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  PRAISE FOR THE AMISH QUILT SHOP MYSTERIES

  Murder, Served Simply

  “The Amish community and their traditions are nicely portrayed, adding great warmth and authenticity to the novel. . . . Angie’s fearless sleuthing keeps the action moving. [Her] relationship and family drama further enhance the plot.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

  “Murder, Served Simply is . . . everything and more that I anticipate with her novels. . . . It is an adventure for which the pages seem to turn themselves.”

  —Open Book Society

  Murder, Simply Stitched

  “At turns playful and engaging as the well-intentioned Englischer strives to rescue her Ohioan Amish friends from a bad fate . . . a satisfyingly complex cozy.”

  —Library Journal

  “In the Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries, Isabella Alan captures the spirit of the Amish perfectly. . . . Throw in the Englischers living in Rolling Brook and the tourists visiting and you have a great host of colorful characters.”

  —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  Murder, Plain and Simple

  “Who can best run a quilt shop in Holmes County’s Amish country—an Englisch outsider or only the Amish themselves? With its vast cast of English and Amish characters in fictional Rolling Brook, Ohio, Isabella Alan’s Murder, Plain and Simple will be a dead-certain hit with devotees of cozy mysteries.”

  —P. L. Gaus, author of the Amish-Country Mysteries

  “Isabella Alan captures Holmes County and the Amish life in a mystery that is nothing close to plain and simple, all stitched together with heart.”

  —Avery Aames, Agatha Award–winning author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries

  “This series’ starter set in Amish country will delight readers with its details of the community’s culture and lifestyle. The contrast between the simple life and a grisly murder plays out nicely in this well-done cozy. . . . [The] author does a good job of introducing several key players in the community, which develops a strong sense of place and provides plenty of material for future mysteries.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

  “This is a community you’d like to visit, a shop where you’d find welcome . . . and people you’d want for friends. . . . There’s a lot of interesting information about Amish life, but it’s interwoven into the story line so the reader learns details as Angie does.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Alan’s take on the Amish is not necessarily what the reader might expect, and there is plenty of action to keep those pages turning. Cozy readers and Amish enthusiasts alike will be raving about this debut. It proves to be a great start for Isabella Alan.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  “A new series that I look forward to reading. . . . [It’s] well-plotted and has an intriguing cast of characters. . . . If you like your mystery with an Amish flair, then you should be reading Murder, Plain and Simple.”

  —MyShelf.com

  Also by Isabella Alan

  Plainly Murder (a Penguin Special novella)

  Murder, Plain and Simple

  Murder, Simply Stitched

  Murder, Served Simply

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Penguin Random House LLC, 2015

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  ISBN 978-0-698-19264-5

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Isabella Alan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Crime and Poetry

  For librarians everywhere. I’m honored to be counted in your numbers.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Danki to my readers who eagerly await that next mystery starring Angie and Oliver. The Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries go on because of your support.

  A very special thank-you to the Holmes County District Public Library and library director Bill Martino for allowing me to tour their library services to the Amish communities in the county and visit the district’s bookmobile, which visits those communities. That visit inspired this mystery. I told you that I would kill off a character on a bookmobile that day, and now I have.

  Special thanks to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, who helps me to dream bigger than I could alone, and to my editor, Laura Fazio, who makes me a better writer with every single book.

  Hugs to my beta reader, Molly Carroll, who makes sure I never turn in an unfinished book or sentence to my editor, and to my friends Mariellyn Grace, who listens to me ramble for hours about who the killer should be, and Delia Haidautu, for letting me borrow her name.

  Finally, gratitude to my Heavenly Father. I’m humbled that you called me to be a storyteller. I don’t take the privilege lightly.

  Chapter One

  “Whoa!” Rachel Miller called to her buggy horse. The buggy shuddered to a stop behind a yellow school bus. Three Amish children climbed in. The youngest boy’s Spider-Man backpack bounced as he disappeared through the door. I smiled. Clearly, he was a member of one of the more liberal Amish districts in Holmes County. A year ago, who’d have ever known
that I would be able to know the difference? When I first moved to Millersburg, I had thought, like so many outsiders, that all Amish were the same.

  Next to me on the buggy’s bench seat, Rachel’s bonnet cast a shadow over her delicate features. “It shouldn’t be too long now,” Rachel said. “Austina telephoned the bakery to tell me the bookmobile would be parked in front of Hock Trail School.”

