Murder, Plainly Written by Mindy Steele

Murder,

Plainly Written

The Plain Order Ink Society Book 1

Murder,

Plainly Written Mindy Steele

YOU are the reason we do what we do here at Barbour Publishing. We promise that we will always use our God-given talents to produce content with you in mind—and that we will remain biblically faithful, no matter what.

Thank you for being the heart of our business.

Murder, Plainly Written ©2026 by Mindy Steele Print ISBN 979-8-89151-407-2 Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 979-8-89151-408-9 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher. Reproduced text may not be used on the World Wide Web. No Barbour Publishing content may be used as artificial intelligence training data for machine learning, or in any similar software development.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Marco Bregolato Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

Printed in the United States of America.

Dedication To Emma, for being my guide and friend.

To Becky, for letting me explore.

And to my husband, who had to cook his own meals while I finished this book.

We may face situations beyond our reserves but never beyond God’s resources. ~Amish proverb

Murder, Plainly Written

Chapter One

T

ardiness, like change, always gave Wanda Miller the stomach upset. She’d never been late to a wedding, never late to a funeral, and certainly never late to the Plain Order Ink Society meetings.

She looked forward to the once-a-month gatherings with the small Amish writing group. If a writer hoped to improve, it helped to be surrounded by like-minded folk. And if she’d only agreed to switch drivers, as her schwester Janna had urged, she would already be at Jay’s house. She’d be sitting in the third chair, cradling a cup of tea, waiting her turn to read aloud this month’s assignment.

Thankfully, Diane, her Englisch neighbor, had noticed Wanda standing at the end of her driveway this evening with her notebooks in one hand, a pan of gluten-free vegan brownies in the other. Diane was kind enough to offer Wanda a lift.

“Thank you kindly, Diane,” Wanda said as the SUV pulled to a stop in front of the white three-story house perched on the highest ridge of Walnut Creek, Ohio.

Diane leaned forward, peering over the steering wheel. Her overly large, black-rimmed glasses matched that of her short dark hair.

“Is this the place for meeting your friends? I thought you met in barns for. . .warm weather frolics.”

“We sometimes do,” Wanda replied as she felt her right sock slip down to her ankle.

She pulled on the door handle and then carefully adjusted her sock while balancing her notebooks under the plate of brownies, her 7

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contribution to this month’s meeting.

“Who lives here?” Diane asked.

“Jay and Lydia Troyer. He writes for the local paper as well as a few magazines. We like to gather and talk about our writing. He’s published his fifth book!”

Wanda knew she shouldn’t be talking up Jay, but she was wonderfully happy for him. Jay provided for his growing family with nothing more than a pen for his thoughts. As far as Wanda was concerned, he was the most accomplished of their group.

She, on the other hand, was unwed, lived alone, and still struggled to find time to piece together a promising article after her long hours at the Wellness Center. She wasn’t seeking fame, just the extra financial support to do more for her family and community while doing the thing she loved most.

“A writer?” Diane turned to face Wanda, further stalling her from making her exit. “Does he write anything I might have read? I love historicals.”

“He writes a column for The Connection, but not many. . .Englischers subscribe to that.” Wanda stepped out of the vehicle. “We gather here once a month to talk about articles we are working on and encourage each other’s writing journeys.”

“How exciting. I would have never guessed I live across the street from a writer. What do you write?”

They both turned their attention to a beat-up blue truck pulling into the driveway. The members of the Plain Order Ink Society lived in separate communities, with the exception of Marla, Big Dan, and Jay, who all lived in Walnut Creek. Hiring a driver was often necessary.

This evening, Big Dan seemed to be running behind as well.

Another roofing job away from home perhaps, considering he wasn’t arriving in his buggy.

Big Dan stepped out of the truck, and Wanda smiled as his six-foot-five frame leaned down to chat with his driver. Even at a few minutes past six, he lingered. That was Big Dan in a nutshell. If there was a fire, his pace remained steady.

“I’ve written a couple articles about healthy habits, natural remedies, the power of nutritious food, and the importance of magnesium 8

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and exercise over age sixty.” Wanda pushed up her own glasses and smiled. What a person put into their body mattered.

