Plain Dead (14 page)

She nodded. “Doesn't sound like a guy who would murder someone by tying him to his front porch to freeze to death, does it?”

Evan shook his head. “No, but you never know. People do crazy things. The way I found out that he knew Billingsly for sure was on a veterans' blog. The two of them have been having a heated debate online.”

“What about?”

“Apparently over national legislation concerning psychiatric care for PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—for veterans. Skinner doesn't think the government does enough for vets once they come home from war. Billingsly disagreed. He was full of facts and figures, taking the position that we're already spending millions on mental care for these men. And you know Billingsly. He wields that pen like a sword.”

Rachel got up from the table, went to her office, and returned with her laptop. The teakettle had started to whistle, and she turned off the flame under it. “What's the name of the site?”

When he didn't answer, she stared at him as she set the laptop on the table and opened it. “You know I'll find it anyway.”

He exhaled, obviously not happy with her. “You should just let me handle this, Rache. You're not in a position to be interfering with a police investigation.”

She ignored him and started to type Skinner's name into the search bar.

Evan exhaled again and told her the name of the site.

While he finished eating, she read the exchange between Skinner and Billingsly. After a few minutes, she paused and looked up. “This isn't just a disagreement over politics,” she said. “It's personal. There's bad blood between the two of them.”

Evan pushed his plate back. “How do you figure that? They just didn't agree on a health care funding issue. Arguments about money can get heated.”

Rachel resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Men.
They never read between the lines. Even the smartest of them. “You need to take a closer look at what they're saying, Evan. For whatever reason, Skinner had a grudge against Billingsly. He was angry with him and resentful. How angry is hard to say.”

“I think you're jumping to conclusions.” Evan wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin. “And you need to rein in your emotions and let me do my job.”

Stung by his words, Rachel closed her laptop. “I'm just saying that—”

“Well, don't.” His tone became terse. “You're jumping to conclusions again. Women's intuition or whatever it is that sends you off on these tangents is more hindrance than help in real police work.
Evidence
is what we need. Hard facts. That's what I have to base my case on. Not conjecture or hunches, but facts.”

She bit back several retorts that sprang to mind, most of which pertained to past murders in the town that she'd solved when the police couldn't. She closed her laptop. “So what hard evidence have you come up with today? Any new directions?”

Evan's shoulders slumped. When he spoke again, he'd tempered his voice. “Nothing. Which is why I keep coming back to the same persons of interest.” He glanced up at her, clearly feeling guilty.

She went with her
women's intuition
. “Including me?”

He met her gaze and then glanced away. “Nothing turned up in the autopsy that wasn't apparent at first glance. No evidence to speak of at the crime scene. No fingerprints, and we did a second sweep.”

“You see a cat when you were in the house? A gray tabby?”

He shook his head. “No cat. And no murder weapon. I think that whatever the killer hit Billingsly on the head with, he took it with him when he left.”

She went to the stove and poured cups of tea, carried them to the table, and then went to the counter and lifted a cake cover. “Have room for a slice of German chocolate?”

“Always.”

She cut a generous slice and put it on a plate. “I still say that Jake Skinner came here for a specific reason, and it wasn't for shoofly pie.” She slid the cake toward Evan. “And now you know that he lied to you.”

Evan shrugged. “Well, he's not the only one. Blade claimed to be at a book club meeting Saturday night, but he wasn't. I found out today that the meeting was canceled due to the storm. I'm going back to question him again in the morning.”

She pinched the tea bag tag dangling in her mug and worked the tea bag up and down. “So you're left where?”

“I have to keep going back to the circumstantial evidence because that's all I have.” He hesitated. “I'm going to be honest with you, Rachel. Unfortunately, you're at the top of my list. You admit being at Billingsly's house around the time of his death, and he had something on you. Something that could have been potentially devastating to you if he'd published it.”

She suddenly felt a little sick to her stomach. She let go of the tea bag and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “That isn't funny.”

“It wasn't supposed to be.” He leaned forward on the table. “Look, you didn't do it. I know that, but you have to admit that to someone who doesn't know you, it doesn't look good. Being there at his house after having a public fight with him. Over something serious. Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn't the smartest thing you've ever done, Rache.”

