Murder Tightly Knit

by Vannetta Chapman

  Stewart was explaining that they were meeting for the second time that month because the last meeting had been more of a social event and no real work had been accomplished.

  Laughter rippled through the room until someone called out, “We managed to eat plenty of the harvest, though.”

  “That we did,” Stewart agreed. “And combined we were able to put back more goods than we had projected.”

  Then it was time for business. Amber quickly grew restless and bored.

  “You’re not this fidgety when you call a meeting,” Pam whispered.

  “My meetings interest me.”

  She had thought she would be curious about what was being said, but basically they were going over a treasury report, an activities report, and a reminder of the next meeting’s time and place.

  Mary said Owen had been trying to get in with this group. Possibly—no, probably—he’d attended one of the meetings, which meant that someone in this room might have met with Owen the night before he died. But who? Everyone looked so . . . ordinary. Owen had also told Mary that he’d been invited to attend the next meeting—this meeting. That thought hit her like a punch in the stomach. If he’d lived, Owen Esch would be sitting in this room with them at this very moment.

  Various members droned on, giving their reports and fielding questions. Amber was thinking about sneaking into the kitchen. Maybe she could corner someone and ply them with questions.

  Then Harold stood and opened the meeting up to general questions and discussion. Things got real interesting real quick. He hitched up his pants and cleared his throat. “Now to new business. Dereck, you had something to report.”

  “Some of us are concerned about the possible use of drones in the area and what we can do about it. I sent an anonymous query to the local police from a computer at the library.” There were several snickers at the last part, but the tall, gangly man just tucked his hands in his back jeans pockets and went on. “Apparently it’s against the law for us to shoot down a drone, even when the thing flies over our private property.”

  Now the snickers became murmurs. Some shook their heads in disbelief. Others leaned in and spoke to the person next to them, and about a quarter became tight-lipped and said nothing. Amber couldn’t tell if they didn’t approve of the topic or if they were stoic over the existence of drones.

  “We have drones?” Pam asked.

  The man behind them leaned forward. “The FAA has come up with a universal policy to clear the use of domestic drones. Some cities are openly admitting to using them to fight crime, or so they say. In essence it gives the government the right to spy on anyone they choose.”

  “Spy?” Pam stared at him in disbelief.

  “They can see through your curtains and your walls. Caught a teacher in Indianapolis on what they termed an inappropriate dating site, and she lost her job because of it. The police turned the information over to the school district, and the school district canned her for violating their morals policy.”

  Pam looked at Amber in disbelief.

  “We have that here?” Amber asked.

  “Not yet. At least, I’d be surprised to see any here in Middlebury.”

  At the front of the room, Harold had deferred to Stewart, who crossed his arms and waited for the talking to die down. Although Harold seemed to be running most of the meeting, it seemed to Amber that Stewart was the main spokesman or president or some other weighty position.

  “We’ve filed a petition with our state representatives. At this point there have been no spottings of drones in our area, but if and when there are, we’ll consult our legal counsel and decide how best to proceed.”

  “They have legal counsel?” Pam’s eyes had rounded to the size of quarters. “Why do they need that?”

  Amber shook her head. She’d gone from being bored to having a dozen questions.

  “Anything else?” Stewart asked.

  There was something else. Amber could tell by the way the murmuring increased, and this time it wasn’t about drones that might or might not be peeking through their walls. She couldn’t make out any complete conversation, but she heard snippets. “Bow . . . Pumpkinvine Trail . . . shame . . . funeral.”

  However, no one spoke up about those things. Finally an older woman seated near the front of the room stood and began to speak. She was apparently in charge of a co-op, where members exchanged produce for canning.

  “Just like the Amish,” Amber whispered.

  But this woman wasn’t Amish. She wore baggy black pants and an oversize men’s flannel shirt.

  “She could use some help with her style.” Pam craned her neck for a better look as the woman spoke about dairy needs and fall vegetable gardens.

  When the woman finally wound down, Harold again asked if there were any other new items of business.

  There were, much to Amber’s chagrin. None of the items interested her, and she wanted to mingle. She also wanted to find someone who could answer her questions.

  “If that’s all, this meeting is adjourned.” Harold sat down and Stewart stood and reminded them all of the November meeting’s time and place.

  As everyone stood and began to form small groups, Amber looked over toward where the three Amish men had been sitting. They’d remained there throughout the drone discussion, but now they were gone.

  She was torn between the urge to look for them and to have a talk with Stewart. Fortunately, she didn’t have to choose, because the group’s leader was making his way toward her and Pam.

  Thirty-Eight

  Jesse had taken Hannah home after their visit with the police sergeant. Actually, they’d stopped to eat at the sandwich shop—since it was past the dinner hour and both were starving. He wondered how he could have an appetite with all that was happening, but he devoured the club sandwich as if he hadn’t eaten in days. By the time they climbed into the buggy to return home, the sun had set and evening surrounded them. Neither spoke much, but he was learning that Hannah was a calming presence. Having her by his side did an awful lot to calm his fears, and the fact that they didn’t have to talk emphasized how much their relationship had grown.

