A Churn for the Worse (22 page)

Slowly, inch by inch, Claire maneuvered Diane's car between the trailer ruts that lined Weaver's driveway, each miscalculation on her part making her head ache all the more. Her being there was probably futile. Mervin Weaver wasn't going to be able to tell her anything about Carly's true identity that she didn't already know.

Carrot Thief and Carly were one and the same horse. Of that, she had no doubt.

But it was the how and the why behind that reality that had made it impossible for Claire to sleep. Well, that and the knowledge that she was about to hurt Esther.

When she reached the parking area, she shifted the car into park and studied the weathered building off to her left. Long and squatty compared to the majority of barns in Amish country, the Weaver barn was strictly about horses. Some stalls, from what she'd learned while visiting
with Diane, were rented by Englishers looking to board their personal horses. A few stalls housed Weaver's own team. But most of the stalls served as temporary housing for the horses Mervin bought at auction and then sold to local Amish.

Somehow, some way, Carrot Thief had been one of those horses. And, because of that, Esther had grown attached to a horse that wasn't hers to love.

Releasing a pent-up burst of air from deep inside her chest, Claire reached for the door handle, only to pull her hand back in favor of reaching for her phone and giving in to the sudden and overwhelming need to delay the inevitable. Seven digits later, she started counting rings . . .

One.

Two.

“Heavenly Treasures. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Annie, it's me.”

“Hello, Claire.”

She closed her eyes in an effort to savor Annie's telephone voice and everything it represented. In it, she could sense an excitement that so many of Annie's English counterparts would never know. To them, a phone was routine, normal. To Annie, it was like visiting a foreign land.

“Claire?”

“I'm here, I'm here.” Forcing herself to get to the point, Claire began firing off the same spate of questions she always asked if Annie was in the shop alone. “Any issues opening? Do you have enough money in the drawer to start the day? Any problems I should know about?”

“All is well, Claire. I have made two sales already this morning.”

Claire glanced at the dashboard clock. “Okay, that's good news.”

“Yah. But now my shelf is empty.”

“Your shelf?”

“I sold Martha's birdhouse and Ben's birds.”

“Wow. Two birdhouses in less than twenty-four hours. Martha will be pleased.”

“Yah.”

She turned her head to the left and gazed out at the stable once again, a handful of horses now visible through open exterior panels. Annie was fine. Keeping her on the phone any longer was really more about Claire stalling the inevitable than anything else. “Thanks, Annie, for going it alone this morning. I promise I'll get there as quickly as I can.”

“There is no hurry. I am fine.”

“I know you are.” And she did. Annie had proven that many times over in the handful of months they'd been working together. “Don't worry about the shelf. We can always figure that out later . . . when I get back.”

A faint jingle in the background of her call let her know a customer had just entered the shop. Stall-time was over. “I hear you have a customer, so I'll let you go. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Dropping the phone back into her purse, she pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out onto the same driveway that, days earlier, had been one big puddled mess. She stepped across the first rut, now dry and firm, and then headed toward the second, her resignation slowly but surely dissipating.

No, she wasn't suddenly okay with hurting Esther. She'd
never be okay with that. But the sooner she got her answers, the sooner they could get through the bad and focus on the good.

Like the impending arrival of Esther's first child.

She stopped so suddenly, she nearly twisted her ankle inside the second rut. “I know!” she said. “We could have a baby shower!”

A head popped out of a panel midway down the side of the barn. “Well hello there! Welcome to Weaver—wait! I know you! You are Miss Weatherly's kin . . .”

Picking her way across the rest of the driveway, Claire walked over to the window panel and smiled up at the hatted man with the long, gray beard and infectious smile. “Good morning, Mervin.”

“Tell me what your name is again.”

“Claire. Claire Weatherly. I'm Diane Weatherly's niece.”

He dipped his head ever so slightly and then gazed across the top of her head to the parking lot. “Is Miss Weatherly with you?”

“No. I'm here alone.”

“You like horses, too?”

“I don't know much about them,” she said, shrugging. “But I know they're beautiful, and they sure make my aunt happy.”

