That meant that either Mary Rose was mistaken about the land or she’d deliberately lied about it being part of their property. Who owned the land didn’t really matter all that much. Just because Daniel died in Chuck’s orchard, that didn’t mean Chuck killed him. But if Mary Rose told an untruth about owning the land when she didn’t, had she told others?
Now Rachel wanted to go to the orchard and see for herself where Daniel had died. But she had chores for the B&B that couldn’t wait. First on her list was a little shopping. Ada had asked her to pick up half-and-half, cake flour, brown sugar, and pickling spice. What Ada intended to pickle in late November, Rachel wasn’t sure, but whatever her housekeeper wanted, she was happy to supply. It wasn’t sensible to question the grocery list when there were new guests arriving for the weekend. Actually, it was never wise to question Ada about anything having to do with the kitchen.
The store was busy with mostly women, both Amish and English, picking up something for supper. Outsiders often seemed surprised to see the Amish with a grocery cart filled with toilet paper, boxed cereal, and baking ingredients like flour and baking powder, but Amish families needed to purchase things they couldn’t make at home. It always made her smile to see an entire family trailing behind mother and father, all dressed in their best go-to-church clothing. Knowing that most came by horse and buggy, Wagler’s had always provided a shaded spot to tie the animals sheltered from the elements, a courtesy the new management had preserved.
Most of the shoppers were friends or neighbors, but Rachel didn’t really have time to chat so she wheeled the cart quickly through the produce aisle, stopping only to pick up lemons and romaine lettuce. On second thought, the navel oranges looked nice and she loved oranges. Oddly, Bishop, who rarely would touch table scraps, loved the peel. The cat was constantly stashing pieces of orange peel under Rachel’s bed and under her bathroom sink. She picked out a half dozen oranges, bagged them, and dropped them into her cart.
As she rounded the aisle she almost bumped into Margaret O’Meara and her husband, Fred. He was pushing the overflowing grocery cart and she was scolding him about the two bags of potato chips that he’d just added to their order.
“We have pretzels. We don’t need those, and if I did want chips, it wouldn’t be those.”
“But I like them and they’re on sale.” Red-faced Fred, a tall, balding man with a potbelly, pointed to the display. “Buy one, get the second one free.”
“And have you checked the date on the bottom?” Margaret demanded. Her shrill voice always reminded Rachel of nails on a blackboard. “They might be out-of-date, something the company wants to get rid of. Honestly, Fred, you’re as bad as a child. I—” Margaret finally noticed Rachel and immediately donned her church face. “Rachel, how lovely to see you,” she said, her voice as sweet as honey. “We simply can’t wait for your wedding. You make such a sweet couple.”
“Hello, Margaret. Fred. How are you?” Rachel smiled. Margaret was president of the Stone Mill Library Ladies, a women’s organization that supported the town library and offered cultural opportunities to members and the public. She and her husband both sang in the Methodist church choir with Rachel, but truthfully, Rachel had never been able to take Margaret in large doses because she always seemed unhappy about something.
“Let me give you some advice, dear. When you and Evan are husband and wife, shop alone. Otherwise . . .” Margaret sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “I declare, this man will be the death of me.” She scooped up Fred’s two bags of chips and shoved them back on the shelf. “The male of the species can’t resist snacks. Honestly, bringing him along costs us a fortune in grocery bills.” She leaned closer. “I find Wagler’s on the expensive side, don’t you? I can do much better at the discount grocery in State College.”
Rachel, who’d been considering picking up the chips at the sale price, thought the better of it. She smiled politely, made a remark about the weather, and made her escape down the pet food aisle. Halfway along the aisle, she found her way blocked by the substantial bulk of Lois McCloud, wife of the town funeral director and best friend of Margaret. Rachel knew Lois well and liked her. Lois was a cheerful woman, also from church choir, who knew and told far too much about her neighbors and their doings.
“We’re practicing Sunday, right after church,” Lois reminded her. “Not six as usual. Don’t forget. To make up for last week’s Wednesday that had to be cancelled. You will be there, won’t you?”
“If I can,” Rachel said. She picked up a bag of cat food for Bishop and smiled politely. “I’d love to stay and chat, but . . .”
Lois took the hint and made her decision between dog chow and kibbles quickly. “I’m sure you must be busy with all your wedding plans and the inn. See you in church Sunday.”
“I’ll do my best to be there,”
