She wished she knew why the authorities were so certain that Daniel’s death hadn’t been a simple accident. If it wasn’t an accident, it had to have been deliberate, and murder wasn’t common among the Amish. If the shooter was Amish, he would believe that the act doomed him to hell. In a culture that believed that the next life was far more important than this mortal one, it would take a compelling reason for someone to trade hope of eternal life for the alternative. Of course, maybe it hadn’t been an Amish man who shot him. The killer could be English. But who would have such a grudge against Daniel—a man reportedly without enemies—that they would deliberately take his life?
Dusk was falling when she reached Stone Mill House. Her neighbor, Hulda, clad in a hot-pink down ski coat, snow boots, and a fur hat, was in front of the inn, sweeping leaves from the sidewalk. Rachel pulled into the driveway, stopped the Jeep, and got out. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Hulda believed she was invincible, but no one in their nineties was invincible. Rachel shuddered to think how easy it would be for her elderly friend to fall and break a hip.
“Planting turnips,” Hulda shouted back and then laughed. “What does it look like I’m doing? If it rains, these leaves will make the brick walk slick. Someone could fall and you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.”
Rachel crossed the lawn to her friend. “I’m not arguing with you about the leaves,” she said. “I meant to do something about these this morning and I forgot. I’m asking why you’re out here doing the sweeping.”
“I’m sweeping a few leaves. I’m not up on the roof cleaning out the gutters, and I’m not washing the upstairs windows, although they could use it. But I’m not in my coffin yet, and until I am, I intend to do pretty much as I please.”
Rachel grimaced, properly chastised. “But I worry about you.”
“And I worry about you, all this running back and forth, involving yourself in murder investigations, but I don’t ask you to sit in a rocking chair and knit.” She removed a tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed at her nose. “And speaking of upstairs windows, the woman in the middle room is complaining about the squirrels. She claims they’re scratching on her window. Staring at her. She wants you to chase them away.”
“Mrs. Morris.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “Last time she stayed with us, it was a giant cardinal pecking on her window. And before that . . .” She chuckled. “A suspicious number of barn swallows.”
“She’s right there. There were a lot of them,” Hulda agreed. She blew her nose and tucked the tissue back into her pocket. “Sounds like a case of ornithophobia to me. Not sure what her problem with the squirrels is. Don’t know if they’ve got a name for that.”
Rachel sighed. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Morris, reassure her that the squirrels are only searching for food. For someone who’s so unhappy with our wildlife, she comes here a lot.”
“Is she the one who takes the lightbulbs from her room when she leaves?”
Rachel shook her head. “No, different peculiar guest. Mrs. Morris just complains about the wildlife. I think she’s lonely and wants a reason to come down and talk with whoever’s on the desk.”
“Maybe.” Hulda leaned on the broom. “Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Rachel chuckled again. “You’re hardly retired. You still control the store and your house, not to mention that you’re treasurer of the historical committee and still serve on how many boards?”
“Don’t be impertinent. We were talking about Mrs. Morris, if I recall,” Hulda reminded her.
“Right. Well, there’s a concert tonight at our Methodist church with refreshments after. Evan was supposed to go with me, but I got a text from him that he’s got to take a double shift. Maybe Mrs. Morris would be interested in going with me.”
“Someone sick?”
“No. Trooper’s wife is in the hospital. First baby. Apparently, she’s in labor. Anyway, since Evan can’t go, I’ll ask Mrs. Morris if she’d like to join me. Maybe you’d like to come. The violinist is really good, and the coffee and dessert table following the program aren’t to be missed.”
“Thanks, dear, but not tonight. It’s my standing date with my grandson. One of those foolish TV shows about the end of the world. Might be some zombies involved. He loves it, and I can’t understand for the life of me what’s going on. But we eat bowls of popcorn and drink cocoa with marshmallows. I can put on my pajamas and crank up the gas fireplace. The boy will never be the financial success his grandfather was, but he’s a lot sweeter. Any other evening and I’d be happy to come. But I don’t want to disappoint him.”
Rachel took the broom from her. “I understand. And I can’t thank you enough for helping out again today, but from now on, when you want leaves swept, call me or one of the girls. You aren’t Superwoman.”
Hulda chuckled. “I’m not? And just when I—” She broke off in mid-sentence as Rachel’s cell rang.
“Excuse me,” Rachel said. She looked at the caller ID. She didn’t recognize it; she took the call. “Rachel Mast. Good evening.”
“Hi, this is Irene Glidden. You called my office yesterday. I apologize for calling after hours but it’s been a crazy day.”
Glidden. The name suddenly registered with Rachel. “Could you hold on just a second,” she said, pressing the phone against her coat to muffle the sound. And then, to Hulda, she whispered, “It’s an attorney. I told you I’ve been trying to get one to take Moses’s case.”
Hulda waved a hand. “Take your call, honey. I was about to wander on home anyway. See you tomorrow. And good luck finding someone to defend that boy.” The older woman stood on tiptoes
