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Dead Wrong

By Vannetta Chapman

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Prologue

August, 20__
Hunt, Texas

Agatha Lapp changed buses three times travelling from Shipshewana, Indiana to central Texas. Once she arrived in San Antonio, she hired a taxi, and finally was picked up by the bishop in the small community of Hunt.

“Long trip.” Jonas Schrock was younger than most bishops she’d known, though his beard was peppered with gray.

She guessed they were close to the same age—she’d turned fifty-five six weeks earlier.
It felt relaxing to be in a buggy again. Jonas’s horse seemed to appreciate the cloudless summer day, and the sound of its hooves against the pavement soothed her frazzled nerves.

“I’m definitely not in Indiana anymore.” She’d come down to Texas the previous spring. Of course, she had. Her youngest bruder had died, tragically, along with his wife of just two years. They hadn’t had children yet. She supposed there was mercy in that, although she would have happily taken on the responsibility of raising a niece or nephew, same as she was now taking on the business Samuel had left behind.

“Texas takes a bit of getting used to.” Jonas glanced out over the buggy horse, waved to the right and left. “But it’s gut land, and with the river…”
“What’s the name of it…something with a G?”
“Guadalupe. The river’s so close to town, it runs directly behind many of our properties, including Samuel’s. It was a gut place for us to settle.”

Agatha tried to see the beauty Jonas was describing, but the temperature had to be over a hundred and there was no breeze to speak of.

“It’s hot,” she finally admitted.
“Ya. That it is. Must have been pleasant when you left Indiana.”
“Seventy-five.” She didn’t sigh. Agatha couldn’t abide people who sighed dramatically. The weather was what it was. What Gotte had created it to be. She would learn to live with the Texas heat.

“I wanted to thank you, again, for seeing after their place until I could move. I had…some things to take care of.” It was unusual for an Amish woman, even a widowed one, to move away on her own. She didn’t intend to go into that now, though. If Jonas was worried, he’d speak with her bishop back in Shipshe, and Atlee had understood her decision and given his blessing.

“It was no bother, and I’m sure you’d do the same. My son took your buggy horse over to your place earlier today.”
“A mare?”
“Ya. Her name is Doc.”
“My bruder named a mare Doc?”

Jonas’s laugh was rich and deep. “Samuel loved Dr. Pepper.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a type of soft drink—originated here in Texas. Samuel drank it fairly often. When he and Deborah moved here, he made her a deal. She could name the children, and he’d name the horses and dogs.”

A lump formed in her throat. She had to swallow around it to say, “He never told me that.”
“He named the horse Dr. Pepper, which Deborah argued was much too long.”
“And they shortened it to Doc.”
“We made sure the barn is cleaned out and you have supplies.”
“Danki.”
“The property though…it’s going to need some cleaning up. I’d be happy to schedule a work day.”

Agatha waved away that idea. She didn’t mind hard work. Wasn’t that why she’d come down here? Knitting and quilting were good and fine, but she needed a purpose. She needed something that would wear her out and make her sleep well at night. She needed…well, she supposed she needed to be needed, even if it was only to strangers looking for a place to stay. Running Samuel’s bed and breakfast would provide all those things.

“The community is doing well?”
“Ya. Seems like we add a new family every month, and the Englischers—they realize we’re bringing in more tourist dollars so they’re accommodating.”

Agatha pulled a handkerchief from her purse and swiped at the sweat running down her face.

“How long does this heat last?”
“Three, maybe four months.” He laughed when he said it. “Some years a little longer. We were fortunate in that we had a fairly cool May, but fall comes late here and doesn’t stick around long.”

“Surely we don’t get snow this far south.”
“Nein. Not usually, but the temperatures can drop to freezing in the winter and it can be damp.”
Anything below triple digits sounded heavenly to her.

They’d passed through the center of town and popped out the other side. The surrounding hills rose gently on all sides, and the trees were magnificent. She could see why people would want to vacation here.

“Your place is just ahead on the left.”

She craned her neck. Though she’d seen it before, had even stayed there during the funeral, she wondered if she’d perhaps imagined how pretty it was. But now, here was the lane and the long, low ranch house with a porch on three sides. It stretched invitingly across the front of the house which faced west, wrapped around to the north so that it faced her neighbor there, and then continued across the back. Yes, it was as pretty as she remembered, though as Jonas had warned it was in need of some tender, loving care.

The grass was knee high, and the place looked deserted—which it was. The sign which read Amish B&B was hanging by one chain. She’d need to fix that straight away.

Jonas pulled the buggy to a stop near the steps that led the way to the front porch. As he removed her luggage—two small bags because all she’d brought was her clothing—she stepped closer to the house and ran a hand along the peeling paint of the porch railing.

“Place needs work.” Jonas used the toe of his shoe to right a pot holding a dead plant. “Samuel and Deborah were gut people, hard workers, too, but they seemed somewhat at a loss regarding how to run a business.”

