Murder Tightly Knit

by Vannetta Chapman

“I’d like to think we did it out of the goodness of our hearts, but the truth is that it’s a real asset to have someone like Preston on the property all night. He says he doesn’t mind being on call.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. The military probably taught him that.”

  “It’s amazing to see how much he’s changed since coming to work for the Village . . .” Amber’s thoughts drifted back to Preston when she’d first met him—sleeping in the local park and scrounging for his meals each day. He’d put on a good ten pounds since coming to work at the Village, and he was an excellent employee.

  She toasted a piece of cinnamon raisin bread and then joined Tate at the table. “I was thinking about Owen.”

  He folded the paper and studied her sympathetically. The events of last spring were still too vivid. Amber didn’t feel ready to deal with another tragedy, another murder—how could she? But she realized life often didn’t give you choices.

  “You’re not planning on getting involved with this one, are you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  “Except to the degree that Mary is involved. She is one of my employees.”

  “Her family will take care of her.”

  “Maybe, but you know how the Amish avoid police matters. I want Mary to know that I’m there to help her in any way I can.”

  “And?”

  “What makes you think there’s an and?”

  “There usually is, dear.” Fortunately, he was smiling as he teased her.

  Amber bit into her toast and let her mind rake back over the interview in Gordon’s office. There was something that was bothering her. Something she had wanted to discuss with Tate. Something Mary had mentioned . . . “ISG. That’s it!”

  “Say again.”

  “ISG. That’s what I was going to ask you about. Mary said Owen called her fairly often.” Amber stared down at her plate. Her toast was gone. She had no recollection of eating it. “Owen was apparently excited because he’d recently met with this group—ISG—and things went well. It was important to him to be a part of ISG, whatever that is. Mary wondered if they had killed him, but I’ve never even heard of such a group. Do you think Owen made it up?”

  “No.” Tate stood and fetched the coffeepot, then refilled their mugs. “ISG stands for Indiana Survivalist Group.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of them. The group is comprised of folks who expect and prepare for some sort of disaster.”

  “Doomsday preppers?” Amber’s voice screeched like a mockingbird scolding Leo.

  “Well, that’s television. I’m not sure I’d believe everything you see there, even if it was on the National Geographic Channel.”

  “There was another show—”

  “There have been several.”

  “And you’re saying we have a group of these people here?” Amber sank back against her chair.

  “Yeah. They’re here, but as I said, don’t believe the stereotypes you see on television.”

  “Have you been to one of their meetings?”

  “No. I’m a farmer. If I can’t make it when and if things go south, then I suppose no one can.”

  “So there aren’t any farmers in the group?”

  “There are.” Tate smiled across the table at her. “I have a few friends who have tried to convert me.”

  “Oh my. Why have I not heard of this?”

  “They don’t actually advertise in the paper.”

  Amber turned her coffee cup around in her hands. “That explains Gordon’s reaction. As soon as Mary said ISG, Gordon ended the interview.”

  “It gives him a place to start looking.”

  “Do you think someone from ISG could have killed Owen?”

  Tate shook his head. “As a group, no. Preppers aren’t sitting around waiting for a chance to shoot someone. But an individual . . . well, who can say why one person kills another.”

  Hearing those grim words, Amber stood and began collecting her things for work. She still liked to arrive by seven, and she’d dawdled too long.

  Stepping in front of her, Tate put a hand under Amber’s chin and lifted her face so that she had to meet his gaze.

  “You’re rattled.”

  “A little.”

  “Don’t be. Gordon’s a good cop. He’ll catch whoever did this. In the meantime, you’re not in any danger, and you don’t have to be afraid.”

  “I’m not—”

  Her disclaimer was stopped by Tate’s kiss. As she settled into his arms, she realized maybe she was frightened. Maybe she was afraid of being caught up in whatever had happened. But that wasn’t going to happen this time. She could trust God to care for Mary and to protect her.

  The morning passed quickly at work. Amber was surprised when she checked the clock and it was lunchtime. The thought was followed by a knock on her door. Looking up, she saw Pam Coleman, her new assistant manager. Pam was tall—five foot eight, midthirties, black, and extremely competent. She wore her hair in a fashionable bob, and, most important, she had a great sense of humor. The woman was definitely a godsend.

  “Think of me as a dinner bell.”

  “You mean lunch.”

  “I mean food—fried chicken, preferably. I smelled it as I passed the restaurant. Reminded me of my momma’s cooking.”

  “Your momma fried chicken?”

  “I’m from Texas. My momma fried anything that didn’t hold still.”

  Amber grabbed her tablet and her keys. “That does sound pretty good.”

  “You know it. I hope you wore your stretchy pants.”

  “I’m only having one piece.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And no mashed potatoes this time.”

  “I’m having mashed potatoes and homemade noodles. Why do you think I work here?” Pam flashed a smile, revealing perfectly straight teeth.

  “I think you work here because you get to spend time with me.”

  They both waved at Elizabeth as they passed through the outer office. She was on the phone but covered the mouthpiece and said, “Make her take at least half an hour.”