“I keep telling her she should buy one for herself. I would give her a fair price and I would even board it here in my stable for free. Least I could do for all them tasty treats she brings me when she visits, and all that grooming she does on the horses even though I insist it is not her job to do.”

“When my aunt makes her mind up about something, there's no dissuading her, that's for sure.” She smiled at the
image of her aunt, hands on hips, holding her ground with Mervin the way she did with Claire. “Besides, she loves horses.”

“So what brings you to my farm on this fine summer day?”

Her smile slipped away as Mervin's question dropped reality at her feet once again. “I . . . I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about a horse you recently sold.”

“I sell a lot of horses, but I can sure try to help.” Mervin waved his calloused hand toward the end of the barn. “Why don't you come on inside and we can talk while I look after the horses. I need them to be ready come Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“Most of my neighbors come to buy horses on Saturday. I have a few this week that will go quickly.” Again he waved Claire toward the end of the barn. “Now come on around and I will see to the horses and your questions.”

Following along the exterior wall of the barn, she headed in the general vicinity in which she'd come. Save for the sound of rain pounding on the roof, the sights and smells that greeted her as she stepped inside the barn were the same as they'd been two days earlier.

Mervin Weaver strode down the center aisle and stopped. “If I remember correctly, your aunt told me you took a good long time deciding who to give candy to when you were last here.”

She smiled at the memory and then slipped her hands in and out of her front pockets. “No candy this time. Sorry.”

Tucking his thumb inside his suspender strap, he made a quick face. “Just as well if you ask me. All that candy makes them mighty picky about the food I give them. I
tried to tell that to Eli Miller when he stopped by with a report on his horse the other day.”

Eli . . .

“Seems that horse likes root beer candy.” Mervin pulled his thumb out and hooked it in the direction from which he'd come. Then, turning on the soles of his worn boots, he led the way back down the aisle. “So what horse are you asking about today?”

“Eli's.”

If that surprised Mervin, he didn't let on. Instead, he stopped alongside a stall inhabited by a sleek brown horse and pulled a brush off a hook just outside its door. “My son has been that way since he was a young boy.”

Confused, she leaned against the stable's half wall and watched as Mervin began to brush the side of the horse. “Your son?”

“Then again, Eli is mighty pleased with that horse. Says she's coming along nicely.”

She tried to follow what the man was saying, but it was no use. The moment he mentioned his son in relation to Eli and Carly, she was lost. “I don't understand what your son has to do with Eli's horse.”

“Willis purchased that horse from a trailer that was passing by. When I came home from auction that day and I saw the horse was injured, I could not understand why. Injured horses don't bring as much money. But Eli bought her that next Saturday, anyway. Seems he saw the same thing in her that Willis saw.”

“Is your son around?” she asked. “Could I speak to him?”

“He left to go back to his farm in New York before I could even tell him the horse sold. But that's okay. Gives
me something to tell him the next time I write a letter to him and his wife.”

She smacked her hand against the weathered wall, earning her a startled look from the horse and from Mervin. “I'm sorry. It's just that . . . Do you know
anything
about the person who sold him that horse?”

Mervin stopped brushing and studied her closely. “I know it was an Englisher. About the same age as Willis.”

She stopped herself, mid-sigh, and stepped back. She'd wasted enough time. How Carrot Thief ended up in Mervin's stable really wasn't the issue. How to tell Esther was.

“Well, I guess I better head out. Thanks for your time.” She saw the question in the Amish man's eyes but let it go. After all, she didn't have any answers, either.

“Say hello to Miss Weatherly for me.” Mervin straightened to a full stand and waved his brush. “And be sure to tell her there's a horse or two out here I think she might like to meet.”

Mustering a smile she really didn't feel, Claire nodded and returned his wave. “I will. And thanks again.”

*   *   *

“So how did it go, dear? Was Mervin able to shed light on how he ended up with Carrot Thief?”

Claire pulled onto the shoulder just beyond the Weaver farm and gave into the breath she'd been holding for entirely too long. “Mervin's son, Willis, purchased Carrot Thief. From a passing trailer, to use Mervin's words.”