Agatha walked to the corner of the house, then stepped away from it a bit so she could see the yard gently sloping down to the river. It was peaceful and quite gorgeous—like something out of a dream. “Samuel was the youngest in our family. We spoiled him a bit. He was more likely to have his line in the water than he was to finish plowing a field.”

“He loved to fish,” Jonas agreed.
“As for Deborah…well, she was ten years younger and inexperienced in the workings of the world. Or she seemed that way to me.”
Jonas nodded, adding, “Their life was complete.”
“Indeed.”

It was the Amish way to accept death and even to celebrate it in light of eternity. And yet, it was hard when the person who died was a member of your own family. She shook away her morose thoughts. The best way to honor Samuel’s life, and Deborah’s, was by making their business successful.

“Would you like me to go inside with you? The ladies put clean linens on the bed and brought over a little food. There’s fresh milk and eggs, some bread, and basic staples.”
“I appreciate the offer very much, but I suspect that you have things to do at home. I know the life of a bishop is a busy one.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out a hand and placed it ever-so-gently on the top of her kapp. “Heavenly Father, bless this child of Yours as she goes about her work—give her strength of body, mind, and spirit. Guide and direct her, and fill her with the peace that You so freely share.”

For reasons Agatha didn’t want to examine, the blessing brought tears to her eyes.
As the bishop drove away, her mind filled with the dozens of things she needed to do—check on the mare, put away her clothes, fix herself something to eat, mow the grass. But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she walked around the porch, still covered in leaves from last fall. A dilapidated swing looked as if it would collapse if she sat on it. Two rockers near the front window didn’t look much better.

She continued around the side of the house and sat down on the steps, looking east toward the river. Her neighbor drove his truck down the lane that separated their property and into his carport. Situated on the south side of the house, the covered parking area consisted of enough space for two vehicles and a back wall that looked as if it held a closet of sorts. The entire structure was attached to the house by a short, covered walk. As he exited his pickup, Agatha saw that he was Hispanic and looked to be sixty. He glanced her way but didn’t seem surprised to see her there.

Or maybe he didn’t see her.
He didn’t raise a hand or call out. Instead, he pulled a single bag of groceries from the back seat and trudged into his house. Trudge was the only word for it. He looked as if he was carrying a dreadful weight on his shoulders.

A yellow cat poked its head out from under the porch and hissed at her.
“If you want scraps from me, you’re going to have to behave better than that.”

Instead of answering, the cat walked to a patch of sunlight, sat, and commenced cleaning itself.
Agatha sometimes had trouble believing she was fifty-five years old. She’d lost her husband ten years ago, and her children had long since married and moved away. It seemed as if the last thirty years of her life had passed in a blink. Now she was starting over in a new community doing something she’d never done before. She understood hard work, and she was fully aware that making a success from Samuel’s dream wasn’t going to be easy. In truth, she knew nothing about running a bed & breakfast.

But she knew about cleaning and feeding people and needing a place to slow down and reconnect with God. She knew all about those things.

A fish slapped the water.
Sunlight pierced the pecan trees.
A gentle breeze cooled the sweat on her brow.
“This could be a gut place.”
The cat didn’t argue.
 


Chapter One

~Ten months later

Agatha paused a moment on the steps of her back porch. She carried fresh bed linens and towels for Cabin 3 which she shifted to her left arm, touched her kapp to be sure it was in place, and tugged on her apron. She should be in a hurry, as the sun was slanting toward the horizon and tonight her B&B was again filled to capacity.

But she wasn’t in a hurry.
A chicken casserole warmed in the oven, and fresh baked bread sat cooling on the kitchen counter.

The June day would be a long one, so she’d pushed dinner to 6:30.
And what was the point of living in the beautiful Texas Hill Country if she didn’t pause a moment to enjoy it?

Her bruder and schweschder-in-law had both been terrible business owners, but they had an eye for the perfect piece of property and that was exactly what they’d bought. The south fork of the Guadalupe River curved along the property’s eastern edge, sunlight glinting off its crystal-clear water. Rugged limestone hills surrounded them in all directions.

The home itself was two stories with a master suite downstairs that Agatha used for her own living space and office. Upstairs were four additional large rooms, each with its own private bath. She’d added three cabins along the path that ran down to the river.

The weather was warm but pleasant, and her guests seemed to be enjoying their time at her Plain & Simple B&B.

Agatha’s friend Rebecca had rolled her eyes at that when she’d read it at the bottom of her brochure. “Seriously? That’s the biggest cliché about the Amish—that we are plain…”

“And we’re simple.”
“Ya. So says every romance book and tourist brochure.”
“But I’m running a B&B, which needs to appeal to tourists—Englisch and Amish. So it helps to have a name that, you know, indicates what we are.”
“The horse and buggy on the sign doesn’t hurt.”
“Danki.”

