Plain Dead (16 page)

“I suppose, but no one was threatening you then. And I wasn't risking accusing the bishop of murder.”

“You aren't doing that now,” Rachel soothed. “You're just riding in the Jeep with me.”

Mary Aaron cut her eyes at Rachel. “And why is that?”

“For moral support. And for protection. If someone comes after me, they'll have two of us to get the better of. The odds are all in our favor.”

“Gambling odds, maybe. And you know that gambling is a sin. Or have you forgotten everything you learned in church?”

“Not everything. I promise. And I won't accuse anyone of anything, least of all Bishop Abner. Not unless there are solid facts to back me up.”

“Why doesn't that make me feel any less worried?”

Neither one of them said any more until they reached the Chupp farm. Rachel pulled up into the yard beside the barn and was disappointed to see that the spot where the family buggy usually stood in the carriage shed was vacant. In fact, no one seemed to be around.

“They're away,” Mary Aaron said. “See, this wasn't meant to be.”

“Go up to the house and knock on the door.”

Mary Aaron shook her head. “Nobody's home. If you want to walk through all this mud and slush in the yard,
you
go knock on the door.”

Rachel grimaced, climbed out, and made her way to the back step. Melting water and mud oozed up over her shoes and soaked her stockings. She rapped hard several times, with no answer.

Mary Aaron put down her window and called out, “Told you so.”

“Know-it-all,” Rachel called back, stuffing her hands in her pockets for warmth.

Rachel was halfway back to the Jeep when she heard a deep male voice call, “Kucha, Kucha, Kucha.”

“Sammy? Is that you?” Rachel called. A moment later, Sammy's red face appeared in a barn window. He looked as though he might be in distress.

“Sammy, is something wrong?” She continued on to the freshly painted Dutch door on the side of the barn. “Sammy, it's Rachel.”

Sammy trudged out of the shadows. “Can't find Kucha,” he mumbled.

“Your cake? You've lost your cake?” she asked in Deitsch. And then, “Is the bishop here?”

“
Ne
.” His nose was running and both eyes were red. “Can't find Kucha. He's hiding.”

“Maybe I can help,” she suggested. “But I don't know Kucha. What is he?”

“My new
katz,
silly. He got lost
.
”

“Oh.” She smiled at the realization that he'd named his cat Kucha, the Amish word for cake. “Does he live in the barn with the other cats?” Rachel asked. The last time she was here, she'd seen lots of cats. Most farmers kept them to keep down the rat population.

“
Ne
. Kucha lives in a tree.” Sammy giggled. “In the windmill.” More chuckling. “In the buggy.”

“Is he a real
katz
or make-believe?” Rachel asked.

Sammy giggled. “Make-believe. He can fly.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Then why are you crying?”

“Not crying.” He rubbed his eyes again.

She studied the big man for a moment; he definitely looked as if he'd been crying. “Will the bishop be home soon?”

“
Ya
. Soon.”

She glanced at the house, thinking it odd that they had left Sammy at home alone. “Did Naamah go, too, Sammy?”

He shook his head and put a big finger to his lips. “Shhhh. Sleeping. Don't wake her unless there's fire or blood. That's what she says.”

Rachel had to smile. Her mother used to say the same thing. Her mother used to grab a catnap sometimes, too, or at least lie down for a couple of minutes on busy days. “Sammy,” she began softly, “can I ask you something? Did you lose your hat on Saturday? Maybe you left it at the frolic? Or at the ice rink?”

“
Ne
. Aunt Naamah says, ‘Don't forget your hat, Sammy.' ” He grinned at her. “Kucha stole it. But it's too big. Silly Kucha.”

Rachel tried not to feel impatient; she knew Sammy couldn't help how he was. “Sammy, did you go to town on Sunday morning? It would have been visiting day. Did you see the dead Englisher on the porch?”

“Saw a goat. Two goats. And a pig. Sunday is church. No goats in church.” He wagged a finger at her. “Don't leave your hat in church.”

“You don't remember if you lost your hat? And my brother brought it back to you?”

