A Churn for the Worse (7 page)

Claire met Hayley's baby blue eyes across the coffee table and smiled. “For what it's worth, Diane's cookies
are
worth the wait. I promise.”

It was, bar none, her favorite part of the evening and the one she looked forward to from the moment post-dinner cleanup was done. Yes, she treasured the time in between—time that included reading, cookies, and talking with Diane—but ending her day with Jakob had become something special, something both exhilarating and calming.

Settling her bare shoulders against the padded headrest of her bed, Claire plucked her phone off the nightstand and dialed the detective's number. Sure enough, before the first ring was complete, the man's warm voice came across the line.

“I was just about to call you,” he said, his tone depicting the smile she imagined in her head. “How was your evening? Dinner? Time with Diane?”

“The evening was nice. I didn't read as much as normal, but that's because Hank, one of the guests, spent a chunk of the time with us.”

“This is the college teacher, right?”

“Yes, and I suspect he's good at what he does. He really seems to love his subject matter, that's for sure. Couple that with an engaging personality and, well, I imagine his students learn a lot in his classes.” Claire took a sip of water and then placed her glass back on the nightstand. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't you go changing the subject just yet,” Jakob teased. “You haven't told me what kind of cookie I missed.”

Claire laughed and scooted down onto her pillow, her gaze landing on the ceiling. “I'm almost afraid to tell you.”

A protracted pause was followed by a sigh. “She made chocolate chip, didn't she?”

“She did.”

“I think it's time to lodge a formal complaint. No chocolate chip cookies unless I'm present.”

“I'll see if Aunt Diane will take that under consideration. Though, knowing it's you making the complaint, I suspect she'll make the necessary changes.” And it was true. Diane was in love with the idea of Claire and the detective being in love. In the beginning, it had been bothersome, maybe even a little bit annoying, but now, Claire couldn't agree more.

“Anyway, moving on from the cookies . . . How was
your
day?”

This time, when he sighed, there wasn't anything playful about it. Instead, the sound was laced with palpable exhaustion and frustration. “Well, I followed up your call about money missing from the Stutzman farm.”

“And?”

“We're talking about several thousand dollars here.”

“Several thousand?” she echoed, struggling back up onto her elbow. “Are you serious?”

“Trust me, it could have been a lot more.”

“It's just gone?”

He nodded. “That's right. Poof! Gone!” Jakob cleared his throat and then continued, “Wayne kept it in an old milk can that sat in the corner of the kitchen. A large amount is still there, but it falls several thousand short of what's recorded in the victim's handwritten ledger.”

“Maybe he'd simply fallen behind on his bookkeeping,” she suggested.

“I thought the same thing until Henry showed me the updated total his father had logged the previous night. And considering Wayne was on the farm the entire day he died, and then at the dinner table with his family, there's nothing to suggest he spent that kind of money in twenty-four hours.”

“Okay, so then what?”

“At first, I wasn't sure. I mean, the money could have disappeared at any time after Wayne made his final entry in his ledger. But while I was trying to piece together possible scenarios, one of Henry's younger sisters mentioned a man who'd stopped at the house to ask directions the same night Wayne was killed.”

She sat up tall, hiking her knees against her chest as she did. “The killer?”

“Quite likely.” A beat or two of silence was followed by a third sigh. “All I've really got, though, is a time frame that seems to work. This man stopped by and asked for directions after Wayne had already left for the barn. After
Henry gave them, the man asked for a drink of water. Henry took him into the house to oblige, but by the time he filled the glass, the man said he was no longer thirsty and needed to get on his way. My guess is he stuck his hand in the milk can while Henry was occupied at the sink, helped himself to a bundle or two of cash, and then thought it best to get out. Thirty minutes later, when Wayne didn't join his family on the side porch, Henry went looking for his dat in the barn.”

“So you think this guy went into the barn after walking out of the house? Maybe looking for more cash or something else to steal, and killed Wayne in the process?”

“It's the only thing I've got at the moment.”

“It's more than you had yesterday,” she reminded him softly.

“In terms of motive, maybe. In terms of who, not so much.”

“Can't a sketch artist help to fill in that blank?”

“That's the first thing I did.” Jakob's voice softened as if in thought, only to resume its normal volume in short order. “It wasn't easy, I'll tell you that. At first, Emma refused the very idea of a sketch artist, but when I explained to her my belief that the missing cash is linked to Wayne's death, she relented under the condition the sketch artist came to them. So I obliged.”

“And?”

“Henry described the man who'd stopped for directions while his father was in the barn, and the artist sketched him.”

Claire hugged her free hand around her calves and took a slow, measured breath. “Okay . . . That's good, right?”

“It would be if we got something we could work with. A detail that we could put out to the community—freckles, bushy eyebrows, an identifying mark, eye color, something.”

“I don't understand.”

“Essentially all we've got is brown hair—similar to mine, no beard, and English.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.” A momentary pause gave way to a last-minute addendum. “Oh. And no hat.”

“But that's more than half of the people we see on any given day,” she summarized.

“Yep.”

She released her hold on her legs and straightened them out once again, the seemingly insurmountable obstacle Jakob was facing almost depressing. “So now what?”

“I don't know.”

As much as she wished she could be sitting on the couch in his living room having this conversation in person, she didn't need to see his face to know he was at a loss. “You'll figure this out, Jakob. I know it. And so does Ben.”