“I suppose not.” Suddenly she was annoyed with him. She only hesitated a second before she said, “If you're looking for circumstantial evidence, I might as well give you more.”

“What do you mean?”

She got up and went to the small basket on the wall in the entryway. She picked up the key with the tattered yellow cardboard tag hanging from it. She tossed it across the table to him.

“What's that?” He picked it up and read the tag.

“Bill Billingsly's back-door key,” she told him. “You said that Billingsly's doors were all locked and that you wondered if the person who killed him had a key to his house. I've had it more than a year. I fed his cat when he went to some conference in New Mexico.” She folded her arms over her chest. “So maybe you'd better save time looking for hard evidence and read me my rights.”

Chapter 13

By ten the following morning, Rachel was at the high school gym to check on the day's scheduled activities. Her fiancé, whom she wasn't even sure she was still engaged to, hadn't arrested her the previous night, despite her encouragement. Or baiting, depending on whose point of view one saw. But the evening hadn't ended well. They'd parted frustrated, if not angry, with each other, agreeing, tight-lipped, to talk later. Rachel refused to allow herself to stew on the matter, though. She truly believed that if they were meant to be together, they'd work it out, and if they weren't meant to marry, it was better if it ended now.

Still, she wasn't in the best of moods when she arrived at the gym. It was busier than it had been on Monday or Tuesday because the Amish lunch-basket auction and winter picnic were scheduled. The best Amish cooks prepared their best dishes and tucked the lunch food into beautiful handmade baskets. Those who successfully won the bidding had their choice of eating the lunch in a special picnic area of the gym, outside on tables surrounding the ice rink, or in one of several Amish one-room schoolhouses throughout the valley. Competition was fierce, and bids often went higher than fifty dollars per basket, with the entire proceeds going to refill the shelves at the Stone Mill Food Bank, which served all the residents of the valley.

Because of the auction, there were more booths open than the previous day. Most of the newcomers were the most frugal Amish, who'd chosen to rent booths for the busiest day rather than the entire week. As Rachel entered the busy room, friends and neighbors called out to one another and to her, seemingly caught up in the cheerful atmosphere of the Winter Frolic. White prayer
kapps
and broad-brimmed black hats mingled with fur hoods and stylish cloches. And everywhere there were children, Amish and English, riding in strollers, toddling behind mothers and fathers, and playing uninhibitedly in the special roped-off area full of blocks, wooden toys, wagons, and supervised activities. None of the children seemed to notice one another's strange clothing or language as Amish and English preschoolers eagerly joined in playing hopscotch, finger painting, listening to stories, and watching a puppet show. Even the mood of the adults seemed lighter today, almost as if tragedy hadn't struck their small town just a few days before.

Life goes on,
Rachel thought, then wondered if she'd grown callous. Sunday morning she'd witnessed something that she hoped never to see again in her life, and already she was going hours without thinking of Billingsly's murder or how close her shameful secret had come to being publicly exposed. She hoped she wasn't becoming inured to crime. She had prayed for the deceased last night when she went to bed and again this morning. Her compassion was genuine. Billingsly had been a despicable person, but he didn't deserve what had happened to him. And it was important to find out who was responsible and bring him to justice.

Two laughing Amish boys, six or seven years old, blond and blue-eyed, as alike as two peas in a pod, dashed in front of her, wide-brimmed straw hats barely held in place as they darted around the booths in a reckless game of tag, barely avoiding colliding with shoppers and merchants. “Slow down,” Rachel cautioned in Deitsch. “You'll get in trouble with your
dat
and
mam
.”

School was in session for the English children, but many Amish kids were present. Technically speaking, the Amish children were supposed to be in class today, but their one-room schools had been thrown open to visitors for the lunch-basket festivities, and many of the kids had come to help their parents with the booths. For the Amish, all education was a preparation for work, and selling crafts, honey, cheese, and baked goods contributed to the family and the community. Rachel was torn between the traditional outlook and wanting to see the Amish youngsters get as much from their school years as possible. But, in the end, it was parents who made the decisions and her opinion didn't really count.