  “You two are ganging up on me.” Amber felt like a young girl skipping class as they made their way down the stairs.

  “I like that part of my job too,” Pam said, picking up on their conversation. “Actually, I had heard about you. That’s why I came for the interview.” Pam looped an arm through Amber’s as they made their way down the hall and stepped into the restaurant, which was full of the most exquisite smells. “But you weren’t why I decided to stay. I arrived early the day of my interview and stopped in here. I sat right at that table in the corner to look over my notes.”

  “And?”

  “And I was ready to beg for the job after I’d had the country breakfast.”

  “You’ve never told me that story.”

  “I have a lot of stories I’ve never told you. But today I want to talk to you about Mary Weaver.”

  Nine

  Hannah needed to speak to Amber. Using the shop phone, she called the main office and learned that she and Pam had just left for lunch in the restaurant. She didn’t like interrupting her boss while she was eating, so she switched plans.

  As soon as Seth arrived for his shift, she snatched up her purse and headed to the bakery. Her plan was to purchase two of the large sugar cookies and then visit The Cat’s Meow.

  Mary Weaver had a sweet tooth. After what she’d been through the day before, Hannah doubted she had the stamina to resist the bakery item. Not that she wanted to tempt her friend, but a little sugar could go a long way toward helping someone relax.

  When she walked into Mary’s shop, several customers were at the counter and a few others were studying the various types of yarn. Two older women were looking through the pattern books.

  Mary was busy checking a customer out. From where she stood, Hannah could hear the woman compliment Mary. “Tatting cotton is hard to find. I’m so glad you carry it.�
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  “Several of the women who work here at the Village enjoy tatting as well.”

  “I was afraid it was becoming a lost art.”

  “Not yet. The lace they make is beautiful.”

  Two of the women standing in front of the yarn bins apparently had a question. They kept glancing over to Mary, so Hannah decided to walk over and see if she could help them.

  “There are so many types,” Hannah heard the younger woman say. She was probably close to Hannah’s age, and she was holding an infant in her arms while gazing at the long line of yarn bins. Rail thin with long black hair, she wore jeans and a T-shirt with the word Nike stitched on the front. “How do you choose?”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult,” Hannah interjected. “I try to envision what I’m going to make, and that helps narrow my choices. If I’m planning something for my little schweschder, I always choose a purple or lavender.”

  “You have every color we could want, but we have no idea what type to purchase.” This from the second woman, who looked like she was probably the first woman’s mother. She was also tall and thin, but her black hair was peppered with gray and cut short. The pink T-shirt she wore said “What Happens at Nana’s, Stays at Nana’s.”

  “I don’t work here,” Hannah admitted. “But I think I can help you.”

  The younger woman turned to her in surprise.

  “Do you knit?”

  “I do, and I crochet as well.”

  The older woman looked from her daughter to Hannah. “We’ve come to the Village before to purchase Amish-made quilts. I didn’t realize that Amish women also knit and crochet.”

  “Ya. In fact, all of the finished items in this shop were made by women in our community. Many of them were done by Mary.” Hannah nodded toward her friend, who remained at the counter checking out two women who had chosen several pattern books. “With crocheting and knitting, most of what we make is for our family members. Occasionally you’ll find Amish-made items for sale, but I believe it’s rare.”

  The younger woman jostled the baby from the crook of her left arm to the crook of her right. The little boy—he was swaddled in a blue blanket—looked up at Hannah and smiled.

  “How old is your boppli?”

  “Three months. His name is Cooper.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Cooper.” Hannah reached out and touched his soft, tiny hand, then turned her attention back to the yarns. “So yes, as you can see, Mary carries a wide variety of yarns. She should have whatever you need, depending on what you want to spend and what you plan to make.”

  “We’re beginners.” The woman with the “Nana” shirt smiled broadly. “This is something we both have wanted to learn for a long time.”

  “Mary is considering offering lessons here at the shop.”

  "You can sign up here if you'd like to receive additional information when they begin.” Mary had quietly joined them when the other customers left.

  Hannah moved back to one of the large plush chairs and sat to wait as Mary explained the difference between the novelty yarns, synthetics, fleece, cotton, and natural fibers.

  “Natural, like”—the young mother wrinkled her nose and squinted her eyes as she glanced around—“sheep?”

  “We do have lamb’s wool, yes. We also have alpaca and camel.”

  “Camel?”

  Hannah nearly laughed at the expression on the women’s faces. But then, that was the reaction most people had when they learned about the man with camels who lived not far from the Village. Manasses Hochstetler had been raising camels for nearly five years now. He sold the milk, and his wife spun yarn from their hair.

  Hannah’s own brother, Dan, had been helping him the past six months. He was apprenticing with Manasses and would soon have enough money saved to purchase his own camel. Hannah couldn’t imagine waking to that sight when she walked outside in the morning.

  The women bought three different types of yarn in pastel blue, yellow, and green. No doubt they were making something for baby Cooper. They also took a flyer for classes, although they declined to buy any patterns.

  “We found several on the internet.” Nana looked slightly embarrassed at the confession. “But thank you.”

