Drizzle of Death Read online

  Drizzle of Death

  CeeCee James

  Copyright © 2018 by CeeCee James

  *All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my Family— love you guys!

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction and although it does discuss events and places from the American Revolutionary War, the setting of the book is a fictional town utilizing facts from the war in order to enhance the story.

  Blurb

  Drizzle of Death by CeeCee James

  Copyright 2018 by CeeCee James

  What better thing to do on a beautiful spring morning than to explore the old world charm of an Amish village? Georgie Tanner takes her group of tourists on an exclusive visit to the local Amish township. With its stores and working water wheel, the group is impressed and fascinated by the amazing skills and peaceful lifestyle.

  Georgie feels like she stepped back into a happier and safer time until she’s pulled aside by one scared Amish girl. But Georgie never expected what the girl would tell her.

  A young man, just returning from his Rumspringa, where he lived in the city, has been murdered. But Georgie must tread carefully with the information or the girl will be shunned by her community.

  And then, just like that, everything is covered up, and the young witness is missing. But Georgie knows what she saw even though no one believes her. Now it’s up to Georgie to find the missing girl. Who can she convince to help?

  Chapter 1

  It’s amazing how much life can change in just a year-and-a-half. By much I mean, it’s like looking back at a whole different person. A younger one and in more ways than just age.

  That woman back then had long dirty-blonde hair that was highlighted every three months, a fiancé gorgeous enough to make her friends jealous, and a stuffed closet full of the newest trends. She kept her nails manicured and had a career as a paralegal at an Estate attorney office.

  And maybe had her nose in the air a bit.

  I cringed at the memory. Some of the changes in my life had been horrible. My fiancé’s death. I still could barely speak of it without feeling like I was talking about a nightmare.

  But some changes had been very, very good. Sometimes, you don’t know that you needed to grow until after it happens.

  Anyway, here I am now, with my hair chopped to just below my jawline, squinting to read the directions on the instruction pamphlet from a box of hair dye. Brilliant Auburn, the box declared, with lowlights in one easy step.

  One easy step. How hard can it be? I’d always gone to a hairdresser before, but my flat wallet was adamant that that option was out of the budget for a long time. I shook the pamphlet open to read it and then frowned at the tiny print. Were these warnings? A person would have to be the height of a Tic-Tac box for the words to appear normal size. After flipping the paper over, I discovered a film. What was this? Carefully, I peeled it away to reveal two floppy gloves and a hair cap.

  I stared at myself in the mirror. The reflection looking back was not impressed. In fact (dare I say it?) there was a worry line, the same as the one my grandma always had, deep between my eyebrows.

  Never mind. I can do this. I squared my shoulders and nodded at myself. Usually, when I worried about something, it was for nothing.

  Now, this was a big change for me. I’d always been a blonde, so this new hair color was going to be a statement recognizing how I was a new person. The whole, I am woman, hear me roar, kind of thing.

  It’d seemed like such a great idea last night while out to dinner with my best friend, Kari. Now I wondered if it hadn’t been inspired by that second glass of red wine.

  Just do it. It’s only hair. It will grow back. Sighing, I grabbed the bottle and started shaking it.

  My phone vibrated on the counter, making me jump. I’d forgotten I’d put it on silent mode after a telemarketer tried to convince me into applying for a new credit card that morning. I’d be embarrassed to admit the relief I felt at its interruption as I lunged to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “GiGi?” Cecelia’s sweet voice chimed out her nickname for me. I called the sixty-plus-year-old woman my aunt but we were actually no relation. She’d been my grandma’s best friend before Grandma died and now employed me at her bed and breakfast as her tour guide. Like I said, big changes had happened to me.

  “Hi, Cecelia.” I set down the bottle, noting the way my fingers pushed it away. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Listen, I know this is kind of impromptu, but I have guests here who were wondering if you could take them down to Sunny Acres. Do you have time?”

  Do I have time? Hello, paycheck! “Of course! I’ll be right over.”

  I’d just finished running a tour of Peach Creek—a war monument close to our town that was dedicated to the American Revolutionary heroes. Technically, I was off for the rest of the afternoon. But the winter months had really limited the tourists, which in turn had given my bank account a wallop, so I was eager for the work.

  Besides, how could I tell Cecelia no? She’d been my rock ever since Derek had died.

  Not to mention, I loved Sunny Acres, an Amish stopping place that had a bulk food store, a restaurant and some other buildings. It was about ten minutes outside of Gainesville, the town I lived in. Some of my favorite childhood memories were from Sunny Acres. Grandma loved to shop there for the heirloom tomatoes and other uncommon vegetables not found in the grocery store. While we were there, we’d always eat at the attached restaurant. I’d get the apple crisp. Grandma would sniff and mutter under her breath at me that her version was just as good and didn’t cost seven dollars a pop. Then she’d take a bite of the homemade French vanilla bean ice-cream and grudgingly admit that maybe the price was worth it.

