“Had you been in my shoes, you would have done the same thing.”
He starts to argue the point, but I raise my hand and press two fingers against his lips. “Shhh. I’m here. I’m okay. It’s over.”
Taking my hand from his mouth, he turns it over in his and brushes his lips across my knuckles. “What am I going to do with you?”
“For starters, you can take me home.”
CHAPTER 25
An hour later, Tomasetti and I are in my Explorer eastbound on State Route 11 traveling toward Roaring Springs. Unbeknownst to me, he’d rented a car in Wooster, made the nine-hour trip in seven, and returned the rental car in Plattsburgh, so we could drive my vehicle back to Painters Mill.
I’m thankful because I didn’t get much sleep last night; I’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline most of the day. Now that those two things are waning, I’m starting to relax. The case is over, I can leave Roaring Springs, and I’m ridiculously happy Tomasetti is here to drive me home.
I must have dozed because when I open my eyes we’re idling through downtown Roaring Springs. It’s nearly four P.M. and the downtown area is, as usual, deserted.
Tomasetti glances over at me and takes my hand. “I figured you’d sleep.”
I sit up straighter, give his hand a squeeze. “Didn’t want to miss seeing this place in the rearview mirror.”
It’s a true statement. But the heart is a fickle thing. When I see the sign for The Calico Country Store, an emotion I can’t quite identify jumps inside me. I find myself thinking of Laura Hershberger and her homey little shop and for the first time it occurs to me that not all of my time spent here was unpleasant.
I glance over at Tomasetti. “Are you game for a cup of coffee?”
He knows it’s not coffee I’m craving, but he doesn’t ask and angles the Explorer into a parking space.
“This is the shop where I met the Amish women,” I tell him.
“Ah … the quilt shop where you passed off someone else’s work as your own.”
“Thanks for reminding me of that.”
But we grin at each other as we disembark.
Snow flutters down from a pale sky as we cross the sidewalk. Tomasetti opens the door for me. The cowbell jingles cheerily as we walk inside. The aromas of hazelnut coffee and cinnamon rolls welcome us. The shop is quiet; a single customer picks through the jams and jellies at the far wall. The Mennonite girl at the cash register looks up from her romance novel and smiles.
An uncomfortable pang sounds in my chest. While I don’t necessarily want to be here, I know this is the last time I’ll walk through that door. The last time I’ll see these women I’ve come to care about. The last time I’ll come so close to being the woman I might’ve been had I remained Amish. While I’m happy with who I am, there’s an odd sense of loss in there somewhere.
Our shoes are muted against the plank floor as we start toward the back. There’s no chatter of female conversation this afternoon. No sound of laughter. Not even the sharp tone of a lively debate. News travels fast in the Amish community; more than likely, the women have heard what happened at Schrock’s compound last night and they’re still absorbing the shock of it. I imagine the day has been rife with emotion as they deal with the ensuing disbelief and disappointment.
Pleasure flickers high in my chest when I see the women sitting at the sewing table—Laura Hershberger, Lena, Naomi, and Ada—and I’m glad I took the time to bid my Amish friends farewell.
My chair, of course, is vacant. Someone has placed a stuffed teddy bear on Rebecca’s. The lovely tulip basket pattern quilt is spread out on the table before them, all hands busy with the requisite seven stitches per inch.
“Hello, ladies,” I say to them. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” How goes it now?
“Kate! Oh my goodness!” Laura takes the time to finish a stitch before looking up. “We’ve been wondering—” Her words end abruptly as she takes my measure: Jeans. Leather knee boots. Black puffy coat. Purple scarf.
Slowly, she rises. “Kate?”
Naomi does a double take, a sound of surprise escapes her. “Oh!”
Lena seems to be frozen in her chair, eyes wide, her hand pressed protectively over her belly. “Was der is kshicht?” What’s happening?
“We heard you were caught up in all that mess at the bishop’s farm,” Laura says.
