Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery) (3 page)

L
etting her nose guide her feet, Claire reached the bottom of the steps and turned right, the telltale aroma of her aunt’s blueberry pancakes calling to her as much for the normalcy they represented as for the mouthwatering good taste that was a given.

By the time she’d returned to the inn the previous night, Diane and the guests had all retired behind closed doors in anticipation of a new day. Initially Claire had been disappointed, her need to talk through the trauma of finding Harley Zook’s body virtually overwhelming. But by the time she’d slipped off her shoes and flopped onto her bed, the peace and calm that was Sleep Heavenly had begun to work its magic all on its own.

Sure, she’d woken up several times throughout the night, the image of the man’s tortured expression leaving her in a cold sweat. But somehow she’d managed to settle herself down each time with the knowledge that she was safe in her bed, the worry she had for Jakob firmly tucked away for examination at another time.

Unfortunately, with the dawn of a new day and the absolute certainty that word of another murder in town would unleash a resounding cry for answers, “another time” had arrived on her doorstep with a graceless thump.

“Good morning, Diane.” Claire pushed her way through the swinging door off the back hallway and stopped, the sights and sounds of her aunt’s kitchen embracing in their familiarity. “Mmmm, it smells amazing in here.”

Emerging from behind the refrigerator door, her father’s oldest sister hoisted two butter dishes into the air and smiled. “There you are! I tried to stay up and greet you last night, but I faded early. Next thing I knew, it was two o’clock in the morning and I was still in my apron and shoes!”

Claire sidled up to the breakfast bar and peeked into the bread basket, the corn muffins and giant-sized biscuits her aunt had made that morning kicking off a series of growls deep inside Claire’s stomach. “Wow.”

“I set aside an extra one for you over there.” Diane put the butter on the counter beside the basket, pointing the way toward the solitary corn muffin on a nearby warming tray as she did. “So, did you have fun with the maze, dear?”

With no need for a second invitation, Claire crossed to the counter space beside the oven and retrieved the waiting muffin, the still-warm treat a perfect—yet temporary—answer to the call of her stomach. She bit into the muffin, sans butter, and felt her eyes roll back in her head. “Oh my. This is really, really good, Aunt Diane.”

“It must be if it’s winning out over a play-by-play of your first Amish maze.”

She stopped chewing, swallowed, and returned the uneaten portion of muffin to the tray, the brief escape from reality over. “Oh yes, that.”

Diane returned to the griddle and the pancakes that had alerted Claire to the morning menu before she’d even left the second floor of the pristinely kept Victorian. Flipping one pancake after the other, the woman chuckled. “By your response, might I assume that Mose Fisher’s corn maze is harder than the ones you’ve conquered on an annual basis since you were five? Because if it was, I tried to warn you . . .”

“He has an expert trail inside the regular maze,” Claire offered before grabbing the muffin once again and finishing it off. “Esther told me about it.”

“Was it hard?” Diane reached for a third butter dish, cut a dozen or so thin slices from its stick, and deposited each one on top of a pancake before scooping them off the griddle and transferring them to a waiting plate.

There was a part of Claire that wanted to keep the details from Diane. Tales of murder, after all, had a way of dampening one’s mood. And the presence of a frown on Diane’s normally happy face wasn’t something Claire relished.

But Heavenly was Diane’s adopted hometown. She loved its people and its landscape with such genuine conviction and unwavering loyalty that it simply wasn’t fair to keep her from the truth. Especially when it was only a matter of time before the news reached the woman’s ears, anyway. At least this way, if Claire was the one to break the news, the facts would be accurate . . .

“I was actually making good time in that section when I found it—I mean,
him
,” she finally said.

Diane looked up from the plate of pancakes. “Him?”

Inhaling deeply, Claire searched for the most delicate way to steal her aunt’s smile. “Harley Zook.”

Diane’s smile widened still further before she turned back to the griddle and the pitcher of waiting batter. “Ahhh, Harley. That loose shutter outside the parlor window is hanging much better now because of him.”

She stared at her aunt. “Excuse me?”

“Harley Zook. He fixed that shutter I was telling you about last week. He showed up around lunchtime, nodded and smiled at me from the window, and made everything right again. He was here and gone in under twenty minutes.”

Eight circles of batter formed into pancakes on the griddle as Claire dissected her aunt’s words. “Did Harley fix stuff around here often?”

“All the time, dear. He’s so quick and thorough it’s really not any surprise people are lining up all over town and beyond to hire him for all sorts of fixes. And the way he’s taken that young man under his wing? It’s inspiring, really.” Diane took a moment from the almost-bubbling circles of batter to liberate the glass pitchers of syrup from the refrigerator and pop them in the microwave for a quick warming.

“Young man?”

“Patrick. Patrick Duggan.”

Claire plopped onto one of the two cushioned stools at the breakfast bar and eyed her aunt across the room. “And who is that?”

“The young man Harley has working for him as an apprentice, of sorts.”

“Okay . . .”

Diane removed the pitchers from the microwave in time to flip the latest round of pancakes. “Patrick is the son of Carl Duggan.”

“Carl Duggan,” Claire repeated softly, the name ringing a bell she couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Why does that name sound familiar? Have we met?”

“He’s the man who killed Harley’s brother, John, all those years ago. And that’s the crime that—”

“Prompted Jakob to leave the Amish in favor of becoming a policeman,” Claire finished for her aunt. “Wow. Harley hired the guy’s kid?”

