A Churn for the Worse (6 page)

Claire peeked over the top edge of the paperback mystery she was reading, the amusement she felt mirrored on the face of the man seated in the single back chair to her right.

“Okay, Aunt Diane, it's time to let us in on whatever it is you're doing over there that has you so focused.” She rested the book, spine-side up, on the armrest of the sofa and stretched. “Mr. Turner and I are jealous.”

“
Hank
,” the man reminded as he closed his book on marketing strategies for small businesses. Then, training his focus on the sixty-two-year-old woman hunched over the desktop computer in the corner of the parlor, he added, “Yes, Diane, please. Enlighten us. My book is proving to be a sleep tonic I don't particularly want or need at eight o'clock in the evening.”

Diane removed her hand from the wireless mouse,
checked her wristwatch, and then swiveled her chair to the left, her cheeks reddening by the second. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to waste so much time like this.”

Waving her hands in protest, Claire stood and made her way over to the computer. “No one could ever accuse you of wasting time. Ever. We're just curious as to what you're”—she took in the full screen of print as she approached—“
reading
over here. It sounds fascinating.”

“Fascinatingly sad, yes.” Diane turned back to the computer, gesturing at the online article displayed on the monitor as she did. “This is a weekly bonus sent out to subscribers of
The Stable Life
. It usually includes puzzles and tidbits and photographs. Unfortunately, I'm not very good about staying up on them and I got to this one a few days late.”

“Gee, I wonder why, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Stop-Moving-Until-My-Head-Hits-The-Pillow-At-Night,” Claire joked as she rested her hand atop her aunt's shoulder and squeezed. “So what's so sad?”

“Carrot Thief is gone.”

“Carrot Thief?” she repeated.

Diane looked up long enough to nod before filling in the gaps. “Carrot Thief was a Standardbred racer. She's been a trotter for a few years, although not necessarily a
race-winning
trotter. In last month's issue, her owner, Valerie Palermo, was the lead feature story. This woman owns a number of horses who win on a regular basis. And while that article was focused primarily on
those
horses, she talked about Carrot Thief, too. About the bond they have. It was a beautiful story.”

“I take it the horse passed away?”

“It might have, but as of this most recent update to a
story that apparently broke two weeks ago, they still don't know.” Diane pushed a strand of gray-streaked hair off her cheek and readjusted her bifocals. “I can only imagine how devastated Ms. Palermo must be right now. There was something mighty special about the two of them together.”

“How could they not know whether the horse is dead or not?”

Diane closed out of the email, checked the rest of her inbox, and then signed off of her account with a rare and prolonged sigh. “I would imagine, after all the specifics they gave about the horse in this most recent update, if we don't hear anything positive in the report that should be due to post next week, the likelihood she's still alive is slim to none.”

Hank's glass thumped against the coffee table as he placed it down on one of the coasters Claire had given Diane as a just-because present the previous month. The moment Jakob's sister, Martha, had brought the hand-painted set of eight into the shop, Claire knew they were destined to belong to her aunt. What she hadn't expected was the coaxing it would take to get Diane to use them.

“They're too pretty, Claire. I don't want water glass–stains on these pictures . . .”

“Did someone leave the horse's stall open?” Hank asked, returning Claire's attention to the subject at hand.

She followed Hank's gaze back to Diane and waited for the woman's answer.

“No. Carrot Thief was on her way to the farm between races and the van she was in overturned on a back road. The driver was killed.”

Claire's gasp matched Hank's. “How awful!”

“Because it was a back road, the accident went unnoticed for hours. By the time it was discovered, Carrot Thief was gone.”

“Wow.”

Diane pushed her chair back from the desk and stood, the large plate glass window that overlooked the Amish countryside in the distance claiming her attention just as surely as news about the missing horse had done for the past twenty minutes. Whether the woman was actually seeing the farms or the cows or the crops, though, Claire couldn't be sure.

“I can't help but feel like the information they released in this most recent update might have been too much.”

“How so?”

“Anyone who read last month's issue of
The Stable Life
knew Carrot Thief wasn't a great racer. Loveable, yes, but a racer, not so much . . .”

Claire joined her aunt at the window, but kept her body turned so as not to cut off Hank. “Okay . . .”

“The first email report that arrived after the accident was really just a breaking news piece—one that was especially moving on account of the magazine's subscriber base having just fallen in love with this particular horse two weeks earlier. Basic facts about the crash scene, the dead driver, etcetera, were provided, and a promise was issued to keep readers informed of any updates.” Diane, suddenly aware of the fact she was standing still, pulled a cloth from her apron pocket and began flitting around the cozy parlor, dusting shelves, picture frames, and assorted knickknacks, her mouth moving as quickly as her hands. “Then, on Monday, they send out this latest update and it
shows a snapshot of her sister. I'm not an expert on these matters by any means, but even
I
think that's information that was better left unshared.”

“You lost me, Aunt Diane.”

She watched her father's oldest sister move on to the mantel, her thoughts briefly visiting the many evenings spent in this very room in front of a roaring fire. “The wrong person comes across that horse and, well, she may never be returned.”

“I'm still not following. You said something a minute ago about a sister. Is this the
owner's
sister?”

“No. Carrot Thief's sister, Idle Ruler.”

She mulled her aunt's words over and came up with the only thing that made sense. “I take it Idle Ruler is someone special?”

“Idle Ruler is a champion trotter.”

“So even if Carrot Thief isn't a good racer herself, her bloodlines are good, yes?” Hank posed from his chair.

