After the Storm

  I’ve just shut down my computer, when my phone buzzes. I glance down to see SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT pop up on the display.

  “How’re you feeling today, Chief?” Sheriff Rasmussen begins.

  “Like the train conductor didn’t see me standing on the tracks.”

  He chuckles. “I thought you’d want to know … that brass we found last night is, indeed, .22 caliber. Considering the distance, probably from a rifle. Crime-scene guy dug a slug out of your dash. Unfortunately, it’s fragmented, so we’re not going to be able to do anything with striations.”

  “Lots of people have .22 rifles around here.” Including the Amish, a little voice reminds me.

  “We may have gotten lucky, Kate. There’s a partial print on the casing. We don’t know if it’s enough, but they’re going to run it through AFIS and see if there’s a match. Tomasetti’s expediting everything for us.”

  AFIS is the acronym for the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. I feel a little swell of pride in my chest at the mention of Tomasetti. “Thanks.”

  “We stepped up patrols in all of Holmes County as well as Painters Mill proper. I’ve got my guys on mandatory OT.”

  “I appreciate that, Mike. Keep me posted, will you?”

  “You know it. Take it easy today.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  Reuben and Naomi Kaufman live on a farm several miles south of Charm just off of County Road 600. It’s a huge place with two big bank-style barns and a white silo in dire need of fresh paint. In the field that runs alongside the frontage road, two aging draft horses nibble overgrazed grass next to a mossy pond. I turn into the gravel driveway and park my borrowed unmarked Crown Vic beneath the shade of an elm tree and take the sidewalk to the front porch. The two-story farmhouse is plain with tall windows covered on the inside with dark fabric. Two rocking chairs sit on a porch that’s been recently swept, but there are no flowerpots or hanging planters. Some Amish plant elaborate gardens, row after row of vegetables bordered by hundreds of beautiful flowers—petunias and daisies and geraniums. This garden is as plain as the house, with a dozen or more rows of tomatoes, corn, and green beans.

  In light of the shooting last night, I’d considered bringing Glock with me, but Reuben and Naomi Kaufman are Swartzentruber, and I suspect they’ll be more inclined to talk to me if I’m alone. That’s not to say my being formerly Amish will open any doors. My fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch may help. But I’ve found that when dealing with Old Order Amish, especially with my being a cop, the fact that I left the fold trumps my heritage every time.

  It’s a beautiful day. The humidity adds a slight haze, but a breeze and the shade make the air feel good against my skin as I start toward the house. A mourning dove coos from the wind vane mounted atop the nearest barn. Sparrows chatter at me as I walk past a bird feeder filled with millet and crushed corn. I ascend the steps, open the storm door, and knock.

  A moment later, the door opens and I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman in a dark gray dress that reaches nearly to her ankles. She’s wearing the traditional kapp over steel gray hair that’s thinning at her crown. “Can I help you?” Her inflection tells me she speaks Pennsylvania Dutch more often than English.

  “Guder nammidaag.” Good afternoon. “Mrs. Kaufman?”

  “Ja.” Her pale blue eyes sweep over me, taking in my uniform, and her nose wrinkles slightly, as if she’s breathed in some unpleasant odor. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m working on a case, and if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “We’re Amish. I don’t see how we can help you with some Englischer case.”

  “May I come inside, Mrs. Kaufman? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

  After a moment of hesitation, she opens the door.

  I step into a rectangular living room with rough-hewn plank floors covered with a knot rug that’s seen better days. The windows are covered with dark blue fabric, ushering in barely enough light for me to see a blue sofa against the wall, a rocking chair draped with an afghan, and a black potbellied stove in the corner.

  I shove my sunglasses onto my crown. The woman’s eyes narrow when she notices my black eyes. Smiling, I tap my right temple with my finger. “I was in a car accident last night.”

  “Oh.” She nods, her expression telling me I probably deserved it for driving a motorized vehicle in the first place. “Would you like iced tea, Chief Burkholder? It’s chamomile and mint, from the garden.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t stay,” I tell her.

