* * *
There are no buggies parked in front of Miller’s Tavern, so I idle around to the alley at the rear. Sure enough, there’s a nice-looking bay gelding hitched to a lone buggy, snoozing. I park next to it, take a moment to stroke the horse, and then enter the bar via the back door.
I take a narrow, dimly lit hall past the bathroom and janitor closet. I enter the main room to the Fixx blaring out “One Thing Leads to Another.” Elam Schlabach sits in a booth, a mug of beer in front of him, watching me. A red plastic basket with the remnants of a burger and fries sits in the center of the table, next to an empty shot glass.
I hold his gaze as I make my way over to him.
“You come in through the back door, too, huh?” he says.
“Once or twice. Comes in handy.”
“Especially when you’re Amish.”
“And the walls have eyes.” I reach the booth. “Mind if I join you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.” I slide onto the seat opposite him.
For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks. Schlabach appears to be perfectly at ease and fiddles with the paper lining the red basket. Fingers the condensation on the beer mug. Taps his fingers to the music against the tabletop.
He lifts his beer, takes a long pull. “So is this about Danny Gingerich or what?”
I pull out the photo of the woman who left the note on the police station door and set it on the table between us. “Do you recognize this woman?”
He sets down his beer, leans forward, takes a long look. “Not a very good picture.” His eyes narrow. “She’s Amish.”
Leaning back in the booth, I give him a long, assessing look. “Did you have anything to do with the barn fire that killed Daniel Gingerich?”
“No. That’s not to say I didn’t think about it. I did. Fantasized about it. If anyone deserved it, that son of a bitch did. Hate to disappoint you, but I never mustered the grit.”
“I know what he was,” I say.
I can tell by the way he looks at me that he doesn’t believe me. “I doubt it.”
I hold his gaze. “I know what he did to Emma. And others.”
“Look, Chief Burkholder, I know you think I killed Danny. But if you know what he was—that his soul belonged to the devil—then you’ve probably realized I’m not the only one who isn’t exactly mourning his death.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t say.” He looks away, shrugs. “Far as I’m concerned, he did the world a favor.”
The barmaid interrupts. I order coffee. Schlabach orders a shot of whiskey. I think about hassling him about drinking and driving, but he’s talking so I let it go.
“How many other women did he rape?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I heard he did Mark Petersheim’s wife.” His expression distorts into something acerbic. “Heard what happened to him, too, by the way. They were a nice couple. Gingerich ruined the lives of a lot of good people.”
“Yes, he did.”
The barmaid returns with my coffee and a shot glass of amber liquid. I lay a ten-dollar bill in her hand. When she’s gone, I ask, “What did you hear about Ruth Petersheim?”
“Just rumor is all.” His mouth twists as if he’s bitten into something bitter. “I guess rape and sodomy aren’t exactly the kinds of things the Amish like to talk about though, are they?”
He’s trying to shock me, or provoke me. When it doesn’t work, he looks away, and I get the impression he’s not sure how to react or what to do with all that rage.
The Fixx gives way to an old Badfinger tune. Schlabach throws back the whiskey, sets the glass on the tabletop with a little too much force.
“Who else had reason to want Gingerich dead?” I ask.
“Let me count the ways.”
My temper spikes. This time I don’t bother to curb it. I’m tired of his vague statements and riddles and bad attitude. “Look, if you want to play hardball, I will accommodate you, and I will one-up you. We can make this official and I can make it difficult. Do you get me?”
He ducks his head, looks away. “I got it,” he mutters.
“Who else did Daniel Gingerich hurt?” I ask.
A full minute passes without an answer. I’m thinking about making good on my threat, hauling his ass down to the station if only for show, when he finally responds.
“I heard he done one of them other girls Emma used to hang with,” he tells me. “The one worked with her at that shop in Charm.”
I go still, my heart giving a single hard kick. All the while Milo Hershberger’s words float through my mind.… He used to go up to that little shop in Charm all the time just to see those girls. Had his eye on all of them …
Milo hadn’t given me a name. Is it possible Daniel had preyed upon one of the others, in addition to Emma Miller? Why didn’t they tell me? But the question rings false, because I know. I know.
“I need a name,” I say.
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Look, if you want to know about Danny’s escapades, I suggest you talk to Milo Hershberger. They were best friends. If Gingerich bragged about all that Amish pussy he was getting, I suspect Milo would be the moron he’d brag to.”
“Are you and Milo friends?”
His laugh is bitter. “Not even close.”
He looks away and for the first time I see a chink in his armor. A glimpse of the man he must have been before the woman he loved committed suicide. Before loss and bitterness turned him into something angry and lost, something he can’t quite get a handle on.
“So are you going to arrest me or what?” he asks.
“You’ll be the first to know.” I pluck my card from a compartment on my belt as I rise and hold it out for him. “If you think of anything else, call me. And don’t even think about leaving town.”
He takes the card without looking at it and tosses it onto the tabletop.
* * *
I’m tempted to drive back to Charm tonight, but it’s too late. The shop has been closed for hours. My injured forearm is making itself known in a big way. Besides, getting information out of any of those girls about something so devastating and personal is going to take forethought and finesse—something I don’t think I can manage at the moment. Better to start fresh in the morning.
