Bishop Troyer sidles up to me. “I’m very glad she stopped crying.”
Alarm niggles me at the thought of holding a screaming baby, but I shove it aside. “Bishop, do you have any idea who might’ve left her with you?”
The three of us stare down at the baby. “I don’t know,” he says, looking baffled.
“Do you know of any expectant mothers who might’ve been confused or frightened about having a baby?” I prod. “Troubled marriages, maybe?”
“No, Katie,” he tells me. “Nothing like that.”
I nod, knowing that even in the Amish community, some secrets are tightly held.
“Bishop, can you take us through exactly what happened?” Tomasetti asks.
The old man relays the story from the moment he was awakened until he opened the door and discovered the laundry basket on the front porch. “I think there was a knock, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?” I ask. “A car? Or a buggy?”
He nods. “When I stepped onto the porch, I heard something or someone on the other side of the lilac bushes. I called out, but they ran away.”
I recall the tall bushes that grow alongside the lane. “Did you see anyone?”
He shakes his head. “It was too dark.”
“Any idea how long the baby was on the porch?” Tomasetti asks.
“Not too long,” the bishop replies. “Once I was awake, I got up right away and came downstairs.”
Tomasetti nods down at the baby in my arms. “The quilt was with her?”
“Yes.”
I look closely at the quilt. It’s a pretty patchwork of rose and cream. “It’s Amish,” I tell him.
“A nine patch.”
I glance up to see the bishop’s wife approach, fully dressed and toting a second crib blanket. “To keep her from catching a chill.”
“Ada, do you recognize the workmanship on this quilt?” I ask.
She examines the fabric. “Hmmm. I don’t recognize the stitching. Or the pattern or color combination. And there are no initials. It’s well made, though.”
I turn my attention to the bishop. “Was there anything else with her?”
The Amish man picks up a wooden rattle off the table and hands it to me. “I believe this is Amisch, too. My uncle made several just like it for our children.”
“Sometimes the women will crochet a little cover for the newborns,” Ada adds. “Makes it softer for the tender gums since they like to put everything in their mouths.”
The rattle is made of wood—maple or birch—and constructed with a four-inch-long smooth dowel with one-inch round caps on either end, and three rings around the center.
I turn my attention to the bishop. “We’re going to need to take that.”
Tomasetti reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and removes a small evidence bag. He holds it open and the bishop drops the rattle inside. “Probably need the laundry basket, too,” he says.
“Of course,” the bishop says.
The infant in my arms begins to cry. I try jiggling her gently, but the movement feels awkward and unpracticed. The baby isn’t appeased. Slowly, the cries transform to wails. I break a sweat beneath my jacket.
Everyone seems to take it in stride, but it rattles my nerves, and I realize everyone in the room has experienced this at some point in their lives. To me, this is as foreign as a trip to the moon.
I look helplessly at Tomasetti.
“You look like you could use some backup, Chief,” he says in a low voice.
“The thought crossed my mind,” I mutter.
“I’d take her off your hands, but I was going to grab the Maglite and take a look around outside.”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t notice the sweat beading on my forehead.
Finally, Ada takes pity on me. “I’ll take her, Katie, if you need to do your police work.”
“Thanks.”
With the ease of a woman who’s carried out the maneuver a thousand times, Ada sets both hands beneath the crying child and scoops her into her arms. “Come to grossmudder,” she whispers. Grandmother.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Tomasetti go through the front door.
“Maybe she’s hungry,” the bishop offers.
Ada holds the child against her, rocking and humming softly. “I got a teaspoon or so of goat’s milk down her earlier.”
A knock sounds. Relief flits through me when I realize the social worker from Children’s Services has arrived. The bishop leaves us to answer the door.
“Chief Burkholder?”
A young woman with curly red hair and a navy pantsuit walks into the living room in front of the bishop. “I’m Carly Travis with Children’s Services.”
She looks capable and professional in her chic suit and briefcase/purse slung over her shoulder. I introduce myself as I cross to her and we shake hands. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
The social worker’s face softens into a smile upon spotting the wriggling, crying bundle. “Oh, my.” Her eyes meet the Amish woman’s. “Can I have a peek?”
Smiling, Ada peels back a corner of the quilt. The social worker actually giggles. “I think that’s the cutest newborn I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“They’re not all pretty like this one.” The Amish woman uses her pinky finger to tickle the little roll of fat beneath the infant’s chin.
Leave it to a baby to bring the most unlikely people together, I think. “Carly, do you have a baby seat in your vehicle?”
“Never leave home without it.”
I nod. “I thought we should get her checked out at the hospital first thing.”
“Definitely.” Carly makes eye contact with Ada and holds out her arms. “May I take her?”
“Oh, I kind of hate to see this one go.” But the Amish woman relinquishes the baby.
Carly expertly takes the child into her arms. “Even when you haven’t known them for long, it’s always hard to let them go,” she says softly. “Isn’t it, pretty girl?”
“What will happen to her now?” the bishop asks.