“I have my hat.” He pulled the hand-knit black wool beanie down tightly over his ears. “I didn't lose my hat. Got it right here.” He frowned. “But I can't find Kucha.”

Rachel knew when she was beaten and she sighed. “I hope you find your cat,” she said, walking back to the Jeep. “I'm sure he's here somewhere, playing with the other cats. He'll be back at milking time.” As she got in on the driver's side, she wondered if Sammy would tell the bishop that she'd come to the farm and asked him questions. And if he did, how would Abner react? An innocent man would probably think nothing of it, but what about a man with something to hide?

Rachel started the engine. “I talked to Sammy,” she told Mary Aaron. “Abner's out. Naamah is in the house napping.”

“And did you learn anything about the hat from Sammy?”

“What do you think?” Rachel put the Jeep into reverse and slowly backed up to turn around. And as she did, she noticed the movement of a white curtain on the second floor. For just an instant, she thought she glimpsed a face behind the glass. But then it was gone, leaving her to wonder if it had been just her imagination.

 

At two fifty, Rachel was at the horse-drawn sleigh staging area. Elaine Dorsey and her cameraman hadn't arrived yet, but as Moses had predicted, John Hannah was putting on his best performance for the other reporters and the tourists. There was also a cluster of giggly Amish teenage girls whispering in Deitsch and admiring the roan and white horses and their driver. Evan was nowhere in sight. She'd sent him several text messages, none of which he'd answered. She hoped he hadn't forgotten the event because if he didn't show, she was going to feel foolish.

“Miss Mast?”

It was a reporter from one of the Harrisburg newspapers, a baby-faced man who'd written a particularly explicit piece about a tragic buggy-and-truck collision the previous fall. She ignored him and checked her phone again.
Come on, Evan,
she urged silently.
Don't let me down.
If he'd been too busy to keep the commitment, the least he could have done was to let her know so that she could make a respectable excuse. She quickly sent yet another text.

Evan's text messages were always in lowercase. He hated it when people used all caps. Another news crew showed up. The minutes ticked by. She turned to the horses and stroked their broad heads and soft, velvety faces. Rachel heard the faint whir of a camera. John Hannah struck a pose and grinned for the evening news. “Show-off,” she teased in Deitsch. He chuckled and spoke soothingly to the team.

Rachel glanced at her phone again. What if Evan had gotten her messages and simply decided to ignore them? Was he completely fed up with her? She sighed to herself. Maybe things really were over between them and she just wasn't seeing it yet. But if he really didn't want to be with her anymore, would he come out and say it? It would only be fair. But how fairly had she been treating him? He was right; she should have told him about the conviction before their relationship had gotten this far.

She needed to tell him exactly what had happened . . . why she had pled no contest to the charge of insider trading. She owed him that much. Even if their engagement was permanently off, she valued his friendship. It would be better to have no more secrets between them.

She needed to find the right time to tell him, though, and right now didn't seem like the right time. Not now, when he was already so stressed about this murder case. The same went for the note. She'd tell him, but maybe not tonight. Because honestly, what would be the point? It was not as if he was going to haul every man and woman who had been in the gym today to the troop for a handwriting analysis.

There was a flurry of motion in the gathering of onlookers. The group parted, and Elaine and her cameraman hurried toward the sleigh and team. A third man followed close on the cameraman's heels, carrying a light on the end of a pole. “Rachel!” Elaine called. “Sorry to be late. Where is . . .” She glanced around and then beamed. “There's our Detective Parks.”

Rachel saw Evan's sturdy form striding from the direction of the ice rink and gave a sigh of relief. He hadn't left her alone at the mercy of the wolves. She looked back at John Hannah and said in Deitsch, “Here he comes. We can get this dog and pony show rolling.”

John Hannah only grinned and gathered up the reins in a gloved hand.

“Detective!” Baby-Face blocked Evan's path, raised a small camera, and snapped off a quick shot. “Any progress on the William Billingsly murder?”

Evan threw up a hand to shield his face. “No comment,” he said brusquely.

