A Churn for the Worse (8 page)

“No, of course—”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” Hayley liberated her camera bag from its holding spot to the left of the buffet table and tapped her hand against its mesh side pocket. “Did you look outside your bedroom window like I told you to do when I knocked twenty minutes ago? Those are storm clouds,
Jeremy. We need to get some outdoor shots before any rain moves in.”

“But I'm hungry,” he protested.

Hayley shrugged and then hooked her thumb in the direction of the front hallway. “You should have thought of that when I first told you to come down. Now we don't have time for you to sit and eat.”

“How about I put a few donuts into a paper sack for you and you can take them in the car?” Diane suggested. Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared into the hallway and the kitchen beyond, only to return moments later with a small bag. Thrusting it into Jeremy's hand, the woman smiled. “Here you go, young man. It's not a full breakfast, but it's something.”

He took the bag, peeked inside, and smiled. “They look mighty good.”

“Well you'll have to let me know if your stomach agrees when I see you again over dinner.”

“C'mon, Jeremy. Please. We need to go.
Now.
”

“I'm not working through lunch, I'm telling you that right now.” Jeremy reached into the bag, withdrew a donut, and winked at Diane. “And my parents wonder why I don't want to work . . .”

And then he was gone, the sound of his footsteps joining with Hayley's as they made their way down the hall, across the front foyer, and out the front door.

“Sounds like something I've heard in my own classroom a time or two.” Hank helped himself to a second waffle and a handful of fresh strawberries before turning his attention to the sixty-something man on the opposite side of the table. “I would imagine, with you being a travel agent, Bill, folks
who'd benefit from an increase in tourists must really try to pull out all the stops for you . . .”

Bill grinned around his bacon. “I'm treated well, yes.”

“So what makes you decide to really push a particular location or to put together a group to go there?” Claire asked. “Are there certain criteria you look for?”

“Sure.” Bill ate a couple of bites and then set the remaining piece back down on his plate. “But that criteria changes based on the group I'm targeting. If they're young, I look for nightlife, restaurants, shopping, that sort of thing. If they're families, I'm more concerned with available activities and cost. For the senior set, like I'm concentrating on for Heavenly, it's more about cost, restaurants, safety, pace, shopping, and an opportunity to learn something new.”

Hank looked up from his waffle and smiled. “Sounds like Heavenly is a shoo-in.”

“Cost-wise—it's good. Dining-wise—it's good. Pace-wise—it's good. Shopping-wise—it's good. But as far as safety—which is an important factor when it comes to seniors deciding where to go—the verdict is still out.”

It was quick and partially stifled, but Claire still heard Diane's gasp. Although, based on the fact that everyone around them was looking at
Claire
, she suspected hers was louder. “But Heavenly
is
safe,” she argued.

“A man was just killed not more than a mile or so from here. In the very heart of the area my clients will be most interested in visiting. That makes a trip here a bit harder to sell.”

“But that's
one
incident.”

“Add in the robbery and that's
two
.” Bill poured some
cream into his tea and then added a spoonful of sugar. After a quick stir, he took a sip. “And that's not counting the murders that have occurred here over the past year.”

Diane's shoulders demonstrated the defeat Claire shared. “Heavenly is a beautiful place—a beautiful,
peaceful
place.”

“I agree. And that's the way I'll present it to potential clients. But seniors research things online these days now, too. They see enough articles about crime and, well, it could have an impact.” Bill took a longer gulp, and then another, draining his teacup to the bottom. “The police need to get to the bottom of whatever happened here this week. The longer it takes, the worse it is for business. Unless, of course, you're Jim, here”—he swept his hand and Claire's gaze to the dark-haired, dark-eyed man seated on his right—“and your business hinges on problems that need to be fixed.”

Claire dropped the shop's key into her purse and followed Annie into the alley, the cessation of mouthwatering scents wafting from the windows of Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe her least favorite part of six o'clock.

“Five minutes ago, I was anxious for the workday to be over. Now, standing out here, all I can think about is wishing the day was still going so I could smell Ruth's apple pie or her cinnamon cookies.” She caught up to Annie and matched her steps over to the hitching post behind the store. “Crazy, huh?”

“You could make such things at the inn. And then you could eat them, too.” Annie ran her hand along the neck of the waiting horse and then rested her forehead against its taut skin. “Hello again, Katie.”

The brown Standardbred horse seemed to melt against
Annie as if she were as glad to see Annie as Annie was to see her.

“I see you drank some water and ate the oats I brought you during my break,” Annie said softly. “That is good.” Then, pulling back, the teenager smiled at Claire and motioned toward the gray-topped buggy. “I would be happy to bring you home. It is not a pie like Ruth could give, but it is still good.”

“Actually, it's perfect. Thank you.”

Annie nodded, then pointed again at the buggy. “You may sit down. I will unhitch Katie and we will go.”

The young girl unhitched the horse from the pole, nuzzled the animal's face with her own, and then climbed onto the bench seat beside Claire. A soft click of her tongue, combined with a firm pull on the reins, backed them into the alleyway. “Good girl, Katie. Good girl.”

Claire couldn't help but smile at the animation on her employee's face. In fact, at that moment, it was hard to equate the girl sitting next to her with the one who'd first strode into her shop nearly five months earlier.
That
Annie had been standoffish, even a little surly.
That
Annie had been determined to use her Rumspringa to test the limits of her strict upbringing.

This
Annie was more at peace—her determination to rebel weakening with each passing day thanks to better communication with her dat, and the ever-deepening bond with Claire. Katie was simply another plus in the positive column.

“You're really enjoying her, aren't you?” Claire asked as they headed down the alley and toward Lighted Way.