  Austina, a county librarian, had commissioned a quilt from my quilting circle for her ailing mother. The ladies finished the quilt during our meeting last night. It was a breathtaking purple, rose, and periwinkle blue Ohio Star. The colors weren’t traditionally Amish, but Austina had chosen them because they were her mother’s favorites. The quilt was so lovely, I almost wished I could keep it in the shop for display, but I thought that about every quilt my circle created. Each one seemed to be more beautiful than the last.

  I scratched my faithful French bulldog, Oliver, between his ears. He leaned into my caress like a cat. I sighed. “I hate for the ride to end. This reminds me of leisurely buggy rides I would take with my aunt and uncle on Sunday afternoons. It’s nice to take a breath every so often and think about that time.” My throat tightened as I thought about my Amish aunt. She had been gone for over a year now, but every so often the pain of losing her was like a baseball bat to the chest.

  The crease in Rachel’s brow smoothed. “Angie, you need to move at a slower pace. You are so busy with Running Stitch and being a township trustee. You need to take a breath. When was the last time you had a quiet evening with the sheriff?”

  I found myself blushing like a sixteen-year-old girl. “It’s been a while. He has Zander, who needs his attention. I don’t begrudge Z at all. He’s a great kid. And now that my parents have moved to town, they’re taking up much of my time.”

  After my father’s retirement, my parents had moved to Holmes County from Dallas to be closer to me, and my mother was in the middle of a colossal house renovation, the likes of which my Amish friends had never seen.

  I zipped my jacket against the cool autumn wind whipping in through the buggy’s open windows. “The latest debacle has been over throw pillows for their living room couch. Please don’t ever ask me to help you choose a throw pillow. According to my mother, I’m not up for the task.”

  Rachel chuckled. “Jonah told me your mother bought two chandeliers for the house.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Jo-Jo exaggerated. There’s only one.”

  Rachel’s horse turned the next corner. Half a mile down the road, I saw the silver-and-green library bookmobile parked in front of a one-room schoolhouse. A small swing set, slide, and metal teeter-totter were next to the bookmobile, but there weren’t any children in the playground. In fact, I didn’t see any children at all. I frowned. It was autumn and school was in session. I was about to ask Rachel about it when my friend whispered, “Oh dear.”

  “What—” I started to ask, but soon my question was answered. Austina Shaker stood in front of her bookmobile with her arms folded across her chest. Her right foot jutted out, and she leaned back into her stance as if waiting for the perfect moment to throw a punch. Despite her bright pink cardigan and eyeglasses perched on the end of her nose, she looked more like a street fighter ready to go ten rounds with her opponent than a rural county librarian. The Amish man standing across from her appeared just as fierce, but I would categorize his look as more of an angry pilgrim than a street fighter. It was as if the crossing on the Mayflower hadn’t agreed with him.

  Rachel’s horse came to a stop, and I hopped out. Oliver joined me, although he checked the area for incoming birds first. Oliver hated birds.

  Behind me, Rachel said, “Angie, I don’t think you should—”

  I glanced over her shoulder. “I won’t get involved. Don’t worry.”

  My best friend sighed. She knew I was lying to her, and to myself, if I thought that was true.

  From the doorway to the schoolhouse, children stared openmouthed at the arguing pair. Their wide-eyed teacher, a young redheaded girl who didn’t look a day over sixteen, watched with them.

  The Amish man pointed a bony finger at Austina. “You have no right to be here. I strictly forbade you from coming. You have to leave the schoolyard immediately.”

  Austina snorted. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m not a member of your church.”

  Rachel joined Oliver and me. We stood at the edge of the playground about four yards from where Austina and the Amish man argued. Austina was facing us, and I could see every expression that crossed her face. I saw only the back of the man’s head. He stood erect, as if there was a board hidden under his navy coat, and his black felt hat sat perfectly straight on his head.

  “Do you know who the man is?” I whispered to Rachel.

  My friend nodded. “That’s Bartholomew Beiler. He’s the bishop of the strictest Old Order district in the county.”

  I frowned. “Do I know anyone in that district?”

  “Joseph Walker was a member.” She watched me out of the corner of her eye.

