Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery) (17 page)

F
or more years than Claire cared to admit, cooking had been a source of pain. Night after night she’d spend an hour or more in the kitchen in the hopes that a good meal and any accompanying conversation might save her failing marriage. More times than not, though, she ate alone, the candles she’d lit burning down to nothing as she watched the hands of the clock rob her of her latest round of hope and slowly seal the fate of a union entered into by two, yet nurtured by one.

Yet, somehow, in ways she couldn’t quite pinpoint, cooking had undergone a rebirth in her heart since moving in to her aunt’s inn. Suddenly, the act of experimenting with flavors and spices was no longer done out of desperation but, rather, served as a way to unwind after a busy day at work.

And the conversation she’d longed to have with Peter all those nights was hers for the taking now every time she sat down across the kitchen counter from Diane for a post-guest meal or took a place at the dining room table with new and interesting people eager to share tidbits about their lives while learning everything they could about life in Amish country.

Perhaps the best part of cooking these days, though, was doing it alongside her aunt. Some nights they’d chatter nonstop while they prepared the various parts of the evening’s menu. Other nights, they relished the peace and quiet while knowing the other was there beside them, softly humming or singing a favorite tune.

It was a nightly routine Claire’d come to treasure along with so many other aspects of life in Heavenly the past nine months, and it was a nightly routine she’d looked forward to enjoying for many more to come. Unfortunately, her bank account had other ideas . . .

Shaking her head free from the kind of thoughts destined to put her in a funk for the rest of the night, Claire looked up from the potatoes she was mashing to find her aunt studying her closely. “Do I have potatoes on my nose or something?” she joked before ducking her head to check her reflection against the side of the pot. “Because if I do, you could just say so, you know.”

“And if there’s something bothering you, you could just say so rather than make me guess.” Diane crossed to the refrigerator, removed the butter dish from the upper shelf, and then handed it to Claire along with a knife. “The McCormicks like lots of butter in their potatoes.”

She traded the masher for the knife and sliced several pats of butter into the pot, watching with minimal interest as they hit the warm potatoes and began to melt almost immediately. “Nothing is bothering me. Really.”

Diane’s left eyebrow rose upward. “Nothing? Then why have I heard you pacing in your room until the wee hours of the morning virtually every night for the past week?”

She paused mid-stir and contemplated her response. If she admitted the problems at the gift shop, Diane would try to step in and help despite her own financial responsibilities at the inn. And while her aunt was in better shape than Claire was in that department, Diane wasn’t made of cash, either. Besides, the whole point of opening Heavenly Treasures in the first place was so Claire could realize a dream on her own.

Realize or sink, that is . . .

“There!
That’s
the look you’ve had on your face more times than not these past few days.”

She consulted the side of the pot once again, the tired eyes and worry lines she saw reflected back forcing her to come up with a response, fast.

“There’s been a lot going on with the murder and everything. I mean, finding a body the way I did doesn’t exactly make for a restful night’s sleep.”

The same worry she’d seen just moments earlier in the pot crept its way across Diane’s face. “Would it help to talk to someone, dear? Because I could arrange for that.”

“You mean like a counselor or something?” At Diane’s nod, Claire shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

Diane sidled up to the stove and peered at the beef stew that was a favorite among each round of guests that passed through the inn. “I’m glad to hear that, of course. Stumbling across something like that must eat away at you. But the pacing I’m talking about started
before
you found Harley’s body.”

It was time to play dumb, and play dumb she did. “Maybe you heard one of the guests? Or someone’s television? I just know the only things on my mind right now pertain to Harley’s murder in one way or the other.”

“Such as?” Diane grabbed a stack of stew bowls from the cabinet beside the stove, set them on the counter beside her favorite ladle, then turned to Claire for the answer she sought.

“Well, I’m worried about Jakob for starters.”

This time it was Diane’s right eyebrow that lifted in surprise. “Jakob? Why?”

Claire gave the potatoes one final stir then covered them with a lid to keep them warm. “Having his father in the mix of suspects in Harley’s murder is weighing on him heavily. And then, last night, I went with him to Harley’s wake and the treatment he got from Martha and Esther while he was there cut him to the core.”

She allowed the words that left her mouth to transport her back to the shop and the odd way her conversation with Martha had ended that morning. “But let’s forget that for a minute and let me ask you something, instead. Jakob’s sister said something really strange today.”

Diane folded her arms across her apron front. “Go on, dear . . .”

“If I understood correctly, it almost sounded as if Martha could have a relationship with Jakob’s wife if he got married. Is that true?”

“Yes, that’s true.
Jakob
has been excommunicated, not his future wife and any children they might have.”

She stared at the woman standing just on the other side of the counter while she tried to make sense of the nonsensical. “Wait. So if I’m hearing correctly, you’re saying that Jakob’s wife and kids could share Christmas dinner with his family but he could not?”

“He could be there, they just wouldn’t talk to him. They’d speak only to one another and to his wife and children.”

Abandoning her watch over the potatoes, Claire walked around the counter, scooped up the stew bowls, and headed toward the dining room and the table that was virtually set save for a few last-minute additions. “I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t sit there and socialize with people who opted not to speak with my husband.”

