Chapter 6
The following morning, Ms. Hess and her sister checked out early. They refused the free breakfast, saying that they’d eat on the road. They did, however, ask that she open the gift shop so that Ms. Hess could look at Mary Aaron’s “Diamond in the Square” crib quilt again. And Ms. Baird requested rooms for the coming weekend for the two of them.
“Are you certain the price isn’t negotiable?” Ms. Hess asked as she fingered the quilt. “Everyone dickers at flea markets.”
Rachel forced a smile, but before she could utter a suitable comeback, the sister filled the void.
“This is hardly a flea market, Tina, and this would be perfect for Sasha’s baby. The blanket could be displayed on the family room wall near their stone fireplace. It will become a family heirloom in days to come.”
Ms. Hess’s red lips puckered, and she peered over the rim of her pink glasses. “Did you see this?” She tugged at the cloth tag with the price worked in cross-stitch. The previous day’s tight yellow capris were nowhere in sight. Instead, she wore a pink-flowered, see-through top over the now-familiar tiger-striped bra, white shorts with Hottie spelled out in rhinestones on the back, and, of course, the four-inch wedges. Balanced on her arm was a high-end zebra-striped bag, presumably to match her bra.
Dealing with Ms. Hess this morning was almost comic relief after the previous day and the sleepless night Rachel had had. She’d wanted to go to her aunt’s this morning, but she knew that the police must still be holding her uncle, as she hadn’t heard otherwise from Evan. If she left Stone Mill House before seeing to her guests, Ada might make good on her threats and quit. And if Ada quit, Minnie and the other girls would go with her. Then where would she be? Without staff, that’s where. Without altering her uncle’s fate one iota.
“So leave the price on,” Ms. Baird suggested to her sister. “Aunt Dot will be impressed. A pity you didn’t snap a picture of the Aim-ish girl yesterday, the one she”—Ms. Baird pointed at Rachel—“said made it. It would have made the gift more special. You know, with the Aim-ish woman holding the blanket.”
“Rachel!” Ada called from the kitchen. “Minnie’s not here and . . .”
Rachel couldn’t hear the rest of it, but she did see her one remaining guest, Father Young, coming down the stairs. “I think I just need to pop into the dining room for a moment,” Rachel said to the two women. “Feel free to look around.”
“No,” Ms. Hess said. “We want to be in Lancaster for lunch. I’ll take the blanket. You accept credit cards, don’t you?”
Rachel motioned to the sign. “MasterCard and Visa.”
“Not American Express? That’s inconvenient,” Ms. Hess grumbled, but she produced a suitable credit card.
By the time Rachel had rung up the quilt and wrapped it, Ms. Baird had picked out three jars of Ada’s jam, a copper tray, an antique butter dish, and an original eight-by-ten watercolor of a one-room schoolhouse with a stream of children in the foreground. The figures were small and all painted from the back so that no faces were revealed.
“You want all of these?” Rachel asked, stunned. Apparently, she did. Ms. Baird paid in cash without a quibble over the prices.
Rachel waved as they hurried out the front door, overnight cases in hand. She couldn’t believe that she’d just sold Mary Aaron’s quilt and a painting at the same time. Mary Aaron would be ecstatic about the quilt. This was her first big sale, and it made the months of work worthwhile, something a lot of the Amish hadn’t expected.
“Use the sewing machine,” Aunt Hannah had advised. “It’s faster. The stitches are more even, and the Englishers won’t know the difference. No one makes quilts the old way anymore.”
But Mary Aaron did make it the old way, and it had paid off handsomely. And best of all, this sale might influence other women to emulate her. Even among the Amish, skills were being lost as the old people died. Maintaining centuries-old artistry was vital to their community and their faith. Few large families could survive on farming alone in these difficult economic times, and people all over the country were coming to appreciate Amish artistry. Women, married or unmarried, didn’t have to choose between picking apples, working behind the counter at a fruit stand, or cleaning other people’s houses. Thanks to the Stone Mill Heirloom Arts website, the possibilities for real alternatives were unlimited.
But Rachel didn’t have time to savor this small success. Father Young would want his breakfast. With Minnie not there, Rachel would need to see to her guest personally. Ada cooked, but she didn’t serve. And she spoke only Deitsch to the visitors, pretending that she didn’t understand English. If she hadn’t been such a miracle worker in the kitchen, Rachel might have rethought her decision to hire Ada in the first place.
Father Young was both pleasant and hungry. He drank most of a pot of coffee and devoured scones, strawberries, pancakes, eggs, toast, and bacon. Today, he’d planned a hike up Black Mountain onto state game lands, and he asked if it was possible to purchase a bag lunch. She assured him that it was no trouble, and no charge. It was the least she could do since he’d missed Ada’s wonderful afternoon tea.
