Suspicious behavior: In the past week or so her financial state appears to be improving, in spite of quitting second job. Just enrolled daughter in an expensive private school. Possible suspicious hiring practices at Guards on Call make status as a “real” security guard questionable.
Alibi: None available. Works security at the bank and would have been there on the Tuesday in question (or at any point the night before). Maintains key/codes to the facility and can come and go 24/7.
Possible mode of operation: Could have easily entered the building in the middle of the night, taking the deposit just after it was made. Fellow Guards on Call could have aided her in cutting off the power ahead of time. Perhaps this is how the organization operates.
My plan regarding this suspect: Stay in touch with people who know/knew her to glean their thoughts. Further investigate Guards on Call. Pray for discernment.
Jake Mullins.
Outward appearances: Rough-looking. What I’d expect a “criminal” to look like. From family description, sounds like a prodigal son, craving the love of a parent.
Motive: To get even with his mother, or to acquire funds to escape life on the streets.
Suspicious behavior: Was seen hanging around the bank on the night before the money disappeared.
Alibi: Claims to have been looking for his sister, to obtain permission to return home.
Possible mode of operation: Could have rigged the night deposit box and taken off with the cash before anyone inside the bank noticed. Or. . . could have convinced his sympathetic sister to pass the cash off to him instead of making the deposit.
My plan regarding this suspect: Find out who he hangs out with. Take the time to meet Jake and pray for discernment regarding his involvement.
Wow. I certainly saw the “bigger picture” now. Four situations. Four very different people. And God clearly loved every single one with a passion, as was evidenced by the warmth that now filled my heart as I caught “His” view on things.
I delved into prayer; spent about a half hour totally dedicated to the four individuals I’d held in suspicion for so long. As I wrapped things up, I asked the Lord the inevitable question: Is that all you want from me, Father—just to pray? I braced myself for His response.
The answer gave me reason to pause. For, while none of these folks really came across as the criminal sort, I couldn’t shake the possibility that someone I knew and loved had actually committed this crime. And, try as I may, I couldn’t deviate from the idea that God wanted me to play a role in bringing the right person to justice.
Chapter Ten
There’s something about a bed and breakfast that’s conducive to sleep. On the morning after my creek-side chat with the Lord, Sheila and I dozed through the breakfast hour. Almost, anyway. At about twenty minutes till nine, Mrs. Lapp’s all-too-cheery voice roused us from our slumber.
“Wilkum to a new day, you’s two!” she shouted through the door. “There’s breakfast to be had in the dining room.”
I groaned and rolled over in a tangled mess of quilts to find Sheila still sound asleep in the bed next to mine. The whole thing kind of reminded me of the morning after my fifth grade slumber party. Same tell-tale smudges of chocolate, different sleepwear.
“Sheila?”
“Hmm?” She stirred under the colorful mound.
I slung my legs over the edge of my bed and stretched. “Our hostess isn’t going to rest until we eat.”
Sheila sat straight up, eyes wide open. “Food? Why didn’t you say so?”
Ten minutes later, with faces washed and clothes on, we found ourselves seated before a beautiful breakfast table. I stared in disbelief at the amazing assortment of homemade jams, jellies, and other colorful goodies and wondered how any woman on the planet had time to devote to such things. Then I turned to face our blessed innkeeper. Her round cheeks glowed pink and her silver hair peeked beneath the edges of her Kapp. She appeared nearly angelic.
Nearly.
“Good morning, you’s two!” Mrs. Lapp’s ample bosom met me head-on as she threw open her arms for a morning hug.
She then turned her motherly attentions to Sheila, who handled the embrace with a little more finesse.
“Morning, Mrs. L.,” Sheila’s cheeks broadened in joy. “I don’t know when I’ve ever slept better.”
The older woman clapped her hands together in glee. “Wonderful, wonderful.”
“My husband, Orin, snores like a freight train,” Sheila added. “But Annie here—” she gestured my way “—she’s quiet as a mouse.”