It was heartening to see the throngs of shoppers adding to the community's financial well-being, and Rachel couldn't have been more pleased to see that the Amish craftsmanship was so appreciated by outsiders. At midweek, her own booth had already sold almost all her stock from the gift store at Stone Mill House. Life was often hard for Plain people, and she was happy to help add to their income in any way she could. She took a percentage of each sale, but she'd never intended the shop to be a moneymaker for the B&B. It was her way of giving back to the people she still considered her own.

The running boys made her think again of the hat she'd seen in the snow outside Billingsly's house. Even Amish children knew better than to be careless with their hats. So why had someone, some Amish man, left his at the scene of a murder? Or was Evan right? Had the wind snatched it off some innocent's head and deposited it there, causing her to search for clues where there were none?

“Miss Mast?” A young woman in a dark business suit and heels came toward her, a cameraman trailing her. The woman's jacket bore an ID giving her name and title and a TV station's call letters. “I'm Elaine Dorsey.” She extended a well-manicured hand. “We have an appointment later today to film a piece for tonight's broadcast?”

“Yes, of course.” Rachel had almost forgotten. She'd agreed to the station's request for a brief clip of her and Evan in the Amish horse-drawn sleigh. Rachel wondered if Evan remembered. She guessed she'd have to call and remind him. Awkward.

Elaine Dorsey flashed a professional smile. Her perfect teeth were small and model white. “A little bird told me that you and Detective Parks have recently become engaged. I'm sure our viewers will find the sled ride romantic,” she simpered. “I just wanted to confirm for three o'clock at the sled staging area behind the school's main parking lot.”

Rachel winced inwardly. If her betrothal became public knowledge, she'd have to tell her parents. But if the reporter asked Evan today about their engagement, what would he say? “Three o'clock. We'll be there. Wouldn't miss it.” The truth was, she wished she could skip the whole thing, but the publicity for the Winter Frolic was too important to pass up. There were still four more days of festival events before they wrapped up Saturday afternoon with a cook-off. She'd made a commitment to the community, and she had to fulfill her promise. A successful week would do a lot toward putting Stone Mill on the map for future tourist trade and maybe even population growth. Her real goal and the goal of the town committee was to increase the financial opportunities for all of the valley's residents, Amish and English alike, to bring much-needed jobs and to improve the quality of education for all the children.

Rachel didn't like to be dishonest, but she wondered if she could find some way to cancel Evan's appearance that afternoon. That way, there need be no mention of their engagement. She could always give the excuse that he was too busy with the ongoing murder investigation. “Don't miss the lunch-basket auction,” Rachel suggested to the newswoman. “This is the first year of the Winter Frolic, but the lunch-basket fundraiser has been an annual event for the past two years. It's a lot of fun,” she added. “We have an Amish woman auctioneer, and she can be really funny. Everyone enjoys her jokes.”

“A woman?” Elaine's interest was immediately piqued. “That surprises me. I thought that Amish women rarely spoke up in public. Aren't they supposed to center their lives around the home and let the men do the talking?”

Rachel chuckled. “You can't believe everything you hear about the Amish. And I certainly wouldn't consider Rhody Miller to be shy and retiring. Amish women may dress differently, but they are as resourceful and independent in their own way as English women.”

“I notice you speak of
English
women. By that, you mean non-Amish?”

“Exactly,” Rachel agreed. “I grew up in a traditional Amish household, and in some ways, I suppose, many of my expressions and thoughts remain with my heritage. I know I have a strong respect for the culture.” She smiled at the reporter. “And if the two of you haven't packed a lunch from home, I'd strongly advise you to bid on a basket at the auction. You won't regret it. The food is fantastic.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Rachel excused herself, saying that she had committee obligations to see to. Elaine Dorsey seemed nice enough, but Rachel had a natural wariness when it came to the press. Somehow whatever you said to a reporter always came out differently than what you intended. And there was always the possibility of the conversation veering to Billingsly's murder, and the town certainly didn't need more of that kind of publicity.

Once Elaine and the cameraman disappeared into the crowd, Rachel made her way to Coyote's pottery booth. She was hoping to catch Blade alone. She couldn't tell him that Evan intended to meet with him today; that wouldn't be right. But maybe now that Blade had had a chance to calm down, he'd realize that she wasn't his enemy and tell her where he'd been Saturday night. She was only trying to get to the truth and find out who else might have been at Billingsly's that night before her position as chief suspect became set in stone.

