Plain Killing by Emma Miller Read Free Book Online

house at noon, I was just going swimming. We didn’t expect to get caught up in . . . in this.”
    He didn’t comment on her skirt or hideous, oversized shirt, for which she was grateful. She rubbed her temples. “Is the detective still coming to talk with me tonight, or are you supposed to question me?”
    “He’ll be here in the morning.”
    “Good. That’s better than tonight.” She glanced toward the barn, now in full shadow, then back at him. “I’m sorry if I caused you a problem, going to the bishop, but Beth is a touchy subject in the Amish community. This had to be handled carefully.”
    He brushed dried dirt off the hem of his trousers without speaking. The crease was sharp.
    She thought back to when she and Mary Aaron were in the van, getting ready to leave the quarry. “Was he right?” she asked. “The paramedic at the scene. Did someone murder her?”
    “I’m not qualified to say. The medical examiner . . .” He sighed and lowered his head, staring at his polished boots. “I wanted you to know I didn’t leave her alone, Rachel. I waited, and I followed the ambulance to the hospital.”
    She raised her chin and gazed into his eyes. “That was a kind thing to do.”
    He flushed. It was one of the qualities she found endearing about Evan. Tough cop or not, he could never hide his humanity. “She wasn’t a member of your family’s church? Is that why you had to have one bishop talk to the other?”
    “Yes. Beth’s family belongs to another church district,” she explained. “They’re the ones who drive the black buggies with the gray tops. They’re very conservative.”
    “Two-tone buggies make them more conservative?”
    She shook her head, raising a hand to him. “Don’t even get me started on the color of buggies, what wheels can be made of, or what shade of blue is the most appropriate.”
    He gave her a half-smile. They’d talked about the intricacies of various Amish sects many times, and he knew the subject made her crazy. “So Beth’s church is more conservative than your family’s?”
    “Yes. Small differences to you and me, maybe, but not to them. Straight pins on the women’s dresses, even the little girls’. No buttons. And the men’s hat brims are wider. And they have more fasting days than we do.” She corrected herself. “Than my parents’ church does. Most of their young people accept baptism right out of school, when they’re sixteen.”
    “That’s young, isn’t it?” he asked.
    The hunger cries grew more incessant. Goats could be drama queens.
    Rachel glanced in the direction of the stone barn, distracted. “Not for—” She looked back at Evan. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to feed up. Otherwise they’ll never shut up.” She rose and walked out from under the arbor. The backyard was illuminated by two security lights mounted on poles that came on automatically at sunset.
    Evan followed her.
    She opened the side door to the barn, which held a spacious pen for three long-eared goats. A door on the far side of the indoor enclosure led to the pasture, but it was closed. Ada, Rachel’s cook, must have closed it when she left; it wasn’t safe for goats to be out at night. Too many predators. “It’s coming,” she soothed.
    The goats danced and leaped in the air, tails up, ears twitching in anticipation. Rachel circumnavigated two stacks of bushel baskets she’d borrowed from her father, slid the lid off a feed barrel, and scooped out a generous amount of goat chow. Ada said she was overfeeding them. That they were going to get fat.
    “Could you turn on the water at the wall?” she asked Evan. When he’d done it, she lifted the handle of the faucet and water poured into the stainless steel trough. She pulled off a chunk of timothy and dropped it into the hayrack. Tails twitched as the goats dove into their supper.
    Evan leaned against the stall, a lean hand gripping the top rail. “So, you were saying that Beth Glick had been