Plain Dead (10 page)

Hulda scoffed. “Nonsense. At my age, I do what pleases me. And why should I waste my time staring at television in that museum of an empty house when there are so many interesting people over here?” She lowered her voice. “That Mr. Skinner. I think he likes me; he was in here a few minutes ago, trying to butter me up. But I'd never be interested in him. He reminds me of a terrorist, or maybe one of these survivalist types who hides in the mountains and hoards canned food, waiting for the end of civilization.”

“Jake Skinner frightens you?” Mary Aaron asked.

Rachel didn't comment on Hulda's remark about Jake Skinner liking her. According to Hulda, lots of younger men found her so attractive that they wanted to marry her.

“No, he doesn't
scare
me.” Hulda adjusted her glasses again. “I just call them as I see them, and there's something suspicious about that man.” Today Hulda was wearing a gold-and-white pantsuit with a puffy red vest. Her close-cropped white hair, makeup, and manicure were as flawless as always. “Now you girls go along and let me answer these emails from prospective guests. I think we're going to be full through next month, at least on the weekends.”

“As long as they don't expect Amish tours of the murder scene,” Mary Aaron said.

Rachel wondered if the notoriety was attracting visitors. “We can hope not,” she said. Was it ghoulish to imagine that her business might prosper because of Billingsly's death?

Of course, the inn's popularity might come to a screeching halt if Billingsly's spiteful column became general knowledge or if there was reason for people in Stone Mill to start examining her background. The thought that she might be an official suspect in Billingsly's murder was chilling. Evan might not believe that she could be guilty of committing such a crime, but if he didn't make progress in solving the case soon, her personal future would be in serious trouble. Evan would do his job, and if it meant involving her, he would, especially now that she'd admitted that she'd gone to Billingsly's house the night he was killed.

She wasn't sorry that she'd told Evan. She hadn't stopped loving him, and no matter what happened with their relationship, she was determined not to keep any more secrets from him. As crazy as it seemed, she was relieved that he knew the worst about her because secrets didn't lie quiet. They had a tendency to rub at your conscience in the dead of night.

“Do you need me for anything right now?” she asked Mary Aaron.

Her cousin gave her a thoughtful look. Mary Aaron always seemed to be able to read her. She didn't ask questions; she just smiled. “
Ne,
Rae-Rae. We're good. You go do whatever it is you need to do. I should be finished up with the things I want to get done by noon. And if you could give me a ride home after that, I'd appreciate it. I caught a ride here with Aunt Hannah's driver this morning.”

“No problem.” Rachel tucked a lock of hair that had escaped from her bun behind her ear. “After I change, I wanted to walk down to the post office. Mail off your Evening Star quilt to the woman in South Carolina. I'll just wrap it and—”

“Best to slip it in one of those priority boxes. I wrapped it in plastic and printed out the accompanying letter and a mailing label,” her cousin told her. “That makes three quilts we've sold since Christmas. The craft shop business is doing great, and the website is bringing customers from all over.”

“What would I do without you?” Rachel said.

She was soon out of the house and walking briskly through the residential streets toward the post office. The holidays had passed, but the snow on the ground and the twinkle lights that many people had left up for the Winter Frolic gave the town a festive air. The heaps of snow, the sharp scent of evergreens, and the ice sculptures and snowmen in front yards raised her spirits and made her smile. And for a few minutes, she could almost push her worries away. Almost.

She loved Stone Mill, with its old homes and small-town American values. It was a place where everyone knew your name and there were always neighbors ready to lend a helping hand. The valley was a good place for families, and despite the recession that had made life in the valley more difficult financially, there was a general sense of optimism and hope for the future. Stone Mill didn't have to wither and die like so many small towns in America's heartland, not if she could help it.

“For every problem, there's always a solution,” her father always said. “Prayer and hard work carry us through life,” she'd heard him say many times as she was growing up. She wished she could go to him now for advice. She'd prayed on it, but she was too much a coward to explain to him about the insider trading conviction. She couldn't bear it if
Dat
was ashamed of her.

Walking in the fresh air
did
help her put her thoughts in order and put things in perspective. There was no way around it. It was foolish of her to blame Evan for following procedure. She couldn't take it personally. It was his job to follow up every lead. Her arguing with Billingsly and then going to his house just before he was murdered were leads, even if they led to a dead end.

She shuddered. Why couldn't she get the word
dead
out of her head today?

She really needed to cut Evan a break. He must have been shocked to learn about her past, and he had every right to be angry. Putting her name on his list of possible suspects was the right thing to do, no matter how much he might regret it. Her name couldn't be cleared until Evan found the real killer . . . or until she did.

