Plain Dead (2 page)

Rachel paused to greet a few other acquaintances and then stepped through the double doors into the gym. Although she'd been there early that morning, she was amazed by how fantastic the place looked with the addition of big glittery white snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, and twinkle lights looped in all the doorways and overhead. Booths offering everything from hand-woven willow baskets to baked goods, wooden toys, antiques, hand-stitched quilts, and forged iron trivets and fire irons lined the walls. Ell's bookstore, The George, filled two spaces with books for sale, with a third serving hot tea and scones in a reading area and a fourth, carpeted with rugs, designated as a children's story area. There was a double booth offering reproduction colonial- and mission-style furniture and a Mennonite couple's display of one-of-a-kind lighting fixtures.

Rachel spied her friend Coyote's pottery stall and walked over to see how things were going for her. Coyote was the local potter, a talented artist who had transplanted her family from California. Coyote and her husband, Blade, were just the kind of entrepreneurs Rachel hoped to draw to Stone Mill. Rachel didn't see Coyote, but Blade, a rough-featured man with a long ponytail, a scraggly beard, and full sleeves of tattoos, was behind the counter, the newest addition to their family tied to his chest with a colorful baby sling. A small boy in a wheelchair sat beside him, scrolling through an iPad.

Blade glanced up, saw her coming toward him, and grinned. “Rachel. Coyote was looking for you earlier, but she just ran out to the car. This one”—he glanced meaningfully down at the sleeping infant—“just had a major explosion, and I left the diaper bag in the van.”

“I'll be around for a while, so I'll catch up with her. Hi, Remi,” Rachel said to the small boy. He had a round face; silky black hair cut straight across his forehead; large, dark, intelligent eyes; and skin the exact shade of English toffee. “Are you reading anything good today?”

“
The Giving Tree,
but I read it before. I know how it ends.” Remi had an endearing lisp.

“I imagine Ell has some wonderful books over there. Maybe we can find you something you haven't read yet.”

“Just what his mama said,” Blade agreed. “Although it's hard to keep him in books. He's reading everything he can get his hands on.”

Rachel suspected that Remi's IQ, as yet to be formally tested, would surprise even his parents. Not old enough to attend kindergarten yet, Remi had already been reading chapter books for more than a year. “At least you'll never be bored.”

Intense pewter-gray eyes lit with pleasure. “Coyote says that, too. Whatever may happen, our kids are our treasure.”

Rachel nodded. For all his scary tattoos, her friend's husband was a gentle soul and a model family man always willing to help his wife or his neighbors. She knew Blade had spent four nights that week erecting booths for the festival as well as shoveling fresh snow and ice off the high school sidewalks. “I saw your booth was drawing a lot of interest from visitors this morning. How are sales?”

“Great, so far,” Blade answered. “I think Coyote wants me to bring over some more of those blue mugs and the cream pitchers this afternoon. She sold one of the sinks already, the one with the brown swirl.”

“It was beautiful. She's going to make one for me for that little half bath I'm making out of a downstairs closet.” She smiled at Remi. “Tell your mama I'll stop back by.” He nodded and Rachel moved on.

Coyote's pottery booth stood beside a larger display of oils and watercolors featuring work by local artists past and present. Beyond that were candle vendors and stands displaying braid rugs and traditional painted floor coverings. Rachel's own booth was given over to photos and text relating the history of the Stone Mill valley from the seventeenth century up to the present, including a case featuring a local collector's stone spear points, Native American pottery, and models of the type of homes and farming methods used by First Peoples. A friend and neighbor, Hulda Schenfeld, had volunteered to host the booth for a few hours today. It was Hulda who'd insisted that the display include before-and-after restoration photos of Stone Mill House and magnets with the phone number of the B&B listed. Hulda, in her nineties, remained a savvy businesswoman, and Rachel knew she had a lot to learn from her.

More than half of the vendors were Amish. One entire wall of the gymnasium was given over to foodstuffs, with residents offering local goat cheese, honey, apple cider, pickles and relishes, and all kinds of jams and jellies. There were folks selling homemade leather goods, handmade brooms, and wooden rockers and baby cradles. There were also craft projects and face painting for children, a petting zoo in one of the outer garages, and winter activities for all ages, including the horse-drawn sleigh rides, an ice sculpture contest, snowman-building competitions, and Rachel's favorite, a huge ice rink. Visitors could rent skates, glide on the flooded and frozen man-made pond, and warm up with hot chocolate brewed over an open fire.