Rachel was just clearing away the breakfast dishes when her brother Levi walked into the kitchen from the back door. Rachel waved him into the dining room and told him to help himself to the breakfast goodies. Levi was always hungry, and although their mother was a good cook, her baked goods didn’t come close to Ada’s.
“Watch out,” Levi warned between bites of almond scone. Rachel handed him a napkin, and he wiped the ring of milk off his mouth. “Mam’s set on sending the deacon around to try and convince you to give up this house and come home for good.” Eleven years old, he was the dark-haired one of the brood, but he had the same color eyes as Rachel. He was a good-natured scamp, and she thought he might be the brightest of all her brothers.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Rachel asked. “Does Mam know you’re here?” Her mother disapproved of the younger children visiting Stone Mill House.
Rachel supposed her mother thought that she would try to lure them away from Amish ways with television cartoons and iPads. What Mam didn’t know, and would probably dislike even more, was that Levi came to read. He’d just finished Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and he was halfway through Treasure Island. One of the rooms upstairs had been a library, and she’d taken immense pleasure in filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves with secondhand volumes of classics that George O’Day acquired for her.
“No school this morning.” Levi grinned. “Teacher’s not feeling good from having her teeth pulled. I have to be there at eleven, and we won’t get recess in the afternoon.”
“And Mam didn’t have chores for you?”
He shrugged. “She thought there was school. She went to Aunt Hannah’s.” He stuffed a strip of now-cold bacon into his mouth. “Did Uncle Aaron really kill Willy O’Day?”
“No, he didn’t. How could you ask such a thing?”
“Jesse said they took his dat away and locked him in a prison, just like the old martyrs. He said Uncle Aaron couldn’t come home until he was a hundred years old.”
“Jesse is wrong, too. I don’t know what happened to Willy, but Uncle Aaron would never hurt anyone.”
“Oh, and Jesse said to tell you that Mary Aaron can’t come today. Her mother needs her. And . . . and . . .” He stuffed another slice of bacon in his mouth. “She’s sorry.” He stood up. “Can I go upstairs and read?”
She considered, knowing that she didn’t have the heart to forbid him access to the books that she’d loved when she was his age—children’s favorites that she would never have known existed if it hadn’t been for kindly Mrs. Schenfeld. “For a little while, but listen for the clock on the landing. When it chimes ten thirty, you scoot.” She reached out and brushed down his cowlick. “How did you get here? Did you come on your scooter-bike?”
Levi headed for the stairs. “Zebby Beiler’s pony. I cut through the woods. I won’t be late.”
Once Levi was gone, Rachel stood for a moment gathering her thoughts and making a plan for the morning. Since neither Minnie nor Mary Aaron was coming today, she’d have to make up the guest rooms and do the laundry herself. She’d start with Father Young’s room so that if he returned early and wanted an afternoon nap, she wouldn’t have to disturb him.
She went to the kitchen to gather the cleaning supplies. Changing linen, vacuuming, and dusting three guest rooms were only a start to the day’s housekeeping. There was the staircase, the landing, and the upstairs hall to sweep, the bathrooms to scrub. And while she was at it, she took the opportunity to air out the scatter rugs and replace the vase of flowers that stood in the downstairs entranceway. By the time she’d thrown the last load of sheets into the commercial washer in a laundry room, it was after two.
Did she have time to drive over to Aunt Hannah’s? There was an electric bill to be paid, but she could do that online. She needed to check her email to see if there were any more inquiries or, hopefully, reservations.
“Rachel!” Ada’s voice called from the kitchen. “An Englisher to see you!” The last bit of information was yelled in Deitsch.
In the kitchen, she found Ada, barefoot, her back to the visitor, kneading dough on the butcher block island with all her might.
“Evan?” Rachel looked at Ada with her back to him and rolled her eyes. Ada had known Evan since he was no older than Levi, yet for the most part, she ignored him because he was English.
Evan wasn’t wearing his uniform, which meant it wasn’t an official visit, but his expression was grave. “Good news, I hope?” Her tone was one of false cheerfulness.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of lemonade. She filled two tall glasses. “Listen for the dryer, would you, Ada? When it rings, take out the load and fold it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sun’s out,” Ada replied, again in Deitsch. “Why didn’t you hang the towels out on the line?”
“Maybe next time,” Rachel answered. She loved the smell of towels hung in the sunshine, too, but guests, she’d learned, preferred their towels fluffy and smelling of fabric softener.
She picked up the glasses and motioned to Evan to bring the pitcher. He held the door open for her, and they went out into the back and crossed the yard to the seating area under the grapevine arbor. It was one of her favorite spots around the house. She’d strung twinkle lights over the arbor and planted shrubs and flowers that attracted butterflies and hummingbirds.