  The sound of the floor creaking draws my attention. I glance toward the kitchen to see an Amish man in a wheelchair rolling through the doorway. Reuben Kaufman, I think. He looks older than sixty-seven. He’s wearing a blue shirt over narrow, bony shoulders. Black trousers. Suspenders. A flat-brimmed summer hat.

  He makes eye contact with me. When he opens his mouth, I see he’s missing a lower incisor. His face is slightly asymmetrical, with the left side sagging a little more than the right. His mouth quivers; I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

  “This is my husband, Reuben,” Naomi tells me.

  I cross to him. “Hello, Mr. Kaufman.” He raises a limp hand to mine. It feels cold and frail within my grip, and I shake it gently.

  “Reuben has difficulty speaking sometimes,” the Amish woman says. “He had a stroke, you see. Going on three years now.” She looks at her husband. “Isn’t that right, Reuben?”

  He gives a subtle nod, but his eyes never leave mine.

  Naomi moves behind her husband’s wheelchair and sets her hands on the handgrips. “But we manage, don’t we?”

  She seems completely at ease with her husband’s disability. They have their own unique mode of communication, and from the outside looking in, it seems as effective as words.

  “Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin,” she says. It’s terribly hot in here. “Let’s sit on the porch.”

  I go to the door and hold it open while she wheels her husband outside. There, she sets the wheel lock and then lowers herself into a rocking chair. “Sitz dich anne,” she tells me. Sit yourself down.

  “Danki.” The rocking chair has a wicker seat and creaks slightly as I lower myself into it. “You and your husband have a beautiful farm.”

  “Reuben’s mamm left it to us when she passed. Been in the Kaufman family for years.”

  “I’ve driven by a few times. Didn’t she used to raise hogs out here?”

  Her eyes narrow on mine. “Never raised hogs.”

  “Have you and Mr. Kaufman ever raised hogs?”

  “We’ve raised a few head of cattle over the years. Just enough to keep us in meat over the winter. Reuben prefers to work the land. Corn and soybeans, mostly. That’s what his datt taught him. That’s what he knows.” She pauses. “What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder?”

  “I’m investigating a case involving some human remains that were uncovered by the tornado.”

  “I read about it in the paper.” She shivers. “Such a horrible thing. Do you know who it is?”

  “Not yet.” I watch them closely as I speak, looking for any sign of nervousness or discomfort. “We’re looking into the cases of several young men who went missing thirty or so years ago.”

  She cocks her head. “What does this have to do with us? We’re not missing any family members.”

  “I heard your daughter, Abigail, used to see a young man by the name of Leroy Nolt.” I don’t know that to be fact, but I put it out there to see if it conjures a response.

  “I don’t know where you heard that, Chief Burkholder, but Abby never had eyes for anyone but Jeramy Kline.”

  I shrug. “Sometimes children do things without their parents’ knowledge.”

  “Not Abby. She was a good girl.” She looks at her husband. “In fact, I don’t know anyone by the name of Nolt.
That’s a Mennonite name, isn’t it, Reuben?”

  He gives a barely discernible nod. But the old man’s eyes are sharp on mine, and for the first time I realize that while his body was devastated by the stroke, his mind is crystal clear.

  Naomi sips her tea, studying me over the rim of her glass. “What makes you think our Abigail knew this Nolt boy?”

  “Since this is an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Kaufman, I can’t get into the details just yet.”

  She laughs and pats her husband’s hand. “Well, that’s the police for you. Not as forthcoming as they should be.” She cocks her head and her expression turns knowing. “I remember you now. You’re the one who left.” Nodding, she touches her temple. “Takes me a while these days, but I never forget a name.”

  I don’t take the bait, instead, I turn my attention to Reuben. “What about you, Mr. Kaufman? Did you know Leroy Nolt? Did he ever do any work for you? Around the farm, maybe?”

  The man gives a minute shake of his head and mouths a single word: No.