Wish I could say the same about you. I flashed a wide smile and stifled the giggle that threatened to slip out.
“My other guests finished breakfast nearly an hour ago,” Mrs. Lapp explained. “But never you mind that. All the better to visit with just the three of us.”
Visit?
She fixed our plates then plopped down in the seat at the head of the table. At that point, she dove into a detailed description of our breakfast foods. Dippy eggs, as she called them, turned out to be eggs over easy. Butter bread appeared to be her way of describing our toast with fresh creamed butter. Home fries were sliced potatoes and onions fried in a cast-iron skillet, seasoned with basil and oregano. But the pecan sticky buns, according to Mrs. L., were her specialty. A host of other goodies proved to be the icing on the top of our veritable breakfast cake. I didn’t know when I’d ever felt more pampered. Or more stuffed.
I chuckled as I looked at the sign above the table. Kissin’ wears out, cooking don’t. Clearly, Mrs. Lapp’s motto. And since there didn’t appear to be a Mr. Lapp about, I had to imagine she didn’t get much of the first. Judging from the size of her mid-section, there appeared to be an abundance of the second.
As we finished up our breakfast, Sheila and I stood and rubbed our expanding bellies.
Sheila shifted her hands around to her hips. “Who needs buns of steel when we can have sticky buns?” She broke into raucous laughter and I joined in, feeling rather fat and sassy myself. For a moment, I almost let my mind gravitate back to the Clark County gym and my fitness rep, Joey. Nah. Don’t go there. Not today.
Instead, I opted to do a little shopping. We had a look around the small storefront in the lobby, oohing and aahing over the various trinkets and treasures. I picked up a lovely hand-made apron, mesmerized by its intricacies.
“Did you make this?” I asked our hostess.
Mrs. Lapp beamed. “No, I haven’t the time, what with my guests, the cooking and all. My sister is the seamstress in the family. She has been making those since we were both young girls.”
“It’s amazing. I’d like to buy this one.” I reached for my checkbook. “And please tell your sister just how much I loved it.”
“I’ve sold them for her for years now.” Her chest puffed out a bit more—in pride. “My sister is pleased, to be sure. I just sold several dozen to the vendors at our local merchant’s conference last month. You’ll be seeing these aprons in shops all over the Amish country now.”
Something she’d said piqued my interest. “Conference?”
“In Paradise,” she explained. “A couple hundred of us Dutch merchants meet every year to talk about marketing and promotional ideas. And we’re always interested in new products to promote the Amish and Mennonite way of life, that sort of thing. It’s great fun.”
Sounded like it. It also sounded vaguely familiar.
“Are we going to spend all day gabbing, or are we going into town to shop?” Sheila interrupted our chat with her thoughts on the matter. “Cause all this talk about marketing has me in the mood to spend some money.”
I chuckled. “We’re shopping.”
Mrs. Lapp took my check and folded it, then tucked it into her blouse. She followed us all the way out to our car, looking up at the skies before we parted ways. “Spritzing should begin any time now.”
Spritzing?
“Best to take your umbrellas,” she admonished.
Ah.
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I had to poke Sheila in the ribs with my elbow to keep her from laughing aloud. We had too much to do to stand around gabbing about colloquialisms, cute as they might be. There were small towns to visit, shops to be explored, and more delicious foods to be eaten.
As we attempted to climb into the car, Mrs. L. went on to sing the praises of several of her favorite stores and restaurants—all within driving distance. “See as many as you can,” she encouraged.
We nodded our thanks and headed out on our way, at once grateful for a bit of silence. I half-expected Sheila to comment on the infamous Mrs. L., but she seemed to be lost in her thoughts this morning.
We drove along the winding country roads, pausing at every little town and store that drew our attention, some recommended by Mrs. L., others incidental. Within an hour or so of beginning our shopping, quilt envy had taken root in both of us. I wanted every single one. Above all, their detailed beauty amazed me.
