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  Praise for the USA Today Bestselling Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries by Amanda Flower Writing as Isabella Alan

  “Alan writes the most captivating, fun mysteries!”

  —Open Book Society

  “A satisfyingly complex cozy.”

  —Library Journal

  “Alan captures Holmes County and the Amish life in a mystery that is nothing close to plain and simple.”

  —Avery Aames, author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries

  “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

  “A dead-certain hit.”

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

  “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

  “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

  Titles by Amanda Flower

  CRIME AND POETRY

  PROSE AND CONS

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Amanda Flower

  Excerpt from Crime and Poetry copyright © 2016 by Amanda Flower

  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.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698410220

  First Edition: December 2016

  Cover art by Stephen Gardner

  Cover design by Katie Anderson

  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

  For the Northeast Ohio Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all my readers who have told me they wished Charming Books were a real place. I wish it were too and that we could all have a cup of tea with Grandma Daisy, Violet, Emerson, and, of course, Faulkner beneath the birch tree. I could never thank you enough for welcoming these characters into your busy lives.

  Thank you also to my kind editor, Bethany Blair, and my beloved agent, Nicole Resciniti. I’m so blessed to have the opportunity to work with both of you.

  Hugs to my super assistant and beta reader, Molly Carroll-Syracuse, who has a great eye, and my dearest friend, Mariellyn Grace, who is always there to talk me through the twists and turns in my plots and my own life. And special thanks to Sarah Preston, who helped me decide on the murder weapon for this book.

  Thanks to Cari Dubiel for hosting Crime and Poetry’s tea party at the Twinsburg Public Library and to Kate Schlademan from the Learned Owl Book Shop for being the bookseller, and to my friends who made the party such a success: Molly, Samantha, Bobby, Delia, Suzy, Graham, and Preston.

  As always, thank you to my family, Andy, Nicole, Isabella, and Andrew. I love you all very much.

  Finally, thank you to God in Heaven. There is no guarantee that we will get everything we want in this life, but thank you for granting me this one big dream come true.

  TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them.

  —EDGAR ALLAN POE

  CONTENTS

  Praise for the Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries

  Titles by Amanda Flower

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Crime and Poetry

  ONE

  A petite teenage girl stood in front of the display of sports biographies that was tucked away in a small corner of the bookshop Charming Books, which I co-owned with my grandma Daisy in the village of Cascade Springs, New York, and chewed on her lip.

  I set a stack of picture books decorated with smiling pumpkins and mischievous squirrels on the top of one of the lower bookshelves a few feet from her. “Can I help you?” I asked in my most polite bookseller voice. The trick was to sound friendly and helpful, not too eager for a sale.

  The girl turned to me, and tears glistened in her big green eyes. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to pick up a gift for my boyfriend’s father. It’s his birthday, and the party starts in a half hour. I’m doomed!”

  “I’m sure he would love any book that you give him,” I said encouragingly. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  She shook her head and her brown hair covered her face. “You don’t know his parents. They’re horrible. Nothing I do is right. I just want them to like me or at least pretend to.”

  I straightened a row of books that sat unevenly on the shelf. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Grandma Daisy had moved the books just a little to drive me crazy. She and I had different ideas on the proper way to keep the books organized. I wanted everything in its place, preferably in alphabetical order. Grandma Daisy was satisfied if books were on the correct floor of the shop. She always said the books would find the person who needed them most no matter where they were in the shop, so precision didn’t matter. That might be literally true in Charming Books, but still the alphabetizer in me couldn’t handle the lacka
daisical shelving method. After the books’ spines were all sitting precisely at the edge, I said, “That sounds familiar.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What does that mean?”

  I gave her a half smile. “My high school boyfriend’s parents didn’t like me either.”

  “What would they have bad to say about you?” She blinked at me. “You’re so tall and pretty.”

  I chuckled. “Being tall isn’t everything. Neither is being pretty. That’s sweet of you to say that I am, though. You’re a beautiful girl, so if that argument didn’t work for you, it most certainly wouldn’t work for me.”

