Plain Dead (9 page)

“Thanks,” Rachel said. “I don't think I'm hungry. The tea does sound good, though.”

“Nothing like peppermint tea on a cold night.”

When they reached the refreshment area, Rachel ran fresh water and flipped on the electric kettle. “Tea bags or leaf?”

George snorted. “Need you ask?”

She smiled. “You're right. I shouldn't have.” She took a porcelain English teapot, rinsed it with hot water, then added tea leaves from a glass container on an antique sideboard. She filled the pot with water and carried it to the table, where George had already assembled teacups, cream, and a small dish of raw sugar cubes. A crystal saucer held the famed cinnamon twists.

“I had an argument with Evan.” She slid into her chair. “I'm not sure if I broke up with him or not.” She stared at her hands in her lap and the finger missing her engagement ring. “I may have.”

George nodded knowingly. “ ‘The course of true love . . .' ” he quoted. “Tea first. It will make you feel better.”

She smiled again. George believed that a cup of peppermint tea could remedy just about anything, and usually he was right. She didn't think that the solution to this problem would be found so easily, though. “It hasn't been the best of weeks.”

“No.” He poured tea into her cup and then his. He'd chosen dainty English cups and saucers with porcelain so thin that you could see shapes through them. Using a silver sugar spoon, he dropped a single lump into his tea and stirred. “I don't suppose we needed the cream. Foolish of me.” He stirred again, put down his spoon, and cradled the cup in his hands. “Tea warms twice, outside and in.” He smiled at her. “If you need to talk, I'm here, Rachel. If you'd rather just sit in the quiet, we can do that, too. I'm learning patience in my old age.” He reached for a cinnamon twist.

“I hardly think you've reached your dotage yet.”

“Not yet. At least I hope not. But some days, I wonder.”

“I thought Ell would be working tonight.” She added sugar to her tea.

“I sent her off to have dinner with that nice Aldritch boy. She works too hard, and she could stand with a little more meat on her bones. An Amish meal with gravy and biscuits is just the thing for her.” He set his cup down. “Ell needs to learn to relax and enjoy herself more. What's life if we don't enjoy ourselves?”

Rachel hadn't thought she was hungry, but the cinnamon twists George had put on the table between them were calling her name. She reached out and slid one onto the plate he'd given her,
just in case
. She took a nibble. It was good. Amazingly good. Her guests would love them. Ada had never baked them at the house. She wondered if Ada had the recipe or if she'd consider winging it. Maybe her mother hadn't shared it. Amish cooks were as territorial with their prized recipes as any other women.

Idly, Rachel gazed around the sitting area. One table had been set aside for a display that included blown-up book covers of Harper Lee's
To Kill a Mockingbird
and
Go Set a Watchman
, as well as a photo of the author. Copies of both titles were stacked in front of it. “I haven't read
To Kill a Mockingbird
since . . . well, not in years, but it was always a favorite.”

“You read the sequel yet?” George smiled. “We decided to combine the two for our book club selection this month.”

“I haven't read the second book yet, but I've been meaning to. I bet the discussion was great.” She would have liked to be in George's book club, but they met on Saturday nights, which were usually busy for her. “I'd have loved to have joined the discussion Saturday night.”

“Still a chance. We had to cancel for the bad weather, so we're meeting this Saturday night. You're welcome to come then. Always room for one more reader.”

Postponed,
she thought. But Blade had told her he'd been at book club Saturday night. Or, rather, his
wife
had said he'd been at the meeting. She knew her eyes must have widened.

Had Blade lied to Coyote? Why would he do that? Surely it couldn't have had anything to do with Bill Billingsly's murder. . . could it?

She sipped her tea. “Um . . . how many regulars do you have?”

He paused, considering. “Eleven if you count Hulda, but she misses a lot in winter. Says she's ready for bed by the time we're just getting warmed up.”

Rachel chuckled. “Is Teresa still a member?”

“Absolutely. She kept it going while I was away.” He named off the people who rarely skipped a meeting. “I know because Teresa kept excellent attendance records.”

“And Blade Finch. He comes regularly, too, doesn't he?”

“Blade? No.” George shook his head. “He's hit-or-miss.” His gaze met hers. “Why do you ask?”

