Murder, Simply Stitched: An Amish Quilt Shop Mystery by Isabella Alan Page A

Oliver had one of his forepaws in front of the kitten as if to stop him from falling off the seat in case we were to stop suddenly. He had definitely assigned himself the job of canine guardian angel. I arrived two hours before the shop opened because I wanted to catch Willow in her tea shop before she opened at nine.
    Typically, I hated mornings. A lot. However, ever since Dodger moved in there were no more lazy mornings at my house. I dropped Oliver and Dodger off at Running Stitch and crossed the street to Willow’s tea shop.
    The chimes over the doorway clinked together as I stepped through the door of the Dutchman’s Tea Shop. I sidestepped a scarecrow with a cloth pumpkin for a head and holding a teacup. The tea shop was the only business on Sugartree Street that embraced Halloween, which was only a few days away. The Amish don’t celebrate Halloween. Out of respect for my quilting circle, I didn’t add any Halloween decorations to my shop.
    “The shop doesn’t open until eight,” Willow called from the tearoom.
    I followed her voice. “Willow, it’s me, Angie.”
    She turned and beamed. Her typically gray buzz cut was now a light shade of lavender. I wasn’t sure if it was a mistake, a preparation for a Halloween costume, or a color she chose for every day. Knowing Willow, I bet on choice number three. I knew better than to ask. A simple question of Willow’s style choices usually led to a three-hour conversation.
    Her reading glasses hung from a colorful beaded chain around her neck and she wore her signature loose blouse over a baggy pair of jeans. If anyone was out of place in Rolling Brook, it was Willow Moon. However, at the same time, she was a perfect fit because she was liked by both the Amish and English residents of the township.
    She clapped her hands. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need a taster for my Halloween tea recipe.”
    Uh-oh. I should retreat while I have the chance. “Willow, I don’t drink that many different kinds of tea. I’m a Lipton girl. I’m not the best person to judge your new drink. Maybe someone like Farley Jung would be better suited.”
    She snorted. “Hogwash. You are a perfect candidate, especially if you don’t drink much tea. You will be able to give me the non-tea-drinker’s opinion.”
    Without testing it I could give her that opinion. It was awful. I still was in recovery from Willow’s other recipes.
    “Have a seat.” Willow pointed to the dining table closest to the front window. In the middle of one table sat what I could only describe as a cauldron. I swallowed. “What’s that, Willow?”
    “Tea.”
    “In a cauldron?” I squeaked.
    She slipped into the chair across from me. “Is it too much?”
    “We’re in Holmes County not Salem.”
    She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Wrong clientele for it. It’s a shame. Not too many people can say they’ve received tea service from a cauldron.”
    “You could use it with the English customers. I doubt they would mind.”
    She held on to the purple crystal, which hung from her neck. “That’s a wonderful idea, Angie. I will only get it out if there are no Amish in the shop.” She dropped her hand. “Would you like a cup of tea from my cauldron?”
    Her question was a little too Hansel and Gretel for me. “Oh, well, I’m not thirsty.”
    “All you have to do is taste it.”
    I edged closer to the table. “You want me to drink something that came out of that?”
    “Of course. It’s only a decoration. You don’t think I’m a witch, do you?”
    “No. At least I don’t think so. The cauldron is making me nervous.”
    “Don’t be silly. It’s only tea leaves and spices.”
    I saw the top rim of a fist-sized tea ball in the middle of the pot. Some dark black substance inside.
Tea leaves and spices, right.
I swallowed. “What flavor is it?”
    “I’m calling it Witches’ Bite.”
    And she claims not to be a witch.
I did not find the name comforting. “You might not want to share that