  Grandma. I smiled every time I thought of her. Sweet but feisty, and always ready with a hug or a cookie. I had a pretty idyllic childhood despite the fact that my parents had died in a car accident when I was four. I had no memories of dad and very few of my mom. The clearest memory I had was the way the sun shone off her blonde hair one Easter morning. I cherished it, even though it made me sad that I didn’t have more. And, to be honest, maybe a little guilty as well, like if I were a good daughter I’d remember everything.

  But back to growing up—I didn’t feel a lack in my childhood. Grandma loved me as much as any mother could. I had lots of freedom, with none of the distractions of cell phones or electronics. I played in the river, rode my bike, roller-skated and mercilessly teased Cecelia’s grandson, Frank.

  My smile got a little bigger at the thought of Frank. He’d grown from a knobby-kneed beanpole to a barrel-chested six-foot-plus man. And his sour attitude that had made him an easy target back in childhood had mellowed.

  I pursed my lips, considering that statement. Well, somewhat mel
lowed, maybe. He was still a bit stodgy.

  I swept my hair up into a stubby ponytail with a rubber band and then slipped on my shoes. The Baker Street Bed and Breakfast had only two couples staying this week. Both couples were retired and experienced travelers. It had been a relaxing time this morning at Peach Creek.

  They were going to love Sunny Acres, I decided as I locked my apartment door. I jogged down the four flights to the ground floor, my legs finally used to the trek. It was a beautiful building but built well before the age of elevators. The historical preservation of the structure was one of my favorite things, and I still smiled as I ran my hand down the silky, polished wood banister.

  I stepped on to the landing and whipped through the front door with its black security gate. The sun hit my face as I jogged to reach my van. Parking was scarce in downtown Gainesville, so I’d parked a couple of blocks away. Hurrying along, I passed Violet’s Boutique, a cute clothing store that had mannequins on the curb that nearly blinded passersby with the sparkles on the jean’s pockets. Violet was just returning from lunch and waved as I passed by.

  Up ahead was my white van, which I referred to as “Old Bella.” Usually, the name was said with a hint of fondness, but recently she’d left me stranded with not one, but two flat tires. So definitely more of an emphasis on Old.

  I unlocked and climbed into the van, immediately bombarded by the scent of barbecue sauce. The van had once been used as a catering vehicle, and the barbecue part of that business had left a lasting legacy.

  The drive to Cecelia’s business was lovely as usual. She lived right at the edge of town, on a street surrounded by gorgeous maple trees. Spring and summer saw them dressed in leafy green splendor, changing to a patchwork red in the fall. A thrill of happiness shot through me now as I spotted tiny leaf buds on the branches.

  I parked the van in her driveway and ran up the porch stairs, pushing the porch swing to make it sway as I passed, and then opened the front door.

  The living room was dark. Flickering candlelight reflected off the wall.

  “Cecelia?” I called out, surprised.

  “GiGi!” She came bustling around the corner, her white hair pulled high in its characteristic bun and her dress covered with a checkered apron. “Did you see anything on the way here?”

  “Anything? What do you mean?”

  “Yes, like the power company.”

  I frowned, thinking. “No, I actually didn’t. When did the power go out?”

  “About a second after I hung up with you. What’s worse is that I’m in the middle of baking a cheesecake.”

  “Luckily, not before I got my coffee,” said Mr. Stevens, one of the guests staying there. He took a sip from his mug and the candlelight showed his appreciative grin.

  “Like you need the caffeine at this time of day,” his wife chided, coming from behind him. The married couple was unusual in that they both dressed in the same clothes, a blue hoody, t-shirt, and khakis. The only difference was the color of their shoes and their height, which was dramatic. He’d proudly claimed to be six foot seven, while his wife looked up from the region of his armpit.

  Mr. Stevens hurriedly gulped the remaining coffee. His wife’s lips pursed together in disapproval at the sound.

  “I guess the Walters wanted to stay back,” Cecelia said, referring to the other guests.

  “Great! Well, I’m ready to leave when you are,” I nodded to the Stevens while jiggling my keys. I stopped in mid jiggle, realizing it sounded like I was trying to rush them.

  “You all set?” Mrs. Stevens asked her husband. He started for the kitchen with his mug.

  “I can take that for you,” Cecelia said with a smile. “Have dishes piling up that need to be taken care of. Give me something to do while I’m waiting for the power to come back on.”

  The couple followed me out to Old Bella with me muttering a silent prayer that she would start. This time, she didn’t give me any trouble, and once the Stevens had strapped their seat belts on, we were on our way.

  Sunny Acres Market brimmed with color despite the more monochromatic clothing of the people who ran the bustling event. Sturdy wooden booths with cedar awning covered tables were crammed full of vegetables, baked goods, and flowers. Scattered among them were the hand-made items the Amish community produced in their everyday lives.