Rachel shrugged slowly. She didn't want to jump to conclusions. “No reason, just someone told me that he was a serious reader. You wouldn't expect it, looking at him. But—”

“You mean the long hair and the tattoos?” George chuckled and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What do I always tell you, Rachel? You can't judge a book by its cover.” And they both laughed together over that old saying.

George finished up his cinnamon twist and asked, “Want to talk about Evan?”

She licked sugar from her fingertips, almost wishing George had saved a few more of the pastries. “I don't think so.”

“Well, just remember, I'm here if you need me. You, Sophie, and Ell, I consider you my family. You know that.” He reached for his teacup. “I understand that you saw Bill's body. Before the police shooed everyone off.” He met her gaze across the table. “I imagine it was bad.”

“Awful,” she agreed. “It was ghoulish of me to go down there, I suppose, but when Eddie Millman told me Billingsly was dead, I don't think I believed it. It seemed impossible that anyone would do such a thing.”

“He died of exposure, you know.” George took a last sip and set down his empty cup. “He was alive and probably awake when they tied him to that post and doused him with water.”

The full horror of Billingsly frozen on his porch came back to her. “How do you know that? I thought . . . I assumed there was a possibility he'd been killed inside and then . . . dragged out.”

George patted his lap, and Sophie jumped up into it. “I have my sources. I won't say who, but let's say someone in the medical examiner's office is a bit of a gossip. The knock on the head wasn't fatal. Bill died tied to his front porch. No doubt about it.”

“But you said
they
. The police think more than one person was involved?”

“That's just conjecture on my part. Bill wasn't a small person, and he should have been fighting for his life. I'd imagine that it would have taken two assailants or at least one formidable one to overcome him. There was a concussion. He was struck in the head by a hard object—some sort of bar, but they don't know what. No weapon was found on the scene. He was either disabled or knocked unconscious and carried or dragged onto the porch.” He thought for a minute. “Although I guess he could have been held at gunpoint and made to walk out there.”

“But then why hit him with something?” she asked.

He nodded. “Good point. He was gagged, and there were ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. He struggled against his bonds, and he probably was very aware that he was in danger of freezing to death. Which proved true.”

She sighed. “It's just so bizarre. Killing someone that way, so . . . indirectly.”

“Right,” George said thoughtfully. “Why leave him outside to die like that? If you were going to hit him over the head, why not just hit him a little harder and be done with it?”

“I think Evan is right to look at people Billingsly knew. This wasn't a random killing. It was too . . . too personal.”

“Exactly what I thought,” George agreed. “A crime of passion.” He stroked Sophie's head. “Do you think Evan is up to this investigation? He's new at this. No offense intended. You know that I'm very fond of Evan, but this is going to be a high-profile case. It could make his career or . . .”

“Break it.” She finished her tea. “Evan's good at procedure. He's studied the guidelines and worked under other detectives, so I think his foundation is good.” She hesitated. “It's his intuition that I worry about. At some point, I think you have to go with intuition, and I don't know that he believes that. I don't know if he has intuition.” She looked up at George. “And if he did, would he recognize it?”

George didn't say anything and Rachel went on. “Evan says that the argument I had with Billingsly in the high school cafeteria the afternoon before he was killed puts me on the
persons-of-interest
list.”

“You?” George frowned. “He can't seriously believe that you could
kill
anyone?”

“That was my first response. I got so angry that I just lost my temper. I gave him back his ring. He said it didn't matter what he thought personally, that he had to follow all leads, but—” She put her head in her hands. “He didn't want me to take it personally? How could I not?” She lowered her hands and looked up at George again. “I'm so confused. I don't want to marry a man who thinks I could kill someone, do I? Only . . . in all fairness to him, that's not what he said.” She exhaled. “What do I do, George?”

“You're an intelligent woman, Rachel.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “You'll figure it out. Evan will solve the murder, and the two of you will patch up your differences.”

“You think so?”

“I'm sure of it.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, and Rachel got up to go. She thanked George for the tea and for listening, and left him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She was just getting into her Jeep when her cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen, saw Evan's name, and almost didn't answer. But she did.

“Rache. I just . . . I was calling to see if you were okay.”