  Naomi looks at me, triumphant. “See?”

  CHAPTER 17

  I take the long way back to Painters Mill and cruise past Abigail Kline’s farm. I’m only mildly surprised when I see three Amish quilts hanging on the old-fashioned clothesline in the front yard. When I spoke to her yesterday, she denied having any quilts on hand. Did she think I wouldn’t drive past and notice them? Is she selling them for someone else? Or did she make them? If so, why would she lie about something so seemingly benign?

  I pull into the driveway and park in the same spot I did the day before. Instead of going to the front door, I start toward the quilts flapping in the breeze. The first is a traditional broken-star pattern with a striking color combination of sage green, teal, and purple on a backdrop of taupe. Even with my unqualified eye, I can see the required seven stitches per inch and the kind of intricate piercing that achieves perfect points.

  I turn up corners of the quilt until I find what I’m looking for. The letters “A.K.” embroidered in the fabric. The initials of the quilter. The initials of Abigail Kline. The same initials on the quilt I saw hanging on the wall in Sue and Vern Nolt’s house. Abigail Kaufman. Are they one and the same?

  “Are you looking to buy a quilt, Chief Burkholder?”

  I turn at the sound of Abigail Kline’s voice. She’s standing between me and the Crown Vic, a bushel basket propped on her hip.

  “I suspect they’re probably out of my price range,” I tell her.

  “They do bring a pretty penny.” After a brief hesitation, she starts toward me. She’s dressed much the same as she was last time we spoke. Drab gray dress. Black sneakers. Head covered with an organdy kapp.

  “My mamm taught me to quilt. Started when I was all of six years old. She told me I was born with the gift.” She runs her hand over the quilt as if she’s touching her firstborn child and gives a wistful smile. “I’ve had a needle in my hand since before I can even remember.”

  “I made one or two when I was younger,” I tell her, “but I was never very good at it.”

  “It takes patience.”

  “And talent,” I point out.

  She smiles at the compliment. “By the time I was twelve, my mamm was telling all the women I was a better quilter than her.” She laughs. “I was, too, though I’d never admit to it. I guess it’s a good thing I love to sew. Keeps the hands busy and a little cash in the cookie jar.”

  She sets the basket on the ground at her feet. I look down to see it’s full of dandelion greens with a few weeds mixed in. I motion toward it. “Now that brings back memories,” I tell her.

  “They’re at their best in early spring, but still good now.”

  “My mamm used to make them with bacon and vinegar.”

  “Good on a salad, too, if you like them raw.”

  “I do.”

  We stand there a moment, admiring the quilts in silence, enjoying the breeze. “You told me yesterday you didn’t have any quilts,” I say.

  She looks over her shoulder toward the house but doesn’t respond.

  I follow her gaze, and for the first time I notice the buggy is gone. “Your husband is away?”

  “He went up to Keim Lumber for some wood.” She laughs. “I suspect he’ll come back with more goats.”

  Smiling, I move to one of the other quilts and run my hand over the fabric. “Is there a reason why you didn’t tell me about the quilts, Mrs. Kline?”

  She joins me, pretending to study her handiwork. When she runs her hand over the stitching, it quivers. “You were Amish once, weren’t you, Chief Burkholder? But you left the fold during Rumspringa?”

  That’s not exactly the way it happened, but I don’t correct her. “Yes.”

  “We’re Swartzentruber. My husband and I. My parents. I love being Amish. I love God, and living my life by the Ordnung gives me joy.”

  “I understand.”

  “The Amish have always been there for us. When Jeramy hurt his back two years ago, Big Joe Beiler and his friends cut and bundled our corn for us—when he had his own crops to harvest and eight mouths to feed.” She looks out across the pasture, toward the pond where the two pygmy goats nibble green shoots near the bank.

  “The Amish can be harsh, too,” I say gently. “Judgmental.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes that harshness is warranted. Sometimes it isn’t.”