  She blushed at the compliment and said, “If your boyfriend’s parents didn’t like you, I really am in trouble. Maybe I should just go to his birthday party empty-handed. Why waste my money when it’s not going to do any good?”

  “Maybe you just need to let your subconscious pick the book,” I said.

  She lowered her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “Close your eyes and reach for the books. I think the right book will find you.”

  She gave me a dubious look.

  I shrugged. “It’s just a hunch. What do you have to lose?”

  “Oh-kay.” Her voice was still heavy with doubt.

  While the girl’s eyes were closed, a book flew across the shop from the history section and appeared in her hand.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the tome with Abraham Lincoln on the cover. “How did this get in the sports section?”

  “Oh,” I said unconcernedly. “It must have been misplaced. Would you prefer a sports-related title?” I moved to take the book from her.

  “No!” She jerked the book away from me and held it to her chest. “No, this is perfect. His father is a history buff, and I’ve seen a picture of Lincoln in his office. I’m only afraid he might have already read this one.”

  I fought to hide a smile. “I’m pretty sure he hasn’t read it.”

  “How do you know?” She stared up at me with those big green eyes again.

  “Call it bookseller intuition.” I smiled.

  She hugged the book more tightly to her chest. “This is the right book. I just know it. Thank you so much. . . .” She trailed off.

  “Violet,” I said.

  “You really saved my life with this.”

  “Happy to help. Let’s ring you up, then, so you can make that party.” I led her across the room to the sales counter.

  Faulkner, the shop crow, walked across the counter. His talons made a clicking sound on the aged wood. I clapped my hands at him, and he flew over the girl’s head, cawing, “Four score and seven years ago!”

  She ducked, and her eyes went round. “Was the crow quoting the Gettysburg Address? Does he know about this book?”

  I forced a laugh. “We’ve been playing a lot of historical audiobooks in the shop lately. He must have picked it up from that.”

  While she reached in her purse for her wallet, I glared at Faulkner, who landed on one of the low branches of the birch tree. The crow smoothed his silky black feathers with his sharp beak and ignored me. I wondered where my tuxedo cat, Emerson, had gone off to. He usually was able to keep the crow in line. Also it was never a good sign when Emerson wandered off. The cat was up to something or strolling around the neighborhood. I hadn’t yet figured out how to keep my cat in the shop. His previous owner took him all around town.

  She swiped her credit card through the machine.

  “Would you like me to gift wrap the book for you?”

  “Can you? That would be great and save me so much time. I’m already running late as it is.”

  “Of course.” I cut off a piece of brown paper stamped with orange and red leaves from the roll behind the counter.

  After the girl took the newly wrapped biography out the front door, I locked the door behind her and winked at the birch tree that grew in the middle of the bookshop. A spiral staircase led up to the second floor of Charming Books, where the children’s fairy book loft and my one-bedroom apartment were. My ancestress Rosalee had built the original house around the tree after the War of 1812. “Nice work.” I gave the tree a thumbs-up.

  My seventysomething grandmother, who with her trim figure could easily pass for a woman half her age if not for the sleek silver bob that fell to her chin, came around the side of the tree, shaking her head. “Violet, my dear, you’re becoming a little showy with helping customers choose books. What if someone else was in the shop when you pulled that stunt? It would not do for customers to see books flying across the shop.” As usual, she wore jeans and a Charming Books sweatshirt, which was orange that day in celebration of the nearness of Halloween. To complete the outfit, she’d added a gauzy infinity scarf decorated with cheerful jack-o’-lanterns.

  “Grandma Daisy, it’s after seven. The shop was supposed to close fifteen minutes ago. There was no one else here.”

  “Still, you need to be careful.” She tucked a lock of silver hair behind her ear. “Remember the most important job of the Caretaker is to keep the shop’s secret. No one outside of the family can know.”

  “Four months ago you were arguing with me because I didn’t believe in the shop’s essence. Now I’m in trouble because I do and make use of it.” I couldn’t keep the whine out of my voice. I knew I sounded like a stubborn four-year-old, and I knew it wasn’t attractive on a woman nearing her thirtieth birthday.

