Plain Dead (11 page)

“Or he's just a thoughtful person,” Rachel replied. Tips were put in a box in the office and divided at the end of the month between all the staff, including the outside help. Ada refused to take her share, saying that she received fair wages for her cooking and didn't need Englisher handouts. The others gladly accepted the reward. “Funny, Jake Skinner doesn't give the impression of a man who would be so kind.”

“
Ne,
he doesn't,” Mary Aaron agreed. “But he's always polite to the staff.”

“But not who you'd expect to come to a town like Stone Mill for a winter festival.”

“So why
is
he here?” Mary Aaron asked. “I haven't seen him at the Dutch feast or at any of the events. But he was at the school gym on Saturday, so maybe he did come . . .” She left her thought unfinished. “He wasn't looking at any of the exhibits or the booths. And he didn't buy anything that I noticed. Most, I thought, he was looking for somebody.”

“I agree,” Rachel said.

They collected their coats and scarves, and after Rachel had changed back into proper clothing for visiting, they piled into her Jeep. Rachel didn't start the engine right away, but took the opportunity to explain about the hat she'd seen in the snow at Billingsly's house, the hat that had mysteriously vanished in the middle of the excitement. “I tried to tell Evan that something was strange about that,” she said. “That Amish men don't lose their hats and walk away without them.”

“
Ya
.” Mary Aaron fastened her seat belt. “Too much money they cost to be careless.” She chuckled. “It would be like me accidently losing my
kapp
and not noticing. It would be . . .
indecent
. I can imagine what my mother would say if I walked into her kitchen without it.” Mary Aaron considered for a moment and then looked sharply at her. “So, if it was there, you saw it in the snow, and then it was suddenly gone, who took it? Another of our people?” She nodded. “It would have to be. An Englisher with an Amish hat in his hands would be noticed.”

“But not an Amish man,” Rachel finished. “But Evan can't see how important it is.”

Mary Aaron compressed her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe you should just remind him again and then stop asking questions. Let him do his job.”

“I don't think I can. I'm on his list of suspects. He says he doesn't think for a minute that I'm guilty of killing Billingsly, but what if he's just saying that?”

“Why would he think you could do such an evil thing? Amish don't kill.”

“A lot of people would say I'm not Amish anymore.”

Her cousin tapped her heart. “In here, where it counts, you are. But you could not do murder, not even to save your own life from evil. It's not in you.” She shrugged. “Me? I'm not so sure. Not to save my life, but . . .” She smiled mischievously. “Maybe to save yours. If we were in the backyard and a wild tiger came and was about to leap on you and make you his supper, then I—”

“There won't be any loose tigers in my backyard,” Rachel said. “So I'm safe from tigercide.” She turned the key, and switched on the heater. “Brrrr. Cold as a graveyard in here.”

“In winter maybe. In spring a cemetery can be quite nice. Peaceful.”

“Maybe it's what I need to do, find a peaceful graveyard where I can sit and think.” Rachel looked away, staring out at the snow-covered yard. “Nothing between Evan and me can be easy now. I gave him his engagement ring back.”

“You decided not to marry him?”

“We quarreled last night. At the ice rink, after I gave out the prizes.” She wasn't ready to tell Mary Aaron everything, so she kept her explanation short. “I think maybe it was a mistake to ever agree to be his wife. We're so different. There are things about me that he'll never be able to understand.”

“So you had an argument. This will blow over. I'm sure you both overreacted, said things you didn't mean.”

“Maybe. But I made another mistake—that night. I was still angry with Billingsly over what he'd done to Annie and Joab. I went to his house.”

“In the snowstorm?”

“Afraid so.” Rachel grimaced. “But I never saw him. All the lights were on. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. I stood on his front porch, ready to knock and have it out with him, but I lost my nerve and went back home.”

“And Evan knows you were there?” Mary Aaron asked.

“I told him. And that's what put me on his list of possible suspects.” Rachel took a scarf from her coat pocket and tied it around her head. “So I've been asking around.” In as few words as possible, she filled her cousin in on Blade's report of seeing the top-hack at Wagler's late Saturday evening. “I doubt if Evan will pay any more attention to that,” she admitted. “So, I was hoping you could help me. How many top-hacks do you know of in the valley? No more than six, I think.”

“
Ne,
not that many.” Mary Aaron began silently counting on her fingers. “Five, no four. There were five, but Little John Miller's son took his to New York State when he moved to that big farm near the Canada border. Why he would go there, I don't know. A lot more snow than here. It would take a lot of hay to feed your livestock through those winters.”