  When she says nothing, I turn to her, tilting my head slightly to meet her gaze. “Leroy Nolt’s parents told me that in the weeks before he disappeared, he was seeing someone in secret. His sister saw him with a girl. An Amish girl.”

  The silence between us thickens. I see discomfort in her face. Her skin reddens above the collar of her dress. “You recognized the ring in the photo,” I say gently. “I saw it on your face.”

  After a full minute, she whispers, “I knew Leroy.” She utters the words as if she’s afraid someone will hear and the repercussions will be severe.

  “Do you know what happened to him?” I ask.

  “No. I figured he left for the city. Columbus or Cleveland or, my goodness, he was always talking about New York City.”

  “Were you involved with him?”

  “Involved?” She laughs but looks down at the ground. “I was just a girl with a silly crush.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Of course.”

  “You must have missed him.”

  “Nooo.” She draws out the “o” for emphasis. “I was happy for him. He’d followed his dreams, foolish as they were. And so different from my own.”

  My mind is already poking into all the dark corners of words that don’t quite ring true. “Did anyone know about your relationship?”

  “Chief Burkholder, we didn’t have the kind of relationship you’re insinuating.”

  “What kind of relationship was it, then?”

  “We were … friends. More like acquaintances.”

  I nod, but I don’t believe her. There’s something there; something she’s not telling me. “Did anyone know you and Leroy were friends?”

  “We had nothing to hide.”

  “But you didn’t tell anyone, either, did you?”

  If there was an Amish word for “touché” she would have uttered it. “No one knew. At first, anyway. Then my datt saw us in the woods by the creek. Leroy was fishing. I’d gone down to pick raspberries for Mamm. My datt came down to seine for minnows.” She shakes her head. “It was all very innocent.”

  “Was your datt angry?”

  “He was … offended. You see, Leroy was Mennischt.” Mennonite. “And New Order at that. Datt … overreacted.” She shrugs. “Forbade me to see Leroy.”

  “Because he was Mennonite?”

  “Because he wasn’t Swartzentruber,” she corrects. “Datt told me I would be put under the bann. That I would have to confess my sins before the congregation.”

  “Did your mother know what happened?”

  “We never talked about i
t.”

  “What about Jeramy?” I ask. “How did he play into this?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Were you involved with Jeramy?”

  Her smile is little more than a twist of her lips; her eyes are filled with something akin to nostalgia, only somehow sadder. “I’ve been in love with Jeramy Kline since I was a little girl. He’s always been so handsome. So strong and hardworking and yet humble. All the Amish girls wanted to marry him.”

  “Your parents liked him?”

  “They wanted me to marry him.”

  “Did you want to marry him?”

  “Of course I did. I’m lucky to have him. He’s a good husband. A good father. A good provider.”

  I wonder if she’s trying to convince me—or herself. “Abigail, if you know something about Leroy Nolt’s disappearance, you need to tell me.”

  “That’s all I know, Chief Burkholder.”

  I give her a full two minutes to say something more. When she doesn’t, I lean closer to her. “I think something bad happened to Leroy Nolt,” I whisper. “I’m going to find out what it was.”

  “Sometimes when bad things happen,” she says, “the only one to blame is the person it happened to.”

  * * *

  My office is blissfully quiet. From the reception area, I hear Jodie’s radio grinding out an old Badfinger tune, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the police radio. I’m sitting at my desk with the John Doe / Leroy Nolt file open in front of me. But it’s all a blur. I’ve read it dozens of times, too many times to absorb anything new. A knock at my door draws me from my reverie. I look up to see Skid standing in the doorway.

  “You got a minute?” He flicks the paper in his hand. “I’ve got the rundown on that hog operation you asked about.”

  “At least one of us isn’t striking out.” I motion him in. “Have a seat.”

  He takes the visitor chair adjacent to my desk and slides a single sheet of paper across to me. I can tell by the neatness of the typewritten page that he talked one of the dispatchers into typing it for him. Skid isn’t exactly a neatnik.