Plain Dead (13 page)

Hulda didn't elaborate on which grandson. As far as Rachel was concerned, there wasn't much difference between them. None of Hulda's offspring showed much intelligence or inclination to work in the family business. They seemed more interested in speculating on when Hulda would die and leave them her fortune.

“You are a lifesaver. Literally. Another move and I would have plunged into the
pit of despair
. Three weeks to reach level nine, and I fall prey to a shape-shifting troll and waste my last magic acorn on a dragon key that led to a blank wall.” She chuckled, clicked a few keys on her Mac, and closed the laptop. “Now, my dear. What can I do for you?”

Rachel accepted a linen napkin and spread it on her lap. She poured a cup of coffee for Hulda, slipped off her shoes, and curled her feet up under her. As it had been the last time she'd been in Hulda's study, the air was heavy with incense and her hostess's perfume, an exotic floral. “I've been trying to clear up a few questions regarding some inconsistencies that occurred the night Billingsly died,” she said.

Hulda used silver tongs to drop a single lump of sugar into her coffee. “Delicious,” she said after taking a sip. “Reminds me of the coffee we had on our honeymoon. A little guesthouse near the harbor on Santorini. Have you ever been to Greece?”

Rachel shook her head. “Never. But from the pictures I've seen, it's beautiful.”

“Words can't express it. You and your Evan should go there on your honeymoon.” She nibbled a chocolate-chip-and-pecan cookie. “I could make a supper of these.” She looked up at Rachel. “I gather your investigation isn't going well.”

“You could say that. I think I was just dressed down by Bishop Abner. Apparently, I'm forgetting my place—as a woman. He thinks I should leave the questions to the police.”

Hulda considered. She was dressed in a pale lavender-and-white ski sweater and gray yoga pants. On her small feet she wore a pair of gray Uggs. Her white hair was stylishly cut, her manicure and makeup perfect. She wore no jewelry other than a heavy gold wedding ring and tiny diamond chips in her ears. Rachel doubted she would ever appear so elegant when and if she reached her nineties.

“It's been my experience that men say that sort of thing when they feel threatened,” Hulda offered. “But you didn't do so shabbily last time you played detective, so I wouldn't pay too much attention. Abner Chupp is a lovely little man, but he is only a man.” Hulda leaned forward. “What is it that you're trying to track down?”

Rachel explained the report about the buggy at Wagler's Saturday night and the bishop's refusal to tell her his whereabouts that evening. “First he told me that he was home with Naamah all evening and then he changed his story. I know that an important part of his position as bishop is counseling his members, and I think that's where he was that night. Of course, he would never say where. But Bishop Abner does drive a top-hack, and Wagler's Grocery isn't that far from Billingsly's home.”

Hulda looked at her, faded eyes shrewd. “So you believe it may have been the bishop's buggy in the parking lot?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure,” Rachel admitted. She set her cup down, the coffee untasted. “This is going to sound pretty far-fetched, but . . . I know that Billingsly had a reputation for being a womanizer. You don't suppose that he was involved with an Amish woman, do you?”

“With an Amish woman?” Hulda frowned. “I doubt it. I've never heard of one of your people in a romantic affair with an English man.”

“No, neither have I.” Remembering that she was still wearing her
almost
Plain attire, Rachel removed her scarf and folded it into a small, tight square. “But I got the bishop to admit he was out Saturday night. I think he must have been counseling someone, but couldn't say so.”

“I see.”

“If Billingsly had been having an affair with an Amish woman, Bishop Abner might have been counseling him. And he certainly wouldn't want anyone to know that was why he was there. Or that he was there at all.” She hesitated. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but anything is possible, right?”

“You know I'm a fan of mystery novels,” Hulda said. “And of true crime books. And from those, I gather that most murders are committed for either financial gain or passion. But Billingsly wasn't the type to be interested in a Plain woman, and if he had been, your bishop would have been praying with the woman, not her seducer. And if the bishop had gone to Billingsly's, he would have been armed with words, not a weapon.” Her mouth firmed. “No one knows of anything valuable missing from Billingsly's home? Did the house appear as if it had been tossed?”

Rachel smiled at Hulda's choice of words. “No, not at all. That's another odd thing. Everything was in perfect order, as though he had just stepped out. There was a half-cooked steak still on the stove top. How does someone break into a house, commit murder, and leave everything tidy?”

“What does your detective think?”

“Evan's not talking, at least not to me.” She looked down at her hands. “I was still angry with Billingsly after the argument we had at the festival, and I went to his house Saturday night to have it out with him.” She grimaced. “I told Evan I'd been there. I never saw Billingsly because I thought better of it, but he wasn't on the porch when I was there.”

“And you being there the night of the killing makes you a suspect?”