“But Willis left to go back to New York two weeks ago,” Diane countered.

“Exactly. Which means I know nothing more than I did
when I woke up this morning.” She let her head drop back against the headrest. “Why can't the Amish have phones? Did they not get the memo about their usefulness?”

Diane's soft laugh in her ear brought a smile, albeit a fleeting one, to her own lips as well.

“Do I really need to answer that, dear?”

“No. I'm just frustrated, is all.”

“I know you like to have answers, Claire. You've been that way since you were a little girl. But maybe the only answer that really matters in all of this is that Carrot Thief is alive and well. And she didn't fall into the wrong hands.”

She closed her eyes momentarily and waited for Diane's positive thinking to rub off on her, but it simply wasn't happening. “Meaning?”

“Remember what I told you a while back? About Carrot Thief's sister? Her name is Idle Ruler and she's a pretty famous racehorse. Lineage like that makes Carrot Thief worth a lot of money.”

“Money means nothing to Esther. Carly, however, does.”

“And I empathize, dear. I really do. But you need to remember that Carly was Carrot Thief first. And Valerie Palermo loves her every bit as much as Esther does.” A beat of silence was soon followed by Diane's voice again—a voice that had grown quieter but no less determined. “We have to get word to this woman as soon as possible, dear. She's been worried sick about this horse. Telling her that her beloved Carrot Thief is safe and sound is the right thing to do.”

Diane was right. She knew that.

“I assure you this Valerie woman will be called. I just want to tell Esther first. That, too, is the right thing to do.”

In the nearly twelve months since Claire had officially opened Heavenly Treasures, no two days had ever been exactly the same. Customers were different, questions were different, and requests—while often similar—always seemed to have a slightly different twist.

But the one constant, throughout all seasons, was the lack of customers during the lunch hour. Senior citizens, as she'd come to learn, liked to eat at the same time every day—a fact that attributed to a burst in sales for Heavenly Brews and Taste Of Heaven(ly) during the same hour that all the other shopkeepers on Lighted Way got a breather. Most, like Harold Glick and Drew Styles, used that breather to grab a bite while sitting quietly behind their own registers just in case. It was, after all, the smart thing to do. Why she failed to do the same thing was a question to dissect at another time. Especially when she was already
trying to weigh the pros and cons between heading inside the shop the way she should and hightailing it across the street to the police station to get a hug from Jakob like she wanted to . . .

A peek inside the front window of her shop confirmed a lack of customers and freed her heart, at least momentarily, of any guilt that might have otherwise been associated with stepping down off the curb, picking her way across the uneven cobblestones, and finally stepping up onto the curb on the other side. If she kept her visit with Jakob to the exact time it took to get a hug, and possibly a kiss, she could be back in the shop before Annie finished her apple.

Sidestepping the stream of customers still heading into Taste of Heaven(ly), Claire turned left, her quickened pace making short work of the storefronts situated between the restaurant and the police department. Housed in the same simple quaint white clapboard-style building as its neighbors to the left and right, the Heavenly Police Department blended into the landscape for the average tourist. But those with a sharp eye quickly realized it was the one building on the entire street that had no Amish foot traffic going in or out.

She stopped outside the station's front door and took a deep breath, her angst over Esther and Carly showing little to no sign of letting up. With any luck, a few moments with Jakob would help.

Pulling open the door, she stepped inside the bright and airy waiting room and headed straight for the day-shift dispatcher. “Good afternoon, Curt. Do you happen to know if Jakob is around?”

“He sure is. Should I tell him you're here?”

“If he's not too busy.”

Flashing a knowing smile at her over the top of the half wall that separated the waiting room from the station's inner sanctum, the balding and always good-natured dispatcher rolled his chair over to the intercom and paused with his finger above a button on the top right. “I'm quite sure he'll make an exception for you, regardless.”

“Thank you, Curt.”

“My pleasure.” He pressed the button and leaned forward a smidge. “Detective Fisher? Claire Weatherly is out here to see you.”

