Murder, Handcrafted (Amish Quilt Shop Mystery) (21 page)

Another person had died because of Griffin’s business and outside of the county? If I counted Raymond’s wife, that was the third death attributed to Griffin in some way.

“Can I talk to your friend?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know where he is now. He got another job in Arizona or New Mexico—somewhere hot at least—and we lost touch. Sorry—I’d stick around and chat but . . .” Jason looked down at his watch. He’d already said he had a lot of work to do tonight.

While I stood in the doorway of Running Stitch and watched Jason drive away, Martha Yoder stepped out of Authentic Amish Quilts next door and locked the door. She glared at me, and I smiled back. It was a typical exchange between Martha and me. The atypical part was when she marched over to me. “I heard that you were bothering my cousin today.”

My brow knit together. “Your cousin?”

“Mallory Zeff.” She said this as if it was something I should have already known.

“Mallory is your cousin?” Clearly, it was taking me a minute to catch up on this new information.

She sniffed. “Distant cousin. On the side of the family that turned
Englisch
over fifty years ago. I can’t hold that against Mallory.”

“That’s nice of you,” I deadpanned.

“She said that you came sniffing around pretending to be a police officer and wanted to know if she killed Griffin Bright.”

“I never said that I was a police officer.” I never said it outright, I added silently to myself.

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m here to tell you to leave her alone. She was with me the morning Griffin died. She was so upset about her breakup with Griffin that she spent the night at my house. She just needed to get away from everything for a little while. My Amish home was the best place to escape to.”

“Oh,” I said, slightly disappointed that I had just lost a promising suspect. “Did you tell the police that?”

“Mallory did, and I confirmed her story when a deputy stopped by this afternoon to ask me about it.”

Mitchell’s department SUV parked in the spot next to my car.

Martha glanced at the car and said, “Stop sticking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong. You wouldn’t want the sheriff to know what you’re up to, would you?” With that, she stomped down the street in the direction of the community parking lot where her horse and buggy waited.

As Mitchell got out of the car, Zander flew through Running Stitch’s open front door and threw his arms
around his father’s waist. Mitchell gave him a huge bear hug and kissed the top of head. My heart filled up watching father and son together. An unwanted image of that darn giraffe from the nursery in my mother’s house entered my mind again. I swallowed.

Mitchell walked over to me and nodded in the direction that Martha had just gone. “Do I want to know about what was going on here?”

I shook my head. “Probably not.”

“Dad!” Zander cried. “Bigfoot is real, and tomorrow will be Bigfoot Day in Rolling Brook. Can we go? I’ve never been to a Bigfoot Day before.”

Mitchell smiled at me with those aquamarine eyes over his son’s head. “Neither have I.”

All I could think was “stupid giraffe.”

“Dad, did you tell her yet?” Zander asked.

I looked from one to the other. “Tell me what?”

“Grandma and Grandpa are coming up from Florida for a visit,” the boy shouted at the top of his voice.

Mitchell gave me a half smile.

“Ahh,” I said. “Hillary might have hinted about that to me.”

“I thought she might have,” Mitchell said, studying my face. “Don’t look so worried.”

“Worried? Why would I be worried?” I squeaked.

“Before we can move forward with what comes next”—Mitchell gave me a meaningful look—“I need you to meet my parents.” He laughed. “I’ve certainly gotten to know yours over the last couple of years.”

A lump caught in my throat. My brain spun with ideas as to what
next
might be. “When will they be here?”

“Within a few days,” Mitchell said. “They are driving up from Florida, and they like to take their time and visit friends on their northward trek. It’s hard to predict.”

Great. That wasn’t exactly the precise time of arrival I was hoping for.

“Grandma and Grandpa will love you, Angie,” Zander said confidently. “Just like Dad and I do.”

My heart felt as if it would burst out of my chest at Zander’s sweet words. I silently prayed his prediction was right.

B
etween the murder and looming arrival of Mitchell’s parents, I had a fitful night’s sleep even though Dodger, Oliver, and I were safely tucked back into our little rental house in Millersburg.

I wasn’t feeling chipper when my alarm went off the next morning, and I was feeling even less so while driving to Rolling Brook. Both situations were maddening, but I decided to focus on the murder because that had the greatest chance of being resolved.

