A quick stop at Walmart for groceries, an extra blanket, and a pair of wool socks, and I’m back at the trailer by noon. When I walk in the door, my hands and feet are numb and I’m shivering so hard I nearly drop the key. Filling the kettle with water, I set it on the stove for hot tea, using the flame to warm my fingers.
After stowing the groceries, I dig out my phone and call Suggs. “Did you know Rachel Esh was rumored to have had a boyfriend?”
“Some of the Amish hinted at it, but no one would say for sure so I could never confirm it or identify him,” he replies. “Did you get a name?”
“The woman I talked to didn’t know. It’s just rumor at this point, but she mentioned he may be older and married.”
“That’s interesting as hell.”
I tell him about my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “Sometimes there’s a grain of truth in a rumor.”
“Think you’ll get the chance to work on her some more?”
“I’ll probably see her at worship tomorrow. Everyone in the community will be there, so I’ll have the opportunity to meet a lot of people.”
“Nice job, Chief. This is exactly the kind of thing we were hoping you’d be able to do.”
“Whether anything will pan out remains to be seen, but it’s a start.” I pause. “I also met the woman Rachel Esh was living with when she died.”
“Mary Gingerich. You work fast.”
“Roaring Springs is a small town. The Amish community is even smaller. I knew she worked at the diner.…”
“Anything new?”
“Not really, but I’m starting to get a better picture of Schrock.” I tell him everything I’ve learned about the bishop so far. “He’s very Old Order. Everyone I’ve met seems devoted. The only hint of discontent I heard was from the owner of the quilt shop. Apparently, Schrock told her not to renew her lease when it’s up.”
“Sounds like him.”
“An unhappy follower is more likely to talk, especially if she’s got something negative to say. I’ll do my best to cultivate a relationship.”
“You get a bike yet?”
“No, but I will,” I tell him. “Mary took pity on me and offered to drive me to worship.”
“She drives?”
I smile. “A buggy.”
“Gotcha.”
“So I’ll have the chance to meet her husband and their daughter, too.”
“Excellent.” He pauses. “I don’t have to remind you to be careful, do I?”
“The most dangerous thing I did today was go to Walmart,” I tell him. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
* * *
I’ve never been the domestic type. I sure as hell don’t remember the last time I made date pudding. Probably as a teenager, when my mamm was still alive and doing her utmost to instill some semblance of domesticity in her unreceptive daughter. She would drag me into our big country kitchen and my sister, Sarah, and I would help her bake. It wasn’t always the tranquil ritual you might imagine. I was difficult; Sarah outshone me, which only made things worse. Still, it’s a good memory.
My current kitchen is a far cry from my mamm’s, my hands not nearly as capable as hers, but I get the job done with a good bit of sampling along the way, and the pudding turns out better than I anticipated. The entire trailer smells good—and it’s blissfully warm. I bought some plastic cups, and tomorrow after worship I’ll serve the pudding with caramel sauce and chopped walnuts on top. Hopefully, it will help get things off to a good start.
By late afternoon, the kitchen is cleared, the pudding is stowed in a sealable food storage bowl, and I’m poring through The Bridge for a bicycle that will make it easier to get around, at least when the roads are clear. There are no adult bicycles for sale, but there’s an ad for a scooter bike, which is even better. It’s an added bonus that there’s a phone number, which tells me the owner is local and probably Mennonite.
After bundling up, I hike it down to the Amish phone booth at the intersection a couple hundred yards down the road. The phone is inside a frame building the size of an outhouse. There are dozens of buggy wheel marks in the snow, but there’s no one here now. I slide the quarter into the slot and dial. A man picks up on the second ring with an enthusiastic, “Ja!”
“Guder nochmiddawks,” I say, greeting him with the Pennsylvania Dutch words for “good afternoon.” “I’m calling about the scooter bike.”
“It’s a nice one. Aluminum, with twenty-inch wheels and a basket in front for the grocery or whatnot. Good to get around on if the snow isn’t too deep.”
I’ve seen the Amish around Painters Mill travel on kick scooters, even Amish women, and the contraptions are amazingly fast and easy to power. “How much?”
“It’s used, so I’m asking two hundred.”
“Where are you located?”
“East of Roaring Springs.”
My heart sinks. I’m west of town, which tells me his place is too far for me to travel on foot. “I’m without transportation,” I tell him. “Any way you can haul it over to my place so I can take a look? I’m pretty interested and I have cash.”
“The cash part is talking. Where are you located?”
Twenty minutes later, a pickup truck pulls in to the driveway. Grabbing my coat, gloves, and bonnet, I go out to greet him.
He’s lifting the scooter bike out of the truck bed when I meet him in the driveway. “I’m Kate Miller,” I tell him.
“Christian Kempf.” We shake and then he motions toward the scooter. “What do you think?”
I give the contraption a skeptical look. “I would have preferred black.”
“Most of the Amish do around here. You could paint it.”
“Why are you getting rid of it?”
“My wife and I are Mennonite now, so we don’t need it.”
“You used to be Amish?”
His gaze moves away from mine. “Ja.”
I return my gaze to the scooter, pretend to study it, but it’s the seller I’m most interested in. “What made you decide to leave the church?”
He looks down at the ground, then he shrugs. “I’m a furniture maker and sell cabinets to the builder over at Ellenburg Center. Schrock didn’t like it and asked me to stop.”
“Must have been difficult.”
“Hard for the wife. He put us under the bann. Her friends won’t speak with her. Our daughter…” His voice trails off as if the words are too painful to utter.
I’m about to ask about Schrock’s use of Meidung, but he shakes his head. “I have a car now, so we no longer need this.” He turns his attention back to the scooter bike. “There are a few chips in the paint. Otherwise, it’s in good condition. Would you like to try it?”
I glance toward the road, where most of the snow from yesterday has melted. “Sure.”
He wheels the scooter to the asphalt and offers it to me. “Keep one foot on the platform and push off with the other.”
I take the handlebars, and keeping my left foot on the platform, I shove off with the right. It’s awkward at first, but I know immediately that it’ll be easier—and faster—than walking. I take it down the gravel road about fifty yards, make a U-turn, and come back.
“What’s your bottom dollar?” I ask.
“Like I said. Two hundred.”
“Basket’s bent,” I say, indicating the wire rack mounted on the handlebars.
“Well, I might take one seventy-five. That’s as low as I can go without getting my wife riled up.” But he grins.
I grin back. “I’ll get my cash.”