Plain Dead (12 page)

Rachel laughed. “Where to next, Sherlock?”

“Ira Esh's place. I know his top-hack is in good shape because he was at Russell's Emporium on Monday afternoon. I saw him and his brother. They had been to the feed and grain because they had bags of feed in the back of the hack.”

Twenty minutes later, the two climbed out of the Jeep at a dairy farm at the far end of the valley. Rachel didn't know Ira's family, but Mary Aaron was acquainted with Ira's oldest daughter, Agnes. A middle-aged woman, two teenage girls, and a boy of about ten came out of the house to stare at the red vehicle. Mary Aaron went to the house and spoke with the woman, then returned to Rachel. “She says her husband's mending the pound fence.” The sound of hammering coming from beyond the barn confirmed Mary Aaron's statement.

Rachel and Mary Aaron made their way around the corral, better known in the valley as a pound, past a dozen curious Holstein milk cows and several heifers. The woman, the boy, and one of the girls trailed after them. A red-bearded man paused in setting a nail in a board and nodded a greeting. Again, Mary Aaron, who knew the family better, offered the first general greeting and an explanation of why they had come.

“I know your father well,” Ira said to Mary Aaron. “Fair man. He sold me a driving horse not long ago. You tell him that I sold him on to a man from Lancaster and made a good profit. Any more stock he has to sell, tell him to come to me first.”

“
Ya,
” Mary Aaron replied. “I'm sure
Dat
will be pleased to hear that.”

Not,
Rachel thought. Uncle Aaron never liked to be bested in horse trading. He was a good man, but a shrewd one and a man who watched his pennies.

“Heard you came up with the idea for the Winter Frolic,” Ira said to Rachel. “My brother sold some of his rocking chairs there this week. The family appreciates it.”

Rachel smiled at him. Ira made no mention of her unorthodox Plain attire or her abandonment of her church community to go over to the English world. Mary Aaron had already offered up all the small talk and explanations, so she asked about his top-hack and if he'd driven it to Stone Mill over the weekend.

“Not likely,” Ira said. “Laid up with the croup.”

“He's still got a cough,” the woman offered, coming to stand beside Mary Aaron. “I told him he shouldn't be out here in the wind, but he's a man and he's got his own mind.”

“Don't you have a nearly grown son?” Mary Aaron asked. “Lemuel?”

“Could Lemuel have taken the buggy into town Saturday night?” Rachel added.

“He's running-around age, isn't he?” Mary Aaron continued. “No chance he could have taken it in?”

Ira snorted and let out a laugh so loud and deep that he began coughing. “Lem? I don't think so. Not unless he has wings. Lem's in Ohio with his
Grossdaddi
Zook. Miriam's father's putting up a new barn this week and he needed Lem's help.
Ne,
this top-hack set right there in the barn until Monday, when I went for feed.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said. “I appreciate your help. There's just one more question I have, and then I'll leave you good folks in peace to get on with your chores.” She smiled at the mother. “Mary Aaron said you have another son.”

“David. Fifteen. But I don't let him take the buggies out by himself. He near lamed one of our driving horses last fall in the buggy,” Ira explained.

“None of your men are missing a hat, are they?” Mary Aaron asked. “A black go-to-church hat?”

Now it was the mother who answered firmly. “Indeed not. Any man here, young or old, who came home without his hat would be in big trouble with me.”

 

“Now what?” Mary Aaron asked as they left the Esh farm. “The only one left that I know is Bishop Abner, and I hardly think that he's your killer.”

Rachel concentrated on the road ahead of her. They had seen little traffic all afternoon: a dozen or so cars, a few pickup trucks, a few buggies, and an Amish youth leading a cow. The tourists who'd come to spend time in quaint Stone Mill were obviously not driving these backcountry roads, which was just as well because they were narrow and icy. Some had never been plowed. That didn't prevent the Amish from getting around. The design of the buggy, with its high wheels, meant that snow or high water rarely stopped it.

“We are going to Abner and Naamah's, aren't we?” Mary Aaron asked. “You're going to question Bishop Abner just like the others. Why? When you know he can't be guilty?”

“It's just standard practice for an investigation. I don't get to decide what's important and what's not. And just as Evan has to consider me a possible suspect, I can't rule out Bishop Abner's buggy just because I like him. What if it was stolen?”

Mary Aaron scoffed. “If his buggy had been stolen, the news would be all over the valley by now. You know how the Amish telegraph works. Once one person knows something, the story just takes on a life of its own and spreads like hot butter on a biscuit.”

