My encounter with Schrock haunts me through the night. When I’m not tossing and turning, I’m dreaming of being trapped inside that house with him, unable to escape, and when I reach for my sidearm it’s not there …
I had every intention of calling Tomasetti to let him know what happened, but I couldn’t make myself pick up the phone. I know that’s not fair. Nor is it honest. He’s a strong man and I’m not giving him the credit he deserves. But telling him about a dangerous incident when I’m so far away didn’t feel like the right thing to do. I’m ever cognizant of the anguish he endured after the deaths of his wife and children. He doesn’t speak of it, but there are still nights when his demons come calling. Nights when he wakes in a cold sweat, shaking and choking back panic. I don’t want to add to that.
I rise at dawn, take a hot shower, careful to leave my cell and .38 sitting on the edge of the tub. At nine, I pack my sewing supplies in a canvas bag and head into town.
Though it’s a workday, downtown Roaring Springs is deserted. A leaden sky presses down with the weight of some massive boulder. As I make my way along Main Street, with its vacant storefronts and cracked sidewalks, a plastic bag catches in a whirlwind at the entrance to an alley. The scene is postapocalyptic and leaves me feeling isolated and alone.
There are two cars and a pickup truck parked outside The Dutch Kitchen. I lean the scooter bike against a parking meter at the curb and head inside for coffee and hopefully some conversation with Mary Gingerich.
A skinny man with shoulder-length hair and a scruffy beard nurses a cup of coffee at the counter. Two women dressed in jeans and sweatshirts are having breakfast in one of the booths. I feel their eyes on me as I start toward the counter. I don’t miss their not-so-covert comments about my clothes as I pass, and I try not to shake my head. I’ve just taken a seat on a stool when Mary comes through the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen.
“Looks like we might be in for some snow later,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Instead of responding, she turns her back, plunges her hands into soapy water and begins to wash coffee cups. “We get that a lot this time of year.”
The sense that something is off—that something has changed since we last spoke—strikes me immediately. When Mary and I initially met, she was welcoming and friendly and open. Yesterday, and now this morning, she won’t so much as look me in the eye.
“And Wei bischt du heit?” I ask. How are you today?
“Busy.” She turns to me, her expression cool and unsmiling. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?
“Just coffee,” I tell her.
She sets a steaming cup in front of me, but she doesn’t linger. Something cold scrapes up my back when I notice the bruise below her left eye. Amish women do not wear makeup. Evidently, she made an exception and stopped by the drugstore for concealer; I can see where she tried to cover the bruise. I suspect her eye will be fully black by the end of the day. When she turns to refill the man’s cup, I notice an abrasion the size of a quarter glowing angry and red on the side of her neck.
My first thought is that Abe hit her. But I’m a decent judge of character; I don’t think her husband is a wife beater. But if not Abe, then who? And why?
When she passes by me again, I reach out and touch her arm. “Mary, are you okay?”
She slants me a look. “I’m a klutz, is what I am. Ran into a cabinet door last night.”
Watching her closely, I sip the coffee without tasting it, hoping I’m wrong, knowing I’m not. “Cabinet door must have been pretty angry.”
She laughs self-consciously, her hand fluttering to the abrasion on her neck. “Well, that’s just crazy talk.”
I lower my voice. “Who did that to you?”
Her eyes dart left. I glance over her shoulder to see the Amish man staring at us through the serving window between the counter area and the kitchen in the rear.
I let my gaze slide away from his and address Mary loudly enough for him to hear. “I’m willing to bus tables. Or wash dishes if that’s what you need.”
She blinks, then I see her shoulders relax. “You’ll have to come back when the owner’s here.”
“Can I fill out an application?” I ask.
Gathering herself, she turns to the man watching us. “Do you know when Mr. Pelletier will be here?”
He shrugs. “Tomorrow, I guess.”
Nodding, she turns her attention back to me. “You’ll have to come back then.”
I bring the cup to my mouth. “Come to my trailer when you get off,” I whisper.
“Can’t.” Using the damp towel clutched in her hand, she wipes the counter. “They’ll know.”
“Who?”
Wiping vigorously, she shakes her head. “Can’t talk about it,” she says. “Please, just leave.”
“I can help you.”
“No one can help,” she whispers. “No one.”
* * *
On the short ride to The Calico Country Store, Mary Gingerich’s words replay uneasily in my head. They’ll know. Who the hell was she talking about? Schrock? His followers? The man in the kitchen? I think about the marks on her face and neck. Who would do such a thing, and why? Is physical violence somehow part of this community? If so, to what end? Does it have something to do with Rachel Esh? She had been living with the Gingeriches at the time of her death.