“We’ll take her to the hospital for a checkup,” I tell him. “Once we make sure she’s stable and healthy, she’ll probably be placed in a foster home. In the meantime, I’m going to try to find her mother and father.”
The old Amish couple exchange a look that betrays their concern. For the baby. Maybe for the mother, especially if she’s Amish.
I nod at the social worker. “Tomasetti and I will follow you to the Hospital.”
Taking a final peek at the newborn, Carly flips the corner of the quilt over the baby’s head. “Since we’re getting a police escort, I’ll get her buckled in.”
* * *
I spend an hour in the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg with the abandoned newborn—now dubbed “Baby Doe.” The social worker and I talk shop while the baby is thoroughly examined. A blood sample is taken from her little heel for DNA that will, hopefully, be matched with the mother’s DNA when—or if—she’s found.
Once the infant girl is deemed stable and given a clean bill of health, I leave her in the capable hands of the social worker and make my way to the OB department to speak with the RN on duty.
I find Louann Zeigler at the nurse’s station, her fingers flying over the keyboard of a sleek laptop. I’ve met her a couple of times over the years in the course of my job. She’s friendly, capable and, luckily for me, always seems to have a pretty good handle on the goings-on inside the hospital.
She looks up from her computer screen and smiles when I approach. “Hi, Chief Burkholder,” she says. “How can I help you?”
I tell her about the abandoned newborn.
“I just heard,” she says with a shake of her head. “Doctor Atherton—he’s the head of pediatrics here at Pomerene—is looking at her now. He says you probably got her here just in time. Any longer and we might have been dealing with dehydration issues or even hypothermia.”
“
I’m wondering if you’re aware of any expectant moms who were upset by their pregnancy or troubled or confused about having a baby,” I begin.
“Not off the top of my head.” Her brows knit. “Occasionally, we’ll have a patient get upset when her pregnancy is confirmed. Usually, a case like that is a young woman who’s not married or she’s not ready for kids, and the pregnancy is unplanned. I’ve seen it happen to women in unhappy or abusive relationships, too.”
She thinks about it for a moment and then shakes her head. “We’re a relatively small department, Chief Burkholder. I come into contact with most of our maternity patients, and I can’t think of a single woman who was in any way ambiguous or unhappy about her pending birth. Then again, women are good at keeping secrets when they feel they need to.”
Disappointment ripples through me, but it’s short-lived. I hadn’t really expected her to relay much in the way of useful information. I’m pretty sure the woman who abandoned Baby Doe is Amish. While the hospital was the logical place to begin my search, I know this case isn’t going to reveal its mysteries easily.
* * *
I drop Tomasetti at the farm. By the time I park in front of the Siess Kaffi baby shop on Main Street, it’s nearly ten A.M. Siess Kaffi is Pennsylvania Dutch for “Sweet Coffee.” The term is borne from the tradition in some Amish communities of a new mother serving coffee with sugar when she receives visitors after the birth of her baby. The shop is a tourist favorite and sells everything from crib quilts to bassinettes and just about everything in between.
On the passenger seat beside me the quilt in which Baby Doe was wrapped and the rattle found with her are sealed in evidence bags. Grabbing both items, I exit the Explorer and head inside.
The wind chimes hanging on the front door tinkle like tiny bells when I walk in. The aromas of vanilla and lavender greet me. A middle-aged Amish woman stands behind the counter manning an antique-looking cash register and chatting with a tourist who’s just purchased an Amish-made stuffed lamb and a wooden sign that reads: MY GREATEST BLESSING.
The shop is jam-packed with every kind of baby item a new mom or dad could possibly need, including old-fashioned baby bottles, handmade vintage toy,s and an entire wall of awe-inspiring crib quilts.
“Can I help you with something?”
I turn to see a second Amish woman standing a few feet behind me. She’s wearing a gray dress with the requisite organdy kapp and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. I guess her to be about forty years old.
“Hi.” I introduce myself and extend my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I’m Laura Schlabach. Welcome to Siess Kaffi.”
“You have some lovely things.”
“Danki. All made with Amisch hands, too,” she tells me. “Hard to find that kind of workmanship these days.”
“I’m investigating a case, Mrs. Schlabach, and I’m wondering if you might be able to identify a couple of baby items.”
She’s already peering down at the evidence bags in my hand, curious eyes prying. “I can try.” Nodding, she turns and starts toward the counter. “Better light over here.”
I follow her to the cash register, set the evidence bags atop the well-worn counter, and pull out the folded quilt. “Do you recognize the workmanship?” I ask.
She picks up the quilt and tilts her head back, gazing at it through her bifocals. “It’s nicely made.” She runs her fingers over the fabric. “Stitching is good and straight. And such pretty colors for a little one.” She lowers the quilt and looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t recognize the workmanship, though, and it didn’t come from this shop.”
“What about the fabric?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “These pieces are old. See the fading there? The worn threads? The patchwork on this quilt comes from a lifetime of use.”
Nodding, I tuck the quilt back into its plastic nest and pull out the rattle. “What about this?”