  The three of us entered the market. Mr. Stevens nibbled something from a sampling tray while his wife sniffed the brightly colored petals of the cut flowers. Mr. Stevens carried his sample over to one of the rocking chairs and sat down. I couldn’t help smiling. I’d always been fascinated with the rocking chairs. They were gorgeous with the sheen of the wood grain glowing in the light. Some day, I was going to own one.

  “Those are amazing, aren’t they?” I said.

  He rocked with a nostalgic smile on his face. “Reminds me of Sunday dinners after church.”

  Mrs. Stevens plopped into the chair next to his and pointed to the building at the far end of the market. “What’s that over there?”

  I glanced over using my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. “That’s the old mill.” With that, I broke into my practiced narration about the history of the mill, its uses and functions, and then the tragic accident that had occurred in the late 1800s, when a young pre-teen fell out of the top loft hatchway onto the wheel, losing consciousness before he even hit the icy waters below.

  ”Oh my,” Mrs. Stevens gasped. She held a hand up to her mouth as she stared at the still operating water wheel. ”They worked them so young back then. What a shame.”

  Mr. Stevens joined her with a solemn nod.

  I continued, “It was later discovered that the boy had been pushed. A witness came forward saying he’d seen the boy arguing with a young man. After poking around, the man became a suspect when it was learned that he had been robbing the mill by stealing portions of each load that went out. The boy was going to tell the mill boss when he was instructed that someone needed him in the loft. There, the thief pushed the boy out the hatch. The case was sealed when they found the stolen wood at the thief’s home, hidden in an old barn, and a handkerchief with his initials sewn into the corner found in the loft near the open doorway.”

  “What if it was just coincidence or accident?” Mrs. Stevens asked.

  “A coincidence, Judith?” Mr. Stevens snorted.

  “Not in their eyes. You see, in the Amish community, the Amish believe it is up to the sinner to come forward and repent for their crimes. They believe that almost any crime committed can be redeemed as long as the sinner is honest with himself, the church, and God. And so, weeks later, the young man confessed. He was shunned from attending meetings for several weeks, as his crime resulted in another human being unable to seek solace in the church. Once his shunning was complete, the young man was allowed to carry on his life within the community, although he was expected to contribute more to make up for the life he had taken.”

  “He wasn’t punished?” Mrs. Steven’s eyebrows rose in horror. She shook her head. “At least the times have changed. They would never get away with murder now.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Mr. Stevens spoke up again. “Even today, the Amish don’t involve outside government and laws. They handle everything themselves, including dealing out any punishment. I watched a documentary where they said it’s highly frowned upon, even forbidden, for the Amish people to go outside of their own community for any help, including for criminal acts.”

  “Even murder? In this day and age?” Mrs. Stevens crossed her arms.

  “Murder is super rare,” I broke in. “They consider it the worst crime that can be committed. In fact, only one person from an Amish community has ever been arrested, tried and convicted for murder.”

  This didn’t seem to reassure Mrs. Stevens.

  I pressed forward with more optimism. “Living a life serving in their religious beliefs is important to the Amish. They have a simple life compared to ours, but that doesn’t mean issues don’t ar
ise. Usually, it’s money issues, drugs, and so on. But they do strive to live peacefully and honestly.”

  She still wasn’t smiling so I decided to change the subject. We walked around the market area for a bit, ending close to the water wheel.

  I continued my lesson, more out of muscle memory than anything else. “Though this mill is still operational in a functioning sense, it hasn’t been used as a sawmill in decades. The Amish keep everything running and maintained for the tourists.”

  They stared at the water splashing from bucket to bucket. I was happy to see them appreciating it.

  I loved the water mill. When I was little, I’d thrown pennies into it. And when I ran out of pennies, rocks. Grandma had been none too pleased when she’d caught me, and her lips had tightened into the “we’re in public, but you wait until I get you into the car” smile. That scolding was my first lesson about respecting other peoples’ belongings.

  Mrs. Stevens looked a little bleak from the discussion, but I hoped to get her back on track by exploring more of Sunny Acres Market, with its shelves stocked with flour, bread, and other bulk raw ingredients and baked goods. As we wandered, I eyed a cheesecake. I wasn’t sure if the power cutting out in mid-baking cycle would ruin the one Cecelia was making, but I figured having an extra cheesecake couldn’t hurt. And she always had a fondness for the baked goods from “the old mill.”

  I grabbed the pan and headed over to the counter where two Amish girls sat, one knitting and the other mending a pair of pants with a wicker basket piled with clothing by her feet. Both of the girls wore black bonnets and looked to be in their very early teens. The sewer’s eyes were red as though she’d been crying. As I approached, the knitter nudged the sewer.