“The whole notion of the top-hack being a clue in the case might be erroneous. Blade could have been mistaken. He could have misremembered or he could have lied,” Rachel told her cousin. “People don't always tell the truth. And they make errors in judgment. Humans make mistakes. But we started this and we have to finish. We need to talk to Bishop Abner, we need to go back to the Kurtzes', and we need to find out if there are any other working buggies like that in the valley. Once we've eliminated everyone, then we know that the buggy is a false lead and we can go on to something else.”

A huge orange tour bus came around a curve ahead of them, and Rachel squeezed over to let it pass. “Besides, Bishop Abner's isn't far from your place. We'll stop in there, ask a few quick questions, and get you home in time to help make supper. Aunt Hannah will be happy and you'll stop finding fault with my investigation.”

“I'm not finding fault. I'm helping. You would have forgotten to ask the Esh family about the hat if it wasn't for me,” Mary Aaron reminded her.

“No, I wouldn't have.”

“Would, too.”

“Probably,” Rachel agreed with a chuckle. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably get into more trouble than you do now. I still can't believe you went out at night in that storm and walked to a man's house. What would your mother think if she knew?”

“I don't want to imagine,” Rachel admitted. “It wouldn't be pretty.”

Less than twenty minutes later, they were sitting in Naamah's kitchen, drinking freshly made coffee and eating lemon pound cake with Naamah, Bishop Abner, and Naamah's nephew Sammy.

“What a nice surprise to have you stop by,” Naamah said. “We like to have a little bite in late afternoon. The bishop doesn't like to eat his supper until after evening chores, and we all need something to tide us over. And our treat tastes twice as good when we have friends to share it.”

Bishop Abner finished his cup of coffee and held out his mug for a refill. Mary Aaron got up, took his cup, and carried it to the gas range. Using a dishcloth to protect her hand from the hot coffeepot, she filled the cup to the brim.

“Two. That's your limit,” Naamah warned her husband cheerfully. “Too much caffeine and he won't sleep a wink tonight.”

“I haven't had that many today,” he said with a wink at Rachel. “Hardly enough to wet my whistle.”

“He had twenty cups,” Sammy declared as he finished his second slice of cake. “I had a hundred.”

Bishop Abner chuckled. “Six, maybe, but hardly twenty,” he said. Smiling at his wife, he said, “Naamah makes the best lemon cake in the valley. Uses real lemons. She had me grating the rind for an hour.”

“Don't believe a word of it,” Naamah protested. “That's Sammy's job. He's my cake helper. He helps and then he gets to lick the bowl when the cake goes into the oven.”

“I made the cake,” Sammy said. “I put ninety-nine eggs and five hundred lemons in it.”

“Don't forget the sugar,” the bishop teased.

“And five pounds of sugar,” Sammy said. “And a zillion Little Debbies. I like Little Debbies. Chocolate ones.”

“Hush now,” Naamah chided. “Let the grown-ups talk, Sammy. And stop making up stories. You know there are no chocolate Little Debbies in this lemon cake.” She gave the bishop an amused glance. “And don't you egg him on. He's bad enough as it is.”

“You were saying, about the buggy,” Mary Aaron said.

“
Ya,
about my top-hack.” Bishop Abner took another bite of the rich yellow cake. “Once we got home from the Winter Frolic, we were in all night, weren't we, wife? All that snow and the wind. You couldn't have tempted me out on a night like that.”

Rachel nodded. It would have been more sensible if she'd done the same. She ate her cake slowly, savoring every bite. Somehow, she'd forgotten to eat lunch today and now she was starving. This cake was scrumptious. It would rival Ada's best.

“I took the buggy,” Sammy proclaimed. “I drove it to the store in the snow and I bought a hundred Little Debbies. I put them in the cake. I did.” He pushed his empty plate toward his aunt. “Can I have another piece?”

Naamah frowned. “You cannot have more cake. And you just hush. What did I tell you about making up such tales?” She flushed and let out a long sigh. “Sometimes I'm at my wit's end with this boy.”

Rachel smiled in understanding and turned to the bishop. “This is going to sound like an odd question, but do you know of any Amish man who's misplaced his hat? One of your parishoners, maybe? A black one.”

“I don't.” Abner shook his head. “Not something that happens often. You hear of anyone losing a hat, Naamah?”

“Certainly not,” Naamah declared. “Why do you ask?”

Rachel gave a wave. “It's probably nothing.”

