A Churn for the Worse (21 page)

Claire palmed the last bit of dough into a ball, placed it alongside the others, and then carried the baking sheet over to the preheated oven.

“Oh good, those are ready to go in now.” Diane came around the center island and opened the oven door for Claire. “By the time they come out, the roast beef will be carved and ready for the guests.”

She slid the sheet onto the top rack, then turned and smiled at her aproned aunt. “Now what?”

“You take a break.” Diane lifted the egg timer off the counter and set it to twenty minutes. “And tell me about your day while we wait for the baked potatoes to finish baking.”

“Sounds good to me.
After
I wash my hands, that is.” Claire displayed her floured palms for Diane to see and then stopped at the sink.

A good thirty minutes had come and gone since she arrived home, yet, in all that time, she'd only
entertained
the notion of asking about Bill. Somehow, every single time she found a way to inquire without sounding too nosy, she chickened out.

She suspected some of that was because she'd opted not to call Diane after her conversation with Bill at the store. At the time, she'd rationalized her last-minute decision with her aunt's age and not wanting to be a meddling niece. Yet as the afternoon wore on, she'd second-guessed herself for not calling.

“Bill told me he stopped by the shop and said good-bye to you this afternoon,” Diane said.

“So you were here when he left, then?” Hearing the shrillness of her voice, Claire forced herself to act casual. She could mull over her aunt's mind-reading ability later, when she was alone.

“I was. We had some tea and cake together before he headed out.”

Claire shut off the water, grabbed the hand towel from its rack under the sink, and used the time it took to dry her hands to try to decipher whether the change in her aunt's tone was tied to the act of carving or talk of Bill's departure. When her hands were bone dry, she turned and made her way over to the counter, the sight of the first piece of cut beef reminding her of her minimal lunch and the hunger she'd failed to abate with a handful of pretzels.

“That's nice.” Claire pulled a stool out from under the counter's eave and cozied up within arm's reach of the cutting board. “That looks really,
really
good, Aunt Diane.”

Pointing the tip of her knife alongside the first piece, the woman scooted it across the board to Claire. “Here. Nosh on this.”

“You don't have to tell me twice,” she quipped. With clean fingers, she extracted the piece of beef from the board and took a bite, the flavors her aunt was so gifted at enhancing popping inside her mouth. “Oh. Wow. That's even better than it looks.”

Diane brought the knife to the top of the roast again and began to cut, her focus moving between the meat and Claire. “You skipped lunch again, didn't you?”

“Not intentionally. We were just really busy. I did eat a few pretzels, though.”

“Pretzels aren't a meal, dear.”

“I beg to differ.” Then, holding up her hands in surrender, she brought the conversation back to Diane . . . and Bill. “So how was tea?”

“It was quite lovely. Bill is a very interesting man. He really loves pairing people up with the vacation destination that's best for them.”

“Maybe he could pair you up with one.”

“Oh, he tried, dear. He thinks I'd love Paris since I enjoy cooking so much. He said it would be a chance to let others cook for me.” Diane paused her knife above the roast and looked at Claire over the top of her glasses. “He asked me if that was something I thought I'd enjoy, and I honestly don't know. I love being the cook. I love being the innkeeper.”

“I wonder what
Bill's
ideal place would be.”

“I asked him that.”

“And?”

“He said Paris. He said he finds it magical.”

She couldn't help but grin at the notion of her aunt being squired across the ocean by a man who put stock in magic.

Diane pointed the tip of her knife at Claire. “You're smiling . . .”

Uh-oh.

“I guess I like the idea of you taking some time off and going somewhere special.” She guided her aunt's focus back to the meat and then smiled even wider as another tiny scrap was pushed in her direction. “You never do anything special for yourself.”

“Meeting all these lovely people
is
something special,” Diane protested. “I love what I do, Claire. You know that.”

“I do. But everyone needs a vacation once in a while. Even people who love what they do.”

“I can't just shut the inn down, dear.”

She stopped chewing and brought her hands to her hips in dramatic indignation. “I'm fully capable of running this place for a week.”

Diane resumed her cutting and then placed the slices onto a waiting platter. “You have your own business to run.”

“And a very capable employee to cover for me.”

Reaching down to the waistband of her apron, Diane pulled out a towel, wiped her hands, and glanced toward the egg timer. “Looks like the rolls will be done in about five minutes. Can you pull the potatoes out and get those ready to go?”

“Sure.” Claire slid off her stool and crossed to the oven. “But, just so we're clear, we're not changing topics. You really ought to think about a vacation. Maybe even Paris, like Bill said.”

