“That didn’t take long,” I say.
She makes a beeline for the visitor chair opposite my desk and drops into it. She’s holding a purple folder in her left hand. A short stack of papers in her right. An expression that tells me her time and effort were fruitful.
“Did you know Emma Miller committed suicide?” she begins without preamble.
The news stops me cold. “No, but that’s certainly an interesting development.”
“She hanged herself in her parents’ barn six months ago. Mother found her body when the family came home from worship.”
“Any mention of suspected foul play?”
“No.” She glances down, opens the file, rifles through the papers. “There was an autopsy. Girl died of cerebral hypoxia. Self-induced. Petechiae present.” She flips the page. “Tox was ordered. Lab report says no drugs or alcohol were present.”
“No wonder her parents didn’t want to talk about it,” I murmur.
“Oh my God.”
That garners my full attention. Mona gapes at one of the papers in her hand, then looks up at me. “I’m just now seeing this, Chief. Says here Emma Miller was pregnant.”
“Well, hell.” Even as I feel that jump of cop’s excitement, another part of me is saddened by the thought of a seventeen-year-old Amish girl believing death was a better alternative than life.
Mona passes me the file and papers.
“Her parents didn’t mention either of those things when I talked to them.” I look down at the autopsy report where the results of a pregnancy test stare back at me in stark black and white. “This explains why.”
“Do you think any of this has something to do with what happened to Daniel Gingerich?” Mona asks.
“I think it opens a door worth looking into.”
Even as I say the words, I recall Sam and Esther Miller’s reluctance to talk to me. Is their reticence due to my being English and a police officer? Were they protecting their daughter’s privacy? Her reputation? Or do they have something to hide?
You want to know about Danny the Saint? I’d suggest you talk to Emma Miller.
What’s the connection between Daniel and Emma? It’s an important question, because even if there was no foul play involved in her death, if young Emma had a relationship with Daniel, became pregnant, and ultimately committed suicide, her father may have a motive to commit murder.
“Nice work, Mona.”
She dazzles me with a smile. “Thanks, Chief.”
“One of these days you’re going to make a damn good cop.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’ll let me know if some other department tries to steal you away, won’t you?”
“Count on it.”
* * *
It takes me half an hour to get through the file Mona amassed on Emma Miller. I am impressed not only by her thoroughness, but by her creativity when it comes to mining information not necessarily found in law enforcement databases. As I read, I’m vaguely aware of Glock arriving to start his end-of-shift reports and my second-shift officer, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, coming in early for some pre-shift bullshitting.
Mostly, I’m engaged in my reading, trying to find some connection between Daniel Gingerich and Emma Miller. There are a few parallels I can’t ignore. Both were in their late teens. Their deaths occurred just six months apart. Both happened in Holmes County. And of course Daniel did some work for the Millers.
I go through the file again, this time looking for details about Emma Miller’s life in the weeks and months before her suicide. There isn’t much. Mona made a copy of the obituary from The Budget, which, in typical Amish fashion, is simple and short. I move on to the next page to find a printout of a newspaper story from The Daily Record titled “The Mercantile Is Charmed.” In the body of the second paragraph, Emma Miller’s name is highlighted in yellow.
I read the article with interest. It’s a fluff piece written to let people know about the newest Amish-owned business in Charm, Ohio, which is about twenty minutes from Painters Mill. It’s a tourist shop that caters to out-of-towners as well as locals, selling everything from quilts and candles to housewares, chocolates, and teas. According to the article, the owners, Edna and Isaac Lambright, are also planning to open a café in the one-hundred-year-old round barn located on the same property. Mona must have done a general Google search, because Emma’s name is mentioned only in passing. But the story includes a photo of her along with three other young Amish women who are featured in the story. Evidently, Emma was one of four part-time employees, all of whom are Amish. According to the story, she was working at The Mercantile up until the day she died.
I study the photo. Emma was a pretty girl with big brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, a milky complexion, and a serious expression despite the smile. Her dress is dark gray. Kapp strings hanging down. I go to the next photo, which is a group picture of four girls. All look to be in their late teens or early twenties. All of them are smiling. Arms linked. One of the girls has her arm draped around Emma’s shoulder. Her head is thrown back in laughter. They look like a wholesome, carefree group of girls on the cusp of adulthood, their lives just beginning.
“What happened to you, Emma?” I whisper.
The only reply is silence.
* * *
The Mercantile is just down the road from the Keim Lumber Company, where Tomasetti and I spent many an afternoon while we were fixing up our farmhouse. Located in an old barn that’s been completely refurbished, The Mercantile is chock-full of personality, with massive overhead beams, reclaimed wood on three walls, galvanized metal shingles on the other, and a concrete floor that’s seen as many hooves as it has boots. It’s a rustic-chic retail shop that beckons one to peruse—and buy.
A cowbell mounted on the antique door jingles cheerfully when I enter. To my right there’s an attached silo that’s been gutted and transformed into a candle-making shop that smells of patchouli and bergamot. To the left of the counter is a railing, and just beyond it is a small café with a scattering of bistro tables and chairs. An antique buffet has been transformed into a coffee station replete with flavored beans—hazelnut, vanilla, and Southern pecan—half a dozen teas, and a pewter tray piled high with pastries.