“That’s. . .interesting.”

Clearly not as interesting as writing historicals. “I best be going.

Thank you again, Diane.” Wanda closed the door and made her way to the house.

With late July heat upon them, she immediately missed the luxury of Diane’s air conditioning as she made her way to the back porch stairs.

The Troyers’ home sat on the edge of the small community of Walnut Creek, where paved roads met gravel and the only sounds were wind, a few chickens, and the faint clatter of a buggy in the distance.

Jay was of the Old Order, as were Wanda and most of the group.

The Yoder twins, Victor and Abigale, were New Order Amish, having more liberal opportunities, such as brighter clothes, while Marla was what they all called a Danner, belonging to the Dan Church, which was even more conservative than Wanda’s Old Order Amish church.

Before she could knock, the door opened.

“Wanda! Finally!” Lydia said, half laughing. Her cheeks were flushed, despite the home being at least fifteen degrees cooler than the outside.

“I was about to send out a search party—or at least Wilmer—in search of du. Who knew he had such a talent for finding lost things?”

Lydia let out a giggle. “Sure enough, after three days of us searching, he found Paula’s doll just seconds before you arrived.”

Lydia was not a writer. She simply was married to Jay. But every last Tuesday of the month, she welcomed the members of the society into her home with a bright smile and whatever dishes she was currently exploring. She supported her husband’s calling and listened to them each month, offering up encouragement when needed.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Wanda said, offering up her brownies. It was the least she could do. No one had even tried her previous dishes.

Clearly no one liked lemon yogurt cake or crustless blueberry bars, but a person could never go wrong with brownies.

“I heard the candle shop was reopening and went by there after work,” she continued. “Unfortunately, they weren’t, and going only 9

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made me late. I have no idea what to get Mamm for her birthday this year. I always buy her one of Verna’s candles. But Krissy didn’t wait for me. I cannot blame her. No driver likes to wait.” Though Wanda had waited plenty on a rainy morning when she couldn’t take her bike to work and Krissy had overslept.

“Again,” Milo Shetler said from the long kitchen table. No longer a teacher, the elder now ministered in one of the communities in Millersburg. He was proficient in grammar and had perfected the art of the raised eyebrow. “We waited an hour for her the last time we called. Won’t happen again.”

Wanda suspected not. She’d yet to meet a minister who went back on his word, even if drivers were hard-pressed to find when you needed to travel farther than respectful for a horse and buggy.

“She’s been making eyes with that Eicher fella at the market,” Wilmer Stuery chimed in. He was on the short side of tall, with a wry humor Wanda always thought complemented the group.

“Either she’s hoping he’ll jump the fence, or looking to earn an employee discount.” Wilmer grinned playfully.

“I wonder who will take over the candle shop now that Verna is gone. She had no family left here,” Norma, the eldest of the group, added.

Two-year-old James toddled over with a small plastic horse clutched in his sticky hand. “Du! Du!” he declared proudly, holding it up to Wanda.

“Ach, denki shey, James.” Wanda bent down and accepted it solemnly, as though it were a rare treasure. “He looks like a fine horse indeed.”

“He’s been riding that thing through my bread dough all morning,” Lydia said, placing a long bread knife next to a lopsided loaf resting on the counter. “If it neighs, don’t act surprised.”

The room filled with laughter.

That was what Wanda loved about these gatherings—the humor, the teasing, the comfort of being among those who understood who she was better than even her family did.

All of the Plain Order Ink Society meetings often started with a bit of good-natured fussing and then an assignment. This month’s topic, chosen by Twila Zook, who was a news editor for Family Second 10

Murder, Plainly Written

magazine and its other imprints, The Blackboard Bulletin and Young Companion, always picked the hardest possible theme. This time her topic was “Write your best green day.”

Wanda had thought long and hard about green. She’d written three different pieces about pastures, growing seasons, and the promise of spring, all of them neat and tidy and dreadfully dull.

In the end she had settled on the one about sitting on her parents’ high porch, watching summer all around her. But now, here, a better thought came to her.