It’s nearly ten A.M. when I reach The Calico Country Store. The cowbell on the door jingles merrily when I enter. I’m greeted by the aromas of cinnamon bread and cardamom. It’s a pleasant, homey space that beckons one to leave her problems at the door and come in for a decadent snack, a bit of shopping, and some harmless gossip.
There are no customers in the store this morning. A Mennonite girl stands behind the cash register, reading an inspirational romance novel. She glances up at the sound of the bell and smiles.
“Hi,” I greet her. “Is Laura around?”
The girl points toward the rear of the store. “She’s at the sewing table with the other women.”
“Danki.”
Midway there, the sound of laughter reaches me. I round the corner to find Laura and three other Amish women sitting at the table in a “sewing circle,” drinking coffee. Spread out before them is a gorgeous tulip basket pattern quilt. Hefting my sewing bag higher on my shoulder, I approach.
“Wie geth’s alleweil?” I call out to them. How goes it now?
“Ah, Kate!” Laura tosses a grin at me, her eyes flicking to the bag at my side. “Glad you could make it. I see you brought your work with you.”
“I’m just finishing up a couple of potholders. For my niece’s hope chest.”
“We’ve plenty of room if you’d like to join us.” Laura introduces me to the three women as she clears a place at the end of the table. Wearing a dark gray dress and black winter bonnet, Ada is in her mid-fifties with a round face and a figure to match. Naomi is the elder of the group. She’s tall and lean with black hair gone to salt and pepper, dark eyes, and nineteen grandchildren. Lena is forty-two with dishwater-blond hair, a pretty girl-next-door face, and a surprise baby on the way. She and her husband live in a house not far from Eli Schrock’s land.
“Rebecca isn’t here yet,” Laura says to no one in particular.
“Missed last week, too,” Ada says as she pushes her needle through fabric.
Naomi glances toward the door as if expecting her to come through it at any moment. “Odd for her to miss two weeks in a row.”
Laura addresses me. “The five of us meet every few days to catch up on our sewing.”
“Catch up on our gossip, more like,” Ada puts in.
Using her front teeth, Naomi severs a thread. “There’s plenty to be had.”
“Es waarken maulvoll gat,” Lena comments. There’s nothing good about that.
“I suppose that depends on who’s the topic of the day.” Laura motions toward the quilt spread out on the table. “Been working on this one for a couple of weeks now.”
“The thing would be finished if you girls spent more time sewing and less talking,” Ada huffs.
I like Ada immediately; she’s opinionated, with a spicy personality, and reminds me of my grandmother, who baked the best dry molasses cookies in the world—and was well known for taking you down a notch when you needed it. Ada may be a scant inch short of five feet tall, but she commands respect, and if you’re smart, you’ll give it to her.
Setting my bag on the floor next to a vacant chair, I pull out my supplies. Spool of thread. Pincushion. Thimble. One of the potholders I’d started. I spy scissors on the table, so I leave mine in the bag. I feel awkward and inept as I run the thread through the eye of the needle, but my hands are steady and I remind myself that even though it’s been a while since I stitched, I’ve been practicing. I spent many an evening as a girl, needle and thread in hand, under the watchful eye of my mamm. I hope the memory comes back with enough steam for me to pull this off.
“We’re having siess kaffi if you’d like some, Kate,” Laura says without looking up from her work.
“I love sweet coffee.” I’m about to get up to pour myself a cup when the Mennonite girl who’d been manning the counter brings one to me. “Danki.”
The coffee is strong and sweet, with just the right amount of milk. One sip and a hundred memories rush through me. I was sixteen years old the last time I had sweet coffee. My mamm took my sister, Sarah, and me to a neighbor’s farm to see a new baby who had come into the world three weeks ahead of schedule. All the local Amish women had gathered, helping the new mother with her chores—cleaning and laundry—even putting up the tomatoes she’d been canning. Most brought a dish. I wasn’t into socializing with my elders back then, but I recall there was such cooperation among the women, a lot of laughter—some of it at the expense of the men, most of whom were in the barn smoking cigarettes. And there was such love for that new baby. As angry and unhappy as I’d been back then, I remember laughing because they passed him around for so long that he fell asleep, and even then they didn’t put him down.
“Has anyone heard from Fannie?” Lena asks of no one in particular.
“Not since I took them over that strawberry-rhubarb pie last week,” Ada says. “Poor thing is trying to be brave, but she just sits at the kitchen table crying all day.”
