Murder Tightly Knit

by Vannetta Chapman

  “This is a lot of food.” Amber walked to the closest shelf, her shoes tapping against the concrete floor, echoing throughout the cavernous room. The shelf she was staring at was filled with a variety of canned meats. Every section, every row, was neatly labeled with the item name and a bar code. “How long do you expect to be down here?”

  “We don’t expect to be down here at all, but should we need to be due to severe weather events, political unrest, or a biological attack, we have enough supplies to feed several thousand for six weeks.”

  “Members keep additional supplies at their homes,” Sue added. “This is for sharing with the community.”

  “Shouldn’t it be used to feed the community now? I know there are folks who could use these supplies—homeless, unemployed, underemployed.” Pam’s eyes were wide as she walked slowly around the room, finally returning to where Amber waited beside Tom and Sue.

  “That’s an excellent point,” Tom conceded. “It’s one the committee of advisors for PTB has taken into account. We rotate the food out every month.”

  Amber tried to visualize how much organization such a system would take. “How do you know—”

  “The bar code system helps, but also we train our volunteers. Items recently bought are bar coded into the system and put on the left and back side of each shelf. Before that happens items on the right are taken off and bar coded again to record their removal. This keeps what we have down here fresh and allows us to provide assistance—with still-viable supplies, of course—to the local food pantry for timely use.”

  Amber was stunned. She’d expected to see a room full of supplies, yes. But this was more like a private wholesale store. This was way beyond anything she had imagined.

  “Let me ask you a question.” Tom crossed his arms and smiled. “Based on what is in your pantry at this moment, how much food would you have if the grocery stores and banks were to close tomorrow? How long could you last?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Amber pressed her index finger to her lip as she tried to envision their pantry. “We have a few items. Mostly things I don’t like to eat.”

  Sue laughed. “Now you sound like me. Before we started this program, if I bought something and later decided I didn’t like it, then it went to the back of the pantry shelf.”

  “I understand your point, but what’s in my pantry is still food. It’s edible. It has some nutritional value even if I don’t particularly like it.”

  “If the ‘sell by’ date hasn’t long ago expired.”

  “Not a problem for me,” Pam said. “I’m storing off-season clothes in my pantry. I couldn’t find an apartment with a big enough bedroom closet.”

  Realizing they were all staring at her, she added, “In the cabinet space I probably have a box of crackers and maybe two cans of soup.”

  When no one spoke, she added, “I eat out a lot.”

  “Many families do,” Tom said. “They might have demanding work schedules or a lot of activities with the kids, both of which make it hard to find the time to cook. Then, for some, eating out is a taste preference, a habit, or even part of their social activities.”

  “We go over all these things in the class.” Sue straightened her nurse’s smock. “Plus, we offer some basic, emergency first-aid instruction.”

  “I can see you take this very seriously, and from what I can tell you’ve done an excellent job.” Amber hesitated, then pulled in a deep breath. “But why? Do you think the grocery stores could close? They haven’t, so what makes you think they might?”

  “Of course they have, though perhaps not here.” Tom looked as if she’d finally asked the question he was dying to answer. “What about during Hurricane Katrina? Or the power blackout in the northeast in 2003?”

  “I lived in the South when Katrina hit. Texas cities took refugees from Louisiana. And the northeast blackout? I remember reading about that.” Pam ran her finger over the bar code for a shelf filled with canned corn.

  “The power outage lasted less than two days.” Tom’s demeanor grew markedly more serious and his smile fled. “It affected ten million folks in Canada and forty-five million in the US, and it contributed to eleven deaths.”

  “Folks starved to death in two days?” Amber wanted to snatch the words back as soon as they’d left her lips.

  Tom wasn’t offended, though. He smiled and shook his head. “No, there were a variety of reasons—car wrecks, carbon monoxide poisoning, fires due to unsafe use of candles, even falls from folks trying to break into stores.”

  “Which is why we try to teach a well-rounded approach to preparing for emergencies.” Sue glanced around the room. It was apparent from her expression that she loved what she did. And who wouldn’t? Preparing people for disaster had to be rewarding. Even if it was never used, it made them feel safe. “If we can convince people to think through how they would react to an emergency, then we can prevent many such needless accidents.”

  “Every blackout we’ve experienced so far has been for a fairly short amount of time. In the Northeast, where there’s power disruption due to winter weather, folks tend to have generators. They prepare. And still there are easily preventable deaths. Imagine if we have a blackout that lasts for a week or longer.”

  “You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

  “And you’ve convinced me I need to go grocery shopping.” Pam grimaced. “I wouldn’t want to eat stale crackers and outdated soup for a week.”

  They took the elevator back up to the ground floor. Tom and Sue walked them toward the main entrance of the church.

  “Please let me know if you have any other questions,” Tom said.

  “And you’re welcome to attend our classes anytime you like.” Sue beamed at them. “Dates and times are listed on the web page.”

  “I do have one other question. Roland Shaw characterized all survivalists—”

  “A word we shy away from.”

  “He called them anarchists. Shaw said they were . . . what was it? Adrenaline junkies or paranoid or invested in the fall of the US monetary system. He obviously thought some of them could even be violent.”