She had completely forgotten about the time her brother Roy painted all their white rabbits green so the hawks wouldn’t see them in the circular pen their father had made for them to graze in. To be fair, it had worked. Not a bunny was lost! She grinned. Now that would have made for an interesting “green day.”

“Something funny, Wanda?” Rufus Graber, a local orchard owner and father of soon-to-be five kinner, asked, handing her a cup of his fresh-pressed apple cider, despite knowing her preference for tea. His pale blue eyes made him look perpetually five minutes away from a good laugh. He owned a seasonal pumpkin patch and one of the finest market stands in Mount Hope. He penned the most wonderful stories for the group, filled with ordinary days and centered around family, though he shunned the idea of ever submitting one for publication.

“Oh, just a memory,” Wanda said, still smiling. “And maybe the start of my best story yet.” A novel. Wanda’s dream was always just an arm’s length away. To write a full novel, filled with funny stories on each faith-filled page. Trouble was, how did one start a novel? Articles were easy, but nothing got Wanda’s gut in more turmoil than her aenti Vesta’s chicken salad and the anticipation of writing a novel.

“That’s what we like to hear,” Milo said, tapping his notebook. “At least one of us found inspiration this month. Some of us”—he looked at Wilmer—“still think green means ‘envy.’ ” Wilmer grinned. “Now, Milo, I’m not envious of anyone but you and all your fine stories.”

Before the laughter could die down, the back door creaked open and in swept Big Dan with his hat nearly rubbing the top of the doorframe.

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“Glad to see you made it, Dan,” Jay muttered, “I reckon we can get started now.”

Big Dan Hershberger quickly tucked his cell phone in his pocket as he stomped his boots on the rug by the door. Then, as he always did, he meandered across the kitchen floor to take his seat between Milo and Wanda.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, taking off his hat and glancing at Rufus.

“Thought you’d be late. Heard there was a ruckus out your way.”

“None that I know of, aside from my two eldest boys trying to see if a gourd could fit through the milk pail handle. Turns out, it cannot.”

“I can’t imagine where they get their curiosity from,” Twila said dryly, flipping through her notes. “Maybe from their father, who refuses to send his stories to The Connection or Young Companion no matter how many times we tell him he should. You should know they are thinking of paying six cents a word now.”

Rufus groaned good-naturedly. “Now, Twila, don’t start. I’m a farmer, not a writer.”

“You can be both, and you are certainly a writer,” Wanda said, sipping her cider. “But no one is forcing you to submit anything, though you should. Your stories make smiles, jah?”

Jay collected his well-organized writing folder and took a seat at the head of the table. “Rufus’ piece last month on raising children was better than anything Family Second has printed this year.”

“See?” Twila said, wagging her pencil at him. “Even Jay agrees, and he’s stingier with compliments than any of us.”

“I’m not the only one.” Rufus turned his grin to Norma. “And besides, before submitting a proposal, I’d have to find an envelope without pumpkin or blackberry stains on it.”

“You always make excuses,” Wilmer said. “The Life and Times of a Stubborn Farmer has a nice ring.”

Laughter bubbled again, warm and easy.

James wandered back in, now dragging a spoon across the floor like a plow. “Horse hungry,” he announced in Pennsylvania Dutch. Jay looked to his frau for help.

“Your horse can eat later,” Lydia said, rescuing the utensil and ushering the child into the next room with his siblings.

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Twila cleared her throat and set her pencil down. “We make fun, but our writing matters. Words matter. Can we take this month seriously?” Twila lifted a brown brow behind her glasses and straightened.

“Now, it’s time to share your best green day,” she announced.

Norma Wengerd sat perfectly stiff next to Wanda. At sixty-six, Norma had yet to take her fine collection of words to the next step.

Submission. Her love for writing twinkled in her eyes when she read her own words aloud, but her dedicated Old Order ways kept her from breaking beyond the conformity she lived in. Norma was what Wanda had learned was a “closet writer,” who wore stickpins in her kapp and had happily accepted being a Budget scribe for her small Berlin community. It was a fine role, sharing upcoming news and the comings and goings of a person’s community. Once approved by a bishop and then the editors of The Budget newspaper, Norma contributed more than Rufus.