“Four top-hacks. That's less than I thought. And one I know belongs to Bishop Abner. So, I was hoping that you'd come with me today and we could go to each place and find out where they were Saturday night. I know one of them is Reuben Fisher's and I hoped you might know who the others belong to. We'd go around, talk to the owners, and try to find out who might have had their hack out late Saturday night. If we find out something substantial, then I can take it to Evan and he can handle it from there. So, are you willing to help me out, or not?”

Mary Aaron leaned back in the seat and sighed. “I suppose I'll come along, if only to keep you out of trouble. Honestly, Rae-Rae, I think you should have become a detective instead of running a guesthouse.”

“I hear you.” Rachel smiled, glad to have her cousin's support and common sense.

“You going to go by Bishop Abner's house first and ask him if he was at the tavern that night? Or maybe you should ask him if he murdered Billingsly?” Mary Aaron asked.

Rachel ignored the teasing. Mary Aaron was with her, and that was what was important. “What I'd really like is to get into Billingsly's house. Just to look around. See if there's anything the police missed.”

“You mean anything that Evan missed?” Mary Aaron thrust her gloved hands into her coat pockets. “Aren't you always telling me what a great detective he'll make?”

“He is. He will. It's just that he's a man. You know how they are. Sometimes they can't see what's directly in front of them. Women have a different perspective. We don't miss much.”

“So, if you want to go to the house, why not go now?” her cousin asked. “The yellow tape is gone, so the police must be finished there.”

“I'd love to, but we just can't break into the house. That would be committing a crime.”

“What crime? This is Elvie's day to clean his house. She'll be there. She won't care if we come in and look around.”

“Do you think we could?”

Mary Aaron chuckled. “Only one way to find out.”

Rachel drove out of her driveway and turned the Jeep toward Billingsly's Victorian.

Chapter 10

Elvie opened the back door of Billingsly's house and smiled. “Mary Aaron, Rachel, nice to see you,” she said in Deitsch as she stepped back to let them into the kitchen.

Petite Elvie was a childless widow in her midthirties who cleaned for some of the English families in town, as well as The George. She was wire-thin and bursting with energy behind a face framed with wispy dark hair and dominated by round, black-rimmed glasses that gave her an owlish appearance. “I was just taking these sheets down to the basement. Bill has a washer and dryer down there. He never wants me to hang the laundry out, not even in good weather.” She shook her head. “Dryer sheets that are supposed to smell like roses. I can't understand why he wouldn't want the clean scent of sunshine and fresh air on his sheets, can you?”

Rachel glanced around the kitchen. Everything seemed in order. The counters were clean, the floor recently swept and no dirty dishes in the deep soapstone sink. Even the stainless steel cat dishes, filled with water and dry food, were shiny clean. The only thing that seemed out of place was a cast-iron frying pan sitting on the back burner of the stove. In the pan lay a thick, raw T-bone steak. No, it wasn't raw. There was no flame on under the pan, but there was a congealed grease puddle around the edges of the meat. Someone had cooked one side but not flipped it yet.

“Did we interrupt your lunch?” Rachel asked in Deitsch. Elvie had grown up in a much more isolated Amish community in Kentucky, and her English was sketchy at best.

“
Ne,
” Elvie said. “I never eat when I'm cleaning. I'll have my meal at home when I finish. That meat was on the stove when I came in. Bill must have been cooking it before . . . what happened. I always do the kitchen last. I start upstairs. Strip the bed and gather up the towels and any clothing in the hamper and start the washer. While the laundry is going, I clean the bedroom and the downstairs. Always the same. Bathrooms next, and finally kitchen. Bill doesn't use the dining room. Not much to do there but dust and vacuum. And he doesn't want me in his study. ‘Never go in my study,' he says.” Her face crumpled. “At least that's what he said. Poor Bill. Dead as last year's tomato plants.”

Mary Aaron looked around and took a step closer to Elvie. “You didn't mind coming here after . . .” She grimaced. “After what happened?”

Elvie blinked behind her thick lenses. “It's Tuesday. I always clean on Tuesdays. First I go to the MacDonald house down the road, and then here. Bill leaves cash in an envelope with my name on it. On the mantel in the dining room. It's a big house, so I charge more. And the police made a mess. They tracked snow with their boots everywhere. I talked to that nice policeman of yours. He asked me about Bill. Asked me where I was Saturday night. He said I could clean.”

“You're not afraid to be alone in the house after someone murdered him here?” Rachel asked.