“The day after Carl’s arrest, members of the Amish community tried to pay his wife and son a visit. They wanted Rita and Patrick to know that there were no hard feelings.” Diane paused, pre–pancake flip, and pointed a spatula at Claire. “The outside world could certainly learn a thing or two about forgiveness from the Amish, wouldn’t you say?”

She had to laugh. Only it was laced with sarcasm she didn’t bother to hide. “
Forgiveness?
”

Diane returned the spatula to the griddle. “The Amish are pacifists, you know. They believe in turning the other cheek.”

“And what about Jakob? They haven’t turned the cheek where he’s concerned, unless you count turning it
away
from him.” She saw her aunt’s raised eyebrow and knew it was a reaction to the hint of bitterness in Claire’s voice. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Diane. I just don’t understand how they can work beside a murderer’s son, yet they can’t forgive their own for leaving to pursue a noble calling. I mean, think about it . . . Jakob became a policeman, not an axe murderer. Though, from what you’re saying, he might have been better off in that pursuit.”

Diane added the latest round of pancakes to the plate, her lips drooping in an uncharacteristic frown. “The decision to be baptized for the Amish is a commitment. One they hold in the highest regard. If Jakob had left before baptism, he would still be allowed to have a relationship with his family. But he didn’t. He chose to be baptized, to become a true member of the Amish community, and
then
he left. That is why they turn their backs. He broke his word.”

Claire held up her hands as she slid off the stool. “I hear what you’re saying. I even get the idea in its most basic form. I just don’t agree with it is all. Especially not for someone as good and decent as Jakob Fisher.”

Wordlessly, Diane lifted the pancake platter and pitcher of syrup and made her way toward the dining room, Claire close behind with the juice pitcher and coffeepot. “It’s nice to hear you be so passionate about Jakob.”

Her aunt’s word choice and the poorly disguised hope with which it was spoken brought an instant warmth to Claire’s face, a warmth she rushed to extinguish for both herself and Diane. “Any passion you’re picking up, Aunt Diane, is for what’s right and wrong . . . not a particular person.”

Yet even as the words left her mouth, she couldn’t help but silently acknowledge the protective feelings the conversation had stirred up inside her heart.

For Jakob.

Any response Diane may have considered was negated by the sound of footsteps coming from the opposite side of the dining room, the six guests who were currently staying at Sleep Heavenly ready for breakfast. Claire would have to tell her aunt about Harley’s fate after the meal.

“Good morning,” Diane said in greeting as she stepped aside to afford each guest easier access to their spot at the table. “I hope everyone slept well?”

“We’ve vacationed in many places over the years, wonderful places I shall always remember fondly.” Carolyn McCormick took the chair to the right of her husband, Will, and draped a white linen napkin across her lap. “But honestly? I’ve never felt a greater sense of peace drifting off to sleep than I do here.”

The Arizona couple had checked in to Sleep Heavenly two days earlier and both had worn a smile ever since.

“I feel exactly the same way.” Roger Claymore gestured toward his wife, Callie. “Why, I just said to Callie last night that Heavenly is so quiet at night you could hear a pin drop one county over.”

“It’s nice to know
someone
got some sleep around here.”

All eyes turned toward the end of the table and the thirty-something couple from Chicago. “Was there something wrong with your accommodations?” Diane rushed to ask while simultaneously sending the platter of pancakes down the far side of the table, followed by the pitcher of syrup.

Megan Reilly paled at the question then rushed to correct an impression she obviously hadn’t meant to give. “Oh. No. The room is wonderful, Diane! And that bed is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.” Shaking her head ever so slightly, she peered at her husband, Kyle, and laughed. “My husband’s lack of sleep was because of me, and my constant tossing and turning.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Kyle made a face then reached for the juice Claire poured. When he was done, he draped an arm over his wife’s shoulder and planted a quick kiss at her temple.

Megan extracted three pancakes from the platter that had reached her hands. “As for why
I
was tossing and turning? That’s because all I want to do is find the ideal house for all of us, right here in Heavenly. The kids have spent the first few years of their lives in an apartment with not a lot of room to play. Here, there’s room, but I want it to be perfect.”

Swapping the now-empty juice pitcher for the coffeepot, Claire took a second lap around the table, filling each and every ceramic mug indicated by its owner. “I would imagine, in this economy, you’d have lots of homes to choose from,” Claire said. “In fact, if I remember from a walk I took last week, there are a few nice homes for sale about four blocks from here. And they all have big yards.”

Kyle handed the platter to a waiting Diane, then took the pitcher of syrup from Megan and poured a liberal amount over his pancakes. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. And we’ve seen some really nice houses.”

“True,” Megan agreed between bites of her breakfast. “But most of my must-have features have been spread out over different houses. If we build something new, all those must-haves and wish-we-coulds would be in one place.”

“So then build,” Will McCormick mused through the steam that rose from his coffee mug.

Diane disappeared into the kitchen only to return seconds later with a plate of crisp bacon in one hand and the basket of rolls in the other. “New home developments are rare in Heavenly. In fact, there are only three I can think of off the top of my head.”

Megan’s eyes lit up. “Three?”

“Two here on the English side of town. One on the Amish side.”

“That must be the one from yesterday morning,” Kyle said, looking at his wife. “You know the one I’m talking about . . .”