“I lost my hat!” Sammy declared loudly. “I lost twenty-seven hats. I lost twenty-seven hundred hats.”

Naamah glanced at her nephew and frowned. “Put your coat and your hat on and go feed your cat; I told you he won't stay around the barn if you don't feed him there. Then go gather the eggs. And be careful. Don't drop any.”

“But I got the eggs already. A thousand eggs.”

“Abner.” She gave her husband the
look
.

“Go on, boy,” he said quietly. “Do as your aunt says. See if there are any more eggs in the henhouse.” He watched as Sammy rose from the table. “That's a good boy.”

Naamah refilled Mary Aaron's cup. No one spoke until Sammy put on his coat and left the kitchen.

“You'll have to forgive him for his wild talk.” Naamah handed Mary Aaron her second cup of coffee. “Those crazy stories of his. His mother just couldn't deal with them. He starts in and gets worse and worse until you have to get firm with him. It's why she sent him to us. He's a sweet boy. One of the Lord's children, but he can be a trial. Sometimes I wonder if I will be able to do any better than my poor sister.”

“You will,” Bishop Abner assured her. “You've already done wonders with him. Love and patience. That's what it takes with young things. As the Bible tells us, ‘Bend a tree in the way it will go.' I don't have the slightest doubt. You'll be the making of Sammy.”

Chapter 11

An hour later, they were at the Hostetler farm. “See you tomorrow,” Mary Aaron called as she waved from her mother's back step.

Rachel backed the Jeep up carefully, not wanting to get stuck in the snow. She rolled her window down and called after Mary Aaron. “Thanks. Give your mother my love.”

Jesse appeared at the corner of the house and heaved a snowball in Rachel's direction. She laughed as it splattered on the windshield. As usual, Uncle Aaron's farmyard was a hodgepodge of disordered activity. An assortment of dogs barked; a long-eared donkey, head hanging over a gate, brayed; and a gaggle of white Emden geese hissed and flapped their wings at the shrieking, running children. The children were so heavily bundled against the cold that Rachel couldn't tell if they were boys or girls. A goat had scaled the peak of a stack of straw bales, and its bleating intermingled with the rusty creak of the windmill blades.

Rachel braked hard to avoid a lean tomcat that strolled leisurely out of the barn, green eyes gleaming, the limp body of a rat dangling from its mouth. This cat was tawny yellow with one ragged ear and a stump of a tail, but it brought Billingsly's missing cat to mind. She hated to think of the animal alone and hungry in the rambling house or shut outside in the cold. If the cat was inside, she would have to make certain someone took charge of it.

Many people in the English world lived such solitary lives that when they died their pets were often left to fend for themselves or ended up in the back of an animal control officer's truck. Not so with the Amish. There were always family, friends, and neighbors to care for the old or infirm, to pick up the shattered threads of life after a tragedy, and to take in the livestock and four-legged creatures left behind.

Many outsiders looking at the aging Hostetler farmhouse, with its patched roof, sagging doors, and mismatched windows, might mistake frugality for poverty and miss the strength of love and faith that held this family together in good times and bad. No stray cat tossed from a passing car window or footsore dog was ever turned away, and each of the round dozen babies born to her aunt and uncle had been welcomed as if he or she were the first and only child. Her uncle might be stern, but he was fair, always ready to lend his back to lift a neighbor's burden or carry firewood or food to someone without, Amish or English.

“Rachel!” John Hannah shouted.

She rolled down her Jeep window as her cousin came out of the wood shop carrying a three-legged stool.

He grinned at her. “It's finished. What do you think?”

Rachel nodded admiringly. The milking stool was carved from the limbs of a fallen black cherry tree that John Hannah and his brother Alan had cut up near the river two years back. The lumber had been drying and seasoning on racks in the shop since. John Hannah had carved, sanded, and oiled the irregular seat and gnarled legs, fitting the joints together and fastening them with glue. The finished stool was one of a kind, as much an object of art as it was utilitarian, fit for either a child's seat or an extra chair for a dinner table. John Hannah was saving for his own driving horse and buggy, and he hoped to begin selling small items of furniture in her gift shop in the B&B.

“Do you think it's good enough?” he asked. “Will the English like it?” He was a nice-looking boy, almost a carbon copy of Mary Aaron. Both had their mother's sweet smile.

She nodded, thinking,
If someone doesn't snap it up quick, I'll buy it myself
. The stool was beautiful, the swirls of grain and the glowing hue of the rich cherry so amazing that she longed to run her fingers over the smooth surface. “I'll sell it,” she promised. “And for three times the amount we talked about. It's a piece to be proud of, cousin.”

