Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery) (7 page)

T
he sun was just rising into its mid-morning position when Jakob turned onto the long dirt driveway belonging to the late Harley Zook. Claire pressed her forehead to the passenger side window and peered out at the line of trees separating the Amish farm from the outside world.

“You don’t think Esther and Eli will end up moving north or west, do you?” she asked, taking in the occasional rusting metal box visible through breaks in the foliage. “Eli is a go-getter for sure, but he’s also a farmer at heart.”

The car slowed as they approached a bend in the path, Jakob’s attention flitting between the deceased’s property and Claire’s question. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I sure hope they stick around for Martha and Abram. But when there’s no farmland to be had, it certainly makes that option a bit tougher to exercise.”

“Maybe they could buy
that
.” She pointed through gaps in the trees to a stretch of vacant land on the other side. “It certainly doesn’t look like it would be missed.”

“Won’t happen. There’s more money to be had in building homes. Add to that the fact that more homeowners bring more tax revenue for the county and, well, suffice it to say Eli will need to consider other income-producing options if he and Esther hope to stay in Heavenly.”

Jakob was right. Her sitting there, brewing over the unfairness of things, wasn’t going to change anything. Except, perhaps, her mood . . .

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all mopey on you like that.” Claire straightened in her seat, changing her view to the simple yet sturdy fence that lined the edges of Zook’s farm. In the distance, Holsteins grazed, their mouths moving constantly despite the lack of any discernible food source. Ahead and to their left stood a long, white, meticulously kept building Jakob referred to as the cows’ milking quarters—the bread and butter of the victim’s farm.

“Looks like the girls lived well out here . . .” His words morphed into a long, low whistle as he slowed to a stop beside a not-so-meticulously kept farmhouse. “Certainly better than Zook, it seems.”

She felt her jaw slack open as she, too, took in the peeling paint around the windows, the sagging roof atop the front porch, and the rotting stairs that led to the misshapen door. Along a rural road anywhere else in the country, she wouldn’t have batted an eye. But an Amish farmhouse? In Lancaster County? It didn’t fit . . .

“Harley
was
still Amish, wasn’t he?” she finally asked, the question rather rhetorical against the haunting memory of the body she found propped against a shovel barely thirty-six hours earlier. “I-I didn’t know there were Amish who lived so”—she stopped, swallowed—“so . . .
sloppy
.”

“Harley always was one to march to a different drum. But somehow, he was still respected. By everyone but Mose Fisher, anyway.” Jakob began shaking his head even before he finished uttering his father’s name aloud, his hand guiding her focus away from his pained expression and back to the house. “Good thing he worked his fix-it business from his buggy, huh? Because I’m thinking this place probably would have scared off any and all prospective customers.”

And it was true. If a potential client had seen Harley’s house, they’d have doubted his prowess with a hammer and nails. Yet, according to items Diane had pointed out around the inn, the man was talented with his hands. Some might even say gifted if you took into account items he built rather than fixed.

“I knew a reporter once. He wrote all sorts of articles—crime, features, hard news, you name it. But ask him to write a letter or anything outside his work hours, and it was like pulling teeth. He used to say the last thing he wanted to do on his own time was write.” Claire reached for the toolbox she’d set on the floor between her feet. “Maybe that’s how Harley felt about fixing things. He could do it for work, but on his own time he’d rather take care of his cows.”

She moved the toolbox to her lap then shifted in the seat to afford a better view of Jakob. “I mean, if you think about it, running a dairy farm is a full-time job for many of the Amish in this area, isn’t it? But for Harley it was one of two jobs.”

“True.” He liberated the box from her lap and jerked his head toward his door and the metal fence beyond. “So? Should we find Mary’s escape route and seal it off?”

Answering by way of opening her car door, Claire stepped onto the dirt driveway and lifted her chin to the early-morning sun, an unexpected odor assailing her senses with an immediate punch. “Ewww! What on earth is that?” she asked from behind her hand. “It’s . . . it’s
rancid
.”

Jakob lifted his nose into the air as he, too, stepped from the car and sniffed, once, twice. “That, Claire, is the telltale smell of spoiled milk.”

She lowered her hand to her side, opting to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose. “I’ve smelled spoiled milk before,” she protested.

“From the confines of your refrigerator, perhaps. But that’s the smell of many, many gallons of spoiled milk.” Tightening his grip on the handle of his toolbox, he motioned for her to follow as he crossed the driveway and headed toward a large troughlike contraption with several dozen smaller containers inside. The closer they got, the more intense the smell became. “Yep, that’s spoiled milk, alright.”