Who in the world has the time to sit and sew like that? I could hardly sit still at the computer long enough to edit a client’s manuscript. How did women sit for hours on end, visiting with one another, hand-stitching one row upon another?
I snuck a glance at my best friend, her eyes glazed over in pure joy. Truly, she looked as though she’d died and gone to heaven. Perhaps, if we truly had the time to spend with one another, if we lived simpler, quieter lives, we would sit in silence and work on craft projects.
At this point, Sheila erupted in a warbling rendition of “Do a Deer,” punctuating the “Sew, a needle pulling thread” part.
Hmm. Then again . . .
We shifted our attentions to the Amish furniture, taking note of everything from sturdy quilt racks to handcrafted hickory rockers to bent oak dining tables. I couldn’t imagine owning such lovely things, though my heart connected with the beauty of it all.
While I couldn’t justify the expense of a larger purchase, I did manage to find several other Amish delights to tickle my fancy. I bought a variety of things: several hand-dipped beeswax candles for Brandi and Scott’s wedding ceremony, a lovely hand-painted box to give to Nadine as a gift, and the prettiest pewter plate I’d ever seen. The latter I expected to keep for myself.
Sheila couldn’t seem to get enough of the pottery, hooked rugs, and hand-made dolls. She purchased so many items I finally had to put a moratorium on the shopping. All along the way, she kept me entertained with funny stories and witty sayings, as always.
At some point in our journey, I stumbled across an outdated flier on the back wall of one of the shops, advertising the now-past All Things Dutch conference. Ah. That’s what Mrs. L. was talking about. My mind reeled as another memory set in. Janetta Mullins. That’s the conference she catered. No wonder it sounded so familiar.
My thoughts ran away with me until Sheila brought me back to reality—her version of it, anyway.
“Where can a girl get some food ‘round these here parts?”
I chuckled and shifted our thoughts at once to food. We chose a nearby Amish-run restaurant. Once settled, we enjoyed the most lavish buffet I’d ever had the privilege of lingering over. Some of the foods were familiar, like the beef and noodle Amish stew. Others I’d never heard of. Scrapple and sauerkraut surprise custard pie, for example. And Amish ham salad, also made with sauerkraut.
Interesting. Sheila, ever the adventurer, tried a small helping of everything. Yep, everything. I erred on the more cautious side. Ironically, most everything I sampled proved to be quite tasty.
After lunch, we drove the back roads for a while, drinking in the beauty of the place and admiring some of the prettiest farmland on planet earth. We found a couple more shops to explore, but grew weary with the process as late afternoon sleepiness set in. Finally, just as the sun dipped off into the western sky, we landed back on Mrs. Lapp’s doorstep once again.
“Well, there you are!” She clapped her hands together, obviously satisfied to see us at last. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d changed your minds about coming back.”
I stifled a yawn and assured her we were thrilled to be “home.”
Though still stuffed from lunch, Mrs. L. insisted we sit for yet another meal. Bean soup and friendship bread. As we settled down for supper, I took the opportunity to ask our hostess a couple of questions that had been niggling at my brain all day.
“I wonder if you would mind telling me a little more about the merchants’ conference you were talking about this morning,” I started.
She sliced huge chunks of the bread as she spoke. “What would you like to know?”
I garnered up the courage to ask the question on my mind. Why beat around the bush? “Well, specifically, I’d be interested in hearing your take on the food.”
“The food?” She gave a bit of a shrug as she set the bread down. “I don’t remember hearing any complaints. Now, mind you, it wasn’t as good as my cooking if I do say so, myself.”
I pressed back the smile that threatened to sneak up on me as she continued.
“But the caterer did a fine job with both quantity and quality, all things considered. We’re a picky lot, what with so many of us being cooks, ourselves.”
“How did you meet her?” I asked.
Mrs. L. shrugged. “From what I remember, we hired the woman based on references and personal recommendation. I found her to be kind of an odd bird, physically speaking; certainly not what I would have expected, but her work was impressive.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her description of Janetta. And at this point, I felt safe sharing my information.
