Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery) (18 page)
Read Shunned and Dangerous (An Amish Mystery) Online
Authors: Laura Bradford
“When you couple the loose cows with the graffiti he was forced to cover in his barn and the graffiti he hadn’t yet gotten to on the side of his house, I can’t help but see a picture that isn’t very nice.”
“I didn’t know about the graffiti,” Diane offered between swipes with her rag. “I did know about the milk and the cows, but not the graffiti.”
“The milk? What about the milk?”
Diane swapped the rag for a sponge and cleaned around the sink and the stovetop before stopping to wash and dry her hands for the inevitable second check on the guests. “Periodically, milk cans would disappear from Harley’s property.”
“He had a service come in and collect them, didn’t he?”
“Not on as regular a basis as he once did.” Diane checked her hair in the mirror to the left of the sink then filled the pitcher with fresh water and ice. “The more work he found with his hands, the less interested he became in the business side of having dairy cows. So even though he noticed cans disappearing from time to time, it didn’t seem to bother him all that much. He’d mention it offhand if he was talking about his day, but he shrugged it off in a manner that suggested it wasn’t a big deal.”
“I’m afraid it was a very big deal.” Claire heard the rasp to her voice and saw Diane stop midway across the kitchen with the pitcher between her hands.
“What are you saying?”
“Isaac said his father’s anger toward Harley had been escalating the past few months. He said there were signs of it all over the Zook farm.” Her mind began to race as it worked to tie up all the realizations she now had in one perfect package. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the package she wanted to give Jakob. “I think he was talking about those things—the cows, the milk, the graffiti threats . . . all of it.”
Diane completed her trip to the kitchen door and leaned partway into the hallway, the sound of happy chatter from the table buying her a little time to stay. “Even if Mose did those things, Harley would be the first person to brush it off as frustration.”
“Frustration?”
“You said this was escalating over the past few months, right?”
Claire nodded.
“Then it would match up perfectly, wouldn’t it?”
She stared at her aunt. “I’m not following what you’re saying . . .”
“Think about what happened in Mose’s life a few months ago.”
She started to shrug, to repeat her previous statement, but stopped as reality took center stage and brought clarity to Diane’s words. “Jakob. He came back to Heavenly.” And, suddenly, everything she’d been dancing around in her head made perfect sense. Right down to the chill-inducing timing.
“For someone like Mose who took Jakob’s departure as a blemish on himself, he probably saw Jakob’s return as a reminder to his community that he’d failed as a parent.”
“And he couldn’t lash out at Jakob, so he lashed out at a man who wasn’t shy about singing Jakob’s praises . . .” She whispered the last few pieces of the puzzle into place and groaned, loudly. “Oh, Diane, don’t you see what this means?”
“I see a man releasing his anger in the only direction he felt was safe.”
“Safe?”
Diane scanned the kitchen looking, no doubt, for anything else her guests might need. When she came up empty, she smiled at Claire. “In the grand scheme of things, letting a few cows wander the Amish countryside so Harley had to run around fetching them isn’t that bad.”
“And the stolen milk?”
“Also not a big deal when you consider the fact Harley was only playing at the dairy business the past year or so.”
“And the graffiti?”
“That’s what paint is for.”
“It wasn’t just random words, Diane. The graffiti I saw threatened death.”
Diane’s face paled. “Death? Well, that’s certainly not right, but sometimes a person has to release their anger. The rest of us, we can scream and shout. For the Amish, it’s different. Harley knew that. And, I believe, he understood that where Mose was concerned.”
“You think he knew Mose was behind the mischief at his farm?”
Diane paused, then nodded. “I can’t say for certain that he did, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Claire took in everything she was hearing and held it against her common sense. “If you’re right, how could he let it continue, unchecked?”
“Harley Zook was a very tolerant man, dear. He was always happy, always smiling despite the heaviness he carried in his heart at the loss of his brother.” Diane took a step toward the door once again, her duty to her guests bringing a rapid end to their talk. “How many other people would seek out the son of their brother’s killer to help him find his way? Not many, if at all. But he recognized the fact that Patrick had been through a lot without his dad, and Harley was determined to make a difference in the young man’s life if he could. Fortunately, he was meeting with some success in that regard.”