Rachel was approaching a display of local cheeses when she felt sharp claws on her ankle and heard a familiar yipping. She glanced down to see a small white bichon frise hopping up and down. “Sophie, no,” she said. Sophie ignored her as usual and kept jumping and yipping. Rachel knelt and scooped her up, trying to avoid wet kisses as she glanced around for the dog's owner.

“Sophie, you bad girl. Sorry, Rachel. She slipped off her leash.” Leaning heavily on a polished walnut cane with a fox-head handle, George O'Day made his way toward her. “Didn't I tell you that you can't do that?” he reasoned with the little dog. “It isn't safe. You could be trampled in this crowd.” He gathered Sophie into his arms and held her against his chest while Rachel slipped the collar around the bichon's neck and then lowered her to the floor. Immediately, Sophie began hopping and barking again, but the leash held her fast.

“I doubt anyone would trample her,” Rachel said. “I'd say the visitors are more in danger of having Sophie trample them.”

“She wouldn't hurt a fly,” George defended. “She's just happy to see you, aren't you, Sophie? I think she misses you.”

“It was you she missed, George. She was homesick the whole time you were gone.” Rachel looked into his puffy, pale face. His white dress shirt, brown bow tie, and brown cardigan sweater were a little at odds with the colorful Scandinavian knit hat that covered his bald head, but his eyes were clear and alert. “Are you sure this isn't too much for you?”

“I'm fine,” he said, smiling. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Still, you should take care of yourself,” Rachel warned. “Give yourself time to heal.” George, a convicted felon recently released from prison, was five weeks out of brain surgery, surgery that few of his physicians had expected him to survive. But he'd beaten the odds and, with the removal of a tumor, seemed to be well on the road to recovery.

“Have you seen Billingsly?” she asked George. She knew he'd been avoiding her since the early-week edition of his paper had come out, but he couldn't hide forever.

“Bill? Not in the last hour.” George shook his head. “Sophie doesn't like him, so he stays clear of her. Last time he came into the bookstore, she tried to take a nip out of his ankle. He threatened to sue, but I told him to go ahead and try. Me, an old man with a brain tumor who taught most of the residents of this county. Him, an outsider slandering wholesome Amish families and good townsfolk. Give me a jury of our peers and we'll see how it goes.”

Rachel reached out to scratch under the little bichon's chin. “They say dogs are excellent judges of character.”

“There you go.” George gestured. “If you had been earlier, you would have tried to take a bite out of him.”

“Why? What was he doing?”

George shrugged. “The usual. Trying to take pictures of some of the Amish kids in the children's play area. Your cousin Mary Aaron spied him and alerted their mothers. Lickety-split, before you know it, there were a dozen riled Amish mothers surrounding the children, their backs to Billingsly. If he took a picture, it was of a wall of black bonnets and capes. Then, when he backed off, the Amish women started shaking their fingers at him and fussing at him in Deitsch until he made a beeline for the door. Bill's ears were burning, I can tell you that. I doubt if he understands much Amish, but your sister-in-law Miriam called him a thickheaded English mule. Even if Bill didn't get the exact translation, he got the message.”

“You know, I've had it with him,” Rachel said, her temper rising. “He's lived here how many years? And how many times has he been told that the Amish don't permit photographs? It's rude to invite them to our town festival and then try to take advantage just to sell a few more papers.” She glanced around, trying to pick out the local newspaper's owner and editor in the milling crowd. “If you see him before I do, tell him that I'm looking for him.”

“Wish I could watch,” George said. He glanced at his iPhone. “But I promised to take a turn in the toddlers' reading corner.”

“Just don't let Sophie bite any of the little kids.”

“You know she'd never do that,” George said. “She loves children. It's Billingsly she hates.” George turned away toward the children's reading section. “Call me later. I want to hear all about the showdown.”

Rachel didn't find Billingsly, but she did run into her best friend, Mary Aaron. She was down on her knees, pulling a crate of canned peaches out from under a table. Leaving the family egg, peaches, and treenware stand in the capable hands of her sister Elsie, Mary Aaron adjourned with Rachel to the cafeteria for coffee. Mary Aaron was wearing a new apple-green dress with a white
kapp
and apron and black stockings and shoes. Rachel thought she looked exceptionally attractive, but then Mary Aaron had always been the cutest one in her family. She was younger than Rachel, but the two had become fast friends since Rachel had returned to Stone Mill.