“Goodness, Twila,” Wilmer muttered, “you’ve gone and scared the fun out of the cider. I bet you edit your own shopping list.”

Twila did not react to the remark. “Now, who’s ready to share?”

Wanda glanced around the room of suddenly serious expressions.

Most of the group was unwed, like her. Writers, dreamers, and a few overly serious scribes. These meetings filled a gap none of them quite admitted aloud. They were more than writers; they were company in the quiet corners of each other’s lives.

Wanda looked down at her own hands folded over her notebook as Jay went first. Someday, she thought, I won’t just write short pieces for Women’s Journal or Home Life Magazine. Someday, I’ll write that novel. A full three hundred pages with a beginning that sang and an ending that stayed with readers long after the book had collected dust.

Jay’s voice broke through her thoughts. “That was nice, Rufus.

Wanda? You want to go next?”

“All right,” she said, removing from her notebook eleven copies of the typed and printed article. She passed her contribution around the table. Part of the assignment each month was accepting advice and professional criticism from others. Wanda welcomed everyone’s thoughts. She’d once read that a good writer accepted criticism with open arms.

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“Well,” she began, “my green day involves sitting on my parents’ porch.” No one looked impressed. Especially since Jay had penned four whole pages about kittens, and Rufus, a humorous account of his children and grass stains and broken eggs.

Wanda’s life was not nearly as exciting as theirs. She should have remembered the rabbits, the gallon of paint, and the one very bad idea from her brother Roy. Why did the best ideas always come too late?

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Murder, Plainly Written

Chapter Two

W

earing her favorite Louisville Cardinals T-shirt and with her dark blond hair pulled into a ponytail, Sadie Lynch inhaled a deep breath of morning air as she sank into the cushions of the porch chair. She fixed her gaze upon the landscape as morning fog spread low over the Amish countryside.

“That would be three,” she murmured to herself. Grandma Reba had always counted the fogs of August, claiming that was the number of big snows a person could expect come winter.

Winter seemed far off right now with a warm hint of humidity already fragrant in the air. Corn, green and reaching impressive heights, stretched for miles around Ivy’s Bed and Breakfast where Sadie had spent her last three days.

Across the road, some strange barnyard animal cried out. Whether it was in distress or hungry, Sadie wasn’t sure. The large farm was all hayfields ready for a second or third cutting, but behind the barn, something lived that didn’t seem to like its surroundings.

The sun hadn’t fully peaked over a low eastern hill when the sound of a bicycle going by caught her ears. Twice already this morning she’d spotted the busy blinking red lights of bikers. Bikes were as abundant here as buggies. Proof that she was as deep in the heart of Amish country as Brandon Hannie, her lawyer, said she’d be.

Sadie had grown up in the country, yet this was nothing like Louisville, Kentucky. Here, life took its time waking and went to bed early. Despite her mother’s warnings three days ago when Sadie 15

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packed her bags and loaded her little black Saturn, she didn’t feel at all lost. She didn’t feel like she was making a mistake. She felt. . .present.

A witness to life moving at an intentional rhythm.

Leaving home to accept an inheritance from a great-aunt she’d never met probably was a little unexpected. Accepting that she would run a candle shop without knowing anything about candle making was just insane.

Then again, she was at a crossroads. Grief for her grandmother’s passing was still fresh in her heart even though Grandma Reba had gone to heaven over two years ago. Sadie’s writing career had suffered the brunt of it. But how could anyone think for her to move on, when her inspiration was gone?

So she accepted the change from Great-Aunt Verna. It was a gift, her inheritance, forcing her to leave behind all she knew to accept a life she knew nothing about. Sadie could almost hear her grandmother say, “Don’t all the best adventures begin with a leap of faith?” So here she was, in the middle of nowhere, about to do something she had never done before. It was a little exciting.

Great-Aunt Verna’s candle shop.

Her candle shop now that she’d taken the time to read through all eighteen pages and sign on the dotted lines. Who knew she had Amish roots? Another part of her life that her mother had failed to share with her.

Gloria Weaver had never been one for keeping a secret, though she claimed to know nothing of their Amish connection. So why hadn’t Grandma Reba shared this information? Sadie had spent most of her growing-up years in her grandmother’s home, had she not?