Though she’d taken over the B&B less than a year ago, her customer base was rapidly growing. This second week in June was a good one. She was booked solid until August.
Mason and Paxton Cox stood fly fishing in the middle of the river.

The Willis family were enjoying themselves upriver from the fishermen, spread out on the gently sloping bank. Brooklyn was fiddling with her camera—she was always fiddling with the camera. Agatha had noticed that Englischers took a lot of pictures of their children. Perhaps it was a way to capture the baby’s moments in her heart. Baby Hudson and Stuart were asleep on a blanket with an umbrella propped up to protect them from the sun. As she watched, Brooklyn raised the camera and began snapping away.

Jasmine and Xavier Cooper were sitting in rocking chairs near the fire pit, staring at their phones.

That rounded out her Englisch guests, except for Mr. Dixon. She couldn’t remember if he’d shared his plans for the day. The man was quiet, bordering on taciturn. No matter—to each his own was Agatha’s motto.

But where were her Amish guests? She stepped off the porch and started down the path, which was when she spied the Beilers and Glicks, checking out the tennis courts—soon to be shuffleboard courts. And there were the Fishers, sitting in the gazebo and laughing about something. Ella and James had about the sunniest dispositions Agatha had ever encountered.

Those two might be in their eighties, but they certainly embraced life.
Agatha hurried down the path carrying the towering pile of fresh linens. Fonzi lay in the sun, curled like the letter U. She’d inherited the yellow cat with the B&B.

Cabin 1, where the Fishers were staying, was in good shape. Ella Fisher had even made the bed and hung up the towels, indicating that she didn’t expect clean linens. Agatha wrote a thank you and smiley face on the white board near the door.

Cabin 2 was a different story. The Cox brothers were staying there, no doubt because they could spread out. There were two full sized beds, a small kitchen with a table for four, and a nice-sized sitting area. It was one of Agatha’s favorite cabins because she could imagine it being a little house for someone. Only, at the moment, it was housing more fishing gear than the local sports store.

Fishing vests, waders, tackle boxes, and poles covered every available surface. The kitchen table was staging what looked like a fly-tying competition. As for the cooking area, it didn’t appear to have been touched. Mason and Paxton were getting by on granola bars and the two meals a day she provided. She walked over to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, and was a bit surprised to see no fish there—none in the refrigerator portion either.

They obviously hadn’t cooked any, as the dishes hadn’t been used and the stove was still immaculate. Those boys had been fishing for the better part of two days. Had they caught nothing? She’d have to ask them. If they weren’t having any luck, she’d ask Charlie Knox to stop by. Charlie knew all the fishing tips for their area, and he didn’t mind dispensing a few of them in exchange for one of Agatha’s fresh pies.

Her business depended on repeat customers. The last thing she wanted was for two avid fishermen to go home empty-handed.

She quickly changed the bed linens, dropping the dirty sheets and towels onto the front porch of the cabin to pick up on her way back to the main house.

One more cabin to service and she could turn her attentions to putting the finishing touches on dinner.

Cabin 3 sat a little farther down the path and around the bend. Perhaps that’s why Mr. Dixon had chosen it. He seemed to value his privacy. Agatha stepped onto the porch but paused outside the front door. She clearly stated that the rooms would be serviced in the afternoon between three and five, but there was always the possibility that Mr. Dixon had decided to take a late afternoon nap.

Nothing worse than walking in on a guest who was fast asleep, snoring with his mouth wide open and his glasses askew. She’d learned that lesson the first week she’d reopened the B&B.
Knocking firmly on the door, she called out, “Anyone home? Agatha Lapp here.”

No answer.
Well, she hadn’t thought there would be.
It was a beautiful June afternoon. Why would anyone be inside?
She tried the door on the off chance it had been left unlocked.

Definitely locked, and the curtains were drawn tight as well. Agatha called out one more time, then reached into the pocket of her apron and fetched her master key. Slipping it into the lock, she pushed the door open with what she hoped was a friendly, “Anyone home? Just here to change the…”

She never did finish that sentence.
Her mind reeled, trying to make sense of the scene before her.

Mr. Dixon’s suitcase had been flung open and clothes tossed around the room. The breakfast tray she’d left on the porch earlier that morning sat on the nightstand by the bed, though the mug had been knocked over and lay shattered on the floor. The bedding had been dragged toward the open back door. She glanced around as if Mr. Dixon might pop out from the broom closet.

But there was no sign of the man.
No indication of what had happened.

She stepped toward the back door and peered outside, which was when her knees began to shake. She reached for the doorframe with one hand as her other fluttered to her chest and pressed against it to slow the hammering of her heart.

She simply couldn’t make the details of what she was seeing fit together into a cohesive picture—Russell Dixon lying face down at the edge of the clearing, one hand trapped beneath him and the other reaching over his head. The unnatural position confirmed what her mind couldn’t accept.

Mr. Dixon wouldn’t be caring if she changed his linens because Mr. Dixon was literally dead to the world.

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