“So, is Timothy here?” Rachel asked. She had removed her coat and thrown it over a chair and was now devouring a raisin-cinnamon sticky bun and sipping strong Kona coffee. Timothy was the personable young Amish man who often squired Mary Aaron to singings and other young people's frolics. Mary Aaron insisted he was just a friend, but Rachel suspected that Timothy wanted to court her cousin.

“
Ne,
he had to take his uncle's place at the farm auction in Delaware today. His uncle had several teeth pulled and he didn't feel like going. His cousins are teenagers and their father didn't trust them to bid on the team of Percherons. Timothy's staying over until Monday with another uncle, but he'll be here later in the week.”

“How's Timothy going to get the team back to Stone Mill if he buys them?”

“His uncle will arrange to have them trailered after the weather clears. Provided, of course, that Timothy—” Mary Aaron broke off in midsentence. “Look who just walked in.”

Rachel had seen Billingsly come in to the coffee area at almost the same instant her cousin had. “He won't get away from me this time,” she said, getting to her feet.

Mary Aaron used her napkin to brush away the last crumbs of her cinnamon bun and grabbed the empty coffee cups. “I better get back to the stand. I'll hope he'll listen to reason.”

“He will.” Rachel stood as well. “Or I'll give him and his paper more trouble than he knows what to do with.”

Chapter 2

Billingsly was looking at his cell phone and didn't see Rachel until he nearly collided with her. He stopped short inches from contact, and his face reddened. He knew he was in trouble. “Rachel.”

She glared at him. “I called the office several times for you this week. I left voice messages and I emailed you. You haven't gotten back to me, Bill.”

“I've been busy. I get a lot of emails.” He made a dismissive gesture. “And I was out of town on business. It's been hectic. You know. All the news that's fit to print and so forth,” he joked.

She didn't smile. “And some that isn't.” She indicated the cafeteria table she and Mary Aaron had just vacated. “We need to talk. Now.”

His phone alerted him to the arrival of a text message, and he looked down at it. “This really isn't a good time.” He glanced up and around the room as if looking for someone, then back at her. The smirk was gone from his face. “Why don't you drop by the office? Later in the week, maybe?”

“I've already been to your office, Bill. I went Wednesday. Then again yesterday. The receptionist keeps saying you were out.”

“As I said, out-of-town business.”

“Right.” She nodded as if in total understanding. “The odd thing is, your Lexus was parked in your usual spot.”

“Honestly, Rachel, I really don't have time to chat right now. Unless . . .” His tone became playful, though his pale eyes remained flat and expressionless. “Unless you've stumbled upon another dead body. In that case—”

She made fists and clamped them tightly against her sides. “That's not even a little bit funny.”

He smiled thinly. “Murder's always good for selling newspapers. And Amish murders are better yet. Newswise, I mean. Bad for the victim, of course.”

As a child, she'd been taught forbearance and forgiveness, but she doubted that she could ever extend grace to Billingsly. Right now, Rachel wanted desperately to smack his smirking face. “Has anyone ever told you what an egotistical jerk you are?”

His mouth pursed. “I think you've said quite enough.”

“I haven't said nearly enough.” She raised her voice, and several strangers sitting at the next table over drinking hot chocolate looked their way. “You've been avoiding me because you don't want to talk about that nasty gossip column you've been printing.”

“You're making a scene, Rachel. People are staring.”

“Let them. Let them hear what I think of your disregard for this town and the Amish community.” She took a step closer to him, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused, printing your hearsay? Why someone hasn't sued you for libel, I don't know.”

“It has to be untrue to be libel,” Billingsly responded coolly.

His arrogance made her even angrier. “How can you sleep at night, putting things like that in print? Maybe it's because you're a bully at heart. Is that why you enjoy this sort of thing? You enjoy taking advantage of vulnerable people who won't fight back? Is that it, Bill? Because it's not like this is the first time we've seen this from you. Last summer you used Beth Glick's murder to sell papers. And you didn't care how deeply you hurt the Amish doing it.”

“The citizens of Stone Mill deserve to know the truth of what's happening in their neighborhood. If it's news, I publish it. I'm not responsible for people's dirty secrets. I just print it. Not my fault if it sells papers.”

“Whose business is it that Joab and Annie's son broke with the Amish? So what if he's living in a trailer park with his girlfriend? Why would you shame Joab and Annie in front of their church?”