  She squeezed his hand after he helped her out of the buggy. “I’ll pray for Andrew. Gotte hasn’t forgotten him, Jesse. Gotte hasn’t forgotten any of us.” Then she’d stood on her tiptoes and planted a quick kiss on his lips before turning and hurrying across the yard, up the steps, and into her home.

  That kiss had warmed him half the way home. Then he’d begun replaying the scene at the police station, and his confidence had melted away like a late snow on a spring day. What was he to do now? How could he help his brother? And how would he face his parents?

  The latter turned out to be much easier than he’d expected. While it was true that his parents had struggled with Andrew’s absence, they were also very strong people—strong physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

  His youngest sister, Teresa, had only recently turned nine years old. She was all legs, reminding him of a colt, and she pranced around like a foal set free in a pasture. Her legs were usually scratched up from her time in the barn or from chasing some critter or fishing down at the pond. Her blond hair spilled from her kapp, determined to resist any confinement. Tonight she was already in her nightgown, and someone had attempted to braid her unruly hair, which fell in a cloud down her back.

  “We’re writing down our prayers for Andrew. See?” She held up a sheet of paper that contained various handwritings. “Mine is this one.”

  She pulled the paper closer to her nose.

  Did she need glasses? Should he alert his parents to that before the school year progressed too far and she fell behind in her studies?

  But then she kissed the sheet of paper and thrust it into his hands. “You can write yours at the bottom. I left you some space.”

  She was gone as quickly as she had appeared, running up the stairs and laughing at something Susan said. Knowing that Susan would take care of putting the young ones to
bed, he trudged into the kitchen, dreading the meeting with his parents.

  His dad sat at the table, the Budget spread out in front of him. He glanced up, met Jesse’s eyes, and when Jesse shook his head, he stared back down at the paper.

  His mother wasn’t so easily satisfied. She asked if he had eaten. When he told her he had, she thrust a plate of peanut butter cookies and a glass of milk in front of him. “Tell us. Tell us what you found out, Jesse. When is Andrew coming home?”

  So he explained to them what he had learned at the police station, why he had gone there, about the meeting with the judge in two days, and that no one would be allowed to see Andrew until the next morning.

  “Will you go back? Will you go and see him?” His mother pushed the plate of cookies closer to him, as if the sugar and flour and eggs combined into delicious tidbits could possibly make this recent turn of events easier to swallow. “Tell him we are praying, and we know he’ll be home soon.”

  “Of course I will, Mamm.” This wasn’t much of a concession. Jesse had already decided he’d go back the next morning, back to ask Andrew what he knew about Mary’s involvement.

  “The police were here, son.” His father spoke in a low, even tone.

  “Here?”

  “Ya. They were here when we returned after the funeral luncheon, after Andrew was arrested. They explained that even if I went to the station like the sergeant said I could, I wouldn’t be able to see Andrew, nor learn anything more than they were willing to tell me.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Went through the house and the barn. Took the crossbows and the hunting rifle.”

  “Why the hunting rifle? Owen was killed with a bow.”

  “Their warrant allowed them to take any weapons. They also carried off his pack that was hidden in the barn.”

  Jesse’s stomach became even more unsettled at this recent news. The thought of strangers in their house, going through their things . . . it made him feel violated.

  He drank the glass of milk since it was already poured but passed on the cookies. Standing, he wondered how this had happened to his family. Why had it happened to his family? Why couldn’t it be someone else caught up in this mess?

  His father glanced up from the Budget. He hadn’t turned a page since Jesse had entered the room. “You’re a gut son, Jesse. You’ve taken on the bulk of Andrew’s work, more than you should have—”

  “Dat, don’t.”

  “I need to say it. Don’t you see that I need to say it?” He ran a hand across his eyes and continued, “Each of you children is special to me and your mamm. We may not say it often. It’s not our way.”

  His hand—sun-spotted, wrinkled, and a bit arthritic—brushed that thought away. “Now, though, is a time when you need to know. I’m proud of you, and I know you’ll do your best to help Andrew.”

  “We all will,” Jesse said.

  “Ya. Your mamm and I, we’ll support him in any way we can. If it takes money to find a path out of this mess, well, we have a little saved.” He folded his hands on the table, on top of the Budget. “But you understand Andrew better than any of us. If there’s someone in this house who can help him, then it’s you.”

  Jesse wanted to scream that he didn’t understand his brother at all.

  He didn’t scream, though.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Instead, he nodded to his father, kissed his mother on the cheek, and made his way slowly up the stairs to his room. Raising the shade, he looked out into the night. He could see over to their neighbor’s house. No doubt Linda Rainey was sitting beside her window, watching the world outside. Though it was dark and there was little to see, he understood that it was her connection with the rest of them. It was her way of “watching the world, studying all of God’s creation.” Those had been Linda’s words when he’d last visited her.