As a fiction author who had been known to weave a few plot twists of her own, even she didn’t see this one coming.

An author. Blah!

She hadn’t written anything worth reading in over two years! It was as clear as the Sunday church bells back home that Sadie had lost her rhythm, the magic she created spinning better worlds than the one she knew.

She shifted in her seat and crossed one leg over the other.

Maybe here, she could find inspiration again. Since blowing out her 16

Murder, Plainly Written

thirty-fourth birthday candle, it was becoming harder and harder to write happily-ever-afters when she’d never even come close to one of her own.

As light spilled along the stretch of road, a trio of children wearing reflective green vests pedaled by. The second one, a young Amish girl, noticing Sadie on the porch, smiled and then waved. Yes, inspiration or not, Sadie was happy for the change in scenery. For inhaling a breath of fresh air.

When Brandon Hannie had contacted her at the end of July, Sadie thought it was a case of wrong identity. Yet, her mysterious great-aunt Verna Byler had known her full name, the day she was born, and Grandma Reba’s middle name. Grandma Reba had never shared that with anyone. If Verna knew all of that, then why hadn’t she ever tried to reach out to us before?

Before she died.

An aunt she never met had left her an inheritance in the form of an established business and a fair-sized savings account. But not without a few stipulations, of course. Life always had those.

Stipulation number one was that Sadie could not sell the candle shop. She couldn’t change the name either. Another stipulation was that she could never employ anyone who wasn’t Plain. An Amish or Mennonite person, more specifically.

What is a Mennonite? Sadie still had a few things to figure out.

The final stipulation was that Sadie could not, without losing the life savings of an unwed spinster that was included in her unexpected inheritance, give it to her mother.

Proof Verna Byler did know Sadie’s family history. No one in any frame of mind gave Gloria Weaver money without expecting it to be tossed into the wind on the first rainy day.

“You look like you could use coffee.” Joy Noble, owner of Ivy’s B&B, spoke with an English accent, loved canning and baking, and had been a blessing from the moment Sadie arrived in Walnut Creek.

When meeting with the lawyer and signing all the required documents, Sadie accepted a list of accommodations in the area. After two hours of searching for a room, she feared she’d be sleeping in her car.

Until she called the last name on the list. Now here she was, three days 17

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later, making a permanent fixture of herself in the two-story homespun house with dark gray vinyl and a temperamental hen named Rita.

Sadie contemplated paying a visit to the chicken coop this morning. Rita most likely just needed more human interaction. “I can gather eggs after I soak in this sunrise.”

Joy reached a cup toward her. “Jake already fetched the eggs. Not every morning is the same, or this beautiful, so enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Joy.” Sadie accepted the cup. It was hard to decline fresh coffee, despite it tasting like dirt that had been pressed and reheated in the microwave.

“It’s nothing fancy, but I know the owner. She’s been trying to start up her own coffee company for some time now. Jake and I like supporting locally.” Joy shrugged as she went to the neighboring chair and took a seat for herself.

Her cropped hair had layers of gray woven within, and Sadie could always smell vanilla when Joy was near.

“It’s such a fine morning to start an adventure. Will you be going to the candle shop today?” Joy sipped at her cup.

“I am. Brandon gave me the keys last night. I guess that means all the paperwork is finished and it’s mine now. I’m not sure what to expect, but I’ll definitely need to hire help. The paperwork I can figure out, but I know nothing about making candles.” Only how to light them and enjoy the wonderful smell and romantic lighting they give.

“It has been some time since I visited Verna’s shop. Jake often drove her to do her shopping. It was your aunt Verna who gave him that recipe for strawberry jam you like so much.”

Sadie enjoyed it a little too much. “It feels strange, getting something like this from a stranger. I didn’t even know her, and now I have a business and enough money to buy my own home. A fresh start without earning it.”

“It’s a blessing,” Joy put in. “I don’t imagine she did this without thinking it through. She never struck me as one to do things spontaneously.” She grinned. “Some blessings come to us without explanation, but we must see them as blessings anyway. If memory serves me, the Shetler sisters worked for her. Jake often drives for them too, and we know the family. I can leave a message for them to meet you and 18

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see if they are willing to take up their old jobs again.”