“You're not putting that on me. Joab shamed himself when he lied to his wife and his friends,” Billingsly argued. “We're supposed to think the Amish are such good people. The Amish are no different from the rest of us. Joab lied to his bishop, his neighbors, and his wife. And that's news.” He lifted a shoulder. “Besides, Aunt Nellie never uses names. Readers come to their own conclusions.”

“Doesn't use names! What does that matter? Your gossip column identified Joab as a bearded miller who drives a piebald horse.” She raised her chin defiantly. “How many millers in this valley still make stone-ground flour? How could it be any other man but Joab Herschberger? He and his wife are good people. Joab's brothers and his elderly parents live in Stone Mill. Their grown kids are here. Now Joab and Annie may sell and move west because of what you did.”

“Not because of what I did,” Billingsly flung back. “Because of what
Joab
did.”

Rachel was so angry now that she felt like steam was going to blow out her ears. “It's going to stop.” She pointed forcibly at the floor, ignoring the fact that she'd now drawn quite an audience. “And it's going to stop now. Your column has caused enough heartache in this community. Promise me that you'll never print it again, or—”

“Or what?” he scoffed. “What are you going to do? Have your cop boyfriend arrest me for telling the truth?” His eyes narrowed, and he lowered his voice so that no one around them could hear him. “Let me give you some advice, Rachel. Can I do that?”

He went on before she could respond. “You need to stop worrying so much about your Amish friends' reputations and start worrying about your own. You know why? Huh? Because Nellie has plenty of material and there's one column she's eager to see in print. A juicy tidbit about a nosy innkeeper with an insider trading conviction . . .”

Rachel blanched, suddenly feeling nauseated. “What did you say?” she breathed.

“You heard me. How would you like seeing your B&B on the front page of next Saturday's edition? You think that might dent your halo in this town? I bet the Associated Press would pick up
that
story.” He thrust his head forward so that his nose was almost touching hers. “How good would that be for your business?”

She caught her breath, feeling as though she was going to implode or explode—she didn't know which. “Are you threatening me, Bill Billingsly?” she demanded loudly, not caring who heard her.

“Not threatening,” he said quietly. “Promising.” He turned as if to walk out of the cafeteria in the direction of the gym, then halted. A strange expression flickered across his features.

She glanced past him to see what had distracted him. Striding into the cafeteria was a burly, bearded man in green camo pants and an army jacket, a beret pulled over his head. She instantly recognized him as Jake Skinner, one of her guests at the B&B, a Vietnam War veteran who hadn't spoken more than twenty words to anyone since he'd checked into Stone Mill House.

Abruptly, Billingsly turned and strode away in the opposite direction. He walked between several tables to the service area, where kids picked up school lunches and placed them on trays. Without looking back, he pushed through a half door, and disappeared in the direction of the school's industrial kitchen.

Rachel looked back in Jake Skinner's direction, but lost sight of him in a party of tourists being herded toward the refreshment area by a tour guide waving a flag stamped with the outline of an Amish buggy.

“This way,” the guide called to his charges. “We meet back here in half an hour for the buggy tour.”

Rachel circumnavigated the group, her curiosity at the editor's flight quickly vanishing under a wave of anger. Billingsly had just threatened to publicly expose an incident that she'd thought was behind her. Would he do it? Would he plaster her face and Stone Mill House on the front page of his vicious rag? And if he did, what would it mean for her future?

 

“The snow's really coming down outside,” Rachel observed, staring out the kitchen window for a moment, then turning back to Mary Aaron. “Glad my guests are all settled in for the night. I don't think anyone ought to be driving in this.”

“
Ya,
” Mary Aaron agreed as she filled a thermos with milk that would be placed in the dining room for guests who rose early in the morning. “And a good thing I don't have to walk home in this weather. Listen to that wind.
Dat
said the almanac was calling for a blizzard this weekend.”

“According to Evan, the weather service isn't expecting a blizzard, but there may be whiteout conditions in some parts of the county.”

It was after nine p.m. Evan had taken Rachel and her cousin out for dinner at the local Mennonite diner, which had been packed, then dropped them off at the B&B and headed home. Rachel had invited him in for a cup of tea, but he'd declined, saying he wanted to get to bed early. He was starting a week on the seven-to-three shift the following day.

