By Vannetta Chapman
There's extra to the old fashioned northern Indiana city of Shipshewana than hand made quilts, Amish-made furnishings, immaculate farms and close-knit households. whilst a useless woman is located floating in a neighborhood pond, homicide can be afoot. And Reuben Fisher is in detention center because the suspect! Reuben refuses to disclose any details, even to transparent himself of against the law Deborah is bound he didn't dedicate. So, together with her English good friend, Callie---fellow sleuth and proprietor of Daisy's duvet Shop---Deborah units out to discover the reality. however the secret deepens while an aged guy seeks Callie's assist in discovering his long-lost daughter, lacking because the days of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes. An outdated guy who has misplaced his prior. a tender guy who may well lose his destiny. once more Deborah and Callie locate themselves attempting to piece jointly a loopy duvet of lives and events---one which can convey unforeseen touches of God's grace and get to the bottom of the tragedy that has shaken this quiet Amish neighborhood
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Additional info for A Perfect Square (Shipshewana Amish Mystery, Book 2)
Un poquito mas! ” she heard the hedge fund guy shouting over and over again to the befuddled waiter, attempting to nudge his way past with a trayful of empty glasses. The kid wasn’t even Hispanic. “Hielo! ” he repeated, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. But yeah … Whether it was ice cubes, condos, cows, (beg your pardon, cattle), shoes, or money, they always needed just a little more. “God! ” She flinched. Philip had somehow drifted in from behind her. With one hand snaked around her waist, he lifted her wrist for a closer look.
No one had enough. The whole world was crying poor, especially billionaires like Rita, who whined about $100 surcharges for laundering their $55,000 living room curtains. And what the hell was taking this driver so long, she groaned, as the cab screeched to a stop. “We are here, madam,” Ali said with a smirk. Charlotte ignored the insult. ” “Go ahead and keep the change,” she replied. Charlotte prided herself on being a very good tipper. Running against the light, she crossed 76th Street and approached the restaurant.
The “acquisition,” now puckering her lips and blowing kisses into the phone, was wearing more logos than a NASCAR driver. For Charlotte, logos were the symbol of an insidious form of identity theft. The theft began as early as infancy when her clients swaddled their newborns in itty bitty blankets of “F” for Fendi cashmere. F for all F’ed up, Charlotte had thought the last time she ooh’ed and ahh’ed over a baby in a $3,000 Corsican Paris iron crib on New York’s Upper East Side. Charlotte herself loved beautiful things.