Dusk has fallen by the time I pull into the long lane of the farm where my sister and her husband live. Despite my best intentions, I missed her birthday. I’ve been carrying around the gift-wrapped candles and teas I bought for her at The Mercantile for a couple of days now.
I’m trying to remember the last time I saw her as I park adjacent to the chicken coop at the rear of the house. It’s been a while. Too long, my conscience murmurs. I love my sister; I miss her, and I think of her often. Spending time with her shouldn’t be so damn hard, but it is.
I look out across the driveway as I take the sidewalk to the back door. The barn door is open and I see her husband, William, inside grooming one of their Standardbreds. He’s watching me, so I raise my hand in greeting. He waves back but the gesture is halfhearted. My brother-in-law doesn’t approve of my leaving the fold; he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle or the fact that I’m living in sin with Tomasetti. Unlike my sister, he makes no bones about letting me know.
The door opens. “Katie! What a nice surprise. Come in!”
Sarah is two years older than me. Blond and pretty with the kind of sweet smile I never quite mastered. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a white apron and kapp. Sneakers. Ever-present dishcloth clutched in work-chapped hands.
Her eyes flick past me and I know she’s looking for Tomasetti. “It’s just me,” I tell her.
“Well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing. I’ve got date pudding and mint tea. Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
Turning, she leads me into a big plain kitchen that smells of something toothsome and delicious. My little niece, Hannah, who has somehow grown into a toddler, is sta
nding in the doorway, clutching an obese cat, watching me.
“Hi, Hannah,” I say. “That’s a pretty little bussli you’ve got there.”
The little girl grins and hefts the cat. “Sammy!” she proclaims.
“Er fett e faul.” He’s fat and lazy. My sister sends her child a sideways glance. “Say hello to Aunt Katie, Hannah.”
The little girl obeys, but her expression lets me know in no uncertain terms that I’m a stranger to her, a fact that hurts more than I want it to.
“I’m just cooking up some of the hembeer for jam,” Sarah says breezily, referring to raspberries. “Schaptzsupp for tomorrow.” She goes to the stove, gives a pot a stir and then turns off the heat. “I heard about what happened to you. My goodness, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I glance down at the bandage and shrug. “Just … at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Setting down the spoon, she looks at the bandage and shakes her head. “I have a boring life compared to yours.”
“Boring is underrated.” I take a chair at the table.
Smiling, she sits across from me. “I’m turning into a bottelhinkel.” It’s the Deitsh word for a worn-out old hen that’s ready for the stewpot. Our mamm used to say it (usually in reference to herself) and the memory takes me back to a time when my relationship with my sister was a lot simpler.
“Happy birthday.” I set the bag containing the gifts on the table and slide it toward her. “Sorry it’s late.”
Eyeing me, she rattles the bag. “I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t come over enough, you know.”
She delivers the admonition in her usual gentle way, which somehow makes the sting all the more powerful. “I got tied up in the Gingerich thing,” I tell her. “Still trying to figure things out.”
“You work too much,” she chides. “And you’re always doing things that are too dangerous for a woman.”
“Or a man.”
She snorts. “That’s my Katie. Taking on the world all by herself.”
I don’t argue. I came here to spend a few minutes with my sister. Give her the birthday gift. Remind my sweet little niece she has an aunt. Try to hang on to something precious before it slips away. Despite all the years that have passed and everything that’s happened, there’s still a small part of me that craves the approval of my family. Maybe even the Amish community as a whole.
“I have news.” She sets her hand protectively over her abdomen. I know what she’s going to say before she utters the words. “I’m ime familye weg.”
Emotion surges and then I’m out of the chair, bending to her, hugging her close. “You just one-upped my birthday present.”
She chuckles. “It’s such a blessing. I just hope…”
I don’t let her finish. Before my niece was born, Sarah lost several pregnancies. It took a heavy toll on her and William. She’s wanted a big family since she was a little girl. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
For an instant, I think about telling her that Tomasetti and I have set a date for our wedding, but the timing doesn’t seem right. This is her moment. I’ll fill her in next time I see her.
I motion toward the gift. “It’s not going to open itself.”
Grinning, she digs in, tearing the paper with the relish of a kid at Christmas. I know it’s for my benefit, to put me at ease, and we both enjoy the moment.
“Something smells heavenly.” She says the words as she reaches inside and the tissue paper falls away. “Oh! A candle! From The Mercantile! Katie, that’s my favorite store these days. Danki!”
“It’s bergamot and sweet rosemary.”
“They make the best candles.”
“Best everything.” I glance at the gift bag. “There’s more.”
“Well, my goodness, Katie.” She digs around the bottom of the bag with gusto, pulls out the soaps and tin of tea. “Oh and just look at that pretty tin! The little soaps are nice. They smell almost as good as that candle.” My sister hugs them to her. “Did those sweet Amish girls make all of this?”
“They made the candles. I think the owner made the soap.”
“Edna,” she says.
“You know them?”