She couldn't rid herself of the hunch that Evan wasn't looking in the right direction. The wide-brimmed hat
had
to be a clue. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain that it might lead to the killer. As difficult as it was to believe that one of the Amish might be involved in a crime of violence, a man's hat being there was all wrong. It stood out like a blue cow in a herd of black-and-white Holsteins. But Evan showed no signs of listening to her advice, and he definitely didn't want her involved in yet another investigation.

Not that he would get far getting information from the traditional Amish without her. They might like Evan, but he was an Englisher, and few of them would trust him. Fewer still would give information that might reflect badly on another of their people. Hundreds of years of keeping apart from the world had added to the suspiciousness of a naturally private people. Joab's nephew's attitude toward Evan's questions was mild compared to the wall of silence he could expect from the general community.

If she did do a little investigating on her own, she'd have to keep it from Evan. He was upset enough with her as it was. It certainly couldn't do any harm for her to ask a few questions . . . eliminate a few possibilities. Naturally, if she did learn anything substantial, come up with any hard evidence, she'd hand it over to Evan at once . . . But where to start?

Blade had mentioned seeing a buggy in Wagler's parking lot long after the grocery was closed. It wasn't like the Amish to be out late at night, and there wasn't a good reason for any of them to be downtown at that hour. And certainly not in a snowstorm. Maybe she would stop by Blade and Coyote's and see if Blade was there, or if he'd gone to the school gym already that morning. She could ask him about the buggy. The vehicles all might look alike to non-Amish, but they weren't. Buggies were as individual as different horses were. If Blade had a good sense for detail, which she suspected he did, she might be able to discover who owned the buggy and why it was still in town so late on the night of a snowstorm.

Rachel mailed her package and was able to extricate herself from the postmistress in less than fifteen minutes, a record. The post office was often a gathering place for locals. There were even several benches where townspeople would sit and chat. Not surprisingly, the talk this morning was of Billingsly's murder and the crime wave that was overtaking Stone Mill. In addition to Billingsly's death, someone was missing a cat, two trash cans had been overturned at the curb, and the priest at St. Agnes's had found the gas cap removed from his pickup and a quarter tank of gasoline missing. Rachel pleaded urgent business and made her getaway before Mabel Grooper could relate the gruesome details of Billingsly's appearance to a tourist from Harrisburg.

Blade and Coyote lived a short distance away from the post office in one of the many Victorian-age homes in town. The downstairs was given over to a studio and shop, the kiln was out back in the barn, and the Finches and their children lived in an apartment on the second floor. Donna, an aspiring painter who displayed some of her watercolors on one wall of the shop in return for clerking, was dusting the shelves when Rachel came in.

“Coyote's at the school working the booth, but Blade's upstairs with the kids,” Donna said when asked.

Rachel nodded and let herself in to the wide hallway. At the foot of the stairs, a door led to the apartment. She buzzed the intercom, and when Blade answered she identified herself. “Hey, Rachel. Coyote's already gone to the school.”

“I know, but it's you I'm looking for.”

“Is this more questions?” He didn't sound friendly.

“Just a few.”

“Then I guess you'd better come on up and get it over with.”

Chapter 9

Blade was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Rachel never entered the Finch apartment on the second floor without being amazed by the transformation the two of them had made on the rambling Victorian. When they bought it, it had been empty for more than fifteen years and slowly slipping into decay. Bats, wasps, and honeybees reigned in the attic, and broken windows had allowed the once-grand rooms to be littered with rotting leaves and squirrel nests. The cedar-shingled roof leaked. Modern plumbing and electricity were practically nonexistent. But Blade had worked tirelessly to restore the structure: replacing the roof, adding modern plumbing, rewiring the entire house, and installing an open kitchen with open shelving, marble-topped counters, and a freestanding island. He'd knocked down non-load-bearing walls so that light streamed in through stained glass windows and made the hardwood gleam. Now colorful posters and handcrafted furniture coexisted comfortably with antiques that had languished in the attic, and children's toys filled the homeschool area.

Remi smiled and waved before returning his attention to the papier-mâché volcano that he and his sister Shoshone were constructing, while the baby watched, wide-eyed, and cooed from a baby seat on the floor.

Blade glanced at the kids and motioned to Rachel. “We can talk in the library. Latte?”

“That sounds good.”

He took two mugs created by Coyote's hands and hit a button on the fancy coffeemaker on the countertop.

Rachel watched with fascination as steamed milk shot into the mug, followed by a stream of dark liquid. The room was immediately filled with the heavenly scent of fresh coffee.

“Raw sugar? Honey?” Blade asked as he made a second mug of coffee.

“No, thanks,” Rachel answered.

“Remi, you're in charge,” his father instructed, handing Rachel her coffee. “Call me if the baby fusses.”

Remi nodded vigorously from his wheelchair, beaming with pride.