Something Jason Rustle said the night before nagged at the back of my mind. He said that he’d heard that an Amish man had died in an accident years ago, but he was almost certain that the man’s name wasn’t Kamon. That could only mean that there was another accident in Griffin’s past. Perhaps Blane would know what that accident was, but I was tired of evasive answers from Griffin’s friends and family. I needed hard facts. Before going to sleep the night before, I had searched the Internet for any mention of another death years ago associated with Griffin Bright that wasn’t
Kamon’s. I came up with nothing. Not even Kamon’s. It had been twenty years ago, but that was just at the very beginning of the Internet. The county papers that would have reported the death might not have been online yet. It was clear I needed professional help.

I pulled to the side of the county road between home in Millersburg and Running Stitch in Rolling Brook and dug my phone out of my hobo bag. I scrolled through the contacts until I found the right number, and then called.

“Hello,” a groggy voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” I said brightly.

“Angie, it’s like nine in the morning.” Amber Rustle yawned in my ear. “On a Saturday.”

“Don’t you have to be at the library this morning?” I asked. Amber was Jason’s college-age daughter who worked at the main county library. In the past, I had helped Amber find her best friend’s killer. Ever since then, she had sort of become my personal librarian-in-training-on-call. Everyone should have a librarian on speed dial in my opinion.

“I don’t have to be there until nine forty-five.”

“And you are still in bed?”

“Yeah, it will take me like two minutes to get ready.”

Ahh, the ease of youth. “I have an assignment for you when you get to the library.”

“Is it about Bigfoot Day?” she asked. “Dad told us all about it when he got home from the trustees’ meeting last night. He said Caroline’s face turned purple when you all voted for the Bigfoot Day.”

Bigfoot Day. I had forgotten. I rubbed the spot between my eyes where the headache was starting to form. “It did indeed.”

She giggled, sounding more awake. “I wish I could’ve seen it. We have a few books on Bigfoot. Do you want me to hold them for you?”

“No, this isn’t about Bigfoot. It’s about the murder.”

“You mean that guy who got electrocuted. What a way to go.”

I grimaced. “I know. I think something from his past was the reason he was killed. I want you to do some digging in the newspaper archives at the library.”

“Are you investigating his death?” Before I could answer, she went on. “Why am I even asking? Of course you are. What do you need?”

I smiled. I knew Amber would be up for the challenge. I told her about the accident from twenty years ago that had killed Kamon. “I think that there was a second accident where a second man died. At least your father thought so. He couldn’t remember the man who died’s name.”

“When did it happen?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “I have no idea.”

“You want me to pour over twenty years of newspapers to find a suspicious death that you’re not even sure happened.”

“Is that too hard of a task?” I asked cheerfully.

She snorted with a superiority that only a future librarian could manage. “Maybe for the average person, but not for me.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

On the street an Amish buggy rolled by.

“It might take me a few hours. Those older records wouldn’t have been digitized, but I will find it.”

“Take all the time that you need. I would rather you be thorough than fast,” I said.

“I’d better get a move on then,” she said, sounding excited. “I’ll call you when I have news.”

I started the car again, feeling much better about the day. I patted Oliver on the top of the head before I pulled the SUV out onto the road. “We have a plan now, Ollie. I always feel better when I have plan. Don’t you?”

He licked my hand, and we continued on our way to Rolling Brook.

On Sugartree Street, I parked in the community lot and froze the moment my feet hit the sidewalk. Willow hadn’t been kidding when she said that the trustees wouldn’t have to do anything for Bigfoot Day. Up and down the street, street vendors were selling T-shirts, mugs, umbrellas, and just about anything you could slap a Bigfoot silhouette on, and there were numerous placards telling what time the Bigfoot talks would be in the Dutchman’s Tea Shop.

Mattie stood in the doorway to Running Stitch, gripped the sides of her apron as if she needed its support. “Angie, what on Earth is going on?”

I sighed and told her about the trustees’ meeting the night before.

She shook her head. “Many of the Amish aren’t going to like this.”

That’s what I was afraid she might say.

Two men sold Bigfoot key chains in front of
Running Stitch. Their display blocked the view of the shop’s door from the street. Mattie went inside to prepare the shop for opening, and I walked over to them. “I’m going to have to ask you to move. You’re blocking access to my store.”

