“I thought you locked up the dangerous ones.”
“None of them are too friendly.” He raised a hand. “I’ll get them.” And before she could protest, he’d exited through the door.
She looked around at the interior of the cabin great room as she sat down. She’d been expecting to see weapons, high-powered guns, ammunition, knives, but instead, she saw rows of canned goods on every shelf. Strings of onions and dried herbs hung from the massive beams overhead. Everywhere she looked were jars and jars of preserved peaches, apples, string beans, corn, berries, and what looked like fish. Other shelves held hardbound books, dozens of them, not survival manuals but classics such as Dickens, Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, and Faulkner.
The cat raised its head and stared at her, then hissed. She jumped back. It wasn’t a cat but a half-grown raccoon. The hair on the animal’s back stiffened and it bared its teeth before darting past her and diving into a stack of wood near the door. Rachel stared after it, not certain if she should be frightened or amused. Who had a raccoon for a pet?
Abruptly, the kettle whistled. Rachel got up and went into the kitchen area and turned off the gas flame beneath it. From the stove, she could see that open shelves of the cabinets and island held containers of flour, sugar, and cornmeal as well as more mason jars filled to the brim with food. Her gaze lingered on two framed objects on the wall beside the window, a window framed with yellow cotton curtains. She took a step closer and stared. The frames held medals. One was the Silver Star, the second the Medal of Honor awarded by the American government for the most courageous acts under fire.
“Mugs are in that cabinet over the sink,” Baker said as he entered the cabin.
Startled, Rachel jumped. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She turned to face him, not wanting to seem to be invading his privacy. “The kettle . . .” she began.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” In his hands was the basket containing the sticky buns Rachel had taken from the sweets laid out for her guests’ pleasure. Ada baked them fresh at least twice a week. “How did you know that I have a passion for cinnamon buns? And these look as though they have nuts on top.”
She nodded. “Are these yours, Mr. Baker? The Medal of Honor and the Silver Star?”
He looked down at the pastries. “I do fancy sticky buns. Never had the nerve to try to make them myself. I appreciate the gift more than you can know.”
“The medals?” she repeated softly.
“Foolish of me to hang them up like that. Showing off, your Amish relatives would say, but I didn’t know what else to do with them. It seemed cowardly to toss them out, at least disrespectful.” He raised his head and met her look, and for a brief instant she saw a man carrying more than his share of mental pain. “You mind getting those cups out of the cupboard?”
Rachel turned to the cabinet and took down two vintage-style white coffee mugs that might have been used in any diner in the 1920s. The glimpse of the interior of the cabinet had shown her dishes and glassware neatly lined up and ready for use.
“Loose tea’s in that canister on the counter. Teapot’s under the sink.” Baker took the plate of sticky buns out of the basket and set them on the round table. It was wood and appeared to Rachel to be handcrafted, like most of the furniture in the cabin. “Scoop’s in the can. You need two scoops of the peppermint.”
“You have no reason to be ashamed of those medals,” she said. “You must have been very brave.”
“Brave or stupid, probably a little of both, but I saw a lot of men who deserved them more than I did.” His voice dropped to a raspy grating. “Men who mostly didn’t come home or came home short of arms and legs or maybe eyes or half a brain.” A visible shudder passed through him. “Bad memories,” he said. “Stupid war, waste of lives. Not something I care to talk about.”
“But you talk about it with Rupert,” she suggested gently.
“Only when I need to, when it can ease his soul. For myself. . . It’s why I live like this. Why I’m happier on my own . . . why I’ve had enough of orders from politicians who never wade through the blood they cause.” He stiffened and his features smoothed out, hiding the anger behind a disarming smile. “When you’ve seen as much of mankind as I have, a raccoon makes good company. Now, let’s have our tea, and I’ll try to tell you what you came to find out.”
Soon Rachel was seated at the table across from the man sipping peppermint tea and nibbling at a cinnamon bun. Her thoughts were racing, but she was determined not to leave there without answers. Baker was an enigma, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be capable of shooting his neighbor. “I came here to talk to you about your neighbor, Daniel.”
“Right. You said.”
“Did you know that Moses Studer confessed to killing his brother-in-law?” she asked, watching him for his response.
“Moses?” Baker shook his head. Clearly, it was news to him. “No way he killed a man. Any man, even Daniel.”
“He told the police he did it. They arrested him.”
“I don’t care what he told the police. You ask me my opinion, I’m giving it to you. Moses didn’t kill anyone. Accidentally, maybe, but not on purpose. He doesn’t have it in him to put a bullet in a man deliberately.”
“You aren’t the first one to tell me that,” Rachel said, “but I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about Moses and Daniel. And the family,” she added. “How well did you know the deceased?”
He shrugged. “Not well. Like I said, I keep to myself.”
“I understand that there was some