“That would be great, Joy. Brandon never mentioned Aunt Verna already had employees.”

“I don’t think they worked every day,” Joy informed her. “Most young Amish girls work a few days each week to help financially support their family, but most families are rather large, and they are needed at home too. But as far as a home, don’t you be rushing into buying a place until you know it’s for you. Jake and I enjoy having you here.”

Sadie nodded. She wouldn’t rush into any impulsive buys. She was not Gloria.

“You’ve been a great help, Joy. I will never forget that.”

“God insists that we treat everyone the same way we hope to be treated. Jake and I both know the receiving end of such grace.”

Sadie knew what God expected too. That was part of living most of her days in the care of her grandmother, who knew Bible verses as well as any preacher Sadie had ever encountered. “First Samuel 25,” Sadie said in reply.

“That’s a good one,” Joy nodded. “Hebrews 13:2 offers a fine example as well. You are a child in need, and it is our duty to help those in need.”

The sound of a car engine starting drew Sadie’s attention to the side yard.

“The Garretts in room three are going out for breakfast after I spent the whole morning preparing one.” Joy frowned. “They said they plan on eating supper out too.”

“Let me guess. They’re going to eat at Mrs. Yoder’s,” Sadie said as the car pulled out of the driveway.

“See.” Joy turned to her and smiled. “You already fit right in.” She winked. “We’re growing on you. You know where the tourists flock.

Now all you have to do is get them to come to your shop.”

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Chapter Three

A

fter a complimentary breakfast of sourdough toast, sausage and egg casserole, and orange juice, Sadie drove the eight miles through rolling countryside to her aunt Verna’s candle shop.

The long, gray, unadorned building sat just off the main road, plain as a loaf of homemade bread. The gravel lot was spacious, though, with a single hitching post to the right of the door for customers who didn’t drive cars. Concrete sidewalks led to the front door under the short overhanging eve. Although it was tidy and well maintained, by appearances alone, Sadie failed to see it as welcoming.

As she neared the door, she stared up at the large sign and had to agree. Plain Scents Candle Shop was plain. Maybe a few zinnias and marigolds would brighten the place up. A smaller sign hung in the window. The bold, black lettering read, Closed Until Further Notice.

Turning the key in the lock, she opened the door. It gave a soft creak before a bell jingled overhead. Her expectations wilted almost immediately. She wasn’t sure what she had imagined. Maybe neat rows of gleaming candles stretching from one end of the shop to the other.

A sweet welcome of inviting scents in the air. Something floral, she imagined.

Instead, there were four modest rows of tables covered in tablecloths with wide shelving on top, filled with glassware, silk flowers, ceramic cups and crosses, and large baskets of potpourri along with small wax shapes.

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Stuffed bears and snowmen gave one area a warm holiday feel despite it being the heart of summer. She took another step, noting two rotating racks displaying homemade cards. At the far wall to her right sat a range of oddities from fancy clocks that she hoped made a cuckoo sound like the one Grandma Reba had, to small keepsake wooden boxes.

When she moved another step, the wagon certainly caught her attention. An actual wagon, separating the store from what Sadie thought might be a kitchen. Moving to the wagon for a better look, she found that there were more candles inside. The meltable kind people put in electric warmers.

And the shop smelled nothing like honey-scented beeswax or flowers. It smelled musty, abandoned, and strongly of cinnamon and pine cones. Separately, Sadie would have welcomed either the cinnamon or pine scent. Together, they didn’t pair well.

Like the outside, this space was tidy enough, and the shelves were at least full. Which was a positive in Sadie’s book, as inventory had been a real concern, considering she had to learn to make candles before selling them. At least now she could reopen her aunt’s shop sooner rather than later.

On the long wooden counter near the door, she spotted an old cash register. She hadn’t seen one of those since she had taken her grandmother to the Red River Gorge to see Kentucky’s Wonder of Nature.

The little gas station they’d stopped at had one very similar to this one.

At the far end of the counter was a pie rack display of melted and colored wax shaped to resemble every pie she could think of. The wicks paraded from the tops. They looked almost good enough to eat.