Evan sat on the cushioned glider, and she handed him his lemonade and took a seat beside him. It never failed to amaze her how comfortable she was with him and how much they enjoyed each other’s company. Sometimes, when weather permitted, they would sit out here in the evening and enjoy a glass of wine. It was too early in the afternoon to offer Evan wine, but she almost wished that it weren’t.
“It is good news, isn’t it?” she urged. “They’ve realized that they’ve made a mistake. They’re going to let Uncle Aaron go home?”
“I just dropped him off at his farm,” he said. “They haven’t arrested him yet, but you’ve got to get over there, Rache. You’ve got to talk some sense into him.”
Suddenly, she didn’t want her lemonade. She felt as if the swing were falling and the ground were a long way off. “But if they let him go, surely—”
“Listen to me,” he said quietly. It wasn’t Evan’s way to raise his voice. He was a gentle man. He’d been soft-spoken even when they were kids. He didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, he commanded attention. “This is serious. Someone . . . I can’t say who . . . told me that an arrest is imminent. And if he doesn’t accept legal counsel—and post bail—he’ll end up in county prison. I don’t think I have to elaborate on what that would do to a man like Aaron.”
She exhaled, thinking. “Do we . . . Do the police know how long Willy’s body has . . . you know, been there?”
“ME’s initial report will take another day or two, but the coroner who came for the body confirmed that it looked as if it had been there about eight months.”
Rachel bit the inside of her lip. “Did anyone say why Uncle Aaron was going to be arrested? I mean, specifically.”
He frowned. “No, but I have an idea it has something to do with the book they found on the body.”
She glanced at him. “What book?”
“A notebook. A journal. Whatever you want to call it,” he told her, obviously wrestling with whether or not he should say even that much.
She waited.
“Apparently, he kept track of things. Groceries to pick up. Phone calls to make. Whatever.” He took a sip of lemonade. “There was a page dated the day he disappeared. Across the top were the letters A, T, B, R.”
“A, T, B, R,” she repeated. “What does it mean?”
“We don’t know. Not yet. I’m sure someone will ask George.”
She swirled the ice in her glass, stared down at it. This isn’t happening. In a few minutes, she would wake up and discover that it had all been a bad dream. But reason told her that she was refusing to face reality. “He’s no killer. Uncle Aaron.”
“That said, there was bad blood between him and Willy O’Day. The whole valley knows it. Everyone knows they argued at the auction a week before he disappeared. And the year before that, there was a disagreement over where the other’s property line started and ended. I know that for a fact because I was called to calm them both down in the grocery store parking lot.”
“Having an argument isn’t proof of murder. They can’t arrest someone for murder without proof.” Her gaze met his. “There isn’t proof, is there?”
“I’ve already said too much, Rache. I’m risking my career by discussing the case with you. It’s unprofessional, to say the least.” He stood up and placed his lemonade on the table beside the wooden glider. “If your uncle’s innocent, why won’t he cooperate? Why won’t he answer our questions?”
It was a sunny May afternoon. The temperature was seventy degrees, but Rachel suddenly felt chilly. Goose bumps rose on her bare arms. “He doesn’t understand. It’s a matter of faith. The way Uncle Aaron sees it, he didn’t do anything wrong. Denying it or accepting the help of a lawyer would be admitting to a lack of faith in God’s plan.”
“This could destroy his life.”
She hugged herself. “Even if he’s innocent? I thought you believed in our legal system—innocent until proven guilty.”
“I do believe in it. You know I do. You know how long I wanted to be a cop, to do something positive with my life. But you’re not like the rest of your family. You know enough about the world to know that bad things happen to good people. Justice is blind, Rache. It doesn’t make exceptions for Amish acts of faith. You need to convince him to accept help, or it may go very badly for him.”
“I’ve tried. He wouldn’t listen,” she protested.
“Try harder.”
“I don’t know that I can do anything to change his mind. He doesn’t trust me.” She looked up at him. “To him, I’m a lost soul.”
“That may be true, but he trusts you more than he trusts me.” Evan placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe you could talk to your aunt. Get her to work on him. They have young children and a farm. What will happen to her and his family if he goes to jail?”
“Can you at least find out exactly what evidence they have against him?”
Evan shook his head. “I can’t.” He took a step back away from her. “I shouldn’t even have come here.” A muscle twitched on the side of his jaw. “But I had to. You might be his only chance.”
“I’ll go and try to talk some sense into him.” She rose. “Into all of them. Of course, I’ll go.” She always thought of Evan as being a big man, but standing beside him, he wasn’t all that much taller than she was. “It means a lot to me that you would care enough to come to me.”
He nodded. “You’re special to me, Rache,” he admitted huskily. “You know that . . . Always have been.”
“You, too,” she answered.