“The police wouldn’t tell us anything,” Ada puts in.
“The story in The Bridge said there were bad goings on out at Bishop Schrock’s barn,” Naomi adds in a subdued voice.
“That the sheriff was killed,” Lena puts in.
“Can’t hardly believe any of it.” Laura crosses to me and throws her arms around me. “I’m glad you’re okay. We’ve been worried.”
“Me too. Thank you.” I hug her back. She smells like lavender soap and I let my arms linger around her a beat too long. “I couldn’t leave without…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence so I let the words trail.
“What is this?” Naomi gestures at my clothes. “You’re leaving the plain life?”
“I haven’t been Amish for a long time,” I tell her.
The four women fall silent.
“I don’t understand,” Laura says.
“I’m a police officer.” I give them the condensed version of my assignment. “After Rachel Esh died, the local police became worried about the children. There were a lot of rumors. I traveled here from Ohio to see if I could find out what was going on.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Lena says when I’m finished.
Laura shushes her. “So you’re not Kate Miller from Ohio…”
“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder from Painters Mill.”
Laura blinks as if trying to absorb all of it. “It must have been very difficult for you.”
“It was,” I tell her. “You made it a little easier.”
Her eyes go soft. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, everything that happened at the farm. We put our faith in him.”
Naomi shakes her head. “I suppose we all knew something wasn’t right.”
“Especially Rebecca,” Ada adds.
“We didn’t want to think the worst about the bishop,” Lena puts in.
“We should have,” Laura interjects.
“Eli Schrock is no bishop,” I tell them. “Not even close.”
“We trusted him,” Lena says. “We believed in him. Looked to him for guidance.”
“He lied to you,” I tell them. “He betrayed you. All of you.”
“The elders are to have a meeting tonight,” Naomi informs me.
“Abe Gingerich has already been in touch with the bishop in Conewango Valley,” Laura adds. “They’re sending their deacon and one of their preachers. I suppose we’ll be nominating a new bishop.”
“A new beginning,” I say.
A lull settles and Laura tosses a speculative look at Tomasetti. “You’re a policeman, too?”
Stepping forward, he extends his hand to her. “Agent Tomasetti, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”
Laura nods and turns her attention back to me. “What you did. Coming here. Alone. It was a very brave thing to do, Kate Miller.”
“Burkholder,” I correct her.
She grins. “No offense, but I liked you better as Kate Miller.”
The laughter that follows is subdued.
“You can renew the lease on your shop now,” I tell Laura.
“I’m happy I won’t have to close it,” she replies, looking pleased. “Sad about the other things. But such is life.”
“When a door closes, a window opens,” Naomi says.
Across the table, Lena winces, gives a small gasp. All heads turn her way.
“Sorry,” she says, looking embarrassed. “Just Braxton-Hicks.”
“Braxton-Hicks?” Naomi gives her a puzzled look. “Who’s that?”
Lena chuckles.
Laura sets her hand on Naomi’s. “Just the little one making himself
known.”
I look at Lena. “Will you be using a midwife?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t have a midwife.”
“I thought Mary Gingerich was a midwife,” Naomi says absently.
Something pings in my brain. “Mary’s a midwife?” I ask.
“Before she came to Roaring Springs,” Laura tells me. “She was a midwife in Cambria County, Pennsylvania.”
Mary Gingerich was a midwife.
“In any case,” I tell them, “I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye to my Amish friends.”
We exchange our final good-byes and hugs. I wish Lena luck with her baby and Laura with the shop. Then Tomasetti and I are on the sidewalk. I stop midway to the Explorer and look at him.
“I didn’t know Mary Gingerich was a midwife,” I say.
His gaze sharpens on mine. “You’re thinking about the Esh girl.”
I nod. “I’m not sure it matters now, but according to the ME, she’d been recently pregnant and may have had a home abortion.”
“You think Gingerich might have performed the abortion?”