“The other one is napping,” Blade explained as he led the way into a paneled room with bookshelves running from floor to ceiling along three walls. He closed the door behind them and waved her to a church bench. “Have a seat.”

She sat down, cradling her coffee, and met his gaze. Now that she was here, she was having second thoughts. Maybe she really did need to mind her own business and let Evan solve the case.

Blade leaned against the boarded-up fireplace, a project Coyote had explained was next on her husband's restoration schedule, and regarded her coolly. “Your fiancé told you about me serving time, didn't he?” Behind him, over the marble mantel hung an old wooden bow and intricately beaded quiver.

“He did. But I . . . That's not my business, Blade.” She glanced around the room, noticing a long-stemmed stone pipe with feathers dangling from it hanging from one of the bookshelves. “Are you Native American?”

Blade's expression remained unchanged. “My mother was half Swede and half Arapaho. I never met my old man. She claimed he was a Marine who had heavy Indian blood. But he didn't hang around long enough for anybody to tell what tribe.” He rested his coffee on the mantel and folded his arms over his chest. “Did Parks tell you why I went to prison?”

She really hadn't come here to ask him about his past. It wasn't her business, and honestly, she didn't want to know. She wanted to appreciate Blade for the man he was today, not judge him for what he might have done in the past. But the look on Blade's face told her he wanted to tell her. “He said you killed someone.”

“Manslaughter. Twelve years, three off for good behavior. Not something I'm proud of or something Coyote would want people talking about around the teapot at The George.” He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Long story, but I was trying to keep a buddy from ending up being another homicide statistic. But the other guy ended up dead.”

“So you were responsible?” Rachel asked.

“No guilty men in prison.” Blade's thin lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Prison humor.” He looked down and then back at her again. “Can't say about the others, but I was guilty.”

Rachel waited, letting him speak.

“Coyote was volunteering at the prison in Stockton where I'd been sent. Teaching an art class. We hit it off, started writing to each other, and when I got out, she helped turn my life around.” Blade's husky voice rasped with emotion. “We built a life together. It would be tough on her and the kids if Billingsly's murder—which I did not commit—jeopardized it.”

“You two had a falling-out,” Rachel said. “You and Billingsly.”

“We did. I built some bookcases for him, fancy cabinetwork. Did a great job, took me more than a month. Floor to ceiling. Go to his office if you want. See for yourself if it was first-rate. He paid me half of the agreed-upon cost up front. Wanted only the best, old-growth Pennsylvania cherry. He raved about my work. But once I finished and wanted what was due, he changed his tune. Claimed it was shoddy work. Refused to pay the rest. I didn't take it too well. Had a few choice words with him. But I didn't lay a hand on him. Not then. Not later.” A muscle twitched along the line of Blade's jaw. “Not that I wouldn't have taken pleasure in decking the jerk. But he wasn't worth the trouble. What I have here . . .” His gesture took in the house, his wife, and his kids. “I've spent enough time behind bars. I'm never going back to that life.” His complexion darkened. “And it might sound corny, but I've made my peace with the guy upstairs. One death on my conscience is all I can handle.”

She drew in a long breath. “You said that when you were walking home Saturday night, you saw an Amish buggy in Wagler's parking lot. Just sitting there empty? No one around?”

“No. I looked inside. Wondered if somebody had trouble. But it was empty. I thought it was odd. You know, the bad weather. And it was late, like I told you. Nobody on the streets.”

“You think maybe some young
rumspringa
kid drove it there so he could go to the tavern?”

“Could be.” Blade shrugged. “But why is it important?”

“As I said, just following up on things various people have told me. You said there was nothing unusual. Do you remember what color the horse was?”

“Brown, just a typical brown horse. Reddish-brown maybe.”

“Probably a bay. Any markings?” She sipped her coffee. It was as good as she could get in a big-city coffee shop. “A white foot? A blaze on his forehead?”

Blade chuckled. “I'm no cowboy. They all look the same to me. It had a blanket on, but if the horse had white feet I didn't notice. The buggy was one of those funny ones, sort of an Amish pickup truck.”

“A long bed with a closed-in cab?” Her interest was immediately piqued. “That's called a top-hack.”

“One of those ones with an open bed for hauling stuff.”

The type of horse-drawn carriage Blade mentioned was rare in the Stone Mill valley. Much more common around Lancaster. Rachel could think of only half a dozen in the valley, maybe less. It was going to be much easier for her to find out who was out late that night.

“A top-hack,” she repeated, trying to think about who had one.

He glanced toward the door. “Look, I've got stuff to do. But I'm telling you, I had nothing to do with offing Billingsly.”