“They weren’t at worship on Sunday,” Naomi comments.
“Seems like that would have brought them some comfort,” Lena puts in.
Laura gives me a somber look. “Fannie and Samuel are the ones who lost their daughter, Rachel.”
“There was a story in The Bridge.” I feign a shudder. “Such a terrible thing.
“And they’re such nice people,” Ada says.
I keep my eyes on my stitching. “I’ve not met them yet.”
“I was thinking about taking them a chicken casserole,” Laura says. “Maybe we can go together.”
“I’d like that,” I tell her.
No one speaks for several minutes, as if in reverence to the grieving couple and their recently deceased daughter. Meeting Fannie and Samuel Esh is high on my list of goals, but I know that with them still grieving—and me being an outsider—it will require delicacy and tact.
I’ve just sunk the needle into my index finger when Laura breaks the silence with a more upbeat topic. “I heard Viola Beachy had her baby,” she announces with some flourish.
The women continue with their work, but sit up a little bit straighter. A new baby is momentous news among the Amish, especially the women. “Boy or girl?” Lena asks, pressing her hand protectively against her own protruding belly.
“Boy. Big, too. Nearly nine pounds,” Naomi puts in.
Ada snips a thread with the scissors. “I’ll take her and David a couple of my potpies tomorrow.”
“They’ll appreciate that,” Naomi says with a nod.
I look at Lena. “When is your little one due?”
“Another month or so,” she tells me. “Our fourth.”
“Only four.” Ada tuts. “You and Reuben had best get busy.”
“One at a time,” Lena snaps good-naturedly.
Chuckles break out around the table. I join in, hoping the women don’t notice that my stitches aren’t quite straight and not as evenly spaced as they should be. But the fabric I’m working with is pretty and the thread is a similar color, and hopefully won’t be too closely inspected.
A few minutes later, Ada sighs. “The quilt is going to be a pretty one.”
“Warm, too,” Laura puts in.
“Are you going to sell it?” I ask.
She grins. “Haven’t decided.”
I don’t know if it’s the part of me that’s still Amish—that will always be Amish—or nostalgia, but for the first time since arriving in Roaring Springs, I’m relaxed. I like these women; I’m comfortable with them. And it occurs to me how good it feels to belong. How easy it would be to slip back into the rhythm of the old ways. At this moment, Chief of Police Kate Burkholder is a distant memory, like someone I knew a long time ago. This afternoon, I am Kate Miller. An Amish widow trying a little too hard to fit in, make new friends, and start fresh.
The cowbell mounted on the door jingles. All eyes sweep toward the front of the store. The lights have been dimmed in the front section, but I see the silhouette of an Amish woman as she brushes snow from her shoulders and starts toward us.
“Hi, Rebecca,” Lena calls out.
Naomi looks up and smiles. “Nau is awwer bsll zert.” Now it’s about time.
“Sorry I’m late.” The woman—Rebecca—approaches the table.
Laura starts to rise. “We’ve got siess kaffi.”
“Sit. I’ll get it.” She reaches us, looking harried and stressed out. I guess her to be around fifty years of age, with a pleasant face, rosy cheeks, and eyes as green as a springtime hayfield. She’s generously built, tall, and solid looking. Her maroon dress falls nearly to her ankles. Red hair peeks out from beneath a black winter bonnet. A quilted sewing bag is slung over her shoulder. Her eyes take in the group, lingering on me.
“You’re the widow from Ohio,” she says. “Welcome.”
I offer a smile and introduce myself.
Setting her bag on the floor, Rebecca pulls out a chair and sinks into it. I’m trying not to stare, but her body language seems odd. Her movements are tentative and jerky. She digs into her sewing bag, but doesn’t remove anything. Ada has stopped sewing, her attention fastened on the newcomer. The other women have fallen silent.
Rising, Laura goes to the front of the store. Out of the corner of my eye I see her grab a mug and pour coffee. Back at the table, she sets it in front of Rebecca and reclaims her chair. “There you go.”
Rebecca mutters a thank-you.
“I heard that Esther girl had her baby this morning.” The words are spoken by Ada and in a tone reserved for unpleasant topics.
“Esther?” Naomi’s hands still.
Ada clucks her mouth in disapproval. “The maulgrischt out at the farm.” Maulgrischt means “pretend Christian” in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Girl or boy?” Lena asks.
“Boy,” Laura tells her.
Naomi sets down the section of fabric she’s working on. “How old is she, anyway?”
“Sixteen,” Laura says. “Or so she claims.”
