Murder Tightly Knit

by Vannetta Chapman

  She could tell by his tone that he was half teasing, half serious.

  “Not at all. I’m happy running the Village, thank you.”

  “Ah. That’s a relief. I was worried you might become involved in this current case, the one with the guy killed by an arrow.”

  Amber stared down at her hands. “I wouldn’t say I’m not involved. I’d say I’m less involved.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I’m trying to figure it out, but I’m not having much luck.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  Preston leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Why do you allow yourself to become swept up in something like this? Leave it to the professionals.”

  “Pooh. You sound like Sergeant Avery.”

  “And Tate?”

  “He might agree with both of you, but if he does, he isn’t being too vocal about it. He keeps reminding me to be careful.”

  “Smart man.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m rather stuck. It’s one of the reasons I was seeking solace in a giant roll covered in sugar.”

  “So maybe you should step away. In the military you learn to compartmentalize. If it’s not your assigned duty, you don’t spend any mental or physical energy on it.”

  “I imagine in the military that’s necessary to survive.” Amber fidgeted with the napkin wrapped around the remainder of her roll. She appreciated what Preston was saying. It wasn’t often that he shared any of his experiences in the military. She knew he’d had major problems adjusting when he came home and that was why he had been homeless. She didn’t know any of the details.

  “It’s Mary I’m worried about,” she confessed.

  “Mary Weaver?”

  “The same.”

  “I heard about her being taken in for questioning.”

  “Have you heard anything else?”

  Preston didn’t answer immediately. He downed the last swig of coffee, collected his trash and hers, and then gestured toward the door. “Not here,” he said, the eyebrows over his brown eyes forming a V of concern.

  Amber nodded, picked up her umbrella, and followed him out the back door of the inn and into the weather. The rain was still coming down, so they stood under the eaves of the roof, both of their backs against the building.

  “You’ve heard something?”

  “There are always rumors passing from one department to another, one person to another. Hard to know what’s true and what’s from folks watching too much crime television.”

  “All right. What did you hear?”

  “That it could have been an Amish person, one with a grudge to settle.”

  “Amish folks don’t settle grudges.”

  “Normally they don’t—”

  “They forgive and forget.”

  “Yes, but there’s an exception for every stereotype.” Preston bent his knee and placed one foot against the wall. She could tell by the way his voice changed that once again he was remembering. “Sometimes threats can come from a place you would never expect. Owen didn’t expect it, and that’s why he’s dead. The world can be a dangerous place—even for the Amish.”

  “Yes, I know it can be. You’re right, of course. But who is saying the killer was Amish? Is it the Englisch employees? Because there’s some existing animosity between the two groups. Not much, but it flares up occasionally. I saw it myself in town last night.”

  “Was there a problem?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle, with a little help from the Middlebury PD.”

  Preston folded his arms and stared out at the rain. “It wasn’t Englisch employees suggesting the killer was Amish, and before you ask me—I don’t know who. I’ve heard a few things, but the conversations stop when I walk into the room.”

  “Welcome to management.”

  “I’ve also heard that it could be an Englisch person, an enemy Owen made while he was away.”

  “That would have to be some enemy to follow him back to Middlebury, lay in wait for him, and then kill him with a bow and arrow.”

  “True. Sounds like a lot of planning, but think about it. What better way to cast suspicion upon someone from Owen’s community?”

  Amber chewed on that possibility for a minute. “One more question and I’ll let you go. Someone has been stopping in to see Mary. He always waits at the back of the shop.”

  “Amish guy. I’ve run into him a couple of times.”

  “You’re sure he’s Amish?”

  Preston nodded.

  “I’d heard he was Englisch. Blue jeans, baseball cap, and—”

  “Boots. Yeah, I know. But under that ball cap his hair is still cut in a chili-bowl fashion. And the accent? Definitely German. Want me to keep an eye out for him?”

  “Maybe. If you see him on the property again, text me. I might want to ask him a few questions. Preston, what I would like . . .” She reached out and touched his arm. “I’d like for you to keep an eye on Mary and possibly Hannah and Jesse too. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

  Twenty-Eight

  The funeral for Owen Esch was a dismal, wet affair.

  At least folks had turned out, as they always turned out to help one in need. The outpouring of love was also evident in the large spread of food set up inside Naomi’s kitchen. Due to the size of the crowd, even larger than the day before, many of the men were crowded outside on the front porch. Virtually all the children, younger and older, had taken their plates of food to the barn. The rain continued to pour from the sky, as if from a faucet that wouldn’t be turned off.

  “I believe I’ll take some of the desserts out to the children,” Hannah said to her mother. “We have plenty, and I’m not sure they had room on their plates when they left.”

  Eunice smiled in agreement and turned to help one of their elderly members.

  Hannah nabbed a plate of brownies and another of sugar cookies. Stuffing them inside a bag her mother had used to bring their dishes, she hurried out into the rain. Her hope was that if she moved quickly enough, she wouldn’t be too drenched by the time she reached the barn.

  She needn’t have worried.

  Andrew appeared at her side, holding an umbrella over her and directing her around the puddles, which were quickly turning into small ponds.