“I believe you, for what it's worth.” She rose from the bench. “Just one more thing and I'll be out of your hair. You told me that you were at a book club meeting Saturday night. But you weren't, were you?”

Blade's visage darkened.

“Blade, there was no meeting that night. It was canceled due to the snowstorm.”

He picked up his coffee mug, but he didn't drink from it.

“Can you tell me where were you? And why Coyote thinks—”

“It's personal, Rachel,” he interrupted. “Nothing that hurts her. And nothing she needs to know about.”

“So you
did
lie to a police officer?”

He motioned toward the door. “I think maybe you've worn out your welcome today.”

“I'm not accusing you of murder. I'm simply asking where you were.”

“None of your business. And none of Evan Parks's either.” His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “You want to share what you know about my past with people in this town, do it. But know you'd be causing unnecessary hurt to my wife and my kids. You've never seemed to me like somebody who could do that. But it's a free country.” He opened the door. “You do what you have to.”

As she walked back to Stone Mill House, Rachel kept mulling over her conversation with Blade. Her instincts told her that Coyote's husband really didn't have anything to do with Billingsly's death, but if he didn't, why had he lied about where he'd been Saturday night? And why had he been unwilling to say where he'd really been? She refused to believe that he was seeing another woman. His love for his wife and children was obvious. But what would Evan say if he knew? Did gut feelings have anything to do with solving a crime? And was she withholding evidence by not telling Evan about Blade's phony alibi?

As Rachel walked, she was almost oblivious to the cold. Blade had obviously been shaken by her questions, and she hoped it wouldn't spoil her friendship with the family. Everyone had things in his past he didn't want to share. Certainly she did. Prying into her neighbors' lives made her uncomfortable, but how else was she going to find the killer? Certainly a few bruised feelings were a small price to pay to clear her own name and see justice done.

Mentally, she began to construct a chart on the whiteboard in her bedroom, the same way she'd done the year before when another murder had been committed in their community. The vanishing hat would begin her list of things that didn't sit right. And directly below it, the top-hack that Blade had seen in Wagler's parking lot, the buggy that shouldn't have been there.

There had to be logical explanations, and she hoped that they didn't involve Billingsly's murder. Both the hat and the buggy were nails that stuck up when all the others were nailed snugly in place. Evan had brushed off her concern about the man's hat, and she had the sinking feeling that he'd do the same with the late-night buggy. But she knew someone who would listen, a person she trusted who might help her unravel this ball of tangled wool.

At the B&B, Rachel found Mary Aaron upstairs just finishing vacuuming one of the guest rooms. “Hi,” Rachel said in Deitsch once her cousin had switched off the vacuum. “Wasn't this supposed to be Dinah's job today?” Mary Aaron could turn her hand to anything, but she was normally working in the gift shop or giving instructions to housecleaning.

Mary Aaron's pretty face creased into an amused expression. “It was, but the machine was getting the best of Dinah again today.” She chuckled. “I won't repeat all she called it, but
stupid goat
was the mildest. She said that when she kicked it. And the poor vacuum cleaner was as innocent as a new-hatched chick. Poor Englisher machine can't eat dirt if the bag's full.” She used the Englisher word for the vacuum because there wasn't one in the Amish dialect.

Rachel shook her head as she gathered up the furniture wax and cleaning cloths. Dinah's rocky relationship with electrical appliances was much like Ada's war with the telephone. More than once, Rachel had caught her stepping over the vacuum cleaner and sweeping the rug on the stairs with a broom. And the multiple choices on the washing machine confused her. It wasn't that Dinah was stupid, far from it. She simply had taken such a strong dislike to the appliances that she refused to learn how to properly operate them. Evan often asked Rachel why she didn't dismiss Dinah and hire someone more useful, but he didn't understand. Dinah was a good girl, and her mother depended on her wages. Firing her would be an insult to the family and ultimately the community. And besides, Dinah was cheerful, industrious, and always good with the guests.

“This is the last room,” Mary Aaron said. “Would you mind giving me that ride home?” She removed a spiral notebook and pencil from her apron pocket and drew a line through the final entry. Mary Aaron loved her lists and rarely was without her small notebook.

“Sure, I'll be glad to drive you,” Rachel answered. “But I was hoping you didn't need to go straight home. There's something I want to look into.”

Mary Aaron's face lit up with curiosity. “I'm not sure I like the sound of that,” she teased.

Rachel pressed her lips together. “Let's talk in the car where there won't be any eavesdroppers.”

“
Ya.
Sure.” Mary Aaron slipped easily back into English. “Just as long as I'm home in time to help
Mam
with supper.” She passed over a handful of one-dollar bills. “Very nice people you have staying here this week. That Jake
retts
up his room, makes his bed, and leaves on it every day a note and five dollars for the maid. Must have money, him.”