She started the engine but just sat there. “I'm okay,” she said softly. “But I'm not ready to talk about this. I think that both of us are too—” She cut herself off. Too what? Too headstrong? Too emotional?

“Right,” he said. “It's better if we wait. We're both wound pretty tight. But I was worried about you. I went by the house. Your Jeep wasn't there.”

“I stopped at the bookstore and had tea with George. I'm going home now.”

“Well, drive safe.”

There were a few seconds of silence and she wondered if he'd hung up, and then he said, “I have to go and talk to Joab and Annie Herschberger in the morning. I'd appreciate it if you'd still come along, break the ice for me.”

“You're sure that won't compromise the investigation. Me being one of the suspects?”

He exhaled. “I wouldn't ask you if I did. So, will you?”

She felt ashamed of her childish sarcasm. “If you think it will help . . .” It was her turn to be silent for a long second. “Of course.”

Chapter 8

Evan had the heater running when he picked her up the following morning in his SUV, but the mood was still as cool between them as when she'd gotten out of his vehicle the evening before. A crisp “Good morning,” followed by “I don't think this should take long,” was the extent of Evan's greeting. She murmured something in reply and then stared out the window as he pulled out of her driveway.

Hulda was on her step retrieving her out-of-town paper from the boxwood where the deliveryman had thrown it. She waved, cheery in a red-and-white robe and furry slippers.

Rachel waved back. “At least the sun's out today,” she remarked to Evan.

He grunted.

He didn't look as if he'd slept any better than she had. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the puffiness beneath them made his features stoic. Rachel doubted that her own appearance had benefited from her distress.

Because they were going to Annie and Joab's home, Rachel had taken pains to dress in a manner that wouldn't offend the Herschbergers. They knew and accepted that she was no longer Amish, but interaction in the Plain world went smoother when she covered her head with a scarf and wore modest clothing. Today she was wearing a long denim skirt, black tights and boots, and a hand-sewn, padded Amish-style coat. She wore no makeup; her red hair was bound up and pinned in a neat bun at the back of her head and covered. Evan hated her getup, as he called it, but in the past he'd agreed that, as odd as she might appear to an outsider, the Old Order Amish responded to her appearance in a positive manner. When she was dressed plainly, they spoke to her not as an Englisher but as one of their own. Almost.

“How's the case going?” she asked after a few blocks of silence.

He didn't respond to her question, but after a minute or two glanced at her and asked, “What do you know about Blade Finch?”

“I know he's a skilled woodworker, a good father. He seems extremely responsible, hardworking, and appears to adore his wife and children.”

When Evan made no comment, she continued, “I gather he may have come from a rough background, but he attends church regularly with his family and he must have convinced the State of California that he was a decent man because they allowed him and Coyote to adopt Remi.”

“He's the boy's stepfather, did you know that? He was married before. The mother's dead, and the child had no other relatives.”

She smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “I never asked anything about Remi's background. I assumed that if Coyote and Blade wanted me to know, they'd have told me.” She looked at Evan. “But it says something about Blade's character, doesn't it, that he'd want to adopt Remi?”

“It might.” Out of town now, he took a narrow country road. “Were you aware that he'd spent time in jail?”

“No.” Her mouth went dry, and the impossibility of Blade's story about going to the book club meeting when it had actually been canceled surfaced in her mind. “I didn't. What did he do?”

Evan hesitated and slowed as the road descended to a single-lane bridge over a rocky stream at the bottom of a hill. “I don't think that's something that I should be sharing with you.”

“I'll just look it up on the Internet.”

He exhaled. “Not jail. Prison. Dennis Lee Finch, alias
Blade
Finch, served nine years for manslaughter.”

Rachel wouldn't have been any more surprised if Mrs. Abbott's walking snowman had crossed the road in front of them. “Manslaughter?” Blade had killed someone? The gentle and good-humored man who carried his newborn around in a baby sling and tenderly cared for a physically challenged little boy had been convicted of causing someone's death? “I had no idea,” she admitted. “But manslaughter could mean a lot of things.” She hesitated. She of all people knew that, with matters of the law, definitions of crimes could be broad. “Couldn't it?”