  Tom nodded in understanding, as if he had heard it before.

  “Tom, do we have any folks like that here? In Middlebury? And would they be deranged enough to kill for what they believe in?”

  “I personally have not met anyone like you’re describing, though I’ve found that in every group you have some folks who are hanging around the fringes with only a single toe dipped into the activities. You have others who are quite intense about the possibilities.”

  “Even in your group?”

  “Even in our group. We pray with them, try to guide them in what our mission is—preparing and blessing others. It does not include fear or aggression in any shape or form.”

  “What about in the ISG?” Pam asked.

  Again Tom and Sue shared a knowing look. “There are a few guys who have struck me as a bit odd, but remember, every group attracts folks who are on the fringes. That doesn’t mean the group is bad.”

  “I don’t suppose you could give me any names.”

  “Couldn’t if I wanted to. I’ve only been to an ISG meeting a couple of times myself, and I didn’t learn everyone’s name.”

  “All right.” Amber turned to Pam, who shrugged. “I guess we’ll be going then. Thanks again for your time.”

  Tom called out when they’d covered half the distance to their car. When he caught up with them, Sue had apparently gone inside, and he stepped close and lowered his voice. “Remember, anyone is welcome to attend ISG meetings.”

  “Anyone?” Pam asked. “Even us?”

  Tom nodded. “And their next meeting is at seven o’clock tonight. I know because Mr. Shaw mentioned it when he was here.”

  Thirty-Four

  Jesse wanted to pull his hair out from frustration—or scream, which probably would serve to frighten Hannah more than she already was.

  “We’ll find her.” Hannah placed h
er hand on his arm.

  They’d stopped at a roadside park because he couldn’t decide where to look next. Finally he turned to her and said, “What if we don’t? What if Mary’s the only one who can free Andrew and she’s gone?”

  “Stop thinking that way, Jesse. Gotte won’t allow Andrew to remain in that jail. He won’t allow it.”

  “Then why is he there in the first place?” The cry from his heart sounded more desperate, more miserable, than he intended. But if he couldn’t be himself in front of Hannah, the one person he knew was on his side, then their relationship would be built on shaky ground indeed. “I’m sorry, Hannah. There was no need for me to snap at you.”

  “It’s all right. I know you’re worried.”

  “Ya.” He ran a hand over his face and decided to come clean. “But it’s more than that.”

  To her credit, Hannah didn’t rush him. She sat there, waiting patiently until he had the courage to share the burdens on his heart.

  “I’ve resented Andrew every time he’s come home. Actually, it started the first time he left, I suppose, or before. It could have started before.”

  “And now?”

  He turned to her and was surprised to see a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

  “Now I want my bruder home. I love him, and I’ll do anything I can—”

  “Don’t you see, Jesse?” Hannah reached for his hand, entwining her fingers with his. “You’ve changed. Already Gotte has used all that has happened for gut.”

  “Ya, but I shouldn’t have needed changing.”

  “None of us is born perfect.” Hannah ran her thumb over the back of his hand, and the knot in Jesse’s stomach began to ease.

  “I think Andrew knows you care about him and that you’ll do anything to help him. That’s why he gave me the note. He knew I’d take it straight to you.”

  Possibly she was right. Probably. And if she was, then it was all the more important that he not disappoint his brother.

  “Let’s go over it again.” Jesse cornered himself in the buggy and studied her. “Where else could Mary be?”

  “We went to her house.”

  “No one there. Her parents weren’t even back from the funeral yet.”

  “Went to the Village.” Hannah twirled the strings of her prayer kapp as she stared out the buggy window. “We spoke with Mary’s stand-in.”

  “What was the girl’s name?” Jesse took off his hat and scratched the top of his head. “Helen.”

  “Right—dark hair and bright fingernails. We even left her the number for the phone shack.”

  “That’s it!” Jesse leaned over and kissed her on the lips—a quick, sincere, thank-you kiss. When Hannah reddened, he nearly laughed. Together they could solve this. They could set things right. “Hannah Bell, you are a genius. Time to head back to the phone shack.”

  “We’ve already been there once.”

  “Yes, but it could be that Helen has heard from Mary or that Amber has left us a message.”

  They rode along in an easy, more relaxed silence. Jesse realized Hannah had been right. His brother had trusted him, and that meant there was a way to prove Andrew’s innocence. But if there was a way, why hadn’t Andrew done it? Why hadn’t he given the note and butcher paper to the police instead of letting them arrest him?

  Jesse pulled into a gravel area adjacent to the phone shack nearest their homes. He brought his mare to a stop under the shade of a maple tree, set the break, and secured the reins. Together he and Hannah walked toward the tiny shed. Many of the local Amish teens and young adults had cell phones, and at the moment, Jesse wished he was one of them. What if they’d missed an important call? What if Mary had been here but had already left?

  The two of them barely fit into the tiny wooden structure. He supposed that was because it usually took only one person to make a phone call. There was a counter running along one side of the room, probably three feet long, maybe a few inches more. On it was a telephone, a pad of paper and a pen, and a message recorder. The recorder was battery operated, and in the corner he spied a basket with extra sets of batteries. The other two things on the counter were a small box for leaving money for calls and a gas lantern.