Claire pushed off the counter in surprise. “Wait a minute, Aunt Diane. I thought Patrick hated working with his hands. That he did very little as Harley’s apprentice . . .”
“I suppose that’s true, but Patrick loved
being
with Harley. He loved listening to Harley’s stories and his little tidbits about life and hard work.” Diane turned her ear toward the door once again. “Sometimes, if I happened by the room where they were working, I’d stop and simply watch them together. Harley would be working on the door frame or the step or whatever I had him doing that particular day and there Patrick would be . . . handing him an occasional tool and listening with wide eyes to whatever Harley was saying. It was a beautiful sight to see, and it’s one I’ll always treasure from that last day.”
“Last day? What last day?”
“The day Harley was murdered.”
She froze in place as her head tried to make sense of what her ears had just heard. “Are you saying that Harley and Patrick did a job for you the day Harley was murdered?”
Again, Diane nodded. “I told you that. I told you he was here, working on the back step that Friday morning.”
“Have you told Jakob they were here that day?”
“He was here when I said it. He must not have thought it was all that important.” Diane gestured toward the pitcher with her chin and then stepped into the hall. “I really must check on the guests again, dear.”
“That’s fine, Diane, but I’m betting Jakob didn’t make the connection, either. So will you tell him again? Please? Maybe, just maybe, Harley and Patrick said something that day that could help in the investigation somehow.”
Diane stopped. “Perhaps Patrick might be able to shed light on the time after they left here, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Harley drove Patrick home in the buggy that day.”
S
he repositioned her pillow against the headboard and flipped the page of her latest book of choice, the twists and turns of the story a welcome tonic for a brain that had been unable to stop processing various aspects of her talk with Diane. So much of what Claire’d learned while standing in the kitchen that evening had left her reeling.
Sure, she could see how her aunt might think the loose cows and stolen milk cans might be harmless in nature if considered on their own merits. But when considered in the context of Isaac taking a job with Harley, they could also be seen as the buildup to the final explosion that was an innocent man’s murder.
And then there was the reality that had Harley driving Patrick home just before he was murdered. Coincidence? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.
But if it was Patrick, what made him snap in an instant? Or, was it as Jakob had hypothesized and the violence was being hatched all along?
She read her way down the page, only to realize she hadn’t absorbed anything in the past few paragraphs. Yes, she’d done it again. She’d allowed her brain to roam off on its very own whodunit. The fact that the whodunit was one she’d rather not figure out if it meant watching Jakob suffer, made it even worse.
Jakob . . .
There was no doubt she had feelings for the detective. He was fun to be with, a great conversationalist when he wasn’t tortured by an investigation, and he opened his heart to her in countless ways.
He was, in a nutshell, everything she’d always wanted Peter to be and nothing he’d ever been. But still, she wasn’t sure. Not entirely, anyway. She had, after all, thought Peter was a good fit once, too.
A rustling sound outside her partially open window made her sit up tall, the absence of any discernible breeze through the trees only heightening her radar further. But when she set the book on her lap and listened closely, she heard nothing except the sound of a passing car as it made its way through the streets of Heavenly.
She inhaled slowly, silently laughing at herself as she released the same breath of air. Her plate was full enough with real problems. The last thing in the world she needed to do was add to it with phantom sounds and an overactive imagination.
Still, the book had lost its ability to hold her attention despite the fact she’d hit a pivotal point in the story. Instead, she let the book close on its own as she turned her attention to the only other subject that had a prayer of settling her down for the sleep she knew she needed.
Her talk with Martha earlier that day had squashed any thoughts she’d had about throwing Esther a shower. Which meant she had to come up with something else, something special that would let Esther know just how much Claire treasured their friendship.
Somehow a set of sheets fell short in that endeavor.