“I think it’s worth asking about.” I motion toward the storefront of The Dutch Kitchen. “She’s a waitress there. Want to walk with me?”
“Probably not a good idea for me to let you out of my sight at this point.” But he smiles.
The Dutch Kitchen is nearly deserted this afternoon. The only customer is a middle-aged man wearing khaki pants and a JCPenney shirt and tie who taps on an iPad and sips coffee in one of the booths. The aromas of French fries and coffee float on the warm air as we make our way to the counter. Mary Gingerich is there, scrubbing the sink with a good bit of vigor. I glance toward the pass-through, but the Amish man who’d been there last time I was here is nowhere in sight.
“Be with you in a—” Straightening, Mary cuts the words short and stares at me with unabashed shock. “Kate?”
“Hi, Mary.” I climb onto a stool. I don’t reach for the coffee cup turned upside down in front of me. “How are you today? How’s Abe?”
Her eyes flick over my street clothes and then sweep over to Tomasetti and back to me. “But … what … I don’t understand.”
I tell her the same thing I told Laura and the other women. “Eli Schrock’s in jail facing an array of charges. Sheriff Suggs is dead.”
“Mein Gott.” She presses her hand against her stomach, takes a step back. “I heard something happened out there last night. I knew it was bad, but … I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore,” I tell her. “You and Abe are safe now.”
I’m aware of Tomasetti sliding onto the stool beside me. His attention divided between me and Mary.
“So you’re not Amish?” she asks, trying to regain her composure.
“Not for a long time.”
“I can’t believe Bishop Schrock was doing the things they said. I can’t believe he’s … in jail. An Amish bishop.”
“He’s no bishop, Mary. He never was. He’s a predator. Maybe worse. Now that he’s locked up, no more intimidation. No more threats or hurting people. No more lies.”
“So many things have happened.” She makes a sound of pure emotion, fighting tears. “Bad things.”
“I know. It’s over.” I give her a moment. “Mary, I need to ask you some questions and I need you to be honest with me.”
“Questions about what?”
“Rachel Esh.”
“Rachel…” She looks down at the soapy sponge in her hand. “She was such a sweet girl. A good girl. She was so kind to my Anna.”
“I know you were a midwife in Cambria County, Pennsylvania,” I say.
Her gaze jerks to mine. I see knowledge in her eyes; she knows where I’m going with this. Fresh tears shimmer in their depths.
“You know Rachel had recently been with child before she died,” I tell her.
She glances past me at the lone customer, as if wishing he’d call her over and ask for something. But he hasn’t moved from his place in the booth or taken his eyes off the iPad.
When Mary finally speaks, her voice is so low I have to lean closer to hear. “Rachel and Marie were such pretty little girls. Sweet and funny and … exuberant.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “It broke my heart when Schrock took notice of them.
“Rachel was still a child. She’d just turned fifteen.” Pressing her hand to her chest, she lowers her voice. “A few weeks … after. She came to me one night, crying. Hysterical because she was ime familye weg.” In the family way.
“Schrock was the father?” I ask.
Mary looks away, drops the sponge in the sink. A shudder runs through her. She shakes her head. “Not Schrock.”
“Who?”
She lowers her voice. “The policeman. The big man with red hair.”
Suggs.
For the first time, the sheriff’s suicide makes sense. “He molested a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Yes.”
I have no way of knowing exactly what happened. Suggs told me he was involved because of the sex. I wonder if Schrock knew about the sheriff’s weakness and offered up Rachel Esh to keep Suggs happy. To keep the sheriff quiet. But I know sometimes lines can be blurred.
I look at Mary. “Why did Rachel come to you?”
“She was going to run away. I offered to help her. So I gave her money, helped her plan it.”
“What else?”
Mary closes her eyes tightly. Tears squeeze between her lashes. “She didn’t want the baby. She asked me to … make it go away. She knew I used to be a midwife. I knew how to make her bleed.”
“You aborted the pregnancy?”
