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Authors: Laura Bradford
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that option a bit tougher to exercise.”
“Maybe they could buy
that
.” She pointed through gaps in the trees to a stretch of vacant land on the other side. “It certainly doesn’t look like it would be missed.”
“Won’t happen. There’s more money to be had in building homes. Add to that the fact that more homeowners bring more tax revenue for the county and, well, suffice it to say Eli will need to consider other income-producing options if he and Esther hope to stay in Heavenly.”
Jakob was right. Her sitting there, brewing over the unfairness of things, wasn’t going to change anything. Except, perhaps, her mood . . .
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all mopey on you like that.” Claire straightened in her seat, changing her view to the simple yet sturdy fence that lined the edges of Zook’s farm. In the distance, Holsteins grazed, their mouths moving constantly despite the lack of any discernible food source. Ahead and to their left stood a long, white, meticulously kept building Jakob referred to as the cows’ milking quarters—the bread and butter of the victim’s farm.
“Looks like the girls lived well out here . . .” His words morphed into a long, low whistle as he slowed to a stop beside a not-so-meticulously kept farmhouse. “Certainly better than Zook, it seems.”
She felt her jaw slack open as she, too, took in the peeling paint around the windows, the sagging roof atop the front porch, and the rotting stairs that led to the misshapen door. Along a rural road anywhere else in the country, she wouldn’t have batted an eye. But an Amish farmhouse? In Lancaster County? It didn’t fit . . .
“Harley
was
still Amish, wasn’t he?” she finally asked, the question rather rhetorical against the haunting memory of the body she found propped against a shovel barely thirty-six hours earlier. “I-I didn’t know there were Amish who lived so”—she stopped, swallowed—“so . . .
sloppy
.”
“Harley always was one to march to a different drum. But somehow, he was still respected. By everyone but Mose Fisher, anyway.” Jakob began shaking his head even before he finished uttering his father’s name aloud, his hand guiding her focus away from his pained expression and back to the house. “Good thing he worked his fix-it business from his buggy, huh? Because I’m thinking this place probably would have scared off any and all prospective customers.”
And it was true. If a potential client had seen Harley’s house, they’d have doubted his prowess with a hammer and nails. Yet, according to items Diane had pointed out around the inn, the man was talented with his hands. Some might even say gifted if you took into account items he built rather than fixed.
“I knew a reporter once. He wrote all sorts of articles—crime, features, hard news, you name it. But ask him to write a letter or anything outside his work hours, and it was like pulling teeth. He used to say the last thing he wanted to do on his own time was write.” Claire reached for the toolbox she’d set on the floor between her feet. “Maybe that’s how Harley felt about fixing things. He could do it for work, but on his own time he’d rather take care of his cows.”
She moved the toolbox to her lap then shifted in the seat to afford a better view of Jakob. “I mean, if you think about it, running a dairy farm is a full-time job for many of the Amish in this area, isn’t it? But for Harley it was one of two jobs.”
“True.” He liberated the box from her lap and jerked his head toward his door and the metal fence beyond. “So? Should we find Mary’s escape route and seal it off?”
Answering by way of opening her car door, Claire stepped onto the dirt driveway and lifted her chin to the early-morning sun, an unexpected odor assailing her senses with an immediate punch. “Ewww! What on earth is that?” she asked from behind her hand. “It’s . . . it’s
rancid
.”
Jakob lifted his nose into the air
“Maybe they could buy
that
.” She pointed through gaps in the trees to a stretch of vacant land on the other side. “It certainly doesn’t look like it would be missed.”
“Won’t happen. There’s more money to be had in building homes. Add to that the fact that more homeowners bring more tax revenue for the county and, well, suffice it to say Eli will need to consider other income-producing options if he and Esther hope to stay in Heavenly.”
Jakob was right. Her sitting there, brewing over the unfairness of things, wasn’t going to change anything. Except, perhaps, her mood . . .
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all mopey on you like that.” Claire straightened in her seat, changing her view to the simple yet sturdy fence that lined the edges of Zook’s farm. In the distance, Holsteins grazed, their mouths moving constantly despite the lack of any discernible food source. Ahead and to their left stood a long, white, meticulously kept building Jakob referred to as the cows’ milking quarters—the bread and butter of the victim’s farm.
“Looks like the girls lived well out here . . .” His words morphed into a long, low whistle as he slowed to a stop beside a not-so-meticulously kept farmhouse. “Certainly better than Zook, it seems.”
She felt her jaw slack open as she, too, took in the peeling paint around the windows, the sagging roof atop the front porch, and the rotting stairs that led to the misshapen door. Along a rural road anywhere else in the country, she wouldn’t have batted an eye. But an Amish farmhouse? In Lancaster County? It didn’t fit . . .
“Harley
was
still Amish, wasn’t he?” she finally asked, the question rather rhetorical against the haunting memory of the body she found propped against a shovel barely thirty-six hours earlier. “I-I didn’t know there were Amish who lived so”—she stopped, swallowed—“so . . .
sloppy
.”
“Harley always was one to march to a different drum. But somehow, he was still respected. By everyone but Mose Fisher, anyway.” Jakob began shaking his head even before he finished uttering his father’s name aloud, his hand guiding her focus away from his pained expression and back to the house. “Good thing he worked his fix-it business from his buggy, huh? Because I’m thinking this place probably would have scared off any and all prospective customers.”
And it was true. If a potential client had seen Harley’s house, they’d have doubted his prowess with a hammer and nails. Yet, according to items Diane had pointed out around the inn, the man was talented with his hands. Some might even say gifted if you took into account items he built rather than fixed.
“I knew a reporter once. He wrote all sorts of articles—crime, features, hard news, you name it. But ask him to write a letter or anything outside his work hours, and it was like pulling teeth. He used to say the last thing he wanted to do on his own time was write.” Claire reached for the toolbox she’d set on the floor between her feet. “Maybe that’s how Harley felt about fixing things. He could do it for work, but on his own time he’d rather take care of his cows.”
She moved the toolbox to her lap then shifted in the seat to afford a better view of Jakob. “I mean, if you think about it, running a dairy farm is a full-time job for many of the Amish in this area, isn’t it? But for Harley it was one of two jobs.”
“True.” He liberated the box from her lap and jerked his head toward his door and the metal fence beyond. “So? Should we find Mary’s escape route and seal it off?”
Answering by way of opening her car door, Claire stepped onto the dirt driveway and lifted her chin to the early-morning sun, an unexpected odor assailing her senses with an immediate punch. “Ewww! What on earth is that?” she asked from behind her hand. “It’s . . . it’s
rancid
.”
Jakob lifted his nose into the air
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