  Hannah realized then that the internet could be a problem for her friend. Could the store be in jeopardy of being closed? If so, what would Mary do for work?

  It didn’t seem that internet shopping would affect her own shop. Kaffi?Nein. Though some people might order kaffi beans from internet vendors, many people wanted their morning drinks handed to them—made to order and steaming hot, especially when they were traveling. Her customer base was fairly solid. She hadn’t thought to consider how computer shopping might affect the other businesses at the Village.

  Finally the store was quiet and empty.

  Hannah rattled the bakery bag. “Cookies. Interested?”

  “Ya. Always.”

  As they sipped from bottles of water and munched on the sugar cookies, Hannah’s anxiety lessened. Mary was sitting beside her, snacking, and acting completely natural. Surely she couldn’t be involved in any sort of trouble. She couldn’t possibly know anything about Owen’s murder.

  So she asked her how things had gone at the police station, and Mary told her all about Sergeant Avery’s questions as well as her answers.

  “I didn’t know you were so close to Owen.”

  “Ya.” Her answer was simple, unapologetic, and filled with grief.

  “Were you in lieb with him, Mary?”

  She shook her head, even as two tears escaped and slid down her cheeks. “I said I wouldn’t cry anymore, but every time I think of him, it’s as if my heart is being squeezed inside by a giant fist.”

  Hannah reached over and clasped her friend’s hand.

  “I don’t understand how it could happen.” She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Owen was a gut man.”

  “Mamm says as long as we live on this earth bad things can happen, but we must trust and not fear.”

  “Ya. My mamm said nearly the same. Owen, though, he was like a younger bruder to me. When I opened my eyes this morning, for a moment I had forgotten. Then when I remembered, it was like learning the news for the first time.”

  Hannah wanted to assure her the pain she was feeling would ease after a time, but how did she know? She’d never lost someone she’d been close to. Even all her grandparents were still alive.

  They stood and dumped their napkins and water bottles into the bakery sack Hannah had brought.

  “So you’re the contact person for our boys who have left, huh? You must have quite a phone bill.” Hannah hoped the teasing would raise her friend’s mood.

  “Nein. They call me and only rarely reverse the charges.”

  “Who are we talking about? Who calls you? And where do they call from?”

  “Boys and girls, ones on their rumspringa, call me from all sorts of places—as close as Goshen and as far away as New York or Florida.”

  “Do you own a cell phone?” Hannah’s voice squeaked, but she lowered it and added, “I know many people our age do.”

  “Nein. I don’t even have a phone at home. They call here at the shop, which is one of the reasons I come in early. I wouldn’t want to use store time for personal matters.”

  “Does it show up on the shop’s bill?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen the bill, though customers call all the time to check on what I have in stock. If the personal calls are showing up, Pam and Amber have never mentioned it to me. I sometimes stick an extra ten dollars in the cash register drawer to cover the expense. I wouldn’t want to do anything dishonest, but I do want to help those who are struggling. It seemed the best way.”

  “Is this why you’ve never married?” The question popped from Hannah’s mouth before she considered whether it was her place to ask.

  Mary shrugged, but then she conceded, “There is someone I care about. He . . . he hasn’t been around much the last few y
ears, until lately.”

  She’d already said Owen was like a brother. Could she mean Andrew? He was the only other boy in their community who had recently returned. In truth, only a few of the boys from their community had left.

  Was Mary suggesting she was in love with Jesse’s brother?

  Hannah tried to think back to how Mary acted around him, but it had been too long since she’d seen the two of them together.

  Three more customers walked into the shop, and Mary hurried behind the counter.

  Which was too bad. Hannah had more questions. Like what was Owen calling her about? What was this group he’d joined called ISG? And who was the man who had been waiting outside the back of The Cat’s Meow?

  Already one of the new customers stood waiting at the counter to check out. She’d walked straight over to the wool yarn and chosen a rust color. Instead of waiting for Mary to finish checking out the elderly woman, Hannah walked outside into the fall sunshine. And that was when she heard the shouting—unmistakably Amber’s voice.

  Amber stared in disbelief at Roland Shaw, the man standing beside Gordon. She couldn’t believe she had just shouted at him. She prided herself in remaining calm, cool, and professional. Unfortunately, Roland Shaw was climbing all over her bad side. This was the person Gordon had explained would be involved in the investigation of Owen’s death? Roland towered over her. He must have been over six feet, so she had to tilt her head back to glare at him. He had black hair cut perfectly at the collar line, and his build was a wiry sort of muscular. He held his hands behind his back, as if he were hiding something, as if he were a professor trying to reason with a wayward student.

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “That you’ll be seeing me around the property until this case is solved.”

  “And what makes you think you’ll find answers here?”

  “Call it a hunch.” The man was arrogant, irritating, and condescending. She’d known him all of two minutes, and already she didn’t like him.

  Gordon cleared his throat and jingled the change in his pocket. “Amber, Roland is a federal agent from Indianapolis. He’s working in cooperation with our department to find out exactly what happened and to help us apprehend the guilty party.”