“Exactly.” She wanted to tell Hulda that Billingsly had been flirting with blackmail, given who knows how many people a grudge against him, but sharing that was too close to telling Hulda that the editor was about to expose her criminal record. She couldn't bring herself to do that. “You've lived in Stone Mill most of your life,” Rachel continued. “And you don't miss much. I thought that if Billingsly had become involved with someone in the Amish community—”

“I'd know about it.” Hulda chuckled. “I must have quite the reputation as a busybody. No.” She raised a small palm. “Don't apologize. I know that I've always been interested in my neighbors' activities. Wasn't it Jane Austen who wrote something about that very subject in her
Pride and Prejudice
? It's human nature. But to answer your question, I could give you the names of several of the town's respectable ladies who have sewn a few wild oats in that quarter, but not one of them was Amish. Now in the other direction, that's a different story. There've been more than a few Amish men who've wandered from the farmyard, if you get my meaning. It's not common, but it happens. And as you say, I've lived here a long time. Men are men, Amish, English, or what have you.”

“I've never heard of it here in the valley,” Rachel admitted.

“Then you've lived a sheltered life.” Hulda finished her cookie and carefully gathered the crumbs in her napkin. “And you were away for years.”

Rachel moved closer to her. “Now you have to tell me. Who?”

Hulda lifted her gaze. “Are you certain you want to know?”

“What if it will help me unravel what happened Saturday night?”

“I doubt that it will be of much help. It happened years ago, but . . .” Hulda said. “But since you ask.” She took a breath. “You know that this is a second marriage for your Bishop Abner. His first wife passed away after a long illness, and he reportedly took it quite hard. It must have been a love match because most Amish widowers don't remain single long. Abner was the exception. It was a while before he married Naamah. Between his two marriages, he was intimately involved with a
married
woman here in town. An English woman.”

Rachel's jaw dropped.
Bishop Abner?
Maybe she was naïve, but that was the last thing she'd expected. “I never heard anything about him . . . not that sort of thing.”

“It would have been the worst sort of scandal if it had become general knowledge, costing Abner his position in the community and the woman her marriage. But like most irregular affairs of the heart, it blew over. He made his peace with his church, met and married Naamah, and the English woman divorced her husband. They'd been separated at the time, her here in Stone Mill, him working elsewhere.”

“It's difficult for me to believe,” Rachel said. “Is it possible it was just idle gossip?”

“I'm afraid not,” Hulda insisted. “It was more than a rumor, Rachel. I know that it was true because I caught them in a most compromising situation. He ran like a scared rabbit, and she broke down and spilled the entire story.”

“Can you tell me who it was?”

Hulda thought for a moment. “That would seem too much like gossip.” She shook her head. “And with the child—”

Chapter 12

Rachel stiffened. “What do you mean
with the child?
” She swallowed. “You're not saying—”

“I shouldn't be saying anything.” Hulda placed her cup and napkin on a gilt-edged end table. “I'm a foolish old woman,” she sputtered. “Forget I said anything about your bishop.”

“Please,” Rachel said. “This could be important. And he isn't my bishop. Although he is a friend.” She uncurled her legs and placed her feet on the rug. “You aren't foolish.”

“Then I'm at least a meddling gossip.” Hulda sighed and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “It was a long time ago. Abner was single. She was legally separated and in the process of getting a divorce. I suppose they didn't think they'd harm anyone.” Hulda straightened herself and dropped her hands into her lap, threading her fingers together. “I promised that I'd keep the secret, and I've broken that promise. And who am I to pass judgment on anyone? They certainly didn't expect to bring a child into the world. And for what it's worth, I don't believe it was just lust. I honestly think they were in love. If they hadn't come from different worlds, she might have married Abner.”

“But it was impossible.”

“Exactly.”

Rachel tried to get her thoughts around Bishop Abner and an English woman. No matter how difficult it was to process, Rachel believed every word Hulda said. She might know everything that went on in Stone Mill, but she was no idle gossip. And what she did confide was genuine. “Who was the woman?”

Hulda shook her head. “I've said too much already.”

“Was the child a boy or girl?”

“With a few math skills and a little detective work, you should be able to figure that one out yourself,” Hulda said. “But please don't try to question the mother. She and Abner seem to have put the past behind them. We're all human, Rachel. And humans tend to make mistakes.” Hulda's mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And the older you get, the more mistakes you add to your collection. This is mine for the month and maybe for the year.” She looked pensive. “I always did speak too quickly.”

“How did you discover them?”

Hulda shrugged. “I'll only say that the two of them showed a great disregard for common sense one afternoon. I was where I had every right to be, and I came upon them quite by accident.”

“Did you fire her?”

It was a shot in the dark, and to her shame, Hulda didn't see the trap until it was too late.

