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.”
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.”