No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk by Tamar Myers Page A

would probably dance for joy at my funeral, because then the PennDutch would be hers. As for Aaron, if that man cared half as much as I hoped he did, he would have long ago bought a diamond ring and popped it on my finger. Rings can be sized up beyond eight, you know.
    Stayrook closed his eyes briefly, a habit I’ve noticed that many people, especially men, engage in just before they lie.
    “Whoever told you to talk to me was barking up the wrong tree. I certainly have no reason to share your suspicions.”
    I stared hard at him. Gave him the evil eye, as Susannah would say. “Two of your friends have just been murdered, and you want to bury your head in the sand? This isn’t turning the other cheek, Stayrook. It’s cowardice.”
    The eyes shifted. They didn’t roll exactly, but it was close enough. I would have to check my family tree for Gerbers.
    “Stayrook, if you have any idea who was behind these murders, you have a moral obligation to help put them behind bars. You should call the police right now. I’ll even call them for you.”
    The big face began to harden. It was like watching a pond freeze over. His lips moved stiffly. “ ‘Vengeance is mine, thus saith the Lord.’ ”
    I have seldom been angrier. Two deaths, a widow with children, a bereaved fiance, and yet Stayrook’s principles prevented him from involving himself with the law of men, with English law. God would avenge the two deaths, in his own time, if not in ours.
    “Look, you said before that you shouldn’t even be talking to me because you have a wife and four children. Well, let me tell you something, Stayrook. You may not have all of them much longer, or they may not have you, if you don’t talk to me. Obviously it’s common knowledge that you know what’s going on. I mean, someone directed me to you, right? And if the community knows that you know, don’t you think the killer knows as well?”
    I let that sink in for a moment, while I revamped my strategy. I should have known better than to mention the police, a last-ditch resort for the Amish. Stayrook might still talk, but only if I could convince him that he wouldn’t have to be directly involved.
    “I run an inn in Hernia,” I said calmly. “Last year there was a murder there, and it involved Englishers. The police couldn’t solve the murder, but I was able to get the murderer to confess and turn herself in. She hasn’t killed anyone since.” Okay, so I left out some important details, but I wasn’t lying. And in this case, the end certainly justified my means.
    Stayrook’s eyes were as big as my mama’s prize-winning dahlias. “A woman did the killing?”
    I waved a hand impatiently. “It happens all the time. We are capable of anything, you know. That wasn’t my point. The point is that I have experience in these matters, and might be able to help you. Unless of course, you don’t want my help and would prefer the police. At any rate, if you don’t do anything about it, then I’m just going to have to call the police anyway. Yost was your friend, but he was my cousin, and I don’t have to follow your ways.”
    Stayrook stared at me. The pond had frozen solid. Under any other circumstances I would have considered it terribly rude. Much to my credit, if I must say so myself, I gazed calmly back at him. His nose was no tiny tater; it was in fact a typical Yoder nose, hidden by the open expanse of a huge face. Perhaps the eye-rolling was a Yoder thing after all, and had nothing to do with Gerber blood.
    At last the frozen face thawed enough for the lips to move, but not enough for them to make sounds. Fortunately I had enough experience watching Susannah read to decipher the movements. “I’ll talk to you later,” they formed.
    I nodded. Having run an inn for several years, I was well aware that walls have ears. In the case of a mudroom packed with men, there were more ears per square foot than in an acre of hybrid corn. Stayrook would talk to me later, I was sure