“Why would he leave it out here in the first place?”

“The bigger dairy farms use bulk cooling tanks with agitators to keep the milk moving. Harley’s obviously wasn’t one of them.”

“And people drink that?” she said, pressing down on her nose once again in an unsuccessful attempt to blot out the smell.

“Farms that store milk in cans like these”—he swept his free hand toward the trough—“can’t sell for the same higher price as the ones with the bulk cooling tanks. Instead, the milk is classified as Grade B and used for cheese.”

“I’m not sure I ever want to eat another piece of cheese if this is where it comes from,” she murmured.

“The only reason it smells this bad is because the trough is dry. Normally, the Grade B producers store their milk cans in cold water—hence, the trough—as it waits to be picked up by whatever company they’re selling to.” Jakob ran his hand across two or three milk cans, shaking his head as he did. “Pickups never take place on Sunday for the Amish, but that doesn’t explain this smell or the fact these are still sitting here at all.”

“Harley’s dead now, Jakob.”

“True. But I doubt the company who picks up his milk is aware of that yet.” Jakob stepped back and eyed the rest of the cans with casual interest. “Then again, if Harley was in the habit of letting the trough go dry, I imagine the driver wouldn’t bother loading the cans into his truck if they even stop by at all, anymore.”

She removed her hand from her nose and mouth to speak but got a gulp of spoiled milk–laden air instead. Coughing, she pointed toward the fence in the distance and waited for him to take her cue.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He looped his free hand through her arm and led her as far from the assortment of milk cans as possible. When they’d reached a breathable distance, he stopped and looked from side to side. “Do you see any holes anywhere?”

With a deep, cleansing breath or two under her belt, Claire examined the fence that lined the farm, its shiny metal railing reflecting the late October sun with a brilliance that defied the morning’s autumn temperatures. “No, I don’t see any—wait!” She stepped to the right and then the left, bobbing her head from the path of the sun as she did. “Down there . . . The gate is open.”

“Ahhh. So Mary didn’t
escape
, she simply accepted an open invitation, eh?” Jakob fell into step beside Claire, his head shaking side to side. “I don’t care what kind of animal it is, if you leave a gate open, they’re going to wander off. Even the Amish ones.”

It felt good to laugh. And it felt good to do it with Jakob. “Maybe Mary didn’t know she was Amish.”

“Maybe . . .” When they reached the gate, Jakob pulled it shut and slipped the impressive latch into place. “There. Now, whoever takes over the herd will actually
get
a herd.”

At the sudden downward turn to Jakob’s voice, Claire’s smile disappeared. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”

“He not only understood my choice sixteen years ago; he respected it, too.” Jakob rocked back on his heels and looked up at the clear blue sky. “Since he was the only one able to do that, I guess you could say I kind of had a soft spot for Harley Zook.”

“He had the capacity to be open-minded, that’s for sure.” Claire backed against the fence, her focus drawn to the pensive quality of Jakob’s face and stance. “I’m not sure how many people would be able to disassociate someone from their sibling’s killer the way he did. And to give the kid a job? I’m not sure I could ever be a big enough person to do something like that.”

Jakob pinned her with a stare. “Excuse me?”

“Harley hired the guy’s son as an apprentice for his carpentry business. ”

“
Guy?
Jakob echoed.

“I think Aunt Diane said his name was Patrick.” At Jakob’s blank stare, she revisited his question. “Wait. You mean the father? I can’t remember his name. You’d know it far better than I would.”

When it was still apparent Jakob was lost, she tried again. “Carl Duppan . . . Ducken . . . I don’t know, but it was something like that.”

“Carl Duck—?” Jakob’s face drained of all color. “Do you mean
Carl Duggan
?”

“Duggan?” She tried the name on for size, Diane’s voice in her head confirming its match. “Yes! That’s it! That’s the man who killed Harley’s brother, right?”

At Jakob’s nod, she continued, repeating the basic sentiment that had brought them to this spot in the first place. “Can you imagine hiring that man’s son as your apprentice sixteen years later?”

This time, instead of reacting with a mere look and a dose of confusion, Jakob took off in a sprint toward the car, his footfalls nearly silent against the hard-packed earth. “C’mon. I’m gonna have to take a rain check on that post-fence-fixing coffee I promised you.”