“Thanks, Curt. You can send her back.”

Releasing the button, Curt rolled himself back to his desk and the button on its underside that would unlatch the door to his left. Two short beeps were quickly followed by a beckoning motion of his hand. “That's your cue.”

She stepped through the door and into the hallway beyond. Then, mindful of the ticking clock in her head, she made a beeline for the open door at the hall's halfway point. Ignoring the black-lettered name plate she didn't need, Claire poked her head around the corner to find Jakob standing just inside the doorway, waiting.

“Okay, confess. Did the chief call you and beg you to stop by so I would stop being such a grouch?”

“No. But are you? Being a grouch, I mean?”

“Yes!” bellowed a voice from an open doorway farther down the hall.

“See?” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and then opened his arms wide, wrapping them around her as she
happily stepped inside. “Oh, yeah, this is exactly what I needed.”

“Me, too,” she whispered in a voice suddenly choked with emotion.

Guiding her back a step, he tipped her chin up with the fingers of his right hand until she was looking him straight in the eye. “You sound upset.”

“No, I'm okay—or I will be after I get a little bit more of that hug.”

He obliged, adding a kiss on the top of her head and then another on her lips before stepping back once again. “Can you sit for a few minutes?”

Oh, how she wanted to say yes, to sink into the folding chair across from his desk and lose herself in his warmth for as long as possible. But she couldn't. Annie had been on her own long enough. “I really can't. I was supposed to open with Annie this morning and I called her at the last minute and told her I'd be a little late. If I stay here any longer, I'll really be pushing it.”

He quieted her words with a gentle finger and then guided her over to the chair. “It's lunchtime. She'll be fine.”

She opened her mouth to protest but, in the end, her own best interests won out and she sat. “So how are things around here? Busy morning so far?”

Leaning against the edge of the desk closest to Claire, he folded his arms across his wide chest and shook his head at her question. “Oh no, you don't. Ladies first. What did
you
have going on this morning that you had Annie opening alone?”

Resting her left forearm on the empty stretch of desk
in front of her, she traced her finger along a faint scratch. “I went out to the Weaver farm.”

“Thinking about buying a horse?” he teased.

She stopped tracing and let her hand fall back into her lap. “I went to ask about Carrot Thief and how she ended up at Esther's.”

His dimples rescinded and he braced his hands on the edge of the desk. “And?”

“Mervin Weaver's son, Willis, is the one who bought Carrot Thief. From someone who just showed up at the farm with a trailer and a horse to sell.” She cleared her throat of the fogginess she felt building and continued. “Mervin said it wasn't unusual for his son to have a soft spot for an injured animal so it didn't really surprise him that Willis had bought a horse with a sprained tendon.”

“So I guess this person who sold the horse to Willis probably came across Carrot Thief wandering around after the accident and had no idea what he'd happened upon. So he sold her to Weaver. Probably made a few hundred bucks, maybe less on account of the injury,” Jakob speculated.

She shrugged and moved on. “Mervin was surprised by just how quickly the horse sold.”

“To Eli . . .”

“To Eli,” she confirmed. “A man who apparently has a lot in common with Willis Weaver.”

A vibration at her feet momentarily sidelined her thoughts and she reached into her purse. Pulling out her phone, she checked the screen and then held it up for Jakob to see. “It's a text from Diane. Do you mind if I check it real quick?”

“Of course not, go ahead.”

She pressed two buttons and began to read . . .

I found my magazine in the parlor where you left it for me. Thank you!

Confused, she reread the words one more time and then looked up at Jakob. “Okay, that's weird.”

“What?”

“Diane lent me a magazine to read the other night—the one that was about Carrot Thief, actually, and she's texting to thank me for leaving it in the parlor for her.”

“Okay, so what's weird about that?”

“I didn't leave it in the parlor. It's in my room—right where I left it when I threw it across the floor last night.” She shook her head, read the message a third time, and then dropped the phone back into her purse. “Whatever. She has it now.”

“Anyway, about what you were saying . . . I thought Willis Weaver lived in upstate New York,” Jakob mused.