  When they reached the barn door, Andrew collapsed the umbrella and turned to smile at Hannah.

  “Perfect timing. Danki.”

  “Gem gschehne.” His eyes twinkled as he opened the barn door. When she passed him, he leaned closer and whispered, “Good cover story, bringing sweets.”

  She nearly dropped the bag. “Cover story?”

  “Ya. Jesse told me you were trying to get information out of Naomi’s kinner.”

  Jesse had told him that?

  “Where is Jesse?”

  “Grabbing a bite before he has to return to buggy duty. Not an easy job in this weather.”

  “And why aren’t you helping?”

  Instead of being offended, Andrew laughed. “The novelty of my being home hasn’t worn off yet. My dat suggested that I come to the barn and see if the children needed any supervision.”

  He seemed to be telling the truth, but Hannah was pretty sure he wasn’t telling the whole truth. She was about to call him on it when they were mobbed by youngsters.

  Amish families were large by nature. Birth control wasn’t practiced, unless you counted a woman watching the calendar and being careful about when she spent extra time with her husband. That method wasn’t foolproof, as the midwife had informed them all at one time or another. Children were considered a blessing—the more, the better. “No woman can be happy with less than seven to cook for” was a common proverb Hannah had heard since she was young.

  She was used to seeing families with eight, nine, even ten children. Her family, with five siblings, was small by comparison. The occasional family with an only child or no children at all seemed incomplete to her. But that was a judgmental thought. God al
one knew how many children it took to make a family complete.

  It was easy enough to pick out Naomi’s six children. They all had hair whiter than a fluffy cloud on a summer day. The older two, a boy and a girl, stood close to the younger ones, whispering to them and insisting they stay back until all the guests had chosen a dessert.

  “There’s enough,” Hannah assured them. “I brought two plates full, and there’s more in the house.”

  The girl’s name was Lucy—it came to Hannah in a flash. Lucy seemed unconvinced. Two younger children stood on each side of the older boy, and two stood behind him. He tugged on their small hands and pulled them toward the plates Hannah still held.

  Each took one treat, though Hannah had the impression they would like more.

  “Lucy—it is Lucy, isn’t it? I heard your bruder say your name earlier.” Andrew’s voice was pleasant and even-toned. “Hannah and I would like to speak with you for a moment. If you have time.”

  “I guess.” She glanced down at her two little sisters.

  “I’ll take them over to play with the others,” her brother said. The children trailed behind him like ducklings obediently following momma duck, or in this case—big brother.

  “Is something wrong?” Lucy asked.

  “Nein.” Andrew took the large and now half-empty plates of brownies and cookies from Hannah’s hands and set them down on one of the makeshift tables. “We’re trying to find out what happened to your onkel Owen.”

  Hannah threw a skeptical glance at Andrew. Since when was he on their side, trying to help with this tragic mystery? What exactly had Jesse said to him?

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Lucy took one of the sugar cookies from the plate and began to nibble around the edges.

  “Could you tell us about the box your mamm received?” Hannah motioned toward the area to the right of them. Several wooden crates had been placed in a semicircle, no doubt put there for some game the children had been playing. When the three of them were seated, they had a measure of privacy, though the children’s voices continued to echo from a few feet away as they once again resumed a game of red light–green light.

  “The box the police took?” Lucy asked.

  “Ya. Unless she’s received more than one box.” Andrew pulled a piece of hay from a bale someone had placed next to the crates. Examining it for a moment, he popped it into his mouth and proceeded to chew on the end.

  “Only the one,” Lucy muttered.

  She was probably twelve years old, with a pert little nose and a nice profile. Hannah thought she would grow up to be a real beauty one day. Not that they were to focus on such things. Hannah pushed up her glasses and waited for Lucy to say more, but she didn’t seem so inclined.

  “Can you tell us anything about the box or about the writing in the note?” Andrew was spurting out questions as if he had been the one up all night thinking about how best to quiz Naomi’s children.

  “Nothing to tell. Just a box. And the way my mamm’s name was written was nothing special.”

  “Print or cursive?” Hannah asked.

  “A combination of both, I suppose.”

  “Could you tell if it was a man’s hand or a woman’s that wrote it?” Andrew leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Nein.”

  “Could you tell if it was from someone local?” Hannah inched toward the end of her crate.

  “Nein.”

  “Did you read the note?” Andrew held out his hand in a wait gesture. “Which would have been understandable, if you did. No doubt you try to help your mamm, and perhaps you thought you could take care of whatever it was.”

  “Nein. I didn’t read the note.”

  Hannah and Andrew exchanged glances. Apparently this line of questioning was a dead end. Hannah tried to think of what else she had planned to ask the girl.

  “I can show it to you, if you like.”

  “Show us?” Hannah stared at her. Maybe she’d heard wrong.

  “Ya.”

  “Show us the note? Or the box?” Andrew dropped the straw of hay onto the ground. “I thought the police took it all.”

  “Surely they did. Didn’t they?”