“I'm not going to go by
myself
.”

“Go with Bill.” More than anything, she wanted to peek over her shoulder and gauge her aunt's reaction, but to do so might look too obvious. Besides, she had potatoes to rescue from the oven . . .

“Good heavens, Claire, I can't just go gallivanting to Paris with a man I've only known for a little over a week!”

Holding the now-filled bowl of potatoes against her side, she closed the oven door and headed straight for the plate of butter and the salt and pepper shakers. “I don't think Bill would mind.”

“Claire!”

She slit open each of the potatoes and shook a smidge of salt and pepper into each one. When she was done, she set the shakers down and met her aunt's widened eyes. “You don't think it's curious that he suggested you go to Paris, and then told you that's where
he
would go, too?”

“No. He was making conversation, dear.”

“You don't think it's curious he wanted to have tea with you before he checked out?”

“He's a nice man.”

“He's a nice man who just happens to be interested in
you
, Aunt Diane.”

Diane's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. But no words, no sound came out.

“I take it you didn't pick up on it, either?”

The egg timer chirped and sent Diane scurrying for the oven. “It's time to focus on dinner.”

“But—”

“Please, Claire.” Diane pulled the golden rolls from the oven, covered each with a slice of butter, and then carried them over to the waiting bread basket. As she transferred
them from the pan to the basket, she took control of the conversation once again. “Hank and Jim are both leaving Friday morning. Hayley and Jeremy are still up in the air as to when exactly they're checking out.”

Looking up from the potatoes now stretched across a wide serving plate, Claire watched her aunt for several long moments. Diane was, without a doubt, the happiest, most cheerful person Claire had ever known. As a little girl, it had never really registered with her that her aunt wasn't married. All she knew was that this wonderful woman she got to visit a few times a year fawned all over her as if she was something special. As a teenager, it registered on occasion, but she never thought to ask. Then, as a newly divorced adult who'd sought solace in the woman's arms, she'd simply accepted her aunt's “too late” admission every time the concept of marriage had come up.

But was it too late?

Diane was only sixty-two.

Maybe, instead of “too late,” her aunt's never-married status was simply a case of not having found the right man . . .

“I'm going to bring the rolls and the potatoes out now. I'll be back in a moment.” Diane's voice snapped Claire back into the present in time to see the woman exit the kitchen through the open doorway leading to the dining room.

Shaking herself back into the here and now, Claire readied the vegetables and the meat platter and carried them out to the table and the four guests eagerly waiting for their meal. Like the well-oiled machine that they were, Claire and Diane moved around the table serving the meal, filling
water and wine glasses, and answering any questions that popped up.

Once everyone was situated and happily eating their meal, the pair retreated back to the kitchen and the assorted cooking pans and utensils that represented the next part of their evening. “Shall I wash, dear?”

“I can wash if you'd—” She startled as her hand came down against her pocket and the odd little mound it housed. Reaching inside, she slowly pulled out the item and winced. “Oh. Yuck. I almost forgot about this thing.”

Diane leaned forward. “It looks like a homemade candy.”

“It is. Esther's sister, Hannah, made it.”

“I take it it's not very good?”

She looked down at the dark candy and felt a wave of guilt wash over her from head to toe. “It would be unfair of me to say, either way, on account of the fact it's root beer, and you know how I feel about root beer.”

“Let me try, dear.”

Guilt morphed into relief and she handed the candy to her aunt. “Be my guest . . .”

Diane unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth. Seconds later, the woman closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh, Claire, it's definitely you. This is delightful!”

She watched in amusement as her aunt abandoned the notion of washing dishes and, instead, took a rare break against a nearby counter. “It's that good, huh?” she teased.

“To a root beer fan such as myself, yes, it's that good.” Diane ran her hand along the top of the counter and then followed the motion with a dish towel. “You know who would have loved this candy?”

Claire carried the pots and pans over to the counter beside the sink and then turned back to her aunt. “Who?”

“Carrot Thief.”

“Is that the horse who went missing after the trailer accident?” she asked.

“Yes.” Diane spotted a saucepan on the stove and brought that over to the counter, too. “Didn't you read about her in the magazine you borrowed last night?”

“No. I started to read it last night, but, just as you predicted, I fell asleep. Hard.” She stepped up to the sink, retrieved the dish soap and strainer from the cabinet below, and turned on the faucet. “It was still on my stomach when I woke up this morning.”

“Good. You need your sleep.”