Diane followed with the bread basket and the guests’ butter dish. “You mean if you were Jakob’s wife?”

Claire stopped short at her mistake. Nothing like drawing herself into the picture her aunt was painting for Claire’s life. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Yes, of course, dear . . .”

She heard the strangled laugh as it slipped between her lips and let it propel her around the table, her fingers depositing stew bowls at each spot as she passed. “How can one Amish man take such good care of his cows, treating them as though they were his children, while another mandates his family cut off one of their own forever?” She headed back toward the kitchen and the last few remaining jobs that needed to be done before the guests arrived at the table for dinner. “There are so many things about the Amish I adore, but that’s not one of them.”

“The repercussions for leaving after baptism are known by all. They may not be something we understand, but the person who considers leaving does.” Diane retrieved her oven mitts from the center of the counter and used them to lift the stew pot from the stove while Claire gathered up the water pitcher and the ladle. “As for Harley and his cows, they were all he really had. And while none of them were alive when his brother was, they are all descendants of ones who were. I think, in some ways, he cared for and protected them in a way he could no longer do for his brother.”

She spun around. “Oh my gosh, that’s it!’

Diane walked carefully through the kitchen and into the hallway that linked it with the dining room. “What’s it, dear?”

“Ever since Jakob and I went out to Harley’s farm to make sure his pasture gate was closed, something has been eating at me that I couldn’t quite put my finger on until now.” She heard the sound of guests approaching and did her best to share her revelation as quickly as possible. “You said, the other day, that Harley was always chasing down one cow or the other, right? That he joked about his little ladies missing him when he went off to work?”

“I did.”

“Why would a man who put in a state-of-the-art latch for his pasture gate leave it open when he left for work?” When Diane said nothing, Claire continued on, putting two and two together and actually having it add up to something that made sense for the first time in days. “I mean, if he was as protective of his cows as you say, and he looked after them the way that Luke Hochstetler said and I saw with my own two eyes when I visited the farm yesterday, the whole careless thing doesn’t make sense.”

Diane lowered the stew pot to the waiting buffet table and turned to face Claire. “I’ve always attributed it to someone playing a prank. After a few instances, Harley began to think so, too.”

“A prank would be to do it once. But this happened multiple times, didn’t it?” She lowered her voice as the parade of footsteps grew closer. “Why didn’t Harley tell someone? Why didn’t he report it to the police?”

“The Amish are wary around the police.”

“Wary?”

“First of all, the Amish are pacifists, as you know. They believe that things will work out on their own. A loose cow, or even a dozen loose cows, certainly doesn’t warrant bringing in the police as far as the Amish are concerned.”

Kyle Reilly was the first into the room, followed by his wife, Megan, and the McCormicks. “Good evening,” Diane said, smiling at each of her guests as they took their place at the table. “How was everyone’s day?”

“It was good but it’s even better now,” Will said as he beamed at his wife and then Diane. “Why, I smelled that beef stew the second we came in from a walk and I knew what it was right away. My grandma used to make a stew that smelled just like that when I was no higher than her knee.”

Ten minutes later, when everyone was settled in with a heaping bowl of stew and a large piece of still-warm bread alongside a hefty helping of homemade potatoes, Kyle brought Claire back to the conversation that had been cut short by the dinner hour. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I heard you talking a little while ago about the way the Amish don’t seek out the police. I’ve heard that before and I’ve always wondered if that belief makes them an easy target for would-be thieves who see the Amish as vulnerable. They don’t have phones to call for help, and even if they do, it seems as if the police are some of the last folks they’d call, on account of their beliefs and all.”

She knew Will responded, even made out bits and pieces of what he said, but, for the most part, her mind was off and running. Kyle was right. If someone was even semi-versed in the Amish culture, they’d know that a certain level of mischief would go unanswered simply because of the whole turn-the-other-cheek way of life they embodied.

If someone monkeyed with their pasture gate and a few cows got out, the Amish would simply round them up, secure the gate, and proceed on with their day.

If someone wrote nasty things across a wall inside their barn, they’d merely paint over it and go on with their day.

“The cows . . . They were a sign, too!” She smacked her hand over top of her mouth as five sets of eyes turned in her direction and let her know with absolute certainty that she’d shared her little revelation aloud.

“Claire?”

She grabbed the pitcher from the buffet table and made herself loop around the table, topping off everyone’s glasses as she went, a smile she knew Diane wasn’t buying plastered across her face. “I’m sorry, everyone. Don’t mind me. I was thinking about a book I was reading last night. I’ve been having a hard time figuring who did it.”

“And did you finally figure it out?” Megan said, grinning.

“Not yet, but I’m getting a little closer.” She pulled the near-empty pitcher to her chest and backed away from the table. “Is there anything else you need at the moment?” At the collective shake of their heads, she carried the pitcher back to the kitchen, anxious to have a few moments of privacy to pick Diane’s brain.

“I don’t think Harley’s loose cows were a prank, Diane.” She set the pitcher on the counter closest to the sink and turned to face her aunt. “Not the kind done by someone on a lark, anyway.”

Diane pulled the dishrag from her apron string and began tidying up, her nightly routine making the larger cleanup job after dinner far less daunting. “You think there was malice behind it?”