diamond-printed necktie hung crookedly from his neck.
Where Harvey was disheveled, Martha was as neat as could be in a plain navy dress, crisp black apron, and white prayer cap. I parked diagonally in the spot directly in front of the quilt shop and climbed out of the SUV.
Oliver hopped onto the pavement with a solid thump. He cocked his head at me, showing off his large batlike ears to their best advantage. They resembled antennae, one black and the other white, searching for a signal as they flicked back and forth.
The shop was on the center block of Sugartree Street, the main road going through Rolling Brook. Unlike Millersburg, which was dissected by Ohio 83 going north to south and Ohio 39 going east to west, Rolling Brook was off the state routes, so the traffic consisted of the Amish living nearby and English tourists. Running Stitch was a brick-faced shop that had been painted olive green. A darker green awning covered the entry. Several Amish-style quilts hung from quilt racks in the large picture window.
On the left side of Running Stitch was a bare redbrick woodworking shop. A fiftyish Amish man with a long gray beard was standing outside the shop, a black felt hat atop his head. His pose mimicked the life-sized black cutout lawn ornaments of Amish men I’d seen propped against trees and fences on my drive across Ohio’s countryside. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back.
“Ms. Braddock, I’m glad you made it here safely. How was your trip?” Harvey shook my hand. His was damp, and it reminded me of holding raw chicken.
“It was long but fine. Please, call me Angie.”
He nodded. “You remember Martha Yoder.”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
Martha examined my feet. “Those are some boots you got there. I haven’t seen anything like that before.”
“Don’t the farmers wear boots?” I asked.
“Work boots, sure, but nothing like those. Clearly, those boots are not for working.”
Was that a dig? I shook it off.
“Thank you so much for taking care of the shop while Aenti was ill.” I used the Pennsylvania Dutch word for “aunt.” “And for agreeing to stay on. I know I will need your help as I get started.”
Martha smoothed her hands over her apron. “It was my pleasure. I wished she had been well enough to visit the shop more often these last few months.”
Oliver barked a greeting. Ignoring Martha, he waddle-walked over to Harvey for a head scratch. The lawyer obliged, and Oliver shook his stubby tail in doggy glee.
Harvey motioned to the door. “Shall we go in?”
Martha unlocked the shop’s door. Inside, she flicked on the overhead lights, illuminating the store.
My eye was drawn to half a dozen quilts, each one in the geometric color-blocked Amish style, hung on the plain whitewashed walls. Four of the six quilts I recognized as my aunt’s work. I walked over to the one closest to the front door and felt tiny stitches of the goosefoot-patterned quilt. Aunt Eleanor could fit as many as twenty stitches within an inch. Her stitches were far too tiny to count, but I knew they were there. A pang of sadness hit me, and I blinked rapidly.
“She did beautiful work,” Martha said.
I nodded and forced myself to look at the rest of the shop. There was one large room with a short hallway in the back that led to the office, the restroom, and a small stockroom. Beside the stockroom, a door opened into the fenced backyard. I stepped across the wide-planked oak floors to a short wooden counter that sat at the front of the shop with a cash register. I ran my hand along its smooth surface and came back with fingers covered in a thin film of dust. Oliver’s toenails clicked across the floor. I thought of Aunt Eleanor’s welcoming smile and sure fingers as her needle worked its way in and out of a quilt. She never dropped a stitch and never scolded me when I did.
In the far corner, a quilt frame, which looked like a huge picture frame on its side balanced several feet above the floor by two sturdy table legs, held a four-patch quilt. Metal clamps held the four corners of the quilt tightly to the frame so the fabric wouldn’t bunch up and the stitches would be flat and precise. The frame was pulled only four feet out from the middle of the quilt pattern. As the quilters moved out from the center, the frame could be adjusted to grow wider and wider, to the full size of the quilt. At the moment, the quilt was only half-finished. A light layer of dust coated the exposed fabric. On the wall opposite the cash register, shelving ran the entire length of the room. The shelves held bolts of dark fabric. On the opposite wall was the fabric to appeal to English shoppers. There were pastels, flower patterns, stripes, and bright colors.
Beyond the stockroom, I opened the door to the tiny backyard. Oliver made a beeline for an azalea bush. The yard was at a slant, as Rolling Brook was on a hillside. My aunt had planted a small garden there. It would need some weeding, but the gladiolas, hollyhocks, and other late-summer flowers flourished. I had a clear view of the green rolling hills and an Amish farm about a mile away. A tiny farmer hitched his horses to a buggy. Although I’d lived in Millersburg as a child, standing in my aunt’s garden was the first time I realized how beautiful this part of the country was. As a kid, I’d taken its beauty for granted. This was the first time I really saw it with my adult eyes.
I tried to picture Ryan Dickinson, my former fiancé, standing next to me. In my mind’s eye, I put him—with his fancy suits and expensive European leather shoes—into life in Rolling Brook. It didn’t work. Ryan, an up-and-coming attorney, was a Dallas boy born and bred. He loved the traffic, fast pace, and intensity of the city. Nothing about Rolling Brook was intense. I smiled to myself. The only way I could be there at that moment was alone, and I realized being alone wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe the un-Ryan-ness of Rolling Brook was its true appeal. Then again, it might have been the boots working their magic.
Harvey stepped into the garden and stood beside me. He wiped his brow with a blue handkerchief.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, motioning to the view.
He smiled and a dimple appeared on his left cheek. “It is.”
A cardinal landed on the wooden fence surrounding the garden. Oliver yipped and dashed under the closest bush, which was a little too small for him, leaving his hindquarters exposed. He held his black stubby tail completely still, as if he thought the cardinal wouldn’t see him if he didn’t move. I didn’t bother to tell him it was a bird, not a tyrannosaurus. My Frenchie suffered from ornithophobia. We’d sought treatment from acupuncture to hypnotism. Nothing had worked.
“Is your dog okay?” Harvey asked.
“He’s fine,” I assured him.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want to take the s
hop on, Ms. Braddock? It’s a big job. I can still help you sell it if you’ve changed your mind.”
I smiled at him. “I thought I told you to call me Angie.”
The small lawyer blushed. “Yes, you did. I’m sorry, Ms.—I mean—Angie.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. As for your question, my answer is yes. I do want to run the shop. I haven’t been so sure of something in a long time.”
“What’s wrong with your dog?” Martha joined us and handed me a set of keys.
“He’s afraid of birds,” I said casually, as if this were a normal canine problem.
She laughed. “Ach, he’s going to see a lot more of those in Holmes County.”
That was my fear. The cardinal hopped along the fence as if he knew. Poor Oliver. His transition to country life was going to be much more difficult than mine.
“Can the cowgirl run the quilt shop?” Martha sounded dubious.
I shook the keys in my hand. “She’s willing to try. The shop is perfect.”
“Only the gut Lord is perfect.” She winked at me. “But we’ll get as close as we can. Now, you’d better saddle up. There’s a lot of work to be done.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “How do you know all these cowboy expressions?”
She grinned. “I may have watched a Western or two during my rumspringa.”
The boots bolstered my courage. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The man standing outside the woodworking shop, who is he?”
Harvey’s dimple disappeared. “You must mean Joseph Walker. He owns that shop and makes the best wooden furniture in the county. I have a few of his pieces in my home.”
“He seemed”—I searched for the right word—“cold.”
Harvey laughed nervously. “Oh, I’d hoped that we could talk about Joseph later.”
Martha folded her arms. “You may as well tell her. She needs to be prepared.”
Plainly Murder (Amish Shop Quilt Mysteries .5) Page 10