“Any new leads?” another reporter asked. Two more closed in on him. “The public has a right to know what our police—”

“I said, no comment.” Evan looked up and met Rachel's gaze, his expression grim.

Rachel took a step toward him.

“Detective—” someone else shouted.

“Our public information officer will make a statement at a later time, as yet to be announced,” Evan said. “Until that time, this is an active investigation, and I'm not at liberty to discuss it.”

“But Detective Parks—” It was Baby-Face again, pressing through the throng, raising his camera for another photo.

“Nothing more at this time,” Evan declared.

Chapter 15

“I was afraid you weren't coming,” Rachel whispered to Evan when they were settled into the backseat of the sleigh. She tucked a royal blue blanket up around them and smiled at Elaine as her cameraman and lighting tech adjusted their equipment.

“Thought about it,” Evan admitted, keeping his voice down so no one could hear him but Rachel. Not even John Hannah. “No time for this stuff. Too many reporters here to suit me. I wouldn't have come if I'd known I was going to get grilled about the Billingsly investigation.”

Rachel leaned close and turned her face away from the bystanders and toward him. “I wasn't expecting it either. I'm so sorry. It was just supposed to be a fluffy publicity piece for the festival.” When he didn't answer, she asked, “Are you doing okay?”

His face was expressionless. “Not particularly.”

Elaine approached the side of the sled, her white dress boots splashing through the slush. “I understand congratulations are in order,” she said to Evan. “Have the two of you set a date?”

Evan glanced at Rachel and then at Elaine. “I'm afraid that's another
no comment,
Ms. Dorsey. We're still in the planning stages. And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that information about our engagement confidential.” He bestowed his most charming look on her. “We haven't shared the news with our families yet, and we wouldn't want any hurt feelings.”

Elaine returned his smile. “I understand, Detective Parks. And with the investigation ongoing, I'm sure you have a good deal on your mind.” The cameraman said something to her that Rachel couldn't make out, and then Elaine said, “We're hoping to get this first part in one take. We thought maybe you could take the sleigh out and we could get the shot as you ride back in. Then we can do the actual interview. Does that work for you?”

“Of course,” Rachel agreed. “Whatever you think works best.”

Elaine motioned to John Hannah and then toward the snow-covered athletic fields. “Could you drive the horses out into the field and then bring the sleigh back again?”

“
Ya
.” John Hannah nodded. “I can do that.” He tugged his hat down, exchanged glances with his admiring Amish contingency, and took the leathers in hand. Pulling back on the reins, he got the big horses' heads up and then guided them in a tight circle to the approving comments of the crowd.

The powerful animals pulled the light sleigh easily, quickly passing through the slush of the immediate area and out onto the open field and the expanse of pristine snow. Beyond stretched the valley, stone fences, and the encircling mountains. Normally, Rachel would have been thrilled by the beauty of the moment, but not today. The unpleasant tension between her and Evan was so strong she could almost taste it. Worse, she didn't know how to fix it.

Once the sleigh and horses were well away from the cameras, Evan, who obviously felt as uneasy as she did, slid a few inches away on the seat. “I went to see Blade Finch this afternoon,” he said, his voice low. “Apparently, he had to leave town on an
important
errand. His wife says he won't be home until this evening.” He glanced at her, held her gaze for a moment, and then frowned. “But you already knew that, didn't you?” He exhaled, shaking his head, and looked away. “Rachel.” He sounded so . . . disappointed in her.

She felt bad and she didn't even know why. “I
did
know, but only because I saw Coyote at the gym this morning and she told me.”

She wondered if she should rethink showing him the note she'd found on her windshield that morning. Would it be better to tell him for the sake of not withholding any more information, or would it be better to try and find out who had left it first? Whoever left the message on her car wanted her to stop asking questions, but that didn't mean the murderer had left it. Mary Aaron had said the Amish were talking about her asking questions about the buggy that had been parked at Wagler's and about the missing hat. Anyone could have left it, even a prankster.

