<< Go Back

Murder Freshly Baked

By Vannetta Chapman

Order Now!

The Village
Middlebury, Indiana
May
Amber Bowman was looking directly at Ryan Duvall when he died.
Pam was standing to her right, wearing a skirt made of bright pink and purple fabric, a purple blouse and a pink scarf. Hannah and Jesse were on her left, both in their customary Amish clothing—Hannah wearing what looked like a new peach- colored apron over a darker peach-colored dress, and a white kapp. Jesse wore his dark blue pants, suspenders, and a lighter blue but- ton-down cotton shirt. In that moment, the image of her three closest friends froze in Amber’s mind.
Her husband, Tate, had stepped away to take photos of the crowd as they moved through the parking lot, but now he was posi- tioned across from her at the finish line. He was taking pictures to update the website Events page of the Amish Village, the facility where Amber, Pam, Hannah, and Jesse worked. In fact, most of Amber’s employees were standing outside on what had begun as a fine May morning—sunny, and a pleasant 59 degrees according to Amber’s smartphone. The dogwood trees had finally begun to sport their blooms of yellow flowers surrounded by white petals. The spring flowers her grounds crew had planted nodded merrily in the sunshine. The smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls caused Amber’s stomach to give a nice strong rumble.
It seemed the entire town of Middlebury had turned out en masse to cheer on their friends and family who had chosen to par- ticipate in Race for a Cure. Participants and spectators alike wore small ribbons representing the type of cancer they’d battled—yel- low, purple, blue, peach, and the ever-present pink. The colors were as varied as the age and particulars of the people. Colored ribbons had been tied to the trees, and balloons swayed in the slight breeze.
Ryan Duvall had crossed the finish line, clearly the winner of his forty-plus division. Ryan had recently turned forty, and most folks felt sure he would win because he’d won the 26 to 39 division the year before. She was just a little surprised he had still decided to compete today.
There was applause, cheering, and good-natured teasing as Ryan raised his arms in victory. Amber saw a mixture of pride and satisfaction in his eyes, quickly followed by a look of surprise. A harsh explosive sound echoed through the morning air, louder than the sound of a firecracker popping, and Ryan slumped to the ground.
“What’s going on?” Pam placed a hand on Amber’s shoulder and attempted to stand on her tiptoes, but Amber was already mov- ing toward Ryan.
“Where’s she going?” Hannah asked, and Pam must have answered, because Hannah began talking to Jesse in a mixture of Pennsylvania Dutch and English. Amber never heard their replies, because at that moment there was a scream, and the good townsfolk of Middlebury, Indiana, became a panicked mob, intent on putting distance between themselves and Ryan’s tragic end.
***
Tate pulled the camera strap from around his neck and handed the camera to Hannah as he rushed forward. Amber and Tate reached Ryan’s side at the same moment. Shrugging off his outer shirt, Tate rolled it into a bundle and pressed it against what was left of Ryan’s chest.
“Pressure on the wound,” Tate murmured, waiting to move until Amber had her hands pressed firmly on top of the cloth.
She glanced down at the wound in Ryan’s chest, then looked away as bile rose in her throat. Slowly she forced her gaze back to the man lying on the ground. Ryan’s wavy black hair was wet with sweat. His face was unnaturally pale, and his eyes were closed.
“Is he—”
“He’s bleeding out. Looks like the bullet went through his heart. I’ll check for a pulse.” But one look in Tate’s eyes told her all she needed to know.
The white T-shirt Ryan had been wearing read “Forty and Loving It.” The letters were splattered and torn from the violence of the wound, and the cloth had turned crimson. Tate moved so that he was positioned alongside Ryan’s head. Pressing his index and middle fingers to Ryan’s neck, he checked for a heartbeat at the carotid artery.
The sounds around them faded to background noise.
To Amber it seemed she heard the cries and shouts as if from a great distance. Some woman continued to scream. A child asked a parent what was wrong. The person who had been running the port- able public address system, moments ago announcing the names of each person as they crossed the finish line, now urged caution. The piercing wail of an ambulance added to the chaos. It had been sta- tioned in the parking area in case a runner needed oxygen or fluids.
But fluids wouldn’t help Ryan.
Oxygen wouldn’t bring him back.
She closed her eyes and prayed with all her might—prayed that
God would have mercy on Ryan, that God would save him.
She became aware of Pam’s hand on her shoulder, her voice soft and low, her accent Southern, urging her to come away. “Let the paramedics have him, honey.”
“I have to . . . I have to hold this.” Tate’s shirt was now slick in her hands.
Tate stood and shook his head once. Jack Lambright, who had worked at the Village as a boy but had been with the EMS for at least five years now, jumped out of the ambulance and crouched beside Ryan. He spoke into his radio, his voice urgent and clipped. She heard him say “GSW” and “fatality,” and then Tate was pulling her to her feet, circling his arms around her.
Amber’s teeth began to chatter and her legs turned rubbery and weak.
“Not here, love. Make it to the curb.” He practically carried her there and insisted she put her head between her knees. She pulled in deep breaths, one after another, as her world tilted, then stabilized.
She was vaguely conscious of Tate on one side and Pam on the other. Tate rubbed her back in small circles. Pam asked what the world was coming to that a town couldn’t hold a charity run without violence. Hannah and Jesse stood behind her. Amber couldn’t make out their words, which were now all in Pennsylvania Dutch, but she knew they were praying.
It wasn’t until Sergeant Gordon Avery stepped into the now- cleared area surrounding Ryan’s body that she struggled to her feet. Planting her hands on Tate’s and Pam’s arms to push herself up, she left a bloody residue on both of them.
“I want this immediate area completely cleared,” Gordon growled. Nearing fifty, he’d been with the Middlebury Police Department for most of his career. At nearly six feet tall and 220 pounds of solid muscle, his orders were followed immediately. “Secure the perimeter and the parking lot. I don’t want a single per- son in this crowd leaving until we have a chance to question them.”
Cherry Brookstone, a more recent Middlebury PD recruit, stepped forward and said something to Gordon about a complaint filed. She glanced around and then added “restraining order” and “Preston.”
“Find him and bring him in. We’ll need to question him.” Gordon turned to Jasmine, who had been with the Middlebury PD less than a year. “I want statements from everyone. Someone saw who did this.”
“I did.” The words seemed to come from far away, and they took all the strength Amber possessed to speak them.
Now Gordon turned to stare at her, his expression quickly flick- ering from surprise to sympathy to disbelief. “You saw the person who did this?”
“No.” Amber corrected herself even as she stepped closer and looked down again at Ryan’s body. Tate’s shirt had been cast aside and replaced with clean dressings, but even the paramedic had given up any pretense of helping Ryan.
It had all come together in her mind, the moment she saw Jack Lambright kneel beside Ryan. Unrequited love and a tragic ending. Didn’t such stories grace the national news nearly every week? And now it had happened, here in their peaceful town of Middlebury.
Amber felt their eyes on her—Tate, Gordon, Pam, Hannah, and Jesse. Even Jack stopped what he was doing to turn and stare.
“No, I didn’t see who pulled the trigger, but I know who killed Ryan.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back