The unmistakable snap of a twig outside the same window brought her to her feet while the answering thump in her chest made her reach for her phone. Quickly, she scrolled through her contact list until she came to Jakob’s number and hit dial.
Two rings later, the sound of his voice in her ear settled her nerves enough to allow her to think clearly.
The sound had stopped—a sound that easily could have been made by one of the three or four cats who lived next door . . .
Feeling suddenly foolish, she covered her late night phone call with the only explanation she could find at the ready. “Hi, Jakob, I hope you don’t mind me calling so late but I was lying here, thinking about what happened at Harley’s wake, and, well, I guess I want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
The lame excuse was barely out of her mouth before she smacked herself in the forehead. Why, oh, why did caller ID have to be the norm these days?
“Uh . . . I’m hanging in, I guess . . . thanks.” He cleared his throat of any signs of sleep and turned the conversation back in her direction. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Immediately she knew she’d answered too quickly. Her rapid response negated any believability her just-called-to-say-hi-and-see-how-you-are phone call may have otherwise held. She groaned inwardly.
“Now, don’t get me wrong here, because I’d welcome a call from you anytime—day or night. But, that said, are you in the habit of checking in on folks at midnight?”
“Is it that late? I . . . I didn’t—” She stopped, mid-lie, and leaned toward the open window, the lack of any odd noises making her feel all the more ridiculous. Instead, she changed topics. “I was talking to Diane tonight about some different things and I had a thought.”
“Okay . . .”
“Maybe Isaac is wrong. Maybe those signs he was talking about had nothing to do with your father and everything to do with Patrick. Maybe it was
his
bubbling anger that finally exploded.”
If he responded, she didn’t hear, because at that exact moment a string of nonsensical mutterings seeped their way through the screen, churning her stomach with fear in the process.
“Claire?”
“Shhhh,” she whispered. “This time I’m sure . . .”
“Sure? Sure of what?”
“Someone is outside my window.”
Instantly, any and all sleep that had been detectable in Jakob’s voice was gone, in its place the sound of someone on full alert. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it’s just one of your aunt’s guests?”
She slid off the bed and tiptoed to the window, a quick inventory of the parking lot and the lack of light reflecting on the lawn enabling her to give a confident no. “Everyone was in their room by nine o’clock tonight,” she said. “I’ve been hearing odd noises for a while now but kept thinking it was something else.”
“And now you don’t think it is?”
She stood to the right of her room’s creakiest floorboard and squinted into the darkness below, her first sweep of the ground outside her window revealing nothing of consequence. “I don’t know. I think I just heard someone mumbling . . .” She shifted slightly to the left and bobbed her head still further in the same direction. “I guess I was—no!” She cupped her hand around her mouth to quiet her words even more as she gave a play–by-play of the shadowy figure that emerged from behind a tree and slinked along the outer edge of the front porch.
“Can you tell anything about this person? Is it a male or female?”
She dropped into a squat and leaned closer to the screen. “It’s definitely a male. He’s broad shouldered . . . maybe a little stocky. Could you send a patrol car, please?”
“I’m already on my way, Claire. But stay on the line with me until I get there.”
She continued to follow the stranger as he crept around the corner of the porch and into a narrow patch of moonlight just bright enough to send a shiver of awareness and fear down her spine.
“Jakob,” she hissed into the phone, “it’s Patrick. Patrick Duggan! Please, please hurry!”
\•\ \•\ \•
S
he glanced over Jakob’s shoulder at the inn’s still-dark second-floor windows and allowed herself a moment to breathe. The detective’s arrival and subsequent collaring of Patrick Duggan had been surprisingly quiet, and for that she was grateful. The last thing Diane or any of the guests needed was to have their sleep disrupted by news of a would-be prowler.
“Seems a little late for a walk, don’t you think, Patrick?”
Patrick’s shoulders rose and fell against the side of Jakob’s car, yet he remained silent, the agitation he wore in his eyes and across his face speaking volumes all on its own.