“I don't know what to say, Rachel,” Evan continued. “I've asked you not to interfere in the case, but clearly you've chosen to ignore me.” He exhaled. “This isn't a game. A man died, and if we don't find who killed him . . .”

He left the rest unfinished as John Hannah swung the team in a giant arc and urged them into a high-stepping gait.

“You think I don't know a man died?” she whispered. “Remember, I was there that morning. I saw what was left of him.” She shuddered at the thought.

Again, Evan was silent. The sleigh bells jingled, the air was crisp on Rachel's cheeks, and snow crunched under the sleigh runners. Elaine Dorsey was right. It probably made a romantic picture for the TV cameras, but Rachel's heart was anything but light. She forced herself to appear as though she were having the time of her life, when she wanted to cry. “I'm so sorry, Evan. I'm not trying to interfere.”

“Aren't you? Because that's how it looks to me. We were supposed to be a team, Rache, but it seems like you want to be out front. And where does that leave me? If you're going to disregard a simple request—”

“I know we need to talk. But not here, and not in front of the cameras. We need to straighten out these misunderstandings. Miscommunications.”

“I thought we'd done that at your kitchen table last night, but we keep hitting the same wall.”

She didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. He was right. She was right. They were both right. And both wrong, she surmised.

“I'll call you tonight if I can.” Taking out his cell phone, he glanced down at it, scrolling through his messages.

“Promise?” she asked.

“No, I'm not going to promise. I've got a meeting at the troop with my superiors in half an hour. It might be a long night. But I'll try to call.” He slid closer and put an arm around her shoulders as John Hannah brought the team back to the starting point. Evan brushed her cheek with his lips, climbed down, and strode off, paying no attention to the reporters calling questions.

Fifteen minutes later she was done with the interview, which was a good thing because John Hannah had a line of visitors waiting to take a ride on the horse-drawn sleigh.

One couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Washington from Richmond, waved to her. Elaine noticed them and beckoned them over and asked if she could ask them a few questions for the evening news. They heartily agreed, and when she inquired about their interest in Stone Mill and the festival, Mr. Washington gave a sterling review of both the town and Rachel's B&B. “We've loved it,” he pronounced. “We'll certainly recommend this as a destination for our friends. I wish we'd brought our girls. We don't have Amish near our home, and this has been a wonderful opportunity to get to learn about the history and the culture.”

“Not to mention the shopping,” his wife added.

Elaine wrapped up the piece with another shot of children waving from the sleigh and waited for her cameraman and technicians to pack up. “I won't say a word about your coming nuptials,” she said to Rachel. “But I'd appreciate a heads-up on the murder investigation, once an arrest is made.”

“I'll do what I can,” Rachel promised. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some other commitments. Our cook-off is coming up on Saturday, and we're flooded with entries.”

“The piece should air on the ten o'clock evening news,” Elaine said. “And again tomorrow morning and again at noon if we're lucky. Good luck with your cook-off.”

Rachel thanked her and hurried away, all too grateful to escape before something else went wrong.

 

Inside the gym, things were humming. Rachel collected her clipboard from the information desk, checked in with her assistant in charge of her booth, and began making the rounds of the other stalls to see if anyone needed anything. There were several small snags that needed unraveling, one ruffled mother who'd misplaced her twins, and some overflowing trash cans that she emptied herself rather than tracking down one of the two Amish teens she'd hired for cleanup.

Before Rachel knew it, nearly two hours had passed, and she needed to get home in time to feed the goats and chickens. Some days her brothers were able to help, but Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, she was on her own with the evening chores. There were lights in the barn, but she liked to get the livestock cared for before dusk. When she was growing up, her father had taught her it was only right to feed others, including animals, before sitting down to eat yourself.

The afternoon light was fading when Rachel crossed the parking lot and spotted Abner Chupp standing next to her Jeep. She wondered how long he'd been waiting in the cold for her; his nose was bright red. “Bishop Abner,” she said in an attempt to smooth over what she was sure was going to be another unpleasant interlude. “I stopped to see you this afternoon, but you were—”

“What's gotten into you, Rachel?” he cut her off harshly. “What do you think you're doing? Where are your manners? I know you know better. I know your parents taught you better.” He shook a gloved finger accusingly in her face.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Abner lose his temper, but he was angry now. And he was obviously angry with her. “I . . .” she began, but he rushed on.