“Fire her? Certainly not. She was in enough trouble without me making it worse for her. She still works for me.” Hulda's face flushed. “Oh, dear. Rachel, that was unfair.”

“I know, and I'm sorry. But a man is dead. And if someone doesn't happen to find the real culprit soon, I'm going to have Evan reading me my rights.” Rachel's heartbeat quickened. Sandy Millman came to mind. Sandy, plump and sweet-natured, attended the Methodist church and had worked at Russell's Emporium since she'd graduated from high school. She had only one child, Eddie, who delivered the town newspaper and had been one of the first ones to discover Billingsly's body. “I won't tell anyone what you shared with me,” Rachel promised.

It had to be Sandy, although Rachel couldn't think of anyone less likely to be carrying on an affair with an Amish preacher. Rachel tried to think if Eddie bore any resemblance to Bishop Abner, but it was impossible to compare a slight, ordinary-looking twelve-year-old English boy with a sixty-something, bearded Amish man. “I promise I won't tell anyone what you've shared with me.”

Hulda's brow wrinkled. “You're too clever by half for your own good. And I can see that I'll have to be far more careful what I tell you.”

“Please don't be angry with me, Hulda.” Rachel moved to put her arms around her neighbor. “I'd never do anything to hurt any of them.”

Hulda's eyes clouded with emotion. “You can't promise that,” she said. “Not when you're investigating a murder. None of us can.”

“If the woman and her husband were separated, why wasn't her pregnancy a matter of town gossip?”

“I arranged for her to work for a friend in New Jersey. She left town after telling everyone that she and her husband were trying to reconcile. But there was no fixing that marriage. They'd married too young, and there were the usual problems: financial struggles, his infidelity, and his inability to hold a position more than a few months. When she came back to Stone Mill with the baby, no one paid much attention. But she's a good person and an excellent employee. She's been through enough, Rachel. No need to drag up old heartaches.”

But that was exactly what Billingsly had done with his tattletale column, Rachel thought as she cut across the driveway, headed home. He dragged up old scandals to sell newspapers. Was it possible that he'd learned about Abner's fall from grace and intended to use it to smear his good name?
Amish bishop involved in sex scandal
. That would titillate readers, not just in Stone Mill but all over the country. The story might be enough to generate the type of dirty publicity that poor Beth Glick's murder had done. She shivered as a finger of cold apprehension traced her spine. And what if Billingsly's death could be linked to the Amish community? She could see the headlines now:
Bishop's love child shocks Plain community!

Inside the back door, Rachel set the coffee carafe on the floor and shrugged out of her coat. As she lifted it to place it on a hook, she heard her keys jingle. She'd be looking in all her pockets tomorrow for them. Fishing them out of her pocket, she reached out to drop them in the basket on the wall that held keys and assorted junk. As she did, she caught a glimpse of a yellow paper tag . . . with
BB back door
written on it in her own handwriting.

As Rachel picked up the key, she felt slightly nauseated. BB. Bill Billingsly. It was the key to his back door. He'd given it to her over a year ago when she'd agreed to check on his cat while he was out of town. A peace offering that obviously hadn't amounted to anything. The missing cat.

She thought about what Evan had said about all the doors being locked in Billingsly's house when they'd found him. She was the one who had suggested someone else might have a key.

She dropped the key into the basket and wondered if it was time to start thinking about an attorney.

 

An hour later Rachel was just getting out of the shower when her cell phone rang. Wrapping a robe around herself, she hurried to the bed and retrieved it from her purse.

“Hey, Rache.” Evan's voice came deep and familiar. “Is this a bad time?”

“
Ne
.” She smiled and settled into a deep rocker. “I'd hoped you'd call.”

“Long day,” he said.

“How's it going?”

“Slow. But I have every reason to believe we'll get him,” Evan replied. “I've been thinking about you.”

“Me, too,” she admitted. “About you. Us. I'm sorry—”

His “I'm sorry” came at the same instant. “I shouldn't have been so—”

“Me either. I said things. . . .”

“We both said things that we shouldn't have.”

Her throat constricted. “We need to talk, Evan.”

“We do. I've got this engagement ring. . . .”

She thought about the key in the basket downstairs. “I didn't kill Billingsly,” she said, her voice surprisingly emotional.

“I never thought you did. It was . . . the other thing. You should have told me.”

“I should have.”

“I want to make this work, Rache. I love you. No matter what happened, no matter what you did, I still love you.”

“I love you, too.” She hesitated. “Do you want me to tell you what happened?”

“Can I come in?”

She glanced at the dark window, her forehead creasing. “Where are you?”

“Outside.”

She smiled again. “You'll have to wait while I get dressed.” She shrugged off her robe and went to her dresser for sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “Can you give me a minute? I was in the shower.”