“Yah.”

“I'm glad.” She rocked side to side on the bench as the horse navigated the cobblestone road with the slow, easy steps Annie permitted. “How is Henry doing?”

Annie turned her head left as they approached the main road, but not before Claire picked up a hint of flushing on the young girl's face. At any other point in the conversation, she would have attributed such a reaction to the July heat, but considering its proximity to the mere mention of Henry Stutzman, she knew it was more.

“He wants to show that he is strong. For his mamm and his brothers and sisters. But he is still sad, still scared.”

They turned left onto Lighted Way and immediately moved as close to the shoulder as possible to allow passenger cars the ability to pass if necessary. Claire watched a few go by, but, for the most part, no one seemed to be in any rush. “Scared? Of what?”

“That the person will come back.”

“Person? What . . .” And then she knew. The person who killed his father.

“He does not want someone to come back and do that to him. He says his brothers are too young to take care of their mamm properly. That he needs to stay safe to take care of her.” Annie loosened her hold on the reins and allowed Katie to slow even more. When they reached a place where they could safely stop, Annie turned to face Claire. “I do not want anything to happen to Henry.”

“Oh, Annie, you have to know that Jakob will do everything in his power to find out who did this and make sure he never does it again. To anyone.”

Annie's gaze dropped to the floor of the buggy, where it remained for several beats. Eventually, she looked at
Claire. “Do you think that is so? That he will not let this happen to Henry?”

Reaching across the narrow space between them, she covered Annie's hands with her own. “I do, Annie.”

“I do not know much about Jakob. Only that he stops by the shop and is kind to you.”

“He is that, but he's also a fine police detective.” She returned her hands to her lap and her focus to the sidewalk. There, just two storefronts ahead, was a small group of Amish females Claire judged to be in their late teens and early twenties. They stood in a small circle, heads bent forward, each exhibiting the same rigid stance. “I wonder what's going on there.”

Annie bobbed her head left and then right to afford a better view. “I do not know. But we will ask Ruth.”

“Ruth? Where?”

Katie responded to the soft click of Annie's tongue and began to walk again, the side to side motion of the buggy a reflection of the terrain more than the budding skills of the young driver. When they were in line with Glorious Books, Annie again stopped the buggy. Like clockwork, four kapped heads turned as one.

“Hello, Annie. Hello, Claire.” Ruth stepped forward and into the path of the sun. Using her long, slender hand as a shield, the bakery owner trained her ocean blue eyes on first Annie, and then Claire. “It was a good day today at the bake shop. Was it a good day for you, as well?”

“It was.” More than anything Claire wanted to ask Ruth about the mystery man Benjamin had referenced the previous day, but she refrained. To do so in front of so many
people would be unfair. Especially for someone as shy as Ruth.

Maybe tomorrow, if there was a lull in customers . . .

“Is everything alright?” Annie asked, looking from Ruth to the other women and back again. “You look worried.”

Ruth peeked over her shoulder at her trio of friends but seemed to be addressing one in particular—a redhead with freckles across the bridge of her nose. “May I tell Claire? Perhaps she will have an idea that could help.”

“But she is . . .
English
,” the young woman whispered. “Maybe we should not say.”

“Yah, she is English. But she is my friend.” When she got the nod she was seeking, Ruth turned back to the buggy. “It happened to Rebecca as it happened to Emma.”

Claire glanced at Annie to see if she was following the conversation, but she, too, looked perplexed. “Emma?”

“That is Henry's mamm.” Annie leaned around Claire, her eyes wide with fear. “What has happened to Henry's mamm?”

“A man took the money. From her home.”

Annie's shoulders relaxed just as Claire's stiffened. “Wait! Are you saying that money was stolen from Rebecca's house, too?”

“Yah,” Ruth answered.

“When?” she snapped.

“It was today.” The redhead dropped her hands to her sides and began to fiddle with her dress. Two pinched tugs to the left, two pinched tugs to the right . . . “Dat was in the field with my brothers, and Mamm was at Emma's house helping, when he knocked.”

Claire swallowed over the lump now rising in her throat.
“He?”

“An English man. He wanted to buy some furniture. I told him Dat did not make furniture to sell. He asked if I could draw a map to where he could buy furniture. I am not good at such drawings, but I found a piece of paper and a pencil with my sister's school books and tried. When I returned to show him, he was gone.”

“And?”

“Money was missing from her dat's boot,” Ruth supplied via a shaky voice.

Claire stepped down from the buggy seat and stood beside Ruth, her focus squarely on Rebecca. “Are you sure the money is missing?”

“Yah.”

“And your father—I mean, dat? Is he okay?”

“Yah. He was still in the field when I left. He will not be happy when I tell him of the missing money.”

“Did you tell the police?” Claire asked, pointing toward the station just two doors away.

“There is no need.”

“No need?” she argued. “Of course there's a need. Someone stole money from your home! That's a crime, Rebecca—
a crime
. If you don't tell the police what happened, they can't help you . . . and they can't track down the money your dat earned with his hard work.”

“He was a nice man. Kind.”

Claire drew back, stunned. “You mean the man who came to your house?”

“Yah.”

“Kind men don't—”

A strangled cry from inside the buggy brought Claire's attention back to Annie, the teenager's once-flushed face now ashen. “C-Claire?” Annie stammered. “C-could it be the same man? The same man who did this to Henry?”

Oh, how she wanted to say no. To assure the bishop's daughter, Benjamin and Eli's sister, and the other young Amish women that it was all simply a horrible coincidence. But as much as she wanted to, her gut knew better.

Someone was preying on the Amish . . .