One of the men, with a goatee and who I guessed was in his late twenties, stared at me as if he had seen a ghost. “It’s you.” He pointed at me.

I stepped back. “Excuse me?”

A second man, who was clean-shaven and larger than the first, took a step up to me. “It is her. You’re right. We found her. I can’t believe it. We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

I took a bigger step back. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re the girl,” Goatee said. “You’re the one in the video. You saw him.”

“What video?” I asked, starting to become annoyed.

“What was it like?” the second man asked. “Could you smell him? I know it was kind of far away from you, but I have always wondered what a Sasquatch smelled like. Experts say it’s kind of musky.”

“Yeah,” his friend agreed. “Like wet fur.”

Now there was a small crowd gathering around us.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” I shouted.

“Bigfoot. You saw him.” He waved his smartphone at me. “I have it right here on video. It was just posted early this morning, but it’s already all over the Internet. You’re famous in the Bigfoot world. If we can get more proof of the Sasquatch’s existence for the nonbelievers, you might be famous in, like, the entire world.”

“Let me see that.” I held out my hand, and he placed the smartphone in my palm. The screen showed a YouTube video. I tapped to play.

The video was from two days ago and showed me standing in my parents’ front yard with Petunia. Yikes, my blond curls were wild; it was clear that I had dashed out of the house after Jonah’s urgent call. I was talking to Petunia. Suddenly, I look up and stared across the street at the large tree. My mouth falls open as if in shock. The shot widened out and showed me and the furry figure across the street. On the video, the thing looked even more like Bigfoot than I remembered. The camera doesn’t zoom in on the creature, instead it stays on me. Eban arrives in his cart and I talk to him pointing at the tree. He shakes his head and leaves the shot. Officer Anderson comes out of the house and it shows me accosting him and pointing across the street. Clearly, I’m telling him to go check it out. Mitchell appears and Anderson takes off toward the tree after a direct order, but the creature is gone by then. The last scene is Mitchell touching my cheek.

“Lady, I know it’s none of my business, but I think that cop has a thing for you,” Goatee said. “He seemed a little too familiar if you ask me.”

“Yeah,” the second one agreed. “He was using your fear to get fresh.”

I looked heavenward. I could see no good coming of me telling these men that Mitchell was my boyfriend and therefore not getting fresh, whatever “fresh” might mean.

“The shot on the creature isn’t as good as we would
like to see,” Goatee said. “But all the evidence points to a Bigfoot.”

“Definitely,” his friend agreed. “I don’t have any doubt in my mind that’s a Bigfoot.”

“Who posted this?” I scrolled down and found the screen name: AmishInsider. Interesting screen name.

“See, the guy who posted this is Amish. It must be authentic. Amish don’t lie.”

“That is impossible,” I said. “The Amish don’t use YouTube.”

There was a tiny image of the AmishInsider next to his name. I pinched the screen for a better look. Blown up, the picture was fuzzy, but I immediately recognized the face. I handed the man his phone. “I have to go.” I hurried away.

“Wait? What? You didn’t tell us about your sighting.”

I ignored him and popped my head into the quilt shop. Mattie was counting out the cash drawer. “I have to run an errand,” I told her. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

She looked up from the drawer with concern. “Did something happen?”

“I’m an Internet star, but I may have solved at least part of the mystery.”

“An Internet star?” she asked, confused.

“I have to go. I’ll explain everything when I return.”

“But—”

I stepped back onto the sidewalk in front of the shop before she could finish her question.

“There she is!” Goatee shouted. “She’s the one from the video!”

I gave a sharp intake of breath as I saw a crowd twenty strong of Bigfooters surrounding me.

“Tell us what you know,” another voice said. I couldn’t make out who in the crowd.

I had to get out of there. Scooping up Oliver, I pointed across the street to Willow’s shop. “There he is. It’s Bigfoot!”

There was a collective gasp as the crowd turned in the direction in unison.

I slipped around a woman to my left and dashed down the alley between my and Martha’s shops.

“Where’d she go?” I heard someone cry.

“Down the alley,” another voice called.

I didn’t wait to hear any more and ran for all I was worth through the back gardens of the shops toward the community parking lot across from the mercantile. I glanced back to see them racing down the alley. I doubled my pace, holding Oliver to my chest and my heavy hobo bag thumping against my thigh hard enough to leave a bruise.