“I did look at a few of the pictures near the front.”

“Then you saw Carrot Thief. She was the main feature in that particular—”

Claire sucked in her breath so hard and so loud, all background chatter from the dining room ceased, along with the rest of Diane's sentence.

The majestic gray coat . . .

The beautiful black mane . . .

The black curly tail . . .

The penchant for root beer . . .

“Claire? Is everything—”

Spinning around, she covered her cheeks with her wet hands. “Diane! I think I know where Carrot Thief is!”

“What are you talking about, dear?”

“I think Carly is Carrot Thief!”

Diane grabbed hold of Claire's hands and guided them away from her face. “Slow down, dear. Take a deep breath.”

She tried to do as she was told, but all she could think about was Esther . . .

“Claire? Who is Carly?”

Slowly, she made herself focus on her aunt and the answer she didn't want to give.

“Claire? Who is Carly?” Diane repeated.

Breathe . . .

Answer . . .

“She's Esther and Eli's new horse.”

Claire took the steps two at a time up to her room and shut the door. She'd tried to convince herself she could put Carly's true identity on the back burner of her thoughts until after the kitchen was cleaned, but she couldn't. Her only hope now was that she'd persuaded Diane to wait on contacting the magazine until after Claire had a chance to talk to Jakob and Esther.

Esther . . .

The pure joy on both Esther's and Carly's faces when they were around each other was unmistakable. Knowing she was about to strip that away from both of them was making Claire's head pound.

Still, it had to be done. Carly didn't belong to Esther. She belonged to a woman named Valerie Palermo—a woman who'd been searching for her racehorse for nearly two weeks. The good news, of course, was that the horse
was fine, save for a sprained tendon in her leg. The bad news was that Esther had grown attached to the animal.

Flopping onto her back, Claire removed her cell phone from the nightstand and held it above her face. More than anything, she wished she'd never looked at Diane's magazine, that she hadn't seen the picture of Carrot Thief, that she hadn't handed Hannah's root beer candy to a woman who devoured every line in every issue of
The Stable Life
.

But she had.

To ignore it all away now would be akin to lying.

Releasing a pent-up groan, she scrolled through her contacts and stopped on Jakob. Maybe he'd be too busy to pick up. Maybe he'd be too busy to say anything more than hello. And, for the first time since they'd taken the leap from friends to more, she actually found herself hoping that would be the case. Not because she didn't want to talk to him, but simply because she wanted to buy Esther a little more time with her beloved Carly.

Two rings later, the sound of Jakob's voice in her ear changed everything. She wanted to tell him what she suspected and what was upsetting her so he could make it right. After all, that's what Jakob did, wasn't it? He made things right.

“Claire? Are you there?”

She closed her eyes tightly and mustered the smile he deserved. “I'm sorry, Jakob, yes, I'm here. How are you?”

“Crazy busy. Crazy frustrated. Same as yesterday,” he laughed.

“Then I'll just call back later . . .” She parted her eyelashes and gazed up at the ceiling, her emotions a jumble of relief and disappointment. “Or maybe tomorrow.”

“No! I actually could use the break. Especially if it means getting to talk to you for a little while.”

“Oh. O-okay.” She caught the falter in her voice and braced herself for the veritable certainty that he had, too.

“You alright, Claire? You sound funny.”

Releasing her breath, she rolled onto her side and caught a glimpse of her aunt's magazine on the vanity bench. “Not really.”

Any fatigue she may have heard in his tone when he answered her call disappeared in favor of worry. “Talk to me, Claire. What's going on?”

“It's Esther.” Then, realizing how that could be taken, she rushed on. “I discovered something this evening that is going to make her very, very sad. And I don't know how to tell her.”

“What is it?”

“She's not going to be able to keep Carly.”

A long, low whistle filled her ear, and she could imagine Jakob leaning back in his desk chair, eyes closed. “Oh no, did the horse reinjure her leg?”

“No.”

“Then why wouldn't she be able to keep the horse? They're clearly crazy about each other.”

Crazy about each other . . .

She felt a telltale prick of heat in the corners of her eyes and squeezed them shut. “The horse isn't hers.”

A faint squeak from Jakob's end of the line let her know she'd been a beat or two premature on the leaning-back-in-his-chair part. “What do you mean it isn't hers? Eli bought it out at Weaver's, didn't he?”

“That's a whole different aspect I haven't even thought about yet.”

“Claire. Please. I'm not following any of this,” Jakob protested. “Take it from the top.”