Stepping behind the counter, she peered underneath. Stacks of baskets and old shoeboxes revealed papers, receipts, and bulging folders. Proof of her aunt Verna’s practical, if cluttered, system.

Farther down, another long table held a variety of oddly familiar candles. These were true works of art. The wax had been twisted, carved, and molded into intricate shapes.

Lifting one, Sadie recognized the design. The blue-and-white swirl was identical to the candle resting on the dresser in her room at Ivy’s B&B. Joy had mentioned that she had visited the candle shop on occasion.

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Further exploring turned up stacks of tissue paper, small thank-you bags, plastic cups, gold and silver utensils, and bright napkins. Clearly her aunt had also supplied locals with party favors and simple decorations.

At least that I might be able to handle.

Sadie inhaled a breath. She now owned a candle shop. “Let’s get to know each other,” she muttered, moving to the kitchen area that was separated by both the aforementioned wagon and a long island table.

“So this is where all the magic happens.” She eyed the cart of cylinders filled with hard and colorful wax. There were cabinets of molding trays, rows of wicks that looked like twine her grandfather used to stack in the barn, and carving equipment.

Next to two very large cooking pots perched on a short table were stacks of clear paraffin wax. Sadie’s brows gathered. She wasn’t a health enthusiast. In fact, she was a firm believer that dessert should be eaten before meals, unlike her mother, who lived on smoothies and her next romance. But Sadie did believe that keeping one’s environment healthy was important.

Note to self: Research healthy wax alternatives.

At the end of the long, narrow kitchen was a back door and a small closet with two filing cabinets and boxes labeled Wax. Slipping out of the cramped space, she noted a third door on the posterior wall and opened it. The hidden room was spacious and larger than most apartments. She took in the stacks of boxes, a thin layer of dust revealing they had been there for a while. On an old sofa were neatly folded blankets. A small rectangular coffee table held a collection of magazines and a stack of newspapers with The Budget written boldly on the top.

Sadie stepped into the room. There were glass lamps with long, delicate shades. Along the far wall, a Hoosier white cabinet was filled with dishes. A black stove with three burners sat near a small table.

Sadie bent, inspecting it. It must run off some sort of gas, by her guess, but there was no strong scent of kerosene present.

Behind a wall that looked to sit on wheels, she found a full-sized bed, a five-drawer dresser, and a narrow but elegantly made desk.

The bed was full size and covered with a hand-stitched quilt. She 22

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ran her hand over the blue stars on a white quilted background. Nearby hung two dresses. One black. One a bold royal blue. A crisp white cap sat perched on a wooden piece that looked made for displaying caps and bonnets. The one thing Sadie wasn’t seeing was a bathroom. This room was as off-the-grid as the rest of the shop, Sadie could imagine.

The lawyer hadn’t mentioned a house. Did that mean Aunt Verna lived here, in the back of her candle shop? What a closed-off life, Sadie thought.

Verna Byler was a mystery. Sadie hoped to learn more about the woman who had gifted her so much.

As she closed the door, she felt as if the space didn’t need her intrusion. That time possibly owned it. Later, she’d see her aunt’s things collected and given to someone in the local community. For now, she’d let the mystery of a woman she’d never met remain there.

The bell above the door gave a merry jingle as two young women stepped inside. By all appearances, they were Amish. Perhaps high school age. Joy had mentioned that the Amish didn’t attend school after the eighth grade.

The young women were nearly identical with dark brown hair tucked neatly beneath white coverings. Prayer coverings or kapps, Joy had called them. Their pale blue eyes were curious, but their expressions differed. One looked cautious, the other amused.

“Hello, I’m Sadie,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans before realizing she’d not done anything to dirty them. “You must be the Shetler sisters. I wasn’t sure if you’d come, but I’m glad you did.”

The taller of the two tilted her head slightly. “You are. . .Englisch,” she observed, her tone polite but not without a hint of skepticism.

Her gaze traveled from Sadie’s sneakers and denim jeans to her bold red shirt.

Sadie offered a sheepish smile. “I am. But my great-aunt was Amish.”

