As Timothy turned on the road that held his family’s farm, a realization struck me. I grabbed his forearm. “Timothy!”
He shook off my grasp. “Chloe, don’t grab my arm like that when I’m driving. We could get into an accident.”
I retracted my hand as if burnt. “I’m sorry.” The warmth I felt walking hand in hand back to the truck evaporated like mist on a pond.
He flashed a quick smile. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I snapped at you like that. What is it?”
“I just realized Bishop Hooley is a shepherd.”
“So?”
I turned in my seat, so he could see my face. “Timothy, Ezekiel Young was stabbed with sheep shears.”
I watched as that news sunk in. “You don’t think the bishop . . . he wouldn’t . . . what motive would he have?”
I frowned. “I don’t know, but he would have shears.”
“Every Amish barn in the county has a pair of sheep shears.”
The memory of standing in the cloakroom at church came back to me. “When I was in the cloakroom at church and heard those two ladies gossiping, one suggested the haircutting was a message to the bishop about his rules imposed on the district. Maybe because the bishop was a shepherd, sheep shears were used to drive the point home?”
Timothy glanced at me. “Was that a pun?”
“No, I’m serious. Whoever is doing this wants the bishop to notice.”
“How could he miss it?” He turned to me again. “I’m not shooting down your ideas. You may be right. Let’s see what Grossdaddi has to say.” Timothy parked the truck by the Troyer home and got out. Mabel jumped out after him with a joyful woof. My hand hovered over the door handle of the passenger side. I’d broken my promise to myself. I was at the Troyer farm two days after I thought I would never be back. My fingers touched the handle. What if this visit was the final act to make the bishop decide to shun the Troyer family? I felt sick.
Through the windshield I saw Timothy frown. He walked to my side of the truck and opened the door. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want your family to be shunned,” I whispered.
“Neither do I,” Timothy said again as more snow began to fall.
“Then we shouldn’t be here, especially after the argument with the bishop.”
“It will be all right, Chloe.” He reached across my body and unbuckled my seat belt. His arm brushed my waist. “Let’s go inside.”
I climbed out of the truck, knowing it was a mistake.
When Timothy and I walked into the kitchen, Ruth was at the ironing board, pressing laundry with an old-fashioned iron that needed to be heated on the stovetop. “What are you doing here? You promised to stay away.”
“Watch your tongue, Ruth. I’m still your eldest bruder.”
She lifted her hand from the iron’s handle, leaving it on the white shirt in front of her. “I know that.”
Timothy hung his coat over a kitchen chair. “Where is Grossdaddi?”
Ruth didn’t look up. “In his room. He hasn’t been feeling well.”
Timothy left the room.
Ruth yelped and removed the iron from the shirt. A brownish burn mark marred the front of her father’s white dress shirt. “Now, look what you made me do. Maam is going to be furious. This is Daed’s new shirt too. He’s never even worn it.”
“Maybe she can fix it,” I said.
She gaped at me. “You don’t know anything about laundry.” She added under her breath, “Or our ways.”
I bit the inside of my lip. “Ruth, I’m sorry you haven’t seen Anna and you missed the wedding because of me. Can you forgive me?”
She looked up from her father’s ruined shirt. Tears were in her eyes. “If you were sorry, you’d stop coming here, but here you are.” She stormed out of the room.
Ruth’s words stung.
I should have followed my instincts and avoided the Troyer home. Lord, please give me the strength to stay away from this family I’ve grown to love.
Grandfather Zook stepped into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his crutches. Timothy followed him with his hands out poised and ready to catch his grandfather if he stumbled. Grandfather Zook took his place at the kitchen table with a groan. It was the first time I’d seen the older man show a visible sign of physical pain. He’d seemed better at the hospital right after his beard was cut.
“These old bones don’t work as well as they used to,” he lamented. “It’s like the cold weather freezes my joints. The winter can’t pass fast enough in my opinion.”
“Mine too,” I sat on the bench. “I much prefer summer. It’s been snowing here, but I don’t think you get as much snow as I’m used to in Cleveland.” I shivered. “And the cold wind coming off Lake Erie is enough to blow you flat on your back.”
Grandfather Zook grinned as if he liked the image of someone being blown over by a cold wind gust. “I shouldn’t complain. Gott created winter, so that we have a better appreciation for summers.”
“You might be right.” I squeezed his papery wrist.
Timothy sat across from me.
“Ruth stormed past us and up the stairs as we entered the kitchen.” Grandfather Zook rubbed his short beard. “She reminds me of Martha when she was that age. My, she was a hot potato. Just about anything would set her off.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Hot potato. Isn’t that an English phrase?”
Grandfather Zook grinned. “I heard an Englischer say it at the grocery store when talking about his wife a few weeks ago, and I liked it very much.”
Between “hot potato” and “perp,” Grandfather Zook was becoming fluent in American slang. I tried to imagine Mrs. Troyer as the moody “hot potato” that Grandfather Zook described. It didn’t fit.
“Where are Maam and Daed?” Timothy asked.
“They went to the funeral.” He frowned. “I wanted to go myself, but my legs are acting up, and I don’t have the strength to climb into the buggy.”
“The bishop won’t complain that they are there?’ Timothy asked.
Grandfather Zook pulled at his short beard. “He will, but no one will make a scene at the funeral.”
Timothy and I shared a look. I prayed that was true. And I hoped the bishop wasn’t too upset by our confrontation with him in the pasture that he would take it out on the Troyers. Grandfather Zook folded his hands on the table. “I hope Ellie’s not too upset with me for missing it.”
I patted his hand. “She will understand.”
He twisted his mouth in uncertainty. “What brings you two here? Not that I’m not happy to see you.”
I cleared my throat. “We want to talk to you again about the night you were attacked.”
Grandfather Zook nodded. “I thought you would come back to that. Ask away. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I knew you were investigating.”
I grinned. “You were hitching Sparky, and the person came up from behind you.”
“That’s right.”
“You said it was a man.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
His white bushy eyebrows shot up. “Yes. I heard him cry out when Sparky bit him. You think whoever cut my beard killed Ezekiel.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Ezekiel Young was a strong man. How could a woman stab him in the back like that?”
Rage, I thought. Complete and full-blown rage. The only problem was I couldn’t find anyone with rage against the flea market owner. Annoyance, disdain, jealousy, yes, but no rage.
Grandfather Zook propped his chin on his fist. “I guess the only one who really knows the killer’s identity, is Old Spark. He bit a chunk out of the perp after all.”
I smiled when he used the word “perp” again. I suspected it would be a permanent fixture in his working vocabulary.
“If you find that coat, you find the killer,” Grandfather Zook said after a long moment.
How could we find a black wool coat in a sea of black wool coats? It was like being in the church cloakroom all over again.
He stood on shaky feet. “You know, I don’t feel much better, but if you wouldn’t mind, I would love a ride out to Young’s. Pain or no pain, I have to pay my respects.”
Minutes later, I slid into the tiny backseat of the truck cabin with Mabel. Timothy helped his grandfather into the front passenger seat with care.
“Fire up your horses,” Grandfather Zook said after he was buckled in.
Timothy revved the engine, and the old man laughed.