“You can't come to my home and question Sammy about me and where I am. What were you thinking? You know how Sammy is. He doesn't know what he should and shouldn't say.”

Now Rachel was taken aback by the bishop's words and behavior. They seemed over-the-top for what she'd done. After all, she'd only asked Sammy where he was. He could have been at the blacksmith's. She hadn't meant to pry into the private business of his parishioners. “Bishop Abner—”

“I'm not done,” he interrupted. “Not only did you ask for information that isn't any of your business, but you've upset my wife terribly. You know how protective she is of Sammy. She's very disappointed in you, and so am I.”

Rachel glanced around, hoping that no one was near enough to hear what Abner was saying. She didn't think anyone was, but across the parking lot, an Amish family was looking their way. No one had to hear the words to know that Abner was unhappy. His body language showed that plainly.

“You know very well,” Abner continued his tirade, “that much of what a bishop does in our community is private. No one should ask where I'm going or when I will be home. Not even my wife. Naamah and I have befriended you when many of our people thought you should be cut out of our community. I have defended you for your worldly ways, and this is how you repay us?” He shook his head in disgust. “Naamah is beside herself. Sammy was quite upset by whatever you said to him. In tears, she said.”

“I didn't mean to upset Sammy . . . or Naamah,” Rachel protested. “I stopped to speak to you, but Sammy said you were gone. That was all he said. And Naamah was in the house. I never spoke to her at all. And I didn't make Sammy cry. He couldn't find his cat. That's why he was upset.”

“
Ne
. No excuses. I know what you are doing. You are playing a game of policeman with your English boyfriend. Three times you come to my house, questioning my integrity, demanding to know personal information.” Again, he raised his finger to her. “I won't have it. It's not acceptable for a member of my church, and even less for you who have left your faith for the world.”

“What I'm doing is for our community. I'm not accusing anyone of anything, least of all you. And all I did was ask Sammy—”

“What? You expect a boy touched by God to give you answers about an evil crime? An innocent who cannot remember what boot goes on what foot? You expect a sensible answer from Sammy?” Bishop Abner was so irate and standing so close that tiny beads of spittle sprayed her face.

The injustice of his fury, however, had the opposite effect of what the bishop expected. Instead of breaking into tears, Rachel's own anger rose. If Abner was already this furious with her, what harm could it do to ask him the answer to the question she'd come seeking in the first place? “I understand that you once were involved with an English woman in this town. Are you still seeing her, Bishop Abner? Is that what you're hiding?”

The older man's face twisted. “You have no right to ask such a question of me,” he said. “Didn't our Lord say, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone'?” He stepped back away from her, hands splayed. “I must be honest with you. I am concerned for your soul, Rachel Mast.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “You are always welcome in my church or in my home, but you may never,
ever
speak to me in such a disrespectful manner again.”

 

That night when Evan called, after ten, Rachel was still going over in her head the conversation she'd had with Abner. She couldn't figure out if the conversation was exactly what it had appeared to be, that she really had stepped over the line, or if the good bishop really did have something to hide.

“Evan. Hi.”

She waited for his familiar “Rache,” but it didn't come. Instead, after a pause, he said, “Finch didn't come home. I just spoke to his wife. She said he was
delayed
. Now she doesn't expect him until late tomorrow. Did you already know that, too?”

“No. I assumed he was home.” Rachel sat up, swinging her bare feet over the edge of the bed. She'd been just drifting off, and she wasn't completely awake. “Did she say why?”

“A delay at the shop he went to. Then bad weather. He decided to stay the night somewhere. It sounded flimsy,” Evan admitted. “And he won't return my calls to his cell. What if Coyote's covering for him and he's on the run? He could be halfway across the country by morning. Our Mr. Finch has a record of being a tough customer. He'll have connections.”