The sisters exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations that women who share both genes and opinions seemed to master.

The shorter one’s lips softened.

“We are sorry about Verna. We thought well of her,” she said gently.

“Thank you,” Sadie replied, her voice lowering. It was probably not 23

Mindy Steele

a good idea to share that they knew Verna Byler better than she did.

“My friend Joy said you both worked for her.”

The other sister straightened suddenly and nudged her sibling with her shoulder. “We worked for Verna two days a week,” she said.

“Helping clean the shelves and serve customers.”

Sadie’s gaze wandered toward the row of carved candles. “So neither of you ever helped her make candles?” Sadie didn’t want to send Verna’s formal employees away, but she needed someone who could teach her the skill.

“Verna taught me a little,” the shorter sister said. “I’m Leah, and this is Miriam.” She stepped closer to the counter. “She kept a book of scents to order under there. The blue book is orders she needed to fill, but after the funeral, Miriam and I saw those orders fulfilled. If you’re thinking of hiring us. . .”

“Oh, I am,” Sadie said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “For the same wage my aunt paid you, of course.”

Leah nodded approvingly, though Miriam’s brow lifted ever so slightly. How much was that, exactly? Sadie wondered. No matter, her aunt had left enough to help her get on her feet, and that included learning how to run a business she knew nothing about.

“I want to learn as well,” she added. “Can’t very well own a candle shop and not know how to make them.”

Leah’s eyes lit up with a kind of earnest excitement, but Miriam’s mouth fell open as though Sadie had just announced a run for public office.

“Then you will be staying,” she said slowly, her disbelief bordering on awe. “Here. In Verna’s shop. Making candles.”

Sadie gave her a bright smile that she hoped covered the sudden lump in her throat. “That’s the plan. Unless the candles object.”

Miriam blinked once, then twice. “The candles do not speak,” she said finally.

“Good,” Sadie said, grinning. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

Leah gave a soft laugh. Miriam didn’t laugh, exactly, but she didn’t frown either. That, Sadie decided, was progress. She needed these young women if she was going to do this, and with the stipulations her aunt had left in the will, she was going to do this.

24

Murder, Plainly Written

Leah moved toward the kitchen doorway and motioned for Sadie to follow. “We can show you where Verna kept the molds and scents,” she said. “There are many. Some smell like flowers. Others like”— she paused delicately—“Christmas.”

“Christmas sounds safe,” Sadie said, stepping in behind her.

“Though after my last attempt at homemade potpourri, the neighbors complained it smelled like burnt gingerbread and sadness.”

Leah blinked. “Verna melted the wax here.” She lifted the lid of one container.

“Got it.” Sadie leaned over to peek inside the pot. “Smells like vanilla and Joy’s kitchen.”

Leah giggled softly. “That one is apple pie.”

Miriam crossed her arms. “Joy? Would you be staying at Ivy’s Bed and Breakfast?”

“I am,” Sadie said, straightening and rubbing her nose. “At least until I find a place of my own. I’ve only been here a few days.”

“You could always stay here, as Verna did.” Leah went to a nearby cabinet and pulled open a drawer. “Here are the different scents.”

Inside were small glass bottles, each labeled in a long, careful script, Lavender, Cinnamon, Cedarwood, Honeysuckle.

“Your aenti mixed her own blends,” Leah explained. “Each season she changed them. This one”—she held up a small bottle—“was her favorite. She called it ‘Morning Blessings.’ ” Sadie took it, then uncorked the top for a cautious sniff. It smelled of fresh linen, sunshine, and something faintly sweet she couldn’t quite name. “If heaven has a wash day, I imagine this is it.”

Leah smiled.

“So,” Sadie said after a moment, trying to sound more capable than she felt, “how hard can it be? Melt wax, pour it in the warmer to stay hot, add scent, and voilà—candle magic.”

Miriam’s eyebrows lifted. “We don’t believe in magic.”

Sadie knew that, but nerves tended to make her rattle on. She needed Miriam and Leah’s help, not to continue saying things that might upset them.

“If you are both willing to help me learn, I’d be happy to hire you.

I’d like to see the shop open soon.”

25