But as she approached the pottery stall, she saw not Blade but a red-cheeked Amish girl, Martha Swartzentruber, at the register. Martha, sixteen, blond, and blue-eyed, was cheerfully wrapping a purchase for a customer. As Rachel drew nearer, she saw Coyote seated in a rocking chair at the back of the booth with a Peruvian poncho thrown over her. Her little girls were busily engaged with a dollhouse, miniature furnishings, and an array of brightly colored pottery horses on a rag rug at Coyote's feet while Remi sat in his wheelchair at one end of the booth, bent over his iPad. Coyote's poncho stirred and gave off a decided burp, and Rachel quickly realized that her friend must be nursing her baby. “Hi,” she called. “How's it going?”

“Come on in.” Coyote motioned her to come around to the back, through the opening between tables. “Good to see you.” She patted the baby's back, made a few adjustments to her smock, and pushed the poncho onto her lap. The baby, as blond as his mother and sisters, gurgled happily as Coyote held him up. “He probably needs a change.”

Rachel took the baby, put him on her shoulder, and patted his back. Again he burped. He was warm, cuddly, and as squirmy as a puppy. “Sweet baby boy,” she murmured, sniffing the baby's neck. “He's getting heavier by the day.” She hugged him again, and for a second, thoughts of a baby in her own future teased the far corners of her mind. She wanted children. She knew she did. She just wasn't certain if she wanted them
now
. And what if she and Evan couldn't make their relationship work? She knew that many women chose to have children without a husband, but that wasn't the life for her. For her, children would be only in marriage. “He's adorable.” She passed the baby back to his mother. “Where's Blade? Don't tell me that he left you on your own today?” she went on, trying not to sound like she had come looking for him. “Basket-auction day is crazy busy.”

Coyote settled her son on her knee. He was dressed in a blue-plaid flannel shirt and denim overalls with a yellow honeybee hand-embroidered on the bib. On his tiny feet were a pair of soft, beaded deerskin moccasins. Coyote's outfit matched the baby's, except that instead of overalls, she wore a calf-length denim dress over knee-high leather moccasins.
My hippie artist friend,
Rachel thought. Coyote's hair hung to her waist like a sheet of rippling water, allowing only glimpses of her dangling silver earrings. As always, she was gorgeous without a stitch of makeup.

One of the girls snatched a toy horse from her sister, and the older child wailed. “Play nice,” Coyote warned softly. “Share, or the horses go back in their box.” She directed a motherly gaze of disapproval in the direction of the transgressor. “And tell your sister you're sorry.”

“Sorry,” came the response.

Peace restored among the girls, Coyote turned her attention back to Rachel. “Yup, we're all alone here today, but I have Martha. She's a treasure.”

Rachel waited, hoping her friend would volunteer her husband's whereabouts. If he was at the house, she might have time to stop by there to speak to him before Evan found him. But when Coyote didn't offer any more information, she asked, “He stayed home today?”

“No.” Coyote smiled. “He drove to Willingsburgh to pick up a supply of slip for me. For the redware, I used up the last of what I had, and I've been buying it from the same source for six months. It's a good ways from here, five hours in decent weather, not a drive I look forward to in winter with the baby.”

“That was nice of him to offer,” Rachel said, still fishing for more information.

“He should be back by eight,” Coyote continued. The baby started to fuss and she located a pacifier. “It
was
sweet of him to go for me, but then, I think being locked up all day in this weather was getting to him. He's been on edge the last few days. Ten hours alone in the car with Bob Dylan music should set him right. He can be moody, but it never lasts. He's a terrific guy. I couldn't ask for better.”

“He certainly seems to think a lot of his kids. Not many men take such a hands-on interest in their children.”

“It's what drew me to him from the first day I met him,” Coyote confided. “Find a man who likes dogs and kids and you can't go wrong.”

“Excuse me,” Martha said, turning to Coyote. “This lady has a question about the blue-and-gray mixing bowl.”

“Certainly.” Coyote rose to her feet. “I'd be glad to talk with her.” She glanced back at Rachel. “Sorry.”