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

name with the Amish.”
    “Good point.”
    “What’s in it?”
    “Pumpkin, sweet potato, and a special kick.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “I’ve never had sweet potato tea before.”
    “Then this will be your lucky day.” She walked over to the sideboard and removed two teacups and saucers. “It gives the tea an earthy quality.”
    I always wondered why people described food as having an earthy taste. Didn’t that mean it tasted like dirt?
    She used a ladle to spoon the tea into the two cups and placed a teacup in front of me. “You are here about Wanda, I presume.”
    I shifted my position on the bright blue wooden chair. “I am. When did you hear the news?”
    “Yesterday afternoon. It seemed like every person who came into the tea shop spoke of it.” Her face fell. “Wanda had her faults, but she was my friend and dedicated to the good of Rolling Brook. Her tactics were aggressive, but she got the results when no one else could.” She dabbed her eye with a paper napkin. “Are you going to try your tea?”
    “I’m going to let it cool a little bit,” I hedged.
    “Don’t let it cool too long. I find the sweet potato flavor dulls as it cools.”
    That didn’t sound good. I wondered how long I could postpone the taste test. “Did people know what happened?”
    “There were a lot of stories. The outsiders didn’t know much about what was going on, but a few locals said that the sheriff thought the Millers might be behind Wanda’s death.” She examined my face as she said that as if she were looking for a reaction.
    I cupped my cold hands around the mug. The tea smelled off. How I dreaded the first sip. “The Millers have nothing to do with Wanda’s death. It’s a terrible event for her family and for the town. The Millers are not involved.”
    “I heard she died holding one of Rachel’s fry pies in her hand.”
    I closed my eyes. How many details about Wanda’s death were already circulating throughout the county? “That doesn’t mean Rachel had anything to do with it.”
    Willow slipped on her reading glasses and made a note in her recipe book. “I didn’t see Aaron this morning when I stepped outside to grab the paper. Usually, he’s in the bakery close to four. I see him every morning, except Sunday, like clockwork at five when I go out for my paper. Is the bakery open today?”
    “I’m sure it will be. They didn’t close early yesterday.”
    She pointed at the cup in front of me. “It should be cool enough to drink now.”
    I did my best to keep my face neutral, but all I could think of was the horrible watermelon tea she made during the summer. It was like drinking a liquid watermelon sucker. And was it just me, or did sweet potato sound like a poor choice in tea ingredients?
    I raised the mug to my lips and sipped. As soon as the tea was in my mouth, my lips and tongue felt like they were on fire.

Chapter Fourteen
     
    T he burning sensation in my mouth wasn’t from the tea’s temperature but from a spicy ingredient. No wonder she called it Witches’ Bite.
    Willow watched me eagerly. “So?”
    “What’s in there?” I croaked. “There something sharp and it’s not sweet potato.”
    She twirled her crystal on its chain. “Cloves. I dropped a handful in the cauldron during a moment of inspiration. I thought it would give the tea some layers and kick.”
    “I feel like I’ve been kicked into the next county by those cloves. Water?” I asked weakly. “Can I have some water?”
    “Oh, pooh, Angie, it’s not
that
bad.” She stood up and walked behind the tea counter to the sink. She filled a coffee mug with water, brought it back to the table, and set it in front of me.
    I grabbed it and drank. It helped a little. At least it helped my mouth. The burning sensation simply moved to my throat. When I could speak, I said, “Don’t include the cloves. The cloves are a bad idea.”
    “Let me see.” She blew on her tea.
    “I’m not tasting that again.”
    “I know.” She