Laura takes the rattle, turns it over in her hands, looking at it carefully from all angles. “I’ve seen some like it over the years. The wood is nice and smooth. Probably Amisch made. The men are so good with the carving.” She hands it back to me. “It didn’t come from Siess Kaffi.”
Disappointment presses into me as I slide the rattle back into the evidence bag. “I appreciate your time.”
She offers a sage look. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so anxious to find out where those items came from?”
As the police chief of a small town where gossip can quickly grow into unwieldy half-truths or hurtful speculation, I’m careful how much information I pass along and to whom. But with this case—and since the cat is already out of the bag, so to speak—the community may be one of my best sources of information. “A newborn was abandoned early this morning,” I tell her. “A little girl, just hours old. Someone left her on the bishop’s front steps.”
“Oh, Good Lord. A baby.” The woman presses a hand to her chest. “Is the poor thing okay?”
“She’s doing fine.” I think of the tiny face that had stared back at me and, despite the situation, I find myself smiling. “We’re calling her Baby Doe.”
“Baby Doe.” The woman looks at me over her glasses and smiles back at me. “Kind of catchy.”
“Mrs. Schlabach, if you hear anything that might help me find the mother, will you let me know?”
“You think she’s Amisch?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I can’t imagine. The birth of a baby to an Amish family is always a happy occasion. Children are a gift from the Lord.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what kind of woman would leave her own baby.”
“A frightened one. A confused one.” I shrug. “Someone who, perhaps, felt she couldn’t care for a child at this point in her life.”
“Well, I’ll pray for the little one and her mamm,” she tells me. “And I’ll keep my ear to the grapevine.”
Leaving her with my card, I gather the evidence bags and start toward the door.
* * *
Back in the Explorer, I call my first shift dispatcher, Lois. “I need you to put out a press release on our newborn,” I tell her.
“No luck finding the parents?” she asks.
“I think this is going to be one of those cases where the public might be able to help. Hopefully, someone knows something and will come forward.”
“You think the mother is from this area, Chief?”
“I do. I think she’s Amish or has some connection to the Amish. I just don’t know what it is.” I pause. “Don’t put that in the press release.”
She laughs. “Gotcha.” We fall silent and then she adds, “You know, Chief, a pregnant belly isn’t exactly an easy thing to hide.”
I consider that for a moment. “But not impossible,” I say. “Loose clothing. Minimal weight gain. A lack of suspicion by friends and family members. I suspect it happens more often than we think.”
“I’ll get the press release out immediately, Chief.”
“Thanks.”
The Care Cottage Birthing Center is located off the highway between Painters Mill and the Coshocton County line to the south. The facility is managed by several certified Amish midwives with a local ob-gyn on call. Local Amish women have been having babies here for as long as I can remember.
The birthing center is housed in a circa-1950s bungalow to which a drive-through portico has been constructed so buggies can pull up directly to the front door in inclement weather. There are two buggies in the parking lot, the horses still hitched, and a white van parked at the side. On the west side, there are two horse pens with a divided loafing shed and a big aluminum watering trough in case the father-to-be needs to spend the night. I park beneath the shade of a maple tree bursting with fall color and take the wide steps to the front door.
The interior of Care Cottage is homey and warm and welcoming. Instead of the medicinal odors I’d anticipated, the place s
mells of cinnamon and clean linens. The door opens to a large waiting area that looks more like an Amish living room. There’s a blue sofa set against the wall and bracketed on either side by vintage end tables. A bay window with lace curtains looks out over a field where the corn has already been cut and bundled. A slightly-battered coffee table is covered with magazines, inspirational books and Es Nei Teshtament, a Bible translated into Pennsylvania Dutch. Next to a recliner, a toy box full of wooden Amish-crafted toys—tops and a little dog on wheels that can be pulled with a string—invites fidgety youngsters to play while mamm is seeing the midwife.
An elderly Mennonite woman wearing a green print dress and small organdy head covering stands at the reception counter, her arthritis-bent fingers pecking at a computer keyboard. Her name tag tells me her name is Ruth and she’s a volunteer.
“Hello,” I say as I cross to the counter.
She glances up from her work and startles a little at the sight of my uniform. “Oh. Hello there.” She chuckles. “Didn’t expect to see a woman policeman.”
I introduce myself. “I’m working on a case and was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”
“I will if I can,” she says. “Can’t imagine what would bring a policeman to a birthing center, though.”
I give her the rundown on Baby Doe and take her through the same series of questions I asked the RN at the hospital.
“I’m sure you know the majority of our clientele here at Care Cottage are Amish,” she tells me. “We’ve had several Englischer women in the last few months; most were interested in a more natural birthing process. And of course we’re more affordable here than a typical hospital.” Her mouth tightens and she gives a nod. “The birth of a baby is usually a happy occasion.”
“What about a very young woman? Have you had any teenagers come in?” I ask. “Or perhaps an unmarried woman?”
“We had one unmarried Mennonite woman come down from Cleveland. That’s been a couple of months ago, and to tell you the truth, she wasn’t too concerned about not having a husband.”
“Have any women come in for a prenatal checkup and not returned?” I prod. “Or do you know of any women who were in an unhappy or abusive relationship?”