Elvie blinked. Some thought her a little odd, but she had a sweet disposition and was a hard worker. “Bill wasn't killed in the house,” she corrected. “It was outside on the porch. And the dead don't hurt you. Only the living.” She rested her hands on her hips. “I really should get back to my cleaning. I can't take Bill's money if I don't do a good job.” She sighed. “He leaves my money on the mantel. Four envelopes. One for each week. I don't know what will happen after the month is up. I suppose I'll have to look for another customer.”

“Did the police know you were coming in?” Rachel asked. “To clean today?”

“
Ya
. I said. That nice friend of yours. He took down the yellow tape. He told me they were finished here.”

“Do you mind if we stay a while?” Rachel asked. “Look around? We won't get in your way. I just wanted to do a little more checking . . . to see if there was anything that the English police missed.”

Elvie nodded. “You help with finding the bad men. George told me. He is a nice man, too. Pays good for me to clean the bookstore. He told me that you brought one of our runaway girls home to her family. It's a good thing you're doing. But I don't think you will find anything here. Of course, I didn't go in Bill's study. He said not to, and I do as my customers ask. But other than the floors the Englisher policemen tracked up, it all looked the same to me.” She hesitated. “Just one thing I did notice . . .”

“What's that?” Mary Aaron asked. Rachel saw that her cousin was studying the kitchen as well. She was glad that Mary Aaron had agreed to help. Often she would pick up on something out of place that Rachel missed.

Elvie motioned for them to follow her through the hall into the dining room and then into the living room, the same living room where Rachel had seen the fire burning in the fireplace Saturday night. Elvie led them to a maroon upholstered couch with ugly curved legs, and pointed. “Somebody left out Bill's nightclothes.” She pursed her lips. “That's not right. Nightclothes belong to be put away, not left where anyone can see them. Bill keeps that on the back of the upstairs bathroom door.”

Rachel inspected a red-plaid flannel bathrobe, folded precisely and left on a purple fringed pillow. Had the detectives done that? Or had Billingsly? Or was it his killer? Why hadn't Evan taken it for evidence? Elvie was right. The robe didn't belong in the living room, especially when Billingsly had ended up unclothed on his front porch.

Rachel glanced around. The high-ceilinged room was crowded with stiff Victorian furniture. It didn't have a single personal photograph or any other homey item. There were no books, no newspapers, no magazines, no coffee cup. Other than the cold fireplace littered with ashes, this might have been a room in a museum. Hardly somewhere you would expect a man to leave his bathrobe.

“It would make me nervous being here all alone,” Mary Aaron said, glancing around uneasily. “How do you know the killer wasn't searching for something? That he won't come back?”

Elvie shrugged. “Not likely. If I was an evil man who could kill somebody by tying them outside to freeze to death, why would I come back? With all the police wandering about? I'll pray for Bill's soul, although I don't know how much good it will do. He was nice enough to me, but other people?” She shook her head. “He wasn't so nice. Those things he wrote in his newspaper.” She shook her head again.

Mary Aaron wandered out of the room.

Elvie sighed. “I am not heartless. I hope you don't think it is wrong of me coming here, cleaning, but no one told me I shouldn't.”

“I know you aren't a heartless person,” Rachel said, looking around. Her gaze fell to the front door, and she remembered Evan saying it had been locked when the police arrived. All of the doors had been locked. “You must have a key to this house . . . so that you can get in to clean. Or did he leave the door unlocked for you?”

“
Ne
.” Elvie reached into her apron pocket and produced a key. “I have one. All of my clients give me keys to their houses.”

“Do you know who else has one?”

“Bill had a key. It is his house.”

Rachel fought hard to keep from smiling at that. Some people said Elvie was slow. Rachel didn't think so; she just thought the woman was a little odd. “Anyone else, I mean?”

Elvie spread her hands, small fingers extended. “How would I know? We didn't talk. He was almost never here when I came to clean. I just clean for him. We're not friendly.”

“Right,” Rachel agreed. “Of course.”

Elvie shifted her feet. The material in her cheap navy-blue sneakers was worn almost through, but spotlessly clean. “I should get those sheets into the washer machine. See you in church, Mary Aaron,” she called. “And you, too, Rachel. It would please the bishop if you would come back to us.”

Rachel offered a perfunctory smile. She wasn't going to get into this conversation right now. But as Elvie walked away, Rachel called to her, “I don't see the cat. Have you seen him? A big gray tabby.”

Elvie stopped, turned back to her. “
Ne,
not today. Usually it is underfoot. I don't mind. Cats are useful. No vermin in a house with a good mouser.” She lifted one slight shoulder beneath her plain blue dress. “But this is a big house. Lots of rooms. The cat could be anywhere. I'll keep my eye out. No one to take him. I'll take him home with me. I like cats.” Without another word she turned on her heel and left.