Outside the seating area, I spy a rack of straw hats, Western style as well as Amish. Beyond, the store is a jungle of items Amish-country tourists and locals can’t live without. Gardening tools and fertilizer. An endcap display of handmade cards. Two rows are dedicated to Amish-themed Halloween costumes. I see hot pads in the shape of dog paws and I find myself thinking about my sister’s birthday.
“Can I help you find something?”
I turn to find myself looking at a pretty young Amish woman. Late teens. Raven hair. Peaches-and-cream complexion. Eyes the color of cognac. Not a stitch of makeup and she’s cosmetic-commercial pretty. She’s wearing a pastel pink dress with a white, organdy head covering that tells me she’s Beachy Amish.
She’s smiling at me, brows raised as if I’ve somehow amused her, waiting. “There’s more stuff in the back,” she tells me. “My mamm makes the soap. We’ve got lavender and rosemary this week. She puts olive oil in it for soft skin.”
“Tempting, but I’m actually here on official business.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich.”
“Oh.” Her smile falters. “I heard about it. That awful barn fire over in Painters Mill. What a horrible thing. Mamm said a bunch of the men from the church district are going to rebuild the barn for the family. We’re going to send pies. I can’t imagine losing a loved one that way.”
“That’s one of the things I admire about the Amish,” I tell her. “When tragedy strikes, you can always count—”
“Neva! Look! I finished! And it’s so pretty!”
Female voices and the pound of footsteps against the floor snap my attention to the rear of the shop. Two young Amish women burst through a curtained door. Moving fast, t
hey dart between shelving units. I guess them to be in their late teens or early twenties. They’re wearing conservative Amish dresses in different shades of blue. Off-brand sneakers. They’re giggling, shoes sliding on concrete as they race around an endcap of pet supplies.
The girl in the lead draws up short at the sight of me. She’s a tad shorter than the other two, blond and hazel eyed with a round face and twenty pounds of extra weight. Her eyes go wide upon spotting me. “Oh. Sorry.”
The second girl literally runs into the first, grunting on impact. She’s brown-haired with a widow’s peak, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on a turned-up nose. Tall and thin of build, she has the gangly arms and legs of a girl who hasn’t quite grown into them yet.
The girls are toting a large swath of fabric that looks like a quilt. It strikes me that these are the three girls in the photo taken with Emma Miller.
“I didn’t realize you were with a customer,” the brown-haired girl says softly.
The blonde is staring at my uniform. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
The Amish are generally low-key; they’re not prone to loud verbal outbursts, particularly in public. Evidently, I’ve caught them at an unguarded moment, and I find myself charmed by their innocent fun.
The girl I’d been talking to sighs. She’s trying hard to maintain her professional persona. She’s not quite succeeding, because she’s having a difficult time withholding a smile. “You finished the quilt?”
The blond girl glances at her sidekick and grins. “Just now.”
“She cheated on stitches,” says the brunette.
The blonde elbows her. “Did not.”
“Go on back to the sewing room.” The black-haired girl slants her eyes at me. “I’ll be there in a minute and we’ll take a look.”
“Ich will’s sana,” I say, looking at the quilt. I’d like to see it. “If you have a minute?”
They stare at me, as surprised that I know Deitsh as they are to see a uniformed police officer in their homey little shop. I introduce myself and show them my badge. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich over in Painters Mill.”
No one has anything to say about that.
I wait a beat and then ask, “What are your names?”
The black-haired woman—evidently the leader of the trio—sticks out her hand. “I’m Neva Lambright.”
I take her hand and we shake. She’s got small, delicate hands, but they’re callused, telling me she spends much of her time working not only here at the store, but at home as well.
“I’m the manager here at The Mercantile,” she tells me. “My parents own the place.”
I turn my attention to the blond girl. She’s several inches shorter than me, so I have to look down to meet her gaze.
“I’m Viola Stutzman.” Mimicking the older girl, she sticks out her hand with great panache, but doesn’t quite convey the same level of confidence. I don’t hold it against her. Amish girls aren’t exactly taught how to make acquaintance with the English police, and this girl seems to be the youngest of the group.
I turn my attention to the brunette. She’s tall and gangly with intelligent, watchful eyes.
“Ina Yoder.” She offers a good-natured smile. “We don’t see too many police in here,” she says as we shake.
“Evidently, they don’t know what they’re missing,” I return. “Coffee, quilts, and pastries all under one roof.”
“This old barn has been in the family for almost a hundred years,” Neva tells me. “Took some doing to restore everything. Now Mamm wants to turn that old round barn out back into a café. That’s going to be our next big project.”
She motions toward the other two girls. “Viola and Ina work here part-time.”
I let my eyes rest on Viola. “You’re the quilter?”
Nodding, she offers the quilt. “It’s my first.”
“She’s been working on it six months,” Ina whispers.