  I grimaced. Joseph Walker was an extremely conservative Old Order Amish man I’d met when I’d first moved to Holmes County and who I later found dead in the stockroom of my quilt shop. I didn’t have a lot of good memories where Joseph Walker was concerned.

  The bishop glowered at Austina. “You’re interfering with the members of my church, and you have no right to do it. I, with Gotte’s guidance, am the one who should be telling them how to live, not the books you insist on giving them.”

  “You act like I’m peddling vacuums door-to-door. Your church members come to me. They ask for them. All I’m doing is providing books to patrons to read. It’s my job.”

  “It’s disrespectful to our culture.”

  The librarian arched her left eyebrow. “I will not censor. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  The bishop shook with anger. His hands balled into fists. He wouldn’t hit her. It was not the Amish way. At least, I hoped he wouldn’t.

  Austina stuck out her chin as if inviting a blow from Bartholomew.

  Slowly he relaxed his hands, and his arms fell loosely at his sides. His voice was low. “You will be sorry you ever drove that monster”—he pointed at the bookmobile—“into my district. You think you have the Englisch law on your side, but I have Gott on mine. We will see who has the last word when this comes to an end.” He stomped away, straight for Rachel and me.

  We jumped to the side, and Oliver dove under the teeter-totter. Bartholomew didn’t even acknowledge us. His pockmarked face was molten red. I suspected he saw red too. The young schoolteacher and children in the doorway jumped back into the schoolhouse and closed the door.

  Austina smiled as if his threat meant nothing to her and she hadn’t single-handedly run him out of the schoolyard herself. After a moment, she noticed Rachel and me hovering nearby. Her round face broke into a smile. If I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I would have never known she’d been yelling at someone just a moment ago. “Angie, Rachel, I’m so glad you’re here. Did you bring the quilt?”

  “Of course, the quilt.” Rachel slapped her head with her hand. “I left it in the buggy. I will go collect it now.”

  “That looked intense,” I said after Rachel left.

  Austina waved my concern away. “If you’re referring to Bartholomew Beiler, he is nothing to worry about.”

  He sure looked like something to worry about to me. You wouldn’t see me going toe-to-toe with an enraged Pilgrim, especially this close to Thanksgiving.

  The librarian started back toward the bookmobile. “Don’t wrinkle that cute little nose of yours at me, Angie. Bartholomew is a blowhard. He isn’t the first Amish bishop I’ve argued with about my books, and I doubt he will be the last.”

  Rachel returned with the quilt, and she and I unfolded it, holding it up for Austina’s inspection. Tears sprang t
o the librarian’s dark eyes. “Oh, it’s more gorgeous than I imagined it would be. Mother will love it.” She ran her tapered fingers over a rose triangle in the design.

  “I’m glad,” I said as Rachel and I refolded the quilt.

  Rachel took the quilt from my hands. “Where would you like me to put it?”

  “Put it on my desk inside the bookmobile.”

  Rachel disappeared inside the mammoth vehicle.

  I cocked my head. “So what was the bishop so upset about?”

  “I didn’t think you would let me drop the subject that quickly,” Austina said. “He’s mad about the books I provide and believes I’m corrupting his followers with new and scandalous ideas. Small men always fear new ideas.”

  Rachel tripped down the bookmobile steps. Her lips were set in a thin line. She was open-minded, but she was still Amish and believed in that way of life.

  “He wants to take away your books?” I asked.

  Austina shook her head. “He wants to keep them out of his district. I guess he caught some of the teenage girls reading romances and flipped out.” She snorted. “They weren’t exactly steamy. I mean, maybe the characters shared a smooch at the end of the book. Nothing more.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Oliver wriggled out from under the teeter-totter and was now inspecting the bookmobile’s tires.

  “I don’t censor. If a teenager from his district comes to me looking for a novel, I will give it to her. It’s not my position to tell people what to read. In my business, any reading is good.”

  Rachel looked as if she wanted to argue, but my Amish friend was far too polite to do it. Instead she said, “I think we should be on our way, Angie. Aaron will be wondering what’s taking me so long.”

  “Before you leave,” Austina said, “I have another job for you, Angie.”

  That sounded ominous. “Oh?” I squeaked. By her tone, I doubted it was another quilt.

  “Yes. Stella Parsons, the chair of our Friends of the Library board, had the nerve to break her hip and now she can’t manage our library book sale this month.”