Instead of walking around the Amish farmers’ market, I decided to go through it. The more people around, the safer I would feel. Besides, if I brought home some fresh fruit, it might cheer up Becky. I kept my eye out for Curt and Brock. Part of me expected them to jump out from behind one of the buggies parked around the square.
I meandered near three young women sitting at a table of pies and staring at me. As I passed, I heard whispering but tried to think nothing of it. The acknowledgment that someone had deliberately tried to cause me harm—a.k.a. kill me—left a burning in my stomach and a trembling in my body that I couldn’t completely control.
The fruit stand sat in the middle of the square by the town’s fountain, which had a bronze replica of Johnny Appleseed leaning against an apple tree in it. A mischievous grin marked the statue’s face. Dozens of donor names were chiseled into the cement wall encircling the fountain.
I picked up a green quart container of strawberries. Becky would be able to make a pie with them. “How much for the strawberries?” I asked the fruit seller, an Amish girl who was no more than fifteen.
The Amish girl scowled. “Two dollars.”
“I’ll take them.”
Gruffly, she took the strawberries from my hand and dumped them into a plastic shopping bag. I handed her the money.
A middle-aged Amish woman marched to the girl’s side and said something in their language. The girl hung her head and put the strawberries back into the green carton while the older woman removed my two dollars from the money pouch sitting on the table. “Here is your money.”
I didn’t take the bills. “Is something wrong?”
She tried to force the money back into my hands.
“What about the strawberries?”
Her eyes narrowed. “We cannot sell to you.”
When I wouldn’t take the money, she placed it on the table in front of me. “What do you mean?”
The younger Amish woman replied in their language, but the only word I understood was “Glick.” My stomach dropped. This was about Bishop Glick and Becky. I stepped away from them and left the money on the table. Part of me wanted to scream for this injustice against Becky, and reveal that my brake line had been cut, but my saner, calmer side prevailed. I bit back the retorts that would only spread more gossip through the district.
I felt the eyes of the Amish watching me as I wove around the booths and card tables. Not until I turned the corner on Grover Lane did I let out a sigh of relief. If the Amish treat me this way, how will they treat Becky?
At the house, Becky sat on a brown folding chair on our rickety front porch. Gig was in her lap, purring. Since the house faced east, the morning light leaked though holes in the porch’s roof and reflected off of her white-blonde hair, giving her an otherworldly halo.
When she saw me, she jumped up from the chair. Gigabyte hung from her unbroken arm and yowled, so Becky opened the front door and placed the cat inside. “Chloe, I have great news!”
I blinked. “You do?”
She hopped from foot to foot. “Remember, I told you about Cookie and Scotch last night?”
I climbed the last step to the porch. “Yes.”
“They own Little Owl Greenhouse, and I called Cookie this morning. She offered me a job!”
I leaned against the post. It shifted under my weight, and I shuffled away. Probably a good thing Timothy planned to mend it. “She gave you a job over the phone?”
“Yes. I start Monday!”
“Without an interview?”
“Cookie said she didn’t need to interview me because I was so responsible for calling her right away. She knew I would be perfect for the greenhouse.”
My forehead wrinkled. “Do you know anything about plants?”
“Of course. My family has a huge garden.”
I paused. “Are the plants the greenhouse sells different from those in an Amish garden?”
Her face fell. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“Becky, I am happy, but I’m surprised too. Where is the greenhouse?”
“Just off”—she paused—“Butler Road.”
I inhaled and glanced at the sky before bringing my gaze back to Becky. “How are you going to get there? We don’t have a car.”
Becky shifted from one foot to another. “I told Cookie that, and she and Scotch will drive me until you have a car again.”
I mulled that one over. “That’s awfully nice of them.”
“They live near the square too, so they don’t have to go out of their way or anything.”
I pointed at her cast. “Did you tell them about your arm?”
“Yes, but Cookie said there was plenty of other work for me to do.” She peered at me. “Isn’t this great?”
I nodded, still unsure. And yet, I too was hired over the phone.
Becky sat back down in her chair. “What happened at the police station?”
I relayed my visit to the police station, but decided not to mention the incident at the farmers’ market.
“Why didn’t you tell me about those men in the pickup?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.” Tentatively, until I knew it could hold my weight, I leaned on the crooked railing surrounding the porch. Sunshine warmed my back.
She frowned. “Why does everyone treat me like a child? Even you, Chloe.”
“We want to protect you.”
She took a deep breath and looked away. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know.” I shifted to allow more sun onto my shoulders. “Can you tell me about the accident? I haven’t heard about it from you yet, at least not all of it.”
“I turned onto Butler Road and drove to the top of the hill. Everything was fine. I thought I would make it to the greenhouse and back before you got home from work.” Becky faced me again. “I wanted to surprise you with my new job.”
“How do you know how to drive a car?”
“Isaac has a license. He got it during his rumspringa. He’s always been fascinated with mechanical contraptions, so he took me out several times in his truck and taught me. I know we shouldn’t have been doing that. It was a secret we shared.”
I winced. Having been the one who taught Becky how to drive could only make the young Amish man feel worse. “Isaac is no longer in rumspringa?”
“No, he was baptized last spring.”
“What happened when you reached the top of the hill?”
“I wasn’t going fast, maybe thirty-five miles per hour. It’s steep there and the truck’s speed picked up fast. I tapped the brake to slow down and the pedal went all the way to the floor. By this time, the car was coasting at over fifty. I saw it on the numbers behind the steering wheel.”
“The speedometer?”
She shrugged. “If that’s what you call it.” She closed her eyes and her voice shook. “I couldn’t stop. There were brambles along the road at the bottom where the road curves. I pointed the car at those, thinking they’d stop me.” She was silent, her eyes closed for a full minute. If I didn’t know better I would have thought she had dozed off.
I prodded her. “So you hit the brambles . . .”
She took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. “No. As I got there, Bishop Glick’s buggy came around the bend in the road. I couldn’t do anything. There was no time to turn the car in another direction.”
Despite the warm sun on my back, a chill ran down my spine.
“I saw the horse first. I turned the steering wheel hard to the right to miss the animal, but by doing that I hit the buggy full on instead.” She rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Bishop Glick recognized me. He saw it was me who hit him before he died.”
I walked over to her, knelt by the chair, and wrapped her in a hug.
“It’s my fault,” she whispered between sobs.
Her tears soaked through the shoulder of my yellow T-shirt. “You shouldn’t have been driving the car. You know that, but remember what the police chief said. Someone cut the brake line. You had nothing to do with that.”
She sat up and used the end of her long braid to dry her eyes. “Do you really think it was those men?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
A hiccup escaped her. “What if it’s not? Who else could have done this?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” She asked the question again, her voice an octave higher.
Again, I told her all that I really could at this point. “I don’t know.”