“Actually, I need to talk to Skinner again. I see his rental is parked in the back. Is he there, or should I go to the Black Horse?”

“I think he's here. The light was on under his door when I came up. He could be out, but I think I heard him. Let yourself in. The kitchen door's open. You want me to send him down?”

“No. What's his room number?”

She gave Evan the room number. “Have time for coffee afterward?”

“Sure, and a sandwich if it's not too much trouble. No fuss. Grilled cheese will do. Haven't had time to eat today.”

“I'm sure there's something more substantial than that in the fridge,” she promised. “See you in a few minutes.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, as Rachel came down the stairs, she heard Skinner's raised voice coming from the front entrance hallway. “I didn't kill him and I'm leaving Friday, so if you want to arrest me, you'll need to do it soon. Either that or come find me in Colorado.”

Evan said something in response, but she couldn't make out his words. Then came the distinct sound of the front door closing. Hard. From the second-floor landing, she saw Evan standing under the chandelier in the front hall, making a notation in his notebook.

“Everything all right?” she called softly to him.

Evan looked up, his features set and unreadable. When their gazes met, he offered a half-smile and a shrug. “I think Mr. Skinner thinks I'm becoming a pest.”

She smiled. “You want to eat in here?” She gestured toward the dining table.

He shook his head. “You know me. I'm a kitchen-table kind of guy.”

“Me, too,” she agreed. “Girl . . . woman.” She waved her hand. “Whatever. I've got chicken salad, but there's got to be something I can heat up, if you want something hot.”

“Chicken salad sounds perfect,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “I'm starving.” He washed his hands at the sink and dried them with the towel she offered. At the table, he unfolded his big frame into a chair and watched as she set the table for them.

Once the simple fare was out, Rachel sat down across from him at the little table. “I take it that that interview didn't go well.”

“You smell good.” He reached up to touch a stray lock of hair that had sprung loose from her hastily secured ponytail. “And you look good, too.”

“Really?” She'd pulled on clean sweats when he'd said he was coming in. As usual, she wore no makeup. But his saying she looked nice made her cheeks grow warm. Evan was such a sweet guy, and she cared for him deeply. She truly did. “Thank you,” she murmured, wondering if they had a chance. Could they get through this rough patch and find a future together, or would what she'd done and the differences between them make it impossible? “My mother wouldn't approve,” she added. “Not of what I'm wearing or me sharing a late supper with you.”

“Unchaperoned?” He shook his head. “It's not as though we're alone in the house. You've got, what, a dozen guests upstairs?” He paused to take a bite of the chicken salad on thick wheat bread. “Delicious,” he murmured.

“To begin with, I'm not wearing a prayer
kapp
.” She glanced down at her oversized super-comfy pink sweatpants and chuckled. “I think it's all downhill from there.” She passed the macaroni salad, rich with chunks of ham and egg. “Help yourself. Ada just made it this morning. Come to think of it . . .” She went back to the fridge and returned with a covered dish of deviled eggs. She knew they were Evan's favorites. “Milk?” She loved watching him eat. He had good manners. He wasn't sloppy, but he always ate with enthusiasm, like a man who hadn't tasted anything so good in ages.

“I think I'd rather have hot tea,” he asked between bites. “Aren't you eating?”

“Sure.” She smiled. “I'll put the kettle on.” She got mugs and tea bags from the cupboard. “Why did you want to talk to Skinner again?” she asked as she returned to her chair.

“Because he lied to me about knowing Billingsly, and when you lie about one thing, that suggests you could be lying about something else. I confronted him with it, and he all but admitted that he hadn't been honest with me. But you can't arrest everybody who lies to you in an investigation. It happens more than you'd think. Some people lie to you on purpose, but others just can't recall the facts correctly. In Skinner's case, he flat-out lied.”

She paused, a forkful of the macaroni salad halfway to her mouth. Evan seemed so shocked. “Isn't that what I told you? Billingsly was obviously disturbed by Skinner's appearance at the school. I told you that they knew each other and there was some kind of problem between them. You could see it on Billingsly's face.” She put her fork down and leaned forward. “So you think Skinner might be a viable suspect for Billingsly's murder?”

“I haven't made up my mind. What I have so far is only circumstantial evidence and suspicions. I don't have anything that puts him at the murder scene. I don't even have a motive.”

“You said he had a police record for battery. Does that have any weight in the case?”

“Not really. It was years ago. A bar fight.” He took another bite of sandwich. “I did a little research on him on the Internet this afternoon. He's known in all of the Vietnam vet circles. He had an impressive record and campaigns for vets' rights. He did three tours in Vietnam. Decorated for bravery under fire. Honorable discharge.”