Evan didn't respond. He slowed the SUV again and turned onto a lane marked by a large black mailbox with the name J. Herschberger painted on the front. The driveway hadn't been plowed, but a heavy motor vehicle had recently driven over it, packing down the snow. The path led to a tidy farmyard with a large barn, two-story stone house, and well-maintained outbuildings. Bare cornstalks sprouted from a blanket of white in a large enclosure ringed by a painted picket fence and boasting a scarecrow in threadbare trousers and a battered hat.

“You should see this house in May,” Rachel said. “Annie has hundreds of yellow tulips and daffodils. And by July, the rosebushes around the house will all be in bloom.”

Above the farmyard, a windmill creaked and turned, the white paddles stark against the blue of the winter sky. A dog barked a friendly welcome and trotted out of open double doors on the barn. Just inside, sheltered from the wind and warmed by a patch of sunshine, stood a patient workhorse. One bearded Amish man stood at the animal's head while a young man inspected a massive hind hoof.

Evan parked his vehicle and turned off the key. “Is that Joab Herschberger? The older man?”

Rachel nodded and climbed out of the SUV. She walked over to the dog and patted its head, then waited for Joab to recognize her. His companion, younger and wearing glasses, studied her but said nothing. Rachel thought she had seen him before, but she wasn't certain of his name.

Joab slowly released the horse's halter and gave his full attention to Rachel. “Morning,” he said in Deitsch. “That's Evan Parks with you, isn't it? The policeman?”

“
Ya,
” she answered. “But he's not wearing his uniform or driving his police car,” she replied, also in Deitsch. “He's come to speak with you, if you are willing.”

Joab frowned. “And if I'm not? This is about the newspaperman's death, isn't it? Does the Englisher think that I'm the one who committed this terrible crime?” He ran a hand down the horse's neck and came toward her. “Did he bring his gun?”

Rachel shook her head. “No guns. He was hoping to ask you and Annie a few questions. It's his job to find who did this murder in our community, and he has to talk to everyone who might have been angry with Billingsly.”

“Then he has come to the right place,” Joab said. His eyes narrowed. He was a spare man of medium height, but he moved easily, evidence of a lifetime of manual labor. Joab's face was weather-beaten and his eyes fierce above his graying beard.

“Mr. Herschberger?” Evan came to stand beside her. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

Joab frowned, but when he spoke again, it was in heavily accented English. “You want to know if I hated him enough to take his life. Maybe I wanted to, but—”

“But my Joab could never do such a thing.” Annie appeared from the shadowy interior of the barn, a bucket of chicken feed in one hand. She was dressed for the cold in men's boots and a heavy coat, and a wool scarf much like the ones Rachel wore. “My husband told an untruth to protect me and our other children. He also wished to protect our foolish son and keep him from being shunned.” She used the Amish word
mei-dung,
meaning
bann.
“He was angry, so angry that he did this to this bucket.” She turned it so that Rachel could see the dent in one side. “Joab was wrong to shelter us, but he has lamented his error and received forgiveness.”

“I don't wish to cause either of you trouble. My questions are routine. I promise not to take much of your time,” Evan said. “I just need to know Mr. Herschberger's whereabouts Saturday night after the festival closed.”

“Has he come to arrest my husband?” Annie asked Rachel in Deitsch. “Is there a law that says he must answer these questions?”

“It would be better if Joab did,” Rachel answered in Deitsch. “You know I argued with Billingsly at the school. I had to say where I was Saturday night, too. But you don't have to say anything. And you have a right to ask for a lawyer if—”

“No Englishman of the law.” Joab spoke firmly in English. “I am an innocent man and have nothing to hide. Ask your questions, Evan Parks.”

“I can say where my husband was that night,” Annie said quickly. “Where else would he be but here with me in our home? We came back early from the frolic because of the threat of bad weather and we did not wish to risk the horse on a slippery blacktop.”

Evan glanced at Joab for confirmation. “So you came directly home. And your wife was with you all evening?”

“Not only my wife but my brother Barnabas; his wife, Belinda; three of his sons; and his new daughter-in-law and their baby. They were on their way to his wife's family, but when the snow started to fall they came here for the night.”

“So all those people would state that you were here at home all Saturday night?” Evan asked.