He grinned. “Don't let
Dat
hear you say that. He couldn't find fault with it, other than that the seat wasn't round, but he doesn't think any Englisher will want it. He says it's an old-time milking stool, and any English farmer that still has cows uses electric milkers. They don't milk by hand.”

“I can guarantee that this stool will never go near a barn again,” Rachel said with a chuckle. “Put it in the back of the Jeep.” She got out and walked around the vehicle. “I was wondering. Do you happen to know the Esh boys, Lem and David? Lemuel's a little older than you. David's fifteen, I think.”

“
Ya
. I know them. Lem played softball with us last summer. He's not much at pitching, but he can hit good.” Carefully, he placed the stool in the cargo area and shut the back of the Jeep. “What about them?”

“Are either of them run-arounds? You know, do they hang with the fast boys? Get into any trouble?”

“Like what?”

“John Hannah!” Uncle Aaron's voice boomed from the interior of the wood shop. “I need you to hold this board.”

“Coming,
Dat
.” He shared a conspiratorial smile with her. “Why you asking about Lem and David? Are you playing detective again?”

“You're too smart for your own good, John Hannah,” she retorted. “I was just wondering. You don't know if either of them drink alcohol, do you? I'm just asking some questions, clearing up a few inconsistencies. I know their father owns a top-hack, and one was parked Saturday night in Wagler's parking lot after hours. I wondered if maybe one of the boys had used it to sneak into the Black Horse.”

“Lem Esh? Whoever told you that Lem could be in a tavern is pulling your leg. He's a goody-goody. Clean as a whistle. You'd be more likely to find me there. Not that I would. That's not a practice I want to start. And don't tell my father I made a joke about it. But no
rumspringa
for Lem. He's baptized. He'll be a deacon or a preacher one of these days. Besides, he's in Ohio. His girlfriend, Bertha, told me that at the ice rink last night.”

“And what about Lem's brother David?”

“John Hannah! Are you coming?” her uncle called.

“Got to run,” her cousin said. “But it couldn't be David. He's a little runt, looks closer to twelve than fifteen. No one would let him in the Black Horse.”

Rachel laid a hand on his arm. “Who else do you know who has a top-hack in the valley? I checked out Reuben Fisher. Nobody was home at Joe Paul Kurtz's. And then I talked to Ira Esh.”

“I think Israel Yeoder used to own one, but he sold it last fall to a man who was moving to Virginia. I don't know of anybody else,” John Hannah said. “They're handy. I'd love to have one, but first I've got to get up money for a courting buggy.”

“Planning on courting anybody soon?” she asked. John Hannah was only twenty, far too young to get serious with any young woman as far as Rachel was concerned.

“Not me. I just want something to drive the girls home from singing and frolics.” He started to walk away. “Of course, you know Bishop Abner has one. But I don't think he's who you're looking for.”

Rachel chuckled. “No. Besides, he was at home with his wife.”

He turned back to her. “Not Saturday night.”

“
Ya,
Saturday. After the festival, he and Naamah went home and stayed there all night.”

He shook his head slowly. “You must have gotten something mixed up, Rae-Rae. I was out pretty late myself. Over at the Peacheys'. Martha and her brother had a singing. Saw no reason to cancel it for the snow as long as we were all walking. I saw Bishop Abner on the road.”

“Where?”

“I couldn't say for sure. But it was him. I know his horse. It was snowing and you could hardly see the mare for the snow coming down.”

Rachel was still thinking about what John Hannah had said about seeing Abner as she pulled out onto the blacktop. She had every intention of going home, but she knew that the inconsistency would nag at her. Better to stop by Abner's, speak to him again, and get it straightened out.

She found the bishop coming out of his barn with a bucket of milk. He looked up in surprise as she pulled up beside him and then smiled. “Rachel. Back so soon?”

“I'm sorry to bother you again. I know that it must be time for your supper, but I think I must have misunderstood something you said.”

He rested the bucket in the soft snow. “And what is that, child?”

“I thought that you'd told me that you came home from the Winter Frolic and then stayed in all night. But I heard that someone in the community passed you later on the road.”

Bishop Abner looked up at the sky and stroked his beard. “Warming wind coming. Do you smell it? This snow will be melting soon.”

The back door of the house opened, and Sammy stepped out onto the stoop. “Aunt Naamah says soup's on.”

