others were taking seats in the eight narrow rows. After Josh and the sheriff shook hands, Lydia sat next to Ray-Lynn with Josh on her other side.
“Quite a place, right?” Ray-Lynn asked Lydia out of the side of her mouth. “And what a view. Can you spot your house from here?”
“Not from this room, but I’ll bet from the north windows. I just wonder if Victoria didn’t look out and see our place and try to walk to it that night with the note.”
“We’ll probably never know,” Ray-Lynn said. Then, leaning over Lydia, she said to Josh, “There was a friend of yours came in the restaurant for breakfast and lunch today. Sandra something. She asked me and others a lot of questions about Amish customs, created a bit of a stir. No one wanted to tell her much at first—you know, small-town rules and Amish humility—until she said she was a friend of yours. And of Lydia’s, too. She doesn’t quite get the Amish privacy and don’t-push thing, because at first she tried to use a little voice recorder and had a camera.”
Shaking his head and frowning, Josh told them who Sandra was, explaining she was writing a dissertation—maybe even a book later—about immigrant Christmas customs. He said he’d talk to Sandra about not coming on so strong like that.
Lydia said nothing, but she was upset. She had expected Sandra to keep a bit private here, not interview anyone and everyone. She stared hard at the photo of Victoria Keller with the pen in her hand, but her face blurred to Sandra’s.
* * *
After the funeral, the casket was carried out to the hearse and the guests went through the buffet line before they joined the procession to the cemetery or left for their homes. As they took plates, Josh whispered to Lydia, “Sorry to hear Sandra came on like gangbusters. I thought she’d know better, but I’m sure she didn’t tell any of your story.”
“My story?” she said, taking a spoonful of pasta salad. “I’m not even sure what my story is.”
People were heading down both sides of the table, and the man across from them was saying to another in a quiet voice, “Seems she’s laying the groundwork to run for governor and, if she gets that, the sky’s the limit.”
“Namely 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” the other muttered with a tight grin. “Yeah, I think we’re ready for a woman president.”
Lydia almost spilled the spoonful she was taking of some kind of fancy potato salad. They had to mean Bess. Governor? President? Of the whole country?
“Oh, by the way, Josh,” Connor said, walking by with one of his sons in tow, “that female writer friend of yours is going to interview me tomorrow morning before she heads back to Columbus. Says she wants to know how it feels to be selling one of the major symbols of Christmas in an area where the Amish want nothing to do with decorated trees. I figure it will be good publicity for us.”
“Publicity, publicity—not today,” Bess Stark said, coming up and tapping Connor on the shoulder while holding her other grandson by the hand. “Today, just family, friends and down-home memories. And I really don’t think the boys need to go to the cemetery, Connor. Not only is it snowy and cold, but all this is enough.”
It was enough all right, Lydia thought. This huge house was more than enough. Maybe trusting Sandra Myerson was too much. So she’d make the next moves on her own. This weekend she’d find a way to visit Victoria’s caregiver Anna Gingerich. But first, she was going into the nearby town of Amity to see if she could talk to someone at a tree cutting business there who might have known her father.
* * *
Lydia and Josh sat in his buggy atop Starks’ hill, watching the hearse lead the line of cars away. Soon the funeral caravan was lost in the swirl of snow. Lydia recalled Bess’s concern for their buggy wheels slipping in bad weather, but the steep lane down the hill was no problem with the snow melted off the pavement. She saw a few
“Quite a place, right?” Ray-Lynn asked Lydia out of the side of her mouth. “And what a view. Can you spot your house from here?”
“Not from this room, but I’ll bet from the north windows. I just wonder if Victoria didn’t look out and see our place and try to walk to it that night with the note.”
“We’ll probably never know,” Ray-Lynn said. Then, leaning over Lydia, she said to Josh, “There was a friend of yours came in the restaurant for breakfast and lunch today. Sandra something. She asked me and others a lot of questions about Amish customs, created a bit of a stir. No one wanted to tell her much at first—you know, small-town rules and Amish humility—until she said she was a friend of yours. And of Lydia’s, too. She doesn’t quite get the Amish privacy and don’t-push thing, because at first she tried to use a little voice recorder and had a camera.”
Shaking his head and frowning, Josh told them who Sandra was, explaining she was writing a dissertation—maybe even a book later—about immigrant Christmas customs. He said he’d talk to Sandra about not coming on so strong like that.
Lydia said nothing, but she was upset. She had expected Sandra to keep a bit private here, not interview anyone and everyone. She stared hard at the photo of Victoria Keller with the pen in her hand, but her face blurred to Sandra’s.
* * *
After the funeral, the casket was carried out to the hearse and the guests went through the buffet line before they joined the procession to the cemetery or left for their homes. As they took plates, Josh whispered to Lydia, “Sorry to hear Sandra came on like gangbusters. I thought she’d know better, but I’m sure she didn’t tell any of your story.”
“My story?” she said, taking a spoonful of pasta salad. “I’m not even sure what my story is.”
People were heading down both sides of the table, and the man across from them was saying to another in a quiet voice, “Seems she’s laying the groundwork to run for governor and, if she gets that, the sky’s the limit.”
“Namely 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” the other muttered with a tight grin. “Yeah, I think we’re ready for a woman president.”
Lydia almost spilled the spoonful she was taking of some kind of fancy potato salad. They had to mean Bess. Governor? President? Of the whole country?
“Oh, by the way, Josh,” Connor said, walking by with one of his sons in tow, “that female writer friend of yours is going to interview me tomorrow morning before she heads back to Columbus. Says she wants to know how it feels to be selling one of the major symbols of Christmas in an area where the Amish want nothing to do with decorated trees. I figure it will be good publicity for us.”
“Publicity, publicity—not today,” Bess Stark said, coming up and tapping Connor on the shoulder while holding her other grandson by the hand. “Today, just family, friends and down-home memories. And I really don’t think the boys need to go to the cemetery, Connor. Not only is it snowy and cold, but all this is enough.”
It was enough all right, Lydia thought. This huge house was more than enough. Maybe trusting Sandra Myerson was too much. So she’d make the next moves on her own. This weekend she’d find a way to visit Victoria’s caregiver Anna Gingerich. But first, she was going into the nearby town of Amity to see if she could talk to someone at a tree cutting business there who might have known her father.
* * *
Lydia and Josh sat in his buggy atop Starks’ hill, watching the hearse lead the line of cars away. Soon the funeral caravan was lost in the swirl of snow. Lydia recalled Bess’s concern for their buggy wheels slipping in bad weather, but the steep lane down the hill was no problem with the snow melted off the pavement. She saw a few
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