Murder, Plain and Simple Read Free Page A

didn’t look like one of my aunt’s old friends, or a member of my aunt’s Amish quilting circle. Did she know my parents before they flew South?
    She lightly smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “It would help if I told you my name. I’m Willow Moon.” She shot a thumb over her shoulder. “I run the Dutchman’s Tea Shop across the street.”
    I stopped short of asking her if “Willow Moon” was the name on her birth certificate.
    “This is township trustee Farley Jung,” she declared proudly. She pronounced “Jung” with a hard “j” like in “jungle.”
    Farley held out his hand, and we shook. He grasped my hand for a few seconds longer than necessary and made eye contact with me until I looked away. Can we say creepy? In the seconds I had known Farley, I decided I would much rather be stuck on a deserted island with Joseph if forced. Joseph, who insulted my dog and claimed to own my shop, so that was saying something.
    I discreetly wiped my hand on the back of my jeans. “I’m glad you both stopped by. I’ve been planning to visit the other shops on the street. I haven’t met too many people in town yet.”
    Willow’s eyes flitted to Joseph. “I see you’ve met Joseph.”
    Joseph scowled and leaned back against the brick facade of his shop.
    Willow cleared her throat. “I’d be happy to take you around and introduce you to the rest of the shopkeepers.” She clapped her hands, and for the first time I noticed her fingernails were painted rainbow colors. “You arrived in Rolling Brook at the perfect time.”
    I did?
    “Why’s that?” I asked.
    “Because of the First Annual Watermelon Fest, of course. It’s only a week and a half away! It will be the most exciting event Rolling Brook has ever seen.”
    “We do not need exciting,” Joseph snapped, and pushed off the building. “No more than we need
Englischers
in our town. Rolling Brook is for the Amish, not for you.” He dug his fists into his sides.
    I stumbled back and knocked my calf against the park bench. Willow and Farley seemed unfazed by Joseph’s outburst.
    “Joseph, we know how you feel about the fest, but you’re in the minority.” Trustee Farley spoke for the first time.
    The two men glared at each other in mutual disdain. If we were in a Western movie, someone would have shouted “Draw!”
    Joseph straightened to his full six-feet-plus height and vibrated with barely restrained anger. He looked like a furious Pilgrim. “You plan to turn Rolling Brook into an
Englisch
circus. You have no concern for our ways. You use our culture for money. The Amish who go along with you have lost their way. They should speak with their elders to see what the
Ordnung
says about such things.”
    Willow trilled a laugh, sounding like a blue jay in a tree. “I doubt your Amish rule book has anything against watermelon, Joseph. Honestly, you’re the most serious man I have ever met—and most of the men in Rolling Brook are Amish.”
    “
All
the men of Rolling Brook should be Amish. You
Englischers
don’t have enough squalor in your cities that you must bring it here?”
    Squalor? Really?
    His dark eyes bored into me. “I suggest you go back to that big city you came from. You are not welcome.” He spun on the heels of his thick work boots and walked through the front door of his shop.
    “Well, that was”—she squinted into the sunlight—“awkward. Pay no mind to Joseph Walker. He’s full of hot air.”
    Farley glared at the woodworker’s shop. “He has caused nothing but problems for us since the moment we suggested the Watermelon Fest. He refuses to recognize how much business it will bring his shop. If he did, he’d be much happier.”
    Willow handed me a flyer for the festival. “We’d love it if you could hang this in the window of your shop.”
    I took the piece of paper and saw several other stores on the street had identical flyers displayed in their front windows, including the Amish bakery across the