Claire within close proximity of Jakob than providing relief from a long and trying day— but, in the end, she did as she was told. After all, Claire’s main concern at that moment was Jakob.
“I was shocked when Claire finally told me about Harley Zook this morning,” Diane continued, her focus shifting back to Jakob. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt such a good and decent man. Are there any suspects?”
Claire cringed inwardly at the question, instantly regretting her tell-and-run following breakfast that morning. If she’d had more time to walk her aunt through the aftermath of finding Harley’s body, she could have explained the feared connection to Mose Fisher. But if Jakob was thrown off by the question, it didn’t show, the detective merely leaning forward to address at least part of the sixty-something’s statement. “Did you know Harley well?” he asked quietly.
Returning her coffee mug to the end table, Diane nodded slowly. “I did. He has been helping me keep things in order here at the inn for a few years now. He was a hard worker. Quick, yet thorough.”
“What kind of work did he do around here?”
“Anything and everything.” Diane scooted to the edge of her lounge chair and stood, the built-in bookcases that lined nearly half of the room taunting her with a speck of missed dust only she or Claire would notice. “Last week, he was out here fixing
that
window.” She pointed toward the large plate glass window that looked out over the darkened fields of Heavenly. “Yesterday morning he replaced a warped step by the back door. Whatever I needed, he fixed—broken hinges, wobbly chairs, creaky steps, you name it. In fact, without Harley, I’m not sure what I would have done except go broke using a contractor from Breeze Point.”
“So Harley was a fix-it man?” Jakob reached for the coat he’d draped across the arm of the couch and rustled around in the pocket for a small notepad and pen.
Diane pulled a dust cloth from her apron pocket and ran it along the middle shelf, turning back to Jakob with a shrug when she was done. “I think it was about three years ago when he first showed up here with a toolbox in tow. He’d heard through the grapevine that I wanted to add window boxes around the inn. He listened to what I wanted in terms of size and quoted me a good price. I hired him on the spot. By the end of the day, I had flower boxes.”
“Harley made those?” Claire echoed.
At Diane’s nod, Jakob continued. “And that’s when you started hiring him to do odd jobs around here?”
“He’d done such wonderful work, it made perfect sense.” Diane wandered around the room, her earlier angst upon hearing the news of Harley’s murder returning, in spades. “It got to a point where it became obvious that
this
was what he should be doing.”
Jakob looked up from his notepad. “You mean working here at the inn?”
“No.” Diane stopped in front of the window and gazed out at fields she’d seen a million times before. “Working with his hands . . . fixing things . . . building things. For people like me—people who simply don’t have the ability or the time to tackle those kinds of jobs.”
Claire opened her mouth to speak only to shut it again as Diane turned and sighed. “One only had to watch that man for five minutes to know he was much happier with tools in his hand than he was carting milk around.”
“Milk?” Claire echoed.
It was Jakob’s turn to nod. “Harley’s brother, John, was a dairy farmer. Harley took over the operation after John’s murder.” At the memory, Jakob’s shoulders hunched forward. “That’s what the Amish do in the wake of tragedy. They step forward and shoulder whatever needs to be shouldered.”
“But his shoulders grew weary after sixteen some odd years,” Diane said as she perched on the edge of her chair once again. “The days of milking a cow straight into a can for drinking are long gone. Regulations and
“I was shocked when Claire finally told me about Harley Zook this morning,” Diane continued, her focus shifting back to Jakob. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt such a good and decent man. Are there any suspects?”
Claire cringed inwardly at the question, instantly regretting her tell-and-run following breakfast that morning. If she’d had more time to walk her aunt through the aftermath of finding Harley’s body, she could have explained the feared connection to Mose Fisher. But if Jakob was thrown off by the question, it didn’t show, the detective merely leaning forward to address at least part of the sixty-something’s statement. “Did you know Harley well?” he asked quietly.
Returning her coffee mug to the end table, Diane nodded slowly. “I did. He has been helping me keep things in order here at the inn for a few years now. He was a hard worker. Quick, yet thorough.”
“What kind of work did he do around here?”
“Anything and everything.” Diane scooted to the edge of her lounge chair and stood, the built-in bookcases that lined nearly half of the room taunting her with a speck of missed dust only she or Claire would notice. “Last week, he was out here fixing
that
window.” She pointed toward the large plate glass window that looked out over the darkened fields of Heavenly. “Yesterday morning he replaced a warped step by the back door. Whatever I needed, he fixed—broken hinges, wobbly chairs, creaky steps, you name it. In fact, without Harley, I’m not sure what I would have done except go broke using a contractor from Breeze Point.”
“So Harley was a fix-it man?” Jakob reached for the coat he’d draped across the arm of the couch and rustled around in the pocket for a small notepad and pen.
Diane pulled a dust cloth from her apron pocket and ran it along the middle shelf, turning back to Jakob with a shrug when she was done. “I think it was about three years ago when he first showed up here with a toolbox in tow. He’d heard through the grapevine that I wanted to add window boxes around the inn. He listened to what I wanted in terms of size and quoted me a good price. I hired him on the spot. By the end of the day, I had flower boxes.”
“Harley made those?” Claire echoed.
At Diane’s nod, Jakob continued. “And that’s when you started hiring him to do odd jobs around here?”
“He’d done such wonderful work, it made perfect sense.” Diane wandered around the room, her earlier angst upon hearing the news of Harley’s murder returning, in spades. “It got to a point where it became obvious that
this
was what he should be doing.”
Jakob looked up from his notepad. “You mean working here at the inn?”
“No.” Diane stopped in front of the window and gazed out at fields she’d seen a million times before. “Working with his hands . . . fixing things . . . building things. For people like me—people who simply don’t have the ability or the time to tackle those kinds of jobs.”
Claire opened her mouth to speak only to shut it again as Diane turned and sighed. “One only had to watch that man for five minutes to know he was much happier with tools in his hand than he was carting milk around.”
“Milk?” Claire echoed.
It was Jakob’s turn to nod. “Harley’s brother, John, was a dairy farmer. Harley took over the operation after John’s murder.” At the memory, Jakob’s shoulders hunched forward. “That’s what the Amish do in the wake of tragedy. They step forward and shoulder whatever needs to be shouldered.”
“But his shoulders grew weary after sixteen some odd years,” Diane said as she perched on the edge of her chair once again. “The days of milking a cow straight into a can for drinking are long gone. Regulations and
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