  Grandma Daisy adjusted her cat’s-eye glasses on her nose. “You’re not in trouble. I just want you to remember your duty as the Caretaker.” She turned and headed in the direction of the kitchen, which was separated from the shop by a thick swinging door.

  Like I could forget? Being the Caretaker of the huge Queen Anne Victorian house and its birch tree had been a duty of the women in my family for the last two centuries, ever since Rosalee watered the tree with the mystical and healing waters from the local natural springs. The water manifested itself in the shop and the books, and now the essence of the water was able to communicate with the Caretaker through cryptic messages sent through the books themselves. Trust me—I know how unbelievable that sounds.

  My mother should have been the Caretaker after my grandmother was relieved of her post, but fate had other plans, stealing her from me when I was only thirteen. As a result, the Caretaker role skipped a generation and landed directly on my shoulders. Since I had no children, female or otherwise, it was unknown what would happen to the shop when it was time for me to pass it on to the next generation. I would love to have a child . . . someday. I rolled my eyes at Grandma Daisy’s receding back. There was really no way I could forget my duty as the Caretaker of Charming Books even if I wanted to.

  “I saw you roll your eyes at me,” Grandma Daisy called over her shoulder.

  “The essence doesn’t give you the ability to see out the back of your head,” I countered.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “How do you know? You’ve only been the Caretaker for a few months. How do you know everything the essence can and cannot do?” Before I could think of a smart remark, she said, “Don’t you have some cookies to be picked up from La Crepe Jolie for the Poe-try Reading tomorrow?”

  I smacked myself on the forehead. “Oh, right, I forgot. I’ll go collect them now.”

  She nodded. “The Red Inkers should be here by the time you return. Be careful. The traffic will be horrid on River Road with the start of the Food and Wine Festival tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  The Cascade Springs Food and Wine Festival was the biggest event for the small village, which depended on tourism for its survival. It was held annually the third week of October. This year at Grandma Daisy’s urging, Charming Books was participating in the festivities by hosting a Poe-try Reading, highlighting the work and life of the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe. I couldn’t think of a more perf
ect author to showcase this close to Halloween. Grandma Daisy and I were able to recruit the help of the Red Inkers, a local writers’ group that regularly met in Charming Books after shop hours to discuss their work.

  I grabbed my coat from the coat-tree by the kitchen door. “I should be going, then.”

  “Don’t be too long. I know everyone in the group is looking forward to seeing you. . . .” she said in a teasing voice.

  This time I rolled my eyes to her face, so there was no mistaking it. Grandma Daisy’s bell-chime laugh rang through the empty shop, and Faulkner joined in on the chuckle fest. Her comment about the group wanting to see me was much more pointed than it sounded. She implied—not so subtly, might I add—that the village police chief, David Rainwater, wanted to see me.

  The truth was I was looking forward to seeing him too.

  TWO

  Outside the shop, I walked around Charming Books to collect my bicycle. I wished that my grandmother hadn’t brought up David Rainwater, even if indirectly. Now I knew I would be fretting over seeing him until the Red Inkers meeting. The police chief, who was an aspiring children’s book author, was also a member. Seeing him wasn’t a complication that I needed. I had enough to worry about between being the shop Caretaker, finishing my dissertation on Ralph Waldo Emerson and his Transcendentalist buddies, and teaching my adjunct courses at the local community college. Now was not a good time to think about finding a boyfriend, no matter how beautiful he was, and David Rainwater was beautiful. The female and even some of the male population of the village could vouch for that.

  My aqua-colored cruiser bike leaned against the side of the shop. It had been my mother’s, and Grandma Daisy had it refurbished as part of her master plan to convince me to stay in the village and accept my role as Caretaker of Charming Books. She had also had my bike helmet “improved” by asking a local artist to cover it in hand-painted purple violets. The helmet was beyond embarrassing, but it brought a smile to my grandmother’s face every time I wore it, so I couldn’t bring myself to buy a violet-free replacement. I lifted the helmet from where it dangled from the handlebars. As I fastened the chin strap into place, Emerson flew out from under Charming Books’ wraparound porch and leaped into the bike’s pink wire basket. The gerbera daisy on the front of the basket bounced with the impact.