“I’m only asking because the woman who catered your event—Janetta Mullins—is an acquaintance,” I explained. “We’ve just hired her to cater my daughter’s wedding this coming February.”
“Ah.” I couldn’t help but notice the hesitation in her voice, or the way her gaze shifted ever so slightly.
“What?”
“Well, she’s a good cook, as I said, but her business practices are a bit. . . unusual.”
“Oh?”
As Mrs. Lapp took a seat at the table, her demeanor changed. “I’ve been on the conference planning committee for years,” she explained, “and we’re accustomed to dealing with all sorts, but this one really took the cake.”
My www.investigativeskills.com antennae rose right away.
“We couldn’t figure out why she insisted upon being paid in cash, especially since we were talking about such a large amount of money.” Mrs. L.’s brow wrinkled. “Something about it just felt. . . odd.”
Felt odd to me, even now. And I could tell from the look on Sheila’s face what she must be thinking.
“Mrs. Mullins didn’t seem happy when we explained we didn’t work that way. Took some time to convince her we had no other choice. She took our check, but I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.”
“Can’t say as I blame her much,” Sheila piped up. “I always say the quickest way to double your money is to fold it over in your pocket. Just doesn’t work the same with a check.”
“Still,” I argued, “It’s no way to run a business, insisting on cash.”
“Funny thing is,” Mrs. Lapp threw in, “she stayed on after the conference ended Sunday night. On Monday morning, first thing, she went down to our local bank to try to cash that check. My brother-in-law was in there making a deposit at the same time. He said she pitched a fit. Told ‘em she wanted her cash and wanted it now. They usually put a hold on such large amounts, you know.” Mrs. L. leaned back in her chair, satisfied that I would understand.
“What happened?”
“She somehow talked them into making an exception and headed out of town with twenty-seven thousand dollars cash in her pocket that same afternoon.”
Twenty-seven thousand, not twenty-five? And why in the world didn’t Janetta wait to deposit the check into her account back in Clarksborough? Why the rush?
On the other hand, it was really none of my business, was it?
Mrs. Lapp continue
d on, oblivious to my thoughts. “And then, just a day or so later, when we heard the news about the arrest of that young man in Clarksborough, well—”
Well, what?
“The whole thing was just too suspicious. We put two and two together and realized the missing cash deposit was probably the money we’d paid her.” She sighed. “I can’t explain why this hit me as strange, but it did. And I’ll tell you this—if you’re using that woman’s company for your daughter’s wedding, just be sure to get everything on paper. And don’t be surprised if she won’t take your check.”
I suddenly felt sick inside. I’d passed off three thousand dollars cash to Janetta Mullins as a down-payment for Brandi’s reception. Cash. What if she’d skipped town, taken off with my money? What if . . .
A thousand what if’s floated through my head before reality hit.
Looks like I needed to update my crime notebook.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I had just acquired one more suspect to add to my ever-growing list.
Chapter Eleven
“I take it Sasha missed me while I was gone?”
I stared down at the mounds of shredded toilet paper on the master bath floor, then back up into Warren’s eyes. He looked like a whipped man. Puppy-whipped, to be precise.
“I guess.” He let out a woeful sigh. “She was a handful. And if you think this is bad, you should’ve seen what she did with the trash can in the kitchen. I don’t think she was happy with your leaving.”
“Clearly.” I shook my head in disbelief. If the little monster could do this much damage in a 48-hour period, I hated to think of what she might accomplish in a week without me. Looked like I’d be spending a lot of time at home from now on.
Warren raked his fingers through his hair, lifting the salt and pepper waves into a mess almost as big as the one on the floor. “Seriously, Annie,” he said. “She’s a pain in the neck. And she’s not getting better with time.”
“Time for a little doggy obedience training?” I gave her my toughest stare and she responded by shifting to a “begging” position. How cute was that?