“Ben?” he asked suddenly.

“He stopped by to say hello this afternoon, and Wayne's death came up. He, like Eli, is struggling to believe it was an accident. He also said he knows you'll find the truth.”

“He said that?”

She nodded, and then, realizing her mistake, gave words to the unseen gesture. “He said that. And he meant it.”

Silence blanketed the space between them for so long, Claire actually pulled the phone from her ear and checked
the connection. When she was sure he was still there, she searched for something to say to draw him back into the conversation.

“Jakob? I . . . I hope you know I'm willing to help in any way I can. I know a case like this has to be difficult.”

“Daunting is more like it,” he said. “But thank you. That means more than you can know.”

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it as he cleared his throat and moved on. “I'm sorry I'm not being a better conversationalist right now. It's not from lack of desire, I promise. It's just that feeling this directionless is tough. I want to figure out who did this to Wayne and bring him to justice. And while I know that rarely happens overnight in any case, this one is proving particularly tough.”

“You've got a likely motive now. You didn't have that last night,” she reminded. “And robbery takes the hate crime possibility out of the mix, right?”

“Technically, since Henry invited this guy into the house while he got the requested drink of water, it's larceny.
Grand
larceny because of the amount stolen.”

“Okay . . .”

“Now as for whether that removes the hate crime possibility from the mix, it's too soon to tell. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't.”

“You have a picture now,” she reminded him gently.

“One that could be half the males in this town.”

More than anything, Claire wanted to slip her hands inside Jakob's and lean her head against his shoulder; instead, she had to hope that her words would provide the boost he obviously needed. “It's still more than you had
yesterday. Maybe something will come in tomorrow, or the day after that.”

“Wayne will be laid to rest Saturday.”

“Maybe someone at the funeral will have seen this person of interest, too. Maybe they'll be able to provide more detail than Henry did.”

“Maybe . . .”

*   *   *

Claire made her way around the empty seat to Hayley's left and quietly refilled Hank's orange juice glass, the conversation taking place around her no match for the one from the previous night that kept resurrecting itself in her thoughts.

She'd tried to be encouraging and optimistic, but once she and Jakob had called it quits for the night, she'd realized just how out of touch she'd been. With no workable sketch of the man who'd likely stolen the money from the Stutzman home, or witnesses to what happened to Wayne in the barn, finding the man's murderer was the proverbial needle in a haystack quandary.

For a man like Jakob, who'd sacrificed so much of himself in the name of justice, such a task had to be maddening, if not downright depressing.

“I never grow tired of looking at these pictures, Diane. They all tell a story if you're willing to take the time to see it.” Judy Little pointed to the dining room wall and the framed black-and-white photographs that adorned it. “Like that one of the field. The horses resting off to the side of the partly plowed crop is so perfect. Then again, I'm still
just as partial to the one of the Amish boy practicing his driving skills on the miniature horse with the heads of his siblings popping over the sides of the pull cart.”

“When do Amish children start driving?” Hayley asked.

“When the parents feel they are capable of handling a full-sized horse and buggy.” Diane placed a spoon inside a large bowl of fruit and set it down in the middle of the table. “Going to pick out a horse when they're a teenager is an exciting day. They'll actually take a horse out of the stall and test drive it prior to purchase just like we test drive a car. They want to know how the horse handles and how it responds to commands.”

“Did you read the paper this morning?” Judy asked, switching gears. “The story about that Amish family who was robbed? I just can't wrap my head around the notion someone would steal from the
Amish
. I mean,
why
?”

Hayley lifted the pale yellow cloth napkin from her lap, wiped around her full lips, and then set it on the table next to her half-empty plate. “But what's to steal? It's not like they have expensive gadgets and jewelry.”

“They have money,” Hank stated between gulps of his juice. “You need to remember, Hayley, the Amish are incredibly resourceful when it comes to making a living and, since they don't believe in gadgetry and jewelry, they're not spending what they make.”

“Wait a minute,” Claire said, reengaging in the conversation. “Is this about the robbery at the Stutzman farm?”

“It was in the morning paper.” Judy quietly requested that the syrup make its way back down the table to her spot and then took up where she left off. “At least one of them said something to the police this time. Although, looking
at the picture of the suspect alongside the article, the cops are probably no better off with the picture than they'd be without one.”

Claire wanted to argue, but she couldn't. After all, Jakob had essentially said the very same thing.

“There's a
picture
?” Hayley pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her feet, her gaze ricocheting between the clock on the wall and the faces of the people still actively eating. “I thought the Amish didn't
take
pictures.”

Judy scrunched up her nose, shaking her head as she did. “It was a drawing. Done by one of those sketch artist people.”

“And? It's not good?” Hayley prodded while simultaneously walking toward the doorway.

“My son was drawing more detailed pictures when he was in kindergarten.” Judy propped her elbows on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “This sketch? It was essentially a round face with dark hair and dark eyes.”

“I haven't seen it, myself, but I know that any lack of detail wasn't as a result of the sketch artist's ability,” Claire volunteered just as Hayley's partner, Jeremy, came around the corner and skidded to a stop, his eyes wide.

“I'm not too late for breakfast, am I?” His eyes darted across the edible offerings stretched across the center of the table and swallowed in anticipation.