As they gazed into each other’s eyes, something passed between them. Something that suggested maybe it was time to take their relationship to the next level. Or to at least admit that there was a relationship, for starters. But this wasn’t the place. It certainly wasn’t the time. And they both knew it.
Half an hour later, Rachel stood outside her Uncle Aaron’s enormous two-story stone barn with Mary Aaron and her Aunt Hannah. The double doors were open, and inside the center hallway, her uncle and Mary Aaron’s brother John Hannah were putting the harness on a team of workhorses. Her cousin Elsie, nineteen, was sweeping the back step. Rachel saw none of the younger cousins and assumed that they hadn’t gotten home from school yet. It seemed a normal workday, one that Rachel had witnessed hundreds of times before in her own childhood. But it wasn’t.
“You just missed your mam,” Mary Aaron said. “She and Lettie left not ten minutes ago.” She touched her kapp and looked at Rachel meaningfully.
Understanding the silent warning, Rachel adjusted her kerchief. It had slid backward, revealing more of her hair than was appropriate. “I didn’t see the buggy.”
“They walked across the fields. You know your mother,” her aunt said. Aunt Hannah’s eyes and nose were red, as if she’d been crying. She seemed agitated, which Rachel could certainly understand. Having a body discovered on her farm and having her husband questioned for the crime must have been terrible for her.
“It was good of Aunt Esther to come and stay with Mam,” Mary Aaron said. She glanced at her father and brother and then back to her mother. “Mam’s been beside herself.”
“My nerves can’t take much more, I can tell you.” Aunt Hannah looked down at her everyday apron and brushed at the stains. “The bishop’s wife came and prayed with us.”
“She’s a kind woman.” Rachel glanced in the direction of the barn again. “I was hoping to talk to Uncle Aaron—”
“He doesn’t want to see you.” She shook her head for emphasis. “ ‘Keep Rachel away from me,’ he said. ‘I’ve told her that I don’t need her help, and I don’t want any English lawyer speaking for me.’ ”
“But I just want to help,” Rachel replied. She’d been afraid of this. Her uncle hadn’t been happy that she’d come to the police station. They’d never been close, even before she left Stone Mill. And since her return, he’d openly expressed his disapproval that she’d not yet rediscovered her Amish faith.
“You don’t believe this is over, do you?” Mary Aaron reached for her mother’s hand. “Mam, isn’t there anything you can say to make him listen to her? She knows way more about the English world than Dat does.”
“If your father is innocent, the Lord will protect him.”
“She doesn’t doubt Dat,” Mary Aaron hurried to say. “We know he didn’t do this terrible thing.”
Rachel stood there for a moment, then turned away from them and walked to the barn door. She didn’t need her aunt’s permission to speak to her uncle. And she couldn’t leave here without at least trying. “Uncle Aaron,” she called, “it’s Rachel.”
“I know who it is. I heard that car of yours. Go away,” her uncle called. “This is none of your affair.”
“Please, just listen to me. I—”
“Ne. Enough. Best you leave before I say things that cannot be unsaid.” He turned his back on her and strode deeper into the interior of the barn. John Hannah cast a sympathetic look in Rachel’s direction, but his father called back. “John!”
He followed his father into the barn.
Her uncle’s glance had carried such dark anger that she felt as though she’d been slapped. Stunned, she turned toward her aunt, but Hannah was already walking toward the house.
Mary Aaron came to her and put her arms around her. “You see how he is? How they both are? You have to help us, Rachel.”
“If he won’t help himself—”
“He won’t,” her cousin whispered. “You can see that. But we’re your family. You have to do something.”
The back of Rachel’s eyelids stung. She wasn’t a crier, but she wanted to weep now. She felt so hurt . . . so helpless. She looked into Mary Aaron’s eyes. “If there was anything I could do, you know I would. But we have to trust that justice will prevail. This is a matter for the authorities.”
“But you’re smart. You know how the English world works. You could find the man who is truly guilty of this. If you learn who killed Willy, they’ll let Dat go.”
“Mary Aaron, I don’t know the first thing about investigating a murder. That’s a police detective’s job.”
“You’re as smart as any policeman.”
Rachel sucked in a ragged breath. Thought for a moment. “I guess I could ask a few questions.”
“Ya, you can. And I’ll help you. I’ll talk to our people . . . the ones who don’t want to talk to you. Together . . . we could do this.” Mary Aaron’s eyes were pleading. “Please, Rachel.”
She found herself nodding. “I’ll do what I can. It won’t hurt to nose around a little because . . .”
“Because if Dat is innocent,” Mary Aaron murmured, saying what they were both thinking, “the man who killed Willy is still out there, and he . . .”
“Might kill again,” Rachel finished. She shivered. One murder in Stone Mill was terrible enough . . . but what if Willy’s death wasn’t the end of it? She knew every person in this valley. Who else might be in danger?