“Five,” Viola corrects.
Humility, or demut, is a core belief of the Amish. To exhibit hochmut, or pride, is frowned upon. I discern pride in the eyes of this young woman, but it’s a good kind of pride I hope she holds on to.
Taking the quilt, I run my hands over the fabric. It’s a sampler quilt, a mosaic of burgundy, cream, and brown. I see the requisite seven stitches per inch, straight and perfectly spaced. Again, I think of my sister’s birthday, but these heirloom-quality quilts are a tad out of my price range.
“Is it for sale?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head. “I’m giving this one to my grossmudder. She taught me everything I know about stitching so I thought it only right. She’s going to be seventy-two years old in November. Can’t sew as much as she used to because of her rheumatism.”
“I’m sure she’ll treasure it.” I pass the quilt back to her. “Not only because it’s beautiful, but because her granddaughter made it.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I take a moment to look around, giving them a moment to get used to me; then I glance at Neva. “Your parents did an amazing job with the place.”
“They poured their hearts into it, especially Mamm,” Neva replies. “But it was a labor of love.”
“Who knew work could be so much fun,” Ina says.
“And we get a discount on all the merchandise,” Viola adds.
“One-stop shopping for Christmas.” I shift the conversation back to the subject at hand. “I understand Emma Miller used to work here.”
The mention of their deceased coworker dims what had been a buoyant mood. Glances are exchanged and then their eyes are lowered.
“Our sweet Emma,” Neva says.
“Did you know her well?” I ask.
“We were best friends.” She makes eye contact with the other two women, including them. “The four of us, I mean. We were like sisters. Practically grew up together. Went to school together.”
“Emma worked here part-time,” Viola says.
“She made the candles,” Ina adds.
Neva shakes her head, smiling. “Emma and her candles.”
“For the longest time after she died, I kept expecting to see her rush through the door, all excited to tell us about some new fragrance she’d concocted.” This from Viola.
“She was so creative,” Neva tells me. “A good girl and an even better friend.”
“We all loved Emma,” Ina says. “She was a gentle soul and…” Sighing, she looks around. “It’s not the same around here without her, that’s for sure. I miss her every day.”
There’s a sweetness inherent to teenage girls and young women. That innocence and incorruptibility seems to run even deeper in the Amish. In the back of my mind, I wonder if I was ever that young. If I was ever that innocent …
I press on. “I understand Emma knew Daniel Gingerich.”
The silence that follows goes on a beat too long. Both Ina and Viola look to the slightly older Neva to answer. “If I remember correctly,” Neva says, “I think he did some work for her parents on their farm.”
“Were they friends?” I ask.
“I think she may have gone to a singing with him once,” Viola says.
Ina wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think she liked him that much.”
“Why not?” I ask.
Viola gives a half smile. “Emma was all about Elam Schlabach.”
“Elam was Emma’s beau,” Ina clarifies.
“Besides, Daniel already had a girlfriend,” Neva tells me.
“Oh, I almost forgot about Ruth,” Viola says.
“Her name is Luane,” Neva corrects.
“I think he courted Ruth Beiler for a time,” Ina says.
“Daniel and Ruth went to a singing once or twice,” Viola puts in.
Neva firmly overrules them. “Luane Raber was his beau and has been for as long as I can remember.”
It’s the first I’ve heard the two names, and though they may not be important, I jot them in my notebook. “So Da
niel and Emma weren’t close?”
“They were more like acquaintances,” Neva replies.
“Barely knew each other,” Ina adds.
“What about while Daniel was working for her parents at the farm?” I ask. “Did they see each other then? Interact?”
Ina shrugs and looks at the other two girls. “I don’t really know about that.”
Neva shakes her head. “She never mentioned it.”
“Did Emma ever have any disagreements or arguments with Daniel?” I ask.
Neva laughs. “Emma never said a cross word to anyone.”
“She’d agree with you just to be polite,” Ina adds.
I consider the dynamics of relationships among young men and women, all of those gnarly complexities, emotions that can be a little too intense, and, of course, hormones. It’s far too easy for those early connections to become cumbersome, even among the Amish.
“So Emma and Elam Schlabach were tight?” I make eye contact with each of the girls.
Viola blushes, looks down at the floor.
Neva holds my gaze. “Emma was crazy about Elam. He loved her, too. But she was kind of shy. You know, quiet about such things.”
Ina chuckles. “We had to practically pry things out of her and even then she didn’t tell us much.”
“Did Elam know Daniel and Emma went to a singing together?” I ask.
The girls exchange quick glances. Uncertain, I realize, and loyal to Emma even though she’s gone. They’re not sure where I’m going with this line of questioning, but they don’t like the direction or the connotations.
Again, Viola and Ina look to Neva. “If he knew about it,” she says, “I don’t think it was a big deal for either of them. Daniel never really entered the picture.”
“Is Elam the jealous type?” I ask.
“He’s pretty laid-back, actually,” Neva tells me.
“Were any other boys interested in Emma?”
“All the boys liked her,” Viola responds.