“A few weeks back, a racehorse from New York went missing after the trailer it was riding in was involved in an accident on a back road somewhere along the New Jersey–Pennsylvania border.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard about this. The driver was killed, right? And the accident wasn't found until a few hours after the fact, yes?”

“Correct.”

“I saw something about it on a database we have, but that was it. I figured the horse would eventually turn up.”

She felt the lump rising up her throat but managed to eke out her reply anyway. “It has.”

“That's good news, right?” he prodded.

“For the horse's owner? Yes. For Esther and Eli? Not so much.”

“Wait a minute. What do Esther and Eli have to do with this race—”

She could almost hear his brain connecting the two horses together. And, sure enough, it did . . .

“Wait. Are you saying that Carly is this missing horse?”

Oh, how she wanted to say no, to tell him she was playing a trick on him. But she couldn't. “Yes.”

“Did someone see Carly?”

“
I
did.”

“Claire, please.”

Jakob was right. She needed to just spell everything out and let the chips fall where they may. “I saw a picture in one of Diane's magazines this morning, and although I didn't read the article that went with it, I remember
thinking in the back of my head that this horse—Carrot Thief is its name—looked just like Carly. Right down to the same shade of gray and the curly black tail.”

“Go on . . .”

“Since I don't know much about horses, I figured that wasn't unusual. I mean, really, there are only so many colors a horse can be, right? Black, white, brown, gray. Surely it's not unusual to find horses that look alike.”

“But this one had the black curly tail?”

“Yes. And a penchant for root beer candy.”

“Excuse me?”

She sat up on the edge of the bed, reached across the divide between herself and the vanity bench, and pulled the magazine onto her lap. With a flip of her hand, she found herself staring down at the exact same trio of pictures that had claimed her attention that morning. Only instead of a passing glance, she took a moment to really study the horse depicted in each one. Suddenly, the similarities that had tickled at her subconscious that morning turned into full fledge smacks.

“What's this about root beer candy?” Jakob clarified.

“Apparently Carrot Thief has a thing for root beer candies. Carly loves them, too. You remember what Esther told us about this, don't you? That Carly is always looking to see if Hannah has more.”

Silence gave way to a strange sound in her ear.

“Jakob?”

“That's right. I remember now.” Jakob's sigh matched hers, and she knew he was finally getting the enormity of what this meant for his niece. And, just like Claire had done in the kitchen, he tried to find a way around it. “Okay,
so Carly has a black curly tail and likes the same unusual flavor of candy. That doesn't necessarily mean it's this Carrot Thief horse.”

“Carly has an injured leg.”

“So . . .”

“It kind of makes sense if the animal was in an accident and then left to fend for itself in the woods.”

“How did Weaver end up with her?” Jakob asked.

“Good question. And one that definitely needs to be asked.” She leaned forward as a small, soft gray mark on Carrot Thief's upper chest caught her eye from the bottom right picture. “Jakob?”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember seeing a little mark on Carly's chest?”

“Yeah. It looked like a paw print.”

“And the color?”

“A slightly darker shade of gray than Carly herself.”

She sank back against the bed. “Carrot Thief has the same mark . . . in the same place.”

When Jakob said nothing, she filled in the empty space with the part that made her want to scream. “How do we tell her, Jakob? How do we tell Esther that she can't keep Carly? She's going to be crushed.”

His second, longer sigh let her know she wasn't alone in her frustration. But after several long moments, he took control of the conversation and her fears. “Look, I promise we'll find a way to break this to her gently. But can we put it on the back burner for just a little while? I've got to focus on what's going on in Heavenly right now. I don't want any more people being victimized by this larcenist. And it appears as if he's moving down the street in a semi-orderly fashion.”

“If you know that, why don't you just stake out the next house on the street? You know, wait for him to show up there and then nab him. I mean, I know that Henry Stutzman and that Gingerich girl, Rebecca, weren't able to give the sketch artist much of a description, but surely, if you put the person in front of them, they could identify him. Especially now that we know your sister saw this guy, too.”

“I thought about that. And I still might do it. But my gut is telling me that all that will do is spook him off—maybe straight out of Heavenly. The sight of a cop car in a driveway, or a cop sitting on a front porch, has a way of deterring crime. A good thing the majority of the time, but not what we're going for in this circumstance, you know?”

She took in the pictures of Carrot Thief one more time and then chucked the magazine across her room. Jakob was right. He had way too much on his plate right now to worry about a horse.

Breaking Esther's heart in two was up to Claire, and Claire alone.