  “Ya, the police took the note and the box. But the box was wrapped in brown paper.” Lucy stood and walked over to a dozen or so bins—cubbies, actually—that were positioned next to the barn’s north wall. They were filled with everything from hand tools to gloves to pieces of string and paper.

  Lucy reached into a bin on the far right, third up from the bottom, and pulled out a piece of brown butcher paper. “I did unwrap it when the box came. Then after I showed Mamm and she began to cry, I didn’t know what to do with the paper.”

  Hannah’s heart began to race as she accepted the folded paper from Lucy.

  “I didn’t want to make Mamm sad again by asking her whether I should throw it away. Mamm is sad often enough.” The girl spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, and Hannah realized that much of the family’s domestic chores probably fell on her, probably had for many years. “The police didn’t ask for it either. I didn’t even think of it until later, after they’d gone. So I folded it up and brought it out here.”

  Hannah opened up the paper and smoothed it out by holding it against the wall and swiping the palm of her hand across it. The sheet was approximately three feet by three feet—the right size to cover a box.

  “How large was the box, Lucy?” Hannah didn’t know how it could matter, but every piece of information might help.

  “Oh, it was a shoe box. No doubt about that. Had ‘Outlanders’ stamped on the side. But . . . I don’t think I was supposed to tell anybody that.”

  That was probably why Sergeant Avery had not mentioned the box to Amber and Tate. Any markings on the shoe box would be evidence he had not been ready to share, even with them.

  “Outlanders makes hiking shoes,” Andrew said. “Mostly Englischers wear them, but I’ve seen a few Amish who prefer them as well.”

  Lucy’s bottom lip began to quiver. “We thought . . . we all thought, when Onkel Owen came home, that things might be different.” She crossed her arms, effectively hugging herself, and stared down at the floor.

  “Lucy?” Andrew waited for her to glance up. “We’re going to find out who did this. It won’t bring your onkel back, but you don’t need to be afraid.”

  The young girl nodded once, and Andrew returned his attention to the piece of butcher paper. After a few moments, agonizing moments during which Hannah couldn’t see a single clue on the object of their inspection, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a white sheet of paper.

  It was lined and folded.

  He didn’t unfold it, but he did place it on the wall beside the butcher paper.

  On the butcher paper someone had written “Naomi Graber.”

  On Andrew’s paper someone had written “Mary Weaver.”

  Only four of the letters were the same, but there was no doubt about the handwriting. It was identical. Hannah turned to Andrew, and he whispered, “We have a match.”

  “The same person who sent Naomi the box sent Mary a note?”

  “It would seem so. We don’t need a handwriting specialist to tell us the two match. Look at the a’s. They all have a tail that goes up and breaks before the next letter.”

  “And the first letters are all printed, but the rest is cursive.” Hannah had trouble swallowing. “These must be from the killer. He was trying to compensate for Naomi’s loss, but why the note to Mary? What does it say?”

  Andrew folded the butcher paper and was about to answer—at least it seemed to her he was. Lucy stood behind them, shuffling from one foot to the other. And the children continued to play.

  Suddenly the familiar sounds of the afternoon were broken. Over the pattering of rain, Hannah heard the chirp of a siren. They hurried to the door in time to see two cars from the Middlebury police department pull up the lane. Several officers, including Sergeant Avery, exited the vehicles. Avery looked aroun
d and then walked up the steps of Naomi’s home.

  Twenty-Nine

  Amber had plowed through a ton of paperwork after returning to her office. She had successfully cleaned out her e-mail and was taking a few minutes to do more research on survivalist groups when Elizabeth stuck her head into the office.

  “You have company.”

  “Someone I want to see?”

  “I doubt it.” Elizabeth was about to elaborate when Roland Shaw stepped out from behind her.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Bowman will be happy to see me.” He didn’t wait to be invited into the office. “Otherwise she might be obstructing justice.”

  Amber took the time to click the Sleep button with her mouse. It was none of Roland Shaw’s business what she was doing on her computer. For some reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she’d rather he didn’t know.

  “Would you like me to stay?” Elizabeth asked, not even attempting to hide her distrust of the man.

  “We’re fine.” Amber waved her away. “I’m sure Mr. Shaw can’t spare much time to visit with me. After all, he is in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  Elizabeth threw him a rather unfriendly glance, then held up her thumb and pinky in the gesture of picking up the phone. “If you need me,” she mouthed silently before marching out of the room.

  Shaw walked around her office, surveying the Amish quilt on the wall, her framed business degree, and finally the view from her window.

  “What can I do for you, Mr.—”

  “Call me Roland.” He turned toward her and offered his megawatt smile.

  The guy made her skin itch, as if something creepy were crawling up her arms. What was it about him that irritated her so much? One part of her mind realized he was merely doing his job, but it was the way he did it that caused her to distrust him. His arrogant attitude set her teeth on edge. And those clothes—always the black pants and black tie. Always a plaid shirt. She’d like to suggest he try a pair of jeans or a solid-white shirt. She’d like to wipe that smirk off his face. Instead, she focused on moving him out of her office as quickly as possible.

  “Mr. Shaw, what can I do for you?”

  “Mainly I wanted to chat. Update you on our investigation.”