“William helped out with the plumbing right before they opened the store. Those girls were the sweetest things. Made his lunch every day and wouldn’t let him pay a penny.” She shakes her head. “I was just there last week. Had all the keys made for the new gates.”
“Keys?”
“Ja. Someone opened the gate in that back pasture last week. Let all of our goats out. One of the ewes was hit by a car and killed. William says it was probably teenagers, but it gave us a start. We’re keeping all the gates locked now. William wanted extra keys so I had duplicates made.”
“You had keys made at The Mercantile?”
“Edna made them.” Smiling conspiratorially, she leans close. “William thinks I’m quite the dutiful wife. Little did he know the only reason I went there was for the shopping.”
CHAPTER 20
It’s eight A.M. and I’ve been sitting in the parking lot of The Mercantile for half an hour, watching the construction crew work on the old round barn, thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about. I didn’t sleep much last night. My conversation with Elam Schlabach kept running through my head.
I heard he done one of them other girls Emma used to hang with.…
Is it possible? I’ve spoken with the three girls on several occasions and not once did they give me any indication that something had happened.
I guess rape and sodomy aren’t exactly the kinds of things the Amish like to talk about though, are they?
I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t spot the buggy until it stops outside the big antique door. I watch Ina Yoder and Viola Stutzman climb down. Both girls are animated and chatting with the driver as they gather their things—several brown paper bags and two large trays heaped with what looks like individually wrapped pastries. Viola turns and waves to the driver as the buggy drives away. Ina pulls a wad of keys from her pocket and starts toward the door.
I reach them as Ina unlocks the door. “Guder mariye.”
Viola startles upon hearing my voice. “Oh, Chief Burkholder! Didn’t hear you drive up. Guder mariye to you, too.”
Ina pushes open the door and ushers us inside. “We’re not quite open yet, but you’re welcome to coffee while we get the register up and running.”
“I appreciate that.”
The aromas of jasmine and peppermint and fresh-brewed coffee greet me as we clamber inside. Ina locks the door behind us.
“Is Neva here yet?” I ask.
“She always gets here early to make coffee,” Viola tells me.
“She drives a car, so the drive doesn’t take her quite as long,” Ina says with a hint of petulance.
“I heard that.”
The three of us look ahead to see Neva standing next to the customer service counter, hands on her hips, staring at us. She’s wearing a dusty pink dress with her Beachy kapp and a pair of Keds that are a little too stylish for most Amish. She makes eye contact with me. “Is everything all right, Chief Burkholder?”
“Everything’s fine,” I tell her. “I just need to speak with the three of you if you can spare a few minutes.”
Ina looks at me and nods. “We don’t open until nine, so we have some time.”
“Coffee’s made,” Neva says. “Would you like to sit?”
Viola hefts the tray of pastries. “We could sample these cranberry-orange scones.”
“Sampling pastries is not a hardship,” Ina says. “I’m starved.”
Neva motions toward the café. “As long as we don’t make a mess.”
“Famous last words,” Ina mutters.
A few minutes later, the four of us are seated in the café. It’s a small area with a smattering of tables, an antique sofa table that’s been transformed into a coffee station, and a buffet where Viola has arranged scones on paper doilies.
/> I pull the key from the plastic bag and slide it over to the center of the table. “Can any of you tell me if this duplicate key was made here at The Mercantile?”
The three girls stare at the key.
“I don’t know if there’s any way to tell.” Neva starts to reach for the key, but hesitates. “Can I look?”
“Sure.”
She picks it up, turns it over in her hand, and glances at Ina. “Is this one of ours?”
Ina shakes her head. “I don’t even know how to run the machine.”
Viola leans close for a better look. “I told Mrs. Lambright I want to learn how to make the keys. She promised to show me, but she hasn’t yet.”
“Probably need to check with Mamm on that,” Neva tells me.
“I will.” I take the key and drop it into the bag.
I look from face to face. “You heard about Ruth Petersheim?” I ask.
Neva drops her gaze to the tabletop and nods. The other two don’t meet my gaze.
“We heard,” Ina mumbles.
“Mrs. Fisher came in late yesterday and told Mamm,” Neva says. “Poor Ruthie.”
“I heard little William is going to live with his grossmudder,” Viola says, referring to the baby’s grandmother.
“Ruth’s grossmudder,” Neva says.
Ina waits a beat and then whispers, “Word is Mark may not have been the baby’s father.”
“If not Mark, then who?” I ask.
“That’s just cruel gossip if you ask me,” Viola snaps. “Especially with both of them being gone.”
“Well, people are talking,” Neva points out.
Viola’s gaze finds mine. “Do you think what happened to them has something to do with Daniel Gingerich?” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.
“I do.” I take a sip of coffee, watching, aware of a new tension zinging among us. “I know Daniel used to come in here on occasion.”
Neva shoots me a look over the rim of her cup. “Lots of people come in here.”
I don’t respond, don’t even look at her. “Did it cross your minds that maybe that information was important?”
“I think he only came in a few times,” Neva says dismissively.
Viola slurps hot chocolate. “It was a long time ago.”