“He was,” the younger man said. He eyed Evan suspiciously. “Uncle Joab never left the house again that night.”

“What did my husband just say?” Annie asked sharply. “His three nephews slept in the living room. Joab could not have gone out of the house without waking us all. He did not stir from the house until morning.”

“We were driving through Stone Mill when we heard that there had been a death and stopped to see.” Joab shook his head. “I saw what had happened to Billingsly, and I will never forget it, not if I live to be a hundred.”

“It's all true,” the younger man, holding the horse's bridle, said.

Evan glanced at him. “And you are?”

“Little Joe Herschberger. This is my uncle. My wife, my brothers, and my father and mother will all tell you the same thing. Uncle Joab was with us in this house. He harmed no one.” He spat onto the barn floor. “Maybe you should go look for the killer instead of pestering my uncle, who has such a gentle heart he cannot even cut the head off his own chickens.”

“So, you can cross Joab off your list,” Rachel said a few minutes later as they drove away from the Herschberger farm. “That's good, right?”

“Good for Joab,” Evan said, making no attempt to hide his grumpiness. “Not so good for you.”

 

The ride back to Stone Mill House was as awkward for Rachel as the trip out to the Herschbergers had been. It was so awkward that she was relieved when Evan dropped her off at her house.

“Thanks,” he said as he pulled into her driveway. It was the first word he'd spoken for the last several miles.

“I didn't really do anything,” she replied.

His face showed nothing of what he was thinking. “I doubt they would have spoken to me at all if you weren't there.”

It was true, but she saw no sense in repeating what they both knew. She wanted to say something that would make things right between them, words that might bridge the distance and the hurt, but she was still numb. This wasn't an Evan she knew, this scowling, brooding man. She suspected that he was aching inside as much as she was.

She mumbled something noncommittal and watched, dry-eyed, as he drove away. Inside, she found Ada bustling around the kitchen, rolling piecrust and roasting a chicken. The expression on her face told Rachel that her housekeeper was in no mood for small talk, so Rachel moved on to the dining room, where Mary Aaron was giving instructions to Minnie and seeing to the guests.

“Hulda's in the office,” Mary Aaron supplied.

“Oh, good.”

No one seemed to have noticed that Rachel had been gone for an hour. She should have been pleased that everything at the inn was running smoothly. Instead, she felt a vague discomfort that she was dispensable in her own inn these days.

Pull up your stockings and be a big girl,
she told herself. Wasn't that the whole idea of having a dependable staff?

Hulda came every Tuesday morning and sometimes on Thursdays and Saturdays as well. Wanting her son and grandsons to take more responsibility, she was spending less time at Russell's Hardware and Emporium and more time at Stone Mill House. That was a tremendous help to Rachel because having Hulda's help for a few hours several mornings a week freed her from the routine office duties. Age aside, Hulda was computer literate and a savvy businesswoman, and although she'd never been an innkeeper, Hulda had been able to give Rachel a lot of pointers on running the B&B more efficiently. For the first year, Rachel had tried to do almost everything herself, and the task had been overwhelming. But now that she could hire more help and had Hulda volunteering, Rachel had more time to devote to the growing craft shop and her greater plans for improving the town's prospects.

But she couldn't do much toward those goals if she couldn't even remember what day of the week it was. She was definitely not herself. Since Billingsly's death, she'd had trouble keeping track of the hours. It shocked her to think that his body had been discovered only two days earlier on Sunday morning. And since she'd seen the editor's frozen corpse on the front porch of his stately Victorian, she'd broken her engagement with the man she loved and found herself on the list of murder suspects. How could her life change so completely in only forty-eight hours?

“I forgot you were coming in today,” Rachel said to Hulda as she walked into the office, with Mary Aaron following behind. “Billingsly's killing has me rattled. I don't know whether I'm coming or going.”

“No wonder.” The elderly woman peered over her glasses. These were her new ones, Rachel noticed, electric pink with rhinestones. At least she thought they were rhinestones. With Hulda you never knew. They might be genuine diamonds.

“I really appreciate you coming to help out in the office,” Rachel said. “But I feel guilty for not paying you for your time. Not that I could compensate you properly for all the hours you put in here.”