  She’d said something else when he’d gone to see her with his mother’s baking. What had it been? Something about Andrew and the day he’d come home, but suddenly Jesse was too tired to remember. He’d think about it in the morning. He barely managed to shuck his clothes before dropping onto the bed and falling into a deep sleep. One that was occasionally punctuated by nightmares of Andrew in the jail and a man, a faceless man, reaching through the bars and trying to attack him.

  Amber and Pam had been cornered by Stewart. He spoke with them about ISG and everything they believed for a good twenty minutes, then insisted on taking them to meet other members of the group.

  By the time they walked out to their car, the area was shrouded in complete darkness. Amber was exhausted, and she imagined Pam was, too, as they made their way via the flashlight app on Amber’s phone.

  “It was almost like Stewart was trying to keep us from wandering about,” Pam said. “Do you think he could be involved?”

  “It’s possible, I guess. He certainly never left our side.”

  “Did you see anyone who looked like the killer?” Pam asked.

  “How would I know?” Amber shrugged, but she was thinking of Ethan Gray’s killer. That person’s identity had come as a total surprise. No, she didn’t think a killer was someone you recognized right away, but there was something—something off in his or her behavior or gaze. Perhaps she was making that up, though. Perhaps she was too tired to think.

  “I’m so glad Tate will be home tomorrow. It feels as if he’s been gone for weeks upon weeks.”

  “Now, see, you’re talking like an old married woman already.”

  Amber was reaching for the door handle of her car when something whizzed past her head. She screamed and Pam dropped to the ground.

  “Are you hurt? Pam?” Through the grass and pebbles she crawled around the back of the car, afraid to stand up. Her purse was still slung over her shoulder, and she’d managed not to drop her phone.

  Pam was silent on the other side.

  Amber envisioned the worst as she proceeded to Pam’s side of the car, heedless to the fact that she was scratching up the palms of her hands and probably ruining the knees of her dress slacks.

  She reached Pam the same time Roland Shaw did.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Amber shone the light from her phone directly into Pam’s eyes. The woman looked dazed and more than a little angry.

  She was sitting with her back against the car, a trickle of blood pooling on her forehead. “What happened?”

  “I think you were hit by something.”

  “Probably a rock from a slingshot,” Shaw offered, and then he disappeared into the darkness.

  “I ducked,” Amber said. “I must have heard him snap the rubber.”

  “It’s because I’m taller than you. Whoever threw that rock was aiming high.”

  “Maybe. Could be they wanted to get our attention, not actually hurt us.” Amber pulled a whole package of tissues from her purse and pressed them against Pam’s forehead, where the blood had begun to make a trail close to her right eye. She had a nice-size goose egg, which would probably turn purple after the swelling subsided.

  “I’m black, you know. Maybe they didn’t see me. It’s hard to see a black woman in the dark.” She touched Amber’s hand, the one holding the tissues to her forehead. “Am I going to need stitches? I don’t think I’ll look so good with a seam on my forehead.”

  “No. Looks like it grazed you, but it’s going to be sore.”

  “Why would—”

  Roland Shaw reappeared at that moment. “There’s a note wrapped around the rock.”

  “Why are you here?” Amber ignored the sheet of paper he was attempting to read by the light of her phone. She hadn’t seen him at the meeting. He’d suddenly popped out of the darkness when they were accosted by some maniac with a slingshot.

  “I’m here because—”

  “He was following us,” Pam explained.

  “What?”

  A sma
ll smile tugged the corners of Shaw’s lips. It looked strange on him. Amber had only seen him scowl, and now he was smiling? When Pam was thumped with a rock? That made him smile?

  “How’d you figure it out?” Shaw lifted the tissues and studied the cut on Pam’s head.

  “Your little black car and ours seem to be the only ones left. I saw that black car twice in the side mirror while we were driving out here.”

  Amber stood, her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what? It’s a small town. You see lots of the same folks multiple times in a day.”

  Amber noticed how quiet it was as Pam fell silent. No one else had noticed what was going on, but then, by the time they’d escaped Stewart, all the folks out where they had parked were gone. “Why would you be following us? What is your problem?”

  “If you’ll remember, I told you I’d be watching these groups.”

  “Which doesn’t answer why you were following us.”

  “Because he was certain you’d come if you knew about the meeting, and he was hoping Tom Rhodes would mention it to us when Tom told him we were coming to see the church.” Pam struggled to her feet. “He was using us as bait, to try to draw out the killer.”

  “Is that true?” Blood pulsed at Amber’s temples. She wanted to scream. She wanted to kick Roland Shaw in the shins. Instead, she poked him in the chest with her index finger. “Did you know the killer was here?” Each word was punctuated by a jab.

  Shaw batted her hand away and shook the note at her. “I suspected that he’d be here.”

  “Then why is Andrew in jail?” Pam asked.

  “We think more than one person was involved, and this note seems to prove it.”

  Amber’s anger dissolved as they all huddled over the note.

  Warning—Stay out of my business.

  “That’s it?” Pam humphed. “This person needs to learn to explain himself better, and we know it’s a warning because he delivered it with a rock.”

  “It’s from the same person who wrote the two notes,” Amber said.