“Exactly.” Diane stopped dusting and turned, her eyes wide. “Hank, I'm sorry. I'm going on and on about some horse I've never seen while you're trying to relax and read.”

“I could read through a natural disaster, Diane. I stopped reading because I was more interested in the conversation.” Hank took a sip of his tea and then tapped the notebook that sat, opened, on his knee, a pen resting halfway down the page. “Hey, can I share a thought with the two of you?”

“Of course,” Diane and Claire said in unison.

“I know this is taking my research for my business classes in a different direction, but I find it interesting how, at least with the Amish, the implementation of cottage industries has changed them.”

Diane wandered over to the upholstered lounge chair she often selected for a rare evening of reading and sat down. “Changed them?”

“I guess I should amend that to say how I
think
it's changed them.” Hank nodded at Claire as she made her way back to the sofa. “I mean, I'd always heard that the Amish kept to themselves. But the ones I've met while checking out some of their small businesses aren't that way at all. They ask questions, they answer questions, they even joke around a little on occasion.”

“The increase in population and the lack of available farmland has made it so they have to turn to industries that put them in touch with the English on a daily basis. They've
had
to change.” Diane folded her dust cloth and then slipped it back into her apron pocket. “Though, honestly, I've always found them to be delightful.”

“Do they still put work aside on Sundays?” Hank asked, retrieving his pen and preparing to write.

Claire nodded, her gaze shifting between the book she knew she wasn't going to get back to and her aunt's handsome guest. “They do. Sunday is for church and family.”

“Can you imagine the money they are missing out on by closing businesses that cater to tourists on a weekend? Amazing.”

“They'll close on occasional Tuesdays and Thursdays during wedding season, too,” Diane offered. “They do well, financially, but money is not the end goal for them as it so often is for the general population.”

“They close up for funerals, too.” Claire took in the clock and its advancing post-dinner hour and continued. “In fact, from what I'm hearing, many of the shops will
be closed on Saturday for the funeral of Wayne Stutzman, a local Amish farmer who was found dead in his barn Tuesday night.”

“Did he live next to a farm with a small engine repair shop out back?” Before Claire could respond, he added, “Because I saw a cop car parked outside that home on Wednesday afternoon and again earlier today, and that surprised me. I thought the Amish stayed away from the police.”

“They do. But sometimes it's unavoidable.”

“Why?”

Diane picked up the conversation, shaking her head slowly as she did. “The Amish, sadly, are easy targets. I wish that wasn't so, but it is.”

Hank rested his pen atop the notebook and looked from Claire to Diane and back again. “Wait. I sort of remember reading something about the Amish keeping their money in their homes rather than banks. Is
that
why you say they're easy targets?”

“That's one of the reasons.”

“Do they all do that?” Hank asked, wide-eyed.

“There are always a few exceptions to any rule, but I think it's safe to say that
most
do.”

Claire pulled her book off the armrest of the sofa and inserted a bookmark into the place where she'd left off. “They're also easy targets because of their reluctance in seeking out police, as you mentioned a few moments ago.”

“How do they keep track of that kind of money?” Hank asked, his eyes wide with intrigue. “I mean, if their business or their crops are even moderately successful, that could translate to a lot of cash sitting around their homes.”

“They use paper and pencil.” Diane returned to her feet, adjusted the throw pillow she'd dislodged by sitting, and made her way toward the hallway. “It works well for them.”

“Maybe. But that's the one thing I would tell my students
not
to do. Money can't grow in a jar. It can only grow in a bank.”

Diane paused at the door long enough to welcome Hayley and Jeremy all the way into the room and to address Hank's claim. “Oh, trust me, their money grows in those jars, and it grows well. But that's because of their choices and spending habits rather than interest and dividends. So maybe that
is
something your students should hear.”

“Touché.” Hank grinned at Claire as Diane disappeared into the hall. “Your aunt is one smart cookie.”

“That she is.” Claire scooted closer to the end of the sofa and smiled at the tall, lanky blonde and her dark-haired companion. “Hayley. Jeremy. Please. Come join us.”

Hayley pushed a piece of hair behind her ear and strode over to Diane's chair, stopping short of actually sitting. Jeremy, on the other hand, took Claire's invitation.

“What smells so good?” the writer half of the blog duo asked, his gaze shifting around the room. “I haven't been able to think of anything else since that smell started pumping up the steps.”

Claire laughed. “That, Jeremy, is the smell of my aunt's homemade chocolate chip cookies. They are, without a doubt, the best I've ever eaten.”

“Well, that isn't making the wait any easier.” Jeremy drummed the fingers of his left hand on the armrest and then sank back against the sofa.

“Busy day?” Hank asked.

“You could say that.”

Hayley rolled her eyes, waving Jeremy's answer aside as she did. “My cohort, here, is struggling with the concept of work. To him, being busy is somehow bad. To me, it means getting the job done.”

“So you're finding what you need here?” Claire asked.

“Not yet, but I will.” Hayley made a face at Jeremy. “Assuming, of course, he gets off the couch and stops yammering on and on about nothing.”

“I'm offended by what you said, Hayley. Deeply, deeply offended.” Holding his hand to his wide chest, Jeremy feigned injury with such theatrics Claire and Hank both laughed. “First, I don't yammer—whatever that means. Second, contrary to what you have portrayed to these good people, I don't mind being busy. I simply want a chance to get some of these highly endorsed cookies before we're off and running again. Is that really too much to ask?
Sheesh
.”