Mary Aaron had offered to spend the night at the B&B and help Rachel do whatever needed to be done the following day. Ada, Rachel's cook and housekeeper, wouldn't be in the next morning because it was a Sunday, and Rachel would have her hands full. Usually on Sundays, Rachel could count on her part-time, non-Amish, high school girls, but one girl had taken the weekend off to go to a cousin's wedding in Philadelphia and the other had called in sick. Rachel and Mary Aaron would be on their own seeing to the needs of the inn.

Stone Mill House offered a buffet brunch daily, and afternoon tea some days of the week, but not regular sit-down meals. Still, if snow kept everyone indoors, Rachel's guests would need to eat. Her fridge and cabinets were well stocked, but she was no cook. Mary Aaron was technically bound by the same rules Ada and the other Amish women of the community followed. She was expected to refrain from unnecessary work on the Sabbath, but not being baptized yet, she was allowed a little leeway.

“Would you like a cup of tea before bed?” Rachel asked, filling a glass jar with homemade biscotti. She was standing beside Mary Aaron at the kitchen counter. “A cookie maybe?”

Rachel was half hoping that Mary Aaron would decline and head to bed once they had the dining room ready for morning. Rachel was feeling as if she could use a few moments to herself, just to get her head straight. It had been a great day, all in all. The Winter Frolic was off to a better start than anyone, including her, had expected. And she'd really enjoyed the horse-drawn sleigh ride with Evan. But she couldn't get Billingsly's threat out of her mind.

It wasn't something she wanted to discuss with Evan or even Mary Aaron. The incident Billingsly had referred to had happened a long time ago. In a different lifetime, really. When she'd lived in a high-rise apartment complex, worked for Lehman Brothers, and dated Christopher. In corporate business, actions weren't always black and white, especially in those days. Rachel didn't want to have to get into a conversation with Mary Aaron or Evan or any of her friends or relatives about what had happened because they could so easily misunderstand . . . and think the worst of her.

“
Ne,
I'm stuffed like a Christmas goose after all I had to eat at the frolic, and then the chicken stew and biscuits at the diner.” Mary Aaron patted her abdomen, then picked up the thermos and carried it out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

Rachel followed her with the jar of biscotti. A coffeemaker and a stack of Ada's muffins covered in plastic wrap were already on the elegant oak serving buffet that Rachel had refinished herself after buying it at a yard sale. As Rachel arranged a set of mugs near the coffeepot, the light from the wall sconce reflected off her diamond, and Mary Aaron exclaimed with delight.

“Pretty, it is, your betrothal ring,” she said, switching to the familiar Deitsch they often reverted to when they were alone. “Has your mother seen it yet?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I'm not going to hide it from her and my father. I'm not Amish anymore. There's nothing wrong with wearing a ring given to me by the man I'm going to marry.”

Her cousin patted her arm. “Poor Rachel. Caught somewhere between your world and mine.”

Rachel closed her eyes for a second, suddenly feeling tired. “Something like that.”

“Hard it must be.” Mary Aaron paused. “You're really going to do it then? Marry your Englisher policeman? We wondered. The two of you have been walking out for what? Two years?”

“Something like that,” Rachel admitted. She removed her apron. “It's been a while.”

“And you're sure he's right for you?”

She opened her eyes to look at her cousin. “And you don't think he is? I thought you liked Evan.”

“I do.” Mary Aaron straightened a wicker basket of paper napkins. “I'm just asking if you're absolutely sure. Because for a long time—”

“Yes?”

“You weren't,” Mary Aaron said gently.

“Evan's the right man for me. He's the man I want to marry,” she said. Mary Aaron was right. For a long time, Rachel hadn't been sure about her relationship with Evan. But, looking back, she knew that was more a reflection of her own indecision than him.

“And he makes you happy?”

Rachel nodded. “He does. He's a wonderful man, and I hope that my mother and father will understand and come to love him as I do.”

“It will be hard for them, Aunt Esther and Uncle Samuel. So long as you are single, they can still hope that you will come back to the church . . . to the community.”

“I won't. I can't. It's not me anymore. I respect the faith”—Rachel sighed—“but I can't live like that. Not ever again.”

Mary Aaron's lips curved into a gentle smile, one that lit her eyes with affection. “Then you should marry your Evan. Our life is not an easy one. It's not for everyone. But it will take time for your mother and father to accept him as a son-in-law. When he becomes your husband, they must face that there is no more chance.”