She nods. “She wasn’t so far along, you know. Just a few weeks. I thought it would be like a regular monthly episode for her.” She shrugs. “She was young enough so that she’d forget the pain of what we’d done and move on with her life. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted her to be away from here. Away from Schrock and Suggs and the rest of them.
“She left the next morning and I never saw her sweet face again.” She puts her hand over her mouth to smother a sob.
Next to me, Tomasetti takes my hand and squeezes. I don’t look at him; I can’t. All of those gnarly parallels between Rachel Esh—and me—hover too close to the surface. The circumstances are different, but too much is the same. I was lucky; I got to live my life. Rachel didn’t.
Reaching into my pocket, I remove Frank Betancourt’s card and slide it across the counter. “When you’re ready, you need to call him and tell him what happened.”
She looks down at the card as if it’s on fire. “Am I in trouble with the law?”
I struggle to find the right words. I meet Mary’s gaze and hold it. “Detective Betancourt is mainly going to want to know everything Rachel told you about Dan Suggs. The rest is up to you.”
CHAPTER 26
When I was nine years old and grumbling about some chore I’d been tasked with by my mamm, my grossmuder made a statement I never forgot: Appreciation has the power to transform the mundane into something beautiful. At the time, I was too young to understand the wisdom of those words. It wasn’t until decades later that I realized my grossmuder was as wise as she was astute and very much unappreciated by her nine-year-old granddaughter.
It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting at my beat-up desk in my cramped little office, trying to ignore the cold draft wafting down from the window that looks out over downtown Painters Mill. The once-vibrant fiddle leaf fig plant my team of officers gave me for my birthday last summer is as dried and brown as a cornstalk. The old steel file cabinet next to the door looks as if it’s been run through a car crusher and hastily refurbished. I won’t even get into the paint on the walls—or the lack thereof.
I love every imperfect inch of this place. Through the open door, I can hear my dispatchers cutting up with my officers. Glock and Skid debating a topic that shouldn’t be discussed in mixed company. Pickles grousing about a mo
torist that sped through the elementary school crosswalk this afternoon. Mona’s talking about how things will be done when she’s a cop—a possibility that might just become a reality one of these days. I don’t have to look to know there’s more than likely a good bit of flirting going on as well.
I listen, smiling, and a sense of belonging and pride swells in my chest. Not for the first time since finishing my assignment in Roaring Springs, I count my blessings.
I’m putting the finishing touches on my notes for our weekly meeting when my third shift dispatcher, Mona, sticks her head in my office. “Gang’s all here, Chief.”
“Thanks, Mona. I’ll be right there.”
“Oh, and you have a visitor.”
I look up from my notes to see Tomasetti standing slightly behind her in the hall, Mr. Professional dressed to the hilt in a slate gray suit and the paisley tie I bought him for Father’s Day last year. We’ve never made it official, but I suspect just about everyone here at the station knows we’re a couple. We don’t discuss it, and he doesn’t visit me here often. But that’s one of the things about small town life: keeping secrets, especially big ones, is nearly impossible.
Behind him, Mona grins like an idiot. Slipping into my chief of police persona, I make eye contact with her. She loses the smile, but gives me a thumbs up, then melts back into the hall.
“Sorry to interrupt right before your meeting,” he says as he enters my office.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Going to be a short one.” I glance out the window. “Looks like we’re in for some snow and I wanted to get everyone out of here early.”
“You’re such a hard ass.”
“I do my best.”
I turn my attention to the good-size cardboard box tucked beneath his arm. He sets it on my desk. “I had to drive into town so I thought I’d bring this by.”
“What is it?”
“Not sure.” He extracts a pocketknife from his slacks. “From Roaring Springs.”
I look at the return address and something warm quivers in my chest. “The Calico Country Store.”
He cuts the boxing tape seal and pries open the box. We peer inside. A pretty handmade card on top. Something wrapped in white paper.