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call Detective Fisher. Have him come and speak to you—”
    Esther’s gasp sent a chill down her spine.
    “What? What’s wrong?”
    “You can not call the detective. Mamm would be angry.”
    She stared at her friend. “But Esther, we have to call him. We have to tell him Walter was here. That he scared you.”
    “Will I need to speak?”
    “Of course. He’ll want to ask you questions.”
    “I can not speak to the detective.” Esther shook her head fiercely, her voice emerging in a raspy, broken sound. “Please. I must talk to Mamm first. I will do so tonight.”

Chapter 5
    S he let herself in through the back door of the inn, her shoulders heavy with worry and regret. All afternoon she’d tried to get Esther to change her mind, to let Claire place the call to Detective Fisher, but to no avail.
    The girl had been adamant she speak with her mother and, eventually, Claire resigned herself to the notion of waiting. It was the only way.
    Hanging her keys next to the washer, she paused in the middle of the mudroom, grateful for the answering sound of silence. Dinner was still a good hour away, and most of the guests were probably still out and about, enjoying the Amish countryside.
    If she moved fast enough, she could finish the candles she’d put into molds before heading out that morning. If all went as she hoped, the colors and scents would sell well in the shop. Particularly the ones that mimicked the aroma of baked goods.
    Turning left, she entered the inn’s kitchen and headed straight for the table beneath the picture window. There, she found the three dozen votive molds she’d painstakingly filled nine hours earlier, the perfect shape and attractive colors enveloping her in a feeling of satisfaction. The candle-making process, like most things in life, had come with a learning curve. Her first few times at bat had earned her wax burns, off-centered wicks, and the oddest of colors on the rare candle that actually made it through the process unscathed.
    She slid onto the closest chair and began to work, peeling the molds back from each candle. Slowly, candle by candle, she made her way through the molds, the fruits of her labor paying off with her best batch to date.
    “Whatcha doing?”
    Claire spun around. “Oh. Mr. Streen. You scared me.”
    The freckled redhead shrugged, then reached into the fruit bowl on the counter. “Just looking for something to eat. This seven o’clock dinner hour is rather ridiculous.”
    She searched for her least defensive-sounding voice and hoped her facial expression didn’t give her true feelings away. “That’s why my aunt includes the dinner hour in the inn’s brochures. So prospective guests who prefer an earlier meal can find accommodations better suited to their needs.”
    “Whatever.” One by one, Arnie pulled each piece of fruit from the bowl, turning it over and over in his faintly scarred hands before finally settling on the first one he’d touched. He bit into the apple, ignoring the juice that dribbled down his chin. “What’s with the candles?”
    Shaking her head, she willed herself to focus on the question rather than the urge to go at him with a napkin and abottle of disinfectant. “Uh … They’re for the shop. They’re one of the few things that I make in my inventory.”
    Arnie paused midbite. “Speaking of inventory, why do you price those blankets so darn high?”
    “You mean the quilts?” She felt the rise to her left brow. “Those are Amish made. It is standard to charge double the hours spent making it.”
    He snorted. “You’re telling me those things take three hundred hours to make?”
    “Have you seen the detail, Mr. Streen?”
    “I have.” His bite echoed off the walls of the kitchen.
    She folded her arms and met his challenging gaze. “Then you must know they deserve every penny of that money.”
    A second snort. “For something that’s flawed? Give me a break.”
    “Mr. Streen, if you are going to write your thesis on