“He does. He was visiting. Mervin was at auction when Carrot Thief—aka Carly—came in.” She paused as Jakob's remark sparked a question of her own. “Do you know this Willis guy?”

“Not really. Not the man he is now, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Willis was probably all of about ten when I left.”

She did a little mental math based on what she knew about Jakob's past and put a number to her calculation. “Making him about twenty-seven now, yes?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don't know. Just trying to think of something other than Esther and Carly, I guess.” Looking up, she did her best to smile at Jakob. “Now it's your turn. What's going on around here?”

“I've been looking through my notes, drawing a timeline of everything that has happened around here the past week or so.” He pointed to the whiteboard on the wall next to his desk, various colors and words filling the surface from top to bottom. “Even drew a map, as you can see.”

Pushing off the chair, she wandered over to the whiteboard, her gaze riveted on the series of boxes representing the farms that had been robbed or almost robbed. Off to the side of the map, tacked to the wall, was the composite of the suspect.

Nondescript
didn't even do the drawing justice . . .

“Wow.” She looked from the drawing to Jakob and back again before returning her focus to the map and the pair of underscored question marks near the end of the one-dimensional road. “Wait a minute. Is this second question mark there supposed to be Esther and Eli's house?”

His mouth tightened just before he granted her a quick nod.

Fear gripped her insides and she stumbled backward against the desk. “Please tell me he didn't go there.”

Jakob took her hands in his and squeezed them. “He hasn't. Not yet, anyway.”

“Yet?” she repeated, her voice shrill.

“Yet.”

“Does that mean you think he's going to?”

He pulled his hands back and raked them through his
hair, exhaling through pursed lips as he did. “I do. Which is why I have a few uniforms out there right now.”

She sagged against him in relief. “Good.”

“Good because it keeps Esther and Eli safe, yes. But bad, because our officers being there, and so visible, means this guy isn't going to show up.”

“And if he doesn't show up, you can't catch him,” she mused.

“Exactly. But there aren't enough bodies in the department to patrol
and
go undercover on an ongoing basis. So uniforms are there, but they're also ready to respond elsewhere if needed. It's all I can do right now. I can't risk anything happening to her, Claire. I just can't.”

She glanced toward the whiteboard and followed the suspect's progression down Jakob's makeshift map. When she reached Esther and Eli's house, she sucked in her breath.

“Claire?”

Esther with her kapp and simple dress could be anyone . . .

“Claire?”

She stepped around the corner of the desk and turned to face him, her mind made up. “Let me be Esther.”

His left eyebrow rose. “Excuse me?”

Now that the idea had formed, she simply couldn't shake it. “Dress me up as Esther and put me in her house. Give me a walkie-talkie or whatever it is you do for undercover officers and move your guys out where they can't be seen. When he shows up, I'll let you know and you can nab him in action!”

For a moment, she wasn't sure he'd heard her, based on
his blank stare. But when first surprise, and then out-and-out refusal paraded across his face, she knew he had.

“Come on, Jakob. This makes all the sense in the world.”

He pushed off the edge of his desk and began pacing, the angst in his steps matched only by the angst in his response. “Using you as a decoy makes zero sense, Claire.
Zero.
”

“Yes it does,” she argued. “Think about it, Jakob. You don't have any female officers in your department. Using one of your guys, or even
you,
as a decoy might scare him off. But an Amish woman alone in the house? That'll make him comfortable, maybe even draw him in!”

“No!”

“Slow down there, Jakob.” Their heads turned as one toward Jakob's still-open door and the former-military-man-turned-police-chief staring back at them. “Claire might be onto something here.”

Jakob thumped his fist down on the top of his desk. “No, Chief. No.”

“She'd be wired . . . You'd be on the grounds . . .”

“Chief—”

Chief Martin stepped all the way into Jakob's office and stopped in front of Claire. “You sure you want to do this, Claire?”

She reached around the chief and captured Jakob's hand in hers, her eyes trained on his even while her answer was directed at the chief. “Yes, Chief. I'm sure.”