“I won't keep you,” Rachel said. “Maybe the people who thought they saw your buggy were wrong.”

He moved closer to the Jeep and placed an ungloved hand on the window frame. “
Ne,
they weren't mistaken. I misled you. I was out after I brought Sammy and Naamah home. But I can't tell you where or why.”

She couldn't see his eyes under the wide brim of his hat, but she could feel guilt congeal in the pit of her stomach. What right did she have to question the word of an elder of the church? There had to be a reason for his deception.

“You counseling someone?” she asked. Counseling was private. No bishop worth his salt would ever share private information with another. It would be a breach of the faith. No one would trust a bishop with their secrets or deep concerns if he gossiped about his members' spiritual or personal matters.

Bishop Abner's wrinkled fingers tightened on the window frame. He smiled and spoke gently. “You are a good girl, and what you have done for Stone Mill and the valley can't easily be counted. But this nosing around the community asking questions could cause harm you don't wish. It could alienate people who can't understand why you left your faith and family.”

“I'm only trying to help,” she said.

He nodded again. “I believe that your motives—like mine when I led you to believe that I was home that night—are for the best. But I was wrong to have told an untruth, and you are wrong now. Let your Evan Parks do his job. He is a wise man. I can't think that he would approve of your snooping. The death of the newspaper editor was a terrible crime, but you won't find his killer among the Plain folk. And seeking him here may muddy the water to find the real evil one.”

“But—” she began.

He cut her off firmly. “Hear me, Rachel. You have always been different. Always pushing against the rules of community and our society. But you cannot change that you have been born to a woman's place. Not better than a man or less. But a woman's place and not the place of a man. Push too hard and the line will break. You may lose more than you imagine.”

Startled to hear him speak so, Rachel opened her mouth to reply but instantly bit back her retort.

“I'm sorry if my words cause you distress,” the bishop said. “But someone had to tell you. You are too impulsive, child, and I don't want to see you hurt.” He stepped back and picked up his milk bucket. A little milk splashed over the rim and ran down into the muddy snow. Through the open window, Rachel caught the familiar smell of warm raw milk, earthy and sweet. “Come again whenever you like,” Bishop Abner said cheerfully. “You're always welcome at our table and at our worship service.”

 

Still confused and smarting from Bishop Abner's admonition, Rachel had every intention of returning to the house and catching up on her office work. But as she pulled into her driveway, she noticed that the only light on next door at the Schenfelds' was coming from Hulda's study. On impulse, she decided to pay her neighbor a visit. She parked her Jeep, entered the B&B's kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and walked through to the dining room, where fresh, home-baked cookies were available for her guests. Gathering a little plate of cookies and a carafe of steaming coffee, she went out the front doors and across to Hulda's and rang the bell.

Two minutes later, a smiling Hulda was leading her into her private sanctuary. “What a wonderful surprise,” Hulda said. “They've all gone somewhere, thankfully. You know I cherish my family, but sometimes I find them all rather silly.”

So far as Rachel knew, none of Hulda's sons or grandsons or extended family was ever admitted to the study, a grand chamber that Rachel thought exuded both the aura of a nineteenth-century Russian archduchess's suite and an upscale San Francisco bordello of the same time period.

Crimson velvet drapes, illuminated by a crystal chandelier, swathed the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gilt mirrors and oil portraits of long-dead Austrian noblewomen in revealing gowns, powdered wigs, and too much jewelry lined the walls. The antique furniture was dark and equally authentic, and the polished hardwood floors could hardly be seen for the thick Turkish carpets. Scattered around the room, crowding the surfaces of shelves, tables, a mahogany secretary, and a Hepplewhite sideboard, were dozens of black-and-white family portraits in silver frames. Lying open on a Lincoln-green chaise lounge was a MacBook Air laptop, a fantasy game paused in midplay. A tray with a half-eaten bowl of what appeared to be tomato soup and three crackers stood on a low, upholstered stool.

“Come in, come in. Find a seat,” Hulda said. “Just move those books onto the floor. They'll end up there anyhow.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt your supper,” Rachel said, making room for herself on the couch. “I thought maybe you'd like coffee and—”

“Something fattening that Ada baked, I hope,” Hulda interrupted. “Excellent. And you're not interrupting anything. That soup is that low-salt stuff that the doctor recommended for my grandson. They put a picture of vine-ripe tomatoes on the can and pass it off as healthy. Nonsense, if you ask me. No salt, no flavor. I wouldn't serve it to a goat.”