  But Jesse spent little time looking at these things. His eyes were locked on the recorder, the bright, flashing red light indicating there were messages, and the number two.

  Hannah clutched the edge of the counter as Jesse pushed the Play button.

  “This message is for Hannah Troyer or Jesse Miller. Hannah . . .” Amber’s voice on the recorder paused. Hannah could picture her worrying her thumbnail, trying to think of how to say what she needed to say. “Hannah or Jesse, this is Amber. Please call me. I had a visit from Shaw this morning . . . Roland Shaw, and I’m worried. Call me on my cell as I’ll be out of the office this afternoon.”

  She left her cell number, though Hannah didn’t need to look at what Jesse had jotted down on the pad of paper. She’d memorized Amber’s number long ago.

  The second message caused her to reach out and grasp Jesse’s arm.

  “Mary? Mary Weaver? We need to talk. You weren’t supposed to leave until after the funeral.” There was a pause, and then the caller hung up.

  Hannah felt the ground shift under her feet. For a moment she saw two phone recorders. She gripped Jesse’s arm more tightly, attempting to steady her world.

  The message was from him.

  It was from the person who had written the notes.

  It was from the murderer.

  She stared at Jesse, who shook his head to her unasked question.

  “Play it again, Jesse. I don’t recognize his voice either, but maybe we can hear something in the background, anything that will help us figure out who the . . . the . . .”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is killer, and this tape proves Andrew is innocent.” He slammed his fist against the counter, causing the recorder to bounce on the countertop. “How dare he call here? How can he be so bold?”

  “He killed Owen with a bow and arrow on a public trail in broad daylight. I’d say bold describes him fairly well.”

  Jesse was reaching under the counter, unplugging the recorder from where it was connected to the phone.

  “Where are we taking it?”

  “To the police. They need to hear this. They need to know they have the wrong man.”

  “Maybe we should call Amber and ask her to meet us there.”

  “Ya, gut idea.”

  “And leave a note, in case anyone wonders where the recorder has gone.” She wanted to glance over her shoulder to see if he was watching them, but of course that was impossible. They were alone in a phone shack. Still, she would be glad when they left, when they were in public with lots of people, lots of witnesses.

  Amber answered her cell phone on the first ring. Hannah explained about Andrew’s arrest, the note and butcher paper with identical handwriting, and the recording.

  “Drive straight to the police station. Bring the recorder and the note and paper with you. We’ll meet you there. We’re in downtown Middlebury now.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Pam Coleman. We’ll wait for you outside the station, and, Hannah . . . be careful. Watch and make sure you’re not followed.”

  “What if we are?”

  “Pull into the closest home or establishment, ask to use their phone, and dial 9-1-1. Whoever this is seems to be growing desperate. There’s no guessing what he’ll do next.” She paused and then added, “I’m tired of following the trail of this creep. It’s time we go on the offensive. How fast do you think you can—”

  “Twenty minutes.” Jesse had pressed his head close to Hannah’s and was listening. Now he spoke into the mouthpiece of the phone as Hannah turned it toward him. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “All right. Good.” Amber sighed and then added, “I love you two. Be careful.”

  Jesse’s eyebrow arched as he placed the receiver back on the phone.
“She loves us?”

  Hannah waved her hand. “Englischers . . . they often have a need to tell you how they’re feeling.”

  “Do I need to tell you how I’m feeling, Hannah?”

  Her heart skittered, more than it had when she’d first heard the recording. “Scared?”

  “Ya.”

  “Excited?” Her hands began to sweat as he pressed his forehead to hers.

  “Ya.” They stood frozen for a moment, and then Jesse pulled away a few inches.

  “Perhaps this is nearly over.” He traced a line with his forefinger from her temple to her chin. “I am scared and excited, but I’m also grateful . . . that you are with me through this.”

  As they hurried to the buggy, Hannah tried to envision what life had been like before Owen Esch had been killed.

  Normal.

  That’s what she was missing.

  Plain old boring normal.

  If she ever had that again, she would thank Gotte for it each and every day—just as she had after the last murder she’d helped investigate.

  Thirty-Five

  Amber and Pam rushed over to Jesse’s buggy before he’d even tied the horse’s reins to the post.

  “Are you okay?” Amber reached out and grasped Hannah by the shoulders, stared deep into her eyes, and tried to read her thoughts, her emotions. It struck her that Hannah was more than her employee and friend—she was also like a daughter or a little sister.

  “Ya, we’re fine.”

  “You weren’t followed?” Pam’s dark face was scrunched in a scowl. “Maybe I hope he did follow you. I wouldn’t mind a look at this guy. Southerners don’t run. We fight. Give me a whack at this guy. He’s worse than crazy. He’s dangerous crazy. He’s psycho, deranged—”

  “No argument here.” Jesse held up the phone recorder. “Now if the police will listen to our proof.”

  “Oh, they will listen.” Amber had been tempted to call ahead and tell Gordon what they had, what evidence they were bringing. She’d decided against it because she realized whoever was operating the phones probably wouldn’t put her through.