“It’s your prerogative, of course, not to answer, Patrick . . . but it’s also mine to put you in the back of my car and bring you in for trespassing.”
“Last I checked, taking a walk wasn’t a crime.” Patrick, too, crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Has that changed?”
“If you were walking down there”—Jakob pointed down the driveway and toward the main road—“it wouldn’t be an issue. But you weren’t. You were walking here . . . on
private
property.”
“The lady that owns this place knows me. She invites me onto her property all the time.”
Jakob’s gaze shifted to Claire. “Is that true?”
Before she could answer, Patrick did some pointing of his own. “See them steps over there? The ones that go to that back door? I helped fix them just the other day. And that window to the right of the front porch? I helped caulk that just last week. Both times, I was
asked
to be here.”
“Did you make both those repairs at midnight?” Jakob asked as he looked, again, at Patrick.
“Nope.”
“Did Diane Weatherly call you this evening and ask you to come fix something out here this late?”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Nope.”
“Then you’re trespassing, Patrick. And if Ms. Weatherly, here, wants to press charges, I can haul you into the station right now.” He nodded at Claire, yet kept his gaze firmly on Patrick. “Claire? Do you want me to take him in?”
“Hey now, there’s no reason for this.” Patrick let his arms drop to his sides. “Look, I realized I left something the last time I was out here, and I just figured I’d come out and get it. No big deal, you know?”
“What did you leave behind?”
Again, the arms crossed. Again, the touchy demeanor was back. “What business is it of yours?”
“When you’re slinking around on private property at midnight, it becomes my business, Patrick.”
“A hammer. I left a hammer.” He threw his hands up in the air and pushed off the car only to lean against it once again when Jakob blocked his path. “Can I go now?”
“Did you find your hammer?”
“No.”
“You use this hammer while you were working for Harley Zook?”
Something Claire couldn’t quite identify passed across Patrick’s face, and she wondered if Jakob had caught it, too.
“Yeah. So what?”
“What did you think of working for Harley?”
The look was back, but, once again, it was fleeting. “It got me away from my mother.”
“And?” Jakob prodded.
“It was a job. Period.”
Whatever Jakob was looking for in Patrick’s response, he wasn’t getting it. Long seconds passed as he seemed to wait for a different, more acceptable answer.
But none came.
He tried a different approach. “Did you
like
Harley?”
“Does it matter?”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I realize that.” Patrick parted company with the side of Jakob’s car for the second time, this time leaving the space he created despite Jakob’s unyielding presence. “So? Can I go now? I’ll check with Diane about the hammer tomorrow.”
“
I’ll
check with Ms. Weatherly about this hammer of yours tomorrow. If she has it, I’ll let you know.” Then, as Patrick made a move to leave, Jakob blocked his path once more. “Tell me something, Patrick . . . Have you ever been out to Harley’s farm?”
Patrick’s head jerked up, his gaze skirting between Jakob and Claire. “To his farm?”
“Yes, to your employer’s farm. You ever been there?”
She held her breath in anticipation of the answer to a question she’d been dying to ask for the past several minutes. In her mind, his answer would remove Mose from the list of suspects in Harley’s murder and relieve Jakob of the incredible burden he’d been carrying the past few days on top of his already broken heart.
Reality, however, had a very different feel as Patrick brought his eyes level with Jakob’s. “I might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I know the big business these Amish folks are in this town. People come from all over just so they can gawk at people riding around in a buggy instead of a car. They buy postcards by the dozens of folks who never agreed to have their picture taken in the first place because they think it’s being boastful or something like that.” He flicked his left hand toward the inn and clenched his teeth around his words. “Heck, that place right there probably wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t for all those people who want to experience a more peaceful way of living for a few days. They sign up for tours, drive their cars past Amish schools, and point at the farmers as they work in their fields from one end of the day until the other.
“And stores like yours,” he said, acknowledging Claire, “enjoy a booming business because people like that want to bring stuff the Amish make home with them at the end of their trip. If they didn’t, why else would they spend hundreds and hundreds of dollars on a quilt?”