Mary Aaron walked back into the living room.

“See anything unusual?” Rachel asked. When Mary Aaron shook her head, Rachel nodded. “When I was here Saturday night, there was a fire burning in here. Lights were on, inside and on the front porch. But when we arrived Sunday morning, there were no lights on anywhere.”

“Odd,” Mary Aaron remarked.

“Definitely,” Rachel agreed. She frowned. “You didn't see a cat, did you? Billingsly had a gray cat.”

“
Ne
. But it could have gotten outside when the police were here.” Mary Aaron crossed to a marble-topped lamp table and picked up a bronze statue of a nymph rising from a pool of water. It was about fourteen inches high with a square stepped base. “Heavy,” she said. “And she could have more clothes on.” The female subject was swathed in bronze drapery that, while billowy, managed to reveal more of her naked body than it concealed. “Did they figure out what he was hit with? I think you could break a man's skull with this.” She passed the sculpture to Rachel, who inspected it closely.

“They didn't. This isn't the right shape.” She set it down. “George said he was hit with something narrow, thin. Like a stick, only not a stick. And the detectives would have checked that for evidence.” Blood or hair, she was thinking, but it was best not to remind Mary Aaron of the gruesome details. “I guess it doesn't really matter. Technically, it wasn't the murder weapon. He died of exposure, not the blow to his head.”

Mary Aaron's left brow lifted in a questioning expression. “Evan told you?”

“George.”

“How did George know?”

“Someone from the medical examiner's office was talking, I guess.” Rachel's gaze fell on the fireplace, with its iron grate and marble surround. A set of cast-iron fire tools stood to one side of the hearth. She walked over and picked up the long-handled shovel and tapped it on her palm. The shovel end wasn't the shape George had described, and neither was the ornate handle, but the middle of it certainly was. She lifted it in the air, imagining someone standing in front of her. It would make a good weapon. She lowered it, looking at it again. There was no blood on it. The police certainly would have noticed had there been evidence on it. Mulling that over in her head, she replaced it in the stand. It swung ever so slightly, hitting the brush next to it. Her eyes widened. “Look,” she said. “The poker is missing.”

 

Reuben Fisher pointed to a top-hack minus a front wheel sitting on blocks in an open shed. “Not going far in that buggy. See. Been meaning to get that repaired, but I've got some cracked floorboards in the bed and with the bad weather this winter, I just haven't had time to get to it.”

Rachel had gotten out of the Jeep to inspect the damage. From the cobwebs adhering to the cement blocks and the bottom of the buggy, she guessed it had been out of commission for weeks, if not months. She looked up at him. “Well, I thank you for your time.”

“That was a long ride for nothing,” Mary Aaron remarked as they drove down the long, stony lane.

“It wasn't for nothing,” Rachel said. “That's one eliminated. Who's next?”

“Joe Paul Kurtz. He raises pigs and brings them to the sale regularly. Nice people. I think they have eight or nine children.”

“They live near Mose Bender's place, don't they?”

“Across the road and down one farm. There's a sign at the end of the driveway for eggs for sale. It's maybe seven miles from here. Turn left at the next crossroads.”

When they reached the Kurtz farm, there was no one home and no sign of a top-hack in the yard or carriage shed. “I guess we can't cross this one off our list,” Mary Aaron asked as they drove away.

“No, we can't,” Rachel answered. “Joe Paul could have driven it someplace. We'll have to try back later this afternoon.” She frowned. “I'm beginning to think this is a wasted trip.”

“At least at Billingsly's, you got a lead, the possible murder weapon.”

“The absence of something isn't necessarily a lead, but I guess it's something,” Rachel agreed. “Detective work is more careful elimination than startling revelations like you see on TV murder mysteries.”

Her cousin giggled, and Rachel grimaced and joined in on her amusement. “I guess you don't watch much TV. All right, I'll admit it. I can be a dunce sometimes.”

“You're forgiven. I'd still rather be riding around with you than be home. There, I'd just be scrubbing floors or sewing patches on my brothers' trousers. I hate mending boys' clothes. It's the same thing over and over, and then they just tear their pants on something else the next day. Last week, Jesse and some of his buddies were jumping off a windmill into a snowbank. He caught the seat of his trousers on a nail and ripped a hole you could have driven a hay wagon through.”

“Get used to it. Once you and Timothy are married, you'll probably have a dozen boys to sew for,” Rachel teased. She slowed the Jeep at a spot where melting snow had flooded a section of the road.

“
If
we get married. I don't know, maybe I'll decide to be an old maid. Wait until I'm forty and then marry an old man with a big farm and grown sons and daughters to do most of the work.”