“I heard she’s not married. Never been married.” Lena looks from woman to woman. “Is that true?”
“It’s wrong, is what it is,” Ada grumbles.
Laura nods. “You mean her not having a husband?”
Ada gives her a canny look. “I mean all of it. Living out there with the bishop like she is, and him allowing it.”
I listen with interest as the women discuss the mysterious young woman living with Schrock. But some of my attention remains focused on Rebecca. I can’t pin it down, but there’s something going on with her. Tension seems to radiate from her. Is it stress? Anxiety? Fear?
“Bishop Schrock wouldn’t…” Lena struggles to finish the sentence. “You know. He wouldn’t. He’s the bishop.”
Ada frowns. “He’s a man, is what he is.”
“He saved her life,” Lena says emphatically. “He saved her soul from the devil.”
“Saved something for himself, more likely.” Rebecca spits the words as if they burn the inside of her mouth.
Lena gapes at her, offended. “He took her in when she had nowhere to go. He gave her proper clothing. Taught her the Amish ways and the word of God.”
Rebecca doesn’t back down. “Or maybe she’s the one teaching him a thing or two.”
“I don’t believe it,” Lena hisses.
Naomi reaches across the table and pats Lena’s hand. “No one knows any such thing for sure.”
Laura concentrates on her stitching. “And who are we to judge?”
“Rebecca, how’s the—” Across from me, Ada gasps, dropping the section of quilt she’d been working on. “Oh no. Oh no.”
All eyes fly to Rebecca. For the first time I notice the bandage covering the outside portion of her left hand. Oddly, she’d been trying to hide it. Upon closer inspection I discern the shape of her hand and realize her pinky finger is missing.
No group of people knows better than the Amish that farming can be a dangerous profession. Accidents are commonplace, even for the women who often help their husbands in the barn and fields. I’m not surprised by the sight of the missing digit. What I am surprised by is the reaction of the women. Surely this isn’t the first time they’ve seen the result of a mishap that claimed a finger. Yes, those kinds of accidents are traumatic, but why the shock? And why would Rebecca try to conceal it? That’s when it strikes me that no one has asked her what happened.
They already know, a little voice whispers in my ear.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I look down at the potholder in my hands, slide the needle into the fabric, and tug it through. “What happened?” I ask matter-of-factly.
Naomi stares at the bandage, her mouth open and trembling. Lena leans back in her chair, blinking. Laura looks down at her sewing, but her hands seem to be frozen in place. The room falls silent.
Shifting uncomfortably, Rebecca lowers her hand so it’s out of sight. “It was such a fool thing.” Her eyes flick to the door, then back to me. In the instant our eyes meet, I see fear in their depths. “I caught it in the meat grinder when I was making sausage.”
The rise of tension is palpable. Eyes are averted. The women turn their attention back to their sewing, stitching faster, but not all hands are steady.
“How awful,” I hear myself say. “Did you go to the doctor?”
“Levi took me to the hospital.” She forces a laugh, but it’s a loud, unnatural sound. “I don’t think I’m going to be much help with this quilt.”
* * *
Late afternoon ushers in a lowering sky with fog and another round of snow. By the time five o’clock rolls around, only Laura and I remain and the shop is empty of customers. Earlier, she taught me how to use the old-fashioned cash register. In the last hour, I’ve rung up only two sales.
“Might as well close up.” Laura joins me at the register, lays a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and slides it over to me. “That’s all I can afford to pay you.”
“I can’t take your money.” I slide it back to her. “I didn’t earn it.”
“You’ve manned the register most of the afternoon.”
“I spent most of the afternoon drinking sweet coffee and eating your cookies.”
“Kate—”
“No.”
She softens. “I wish the customers would come back. I love this shop. The people who used to come in.” She lowers her voice. “Just between us, I even like the tourists.”
I chuckle. “I won’t tell.”
“I’m going to miss this place when I walk out for the last time.” She drops a short stack of bills into a cash bag and zips it.
I wipe the counter, trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Rebecca. “I like your friends.”
“They’re like sisters to me,” she replies. “Some days I don’t know what I’d do without them.”
“Terrible about Rebecca’s finger,” I say easily. “My grossdaddi lost two in the corn thrasher when I was a kid. Never slowed him down, though.”
Laura slides cookies from the plate into a container, concentrating a little too hard on the task. “It happens.”
We work in silence for several minutes. “Ada and Rebecca were pretty tough on Bishop Schrock,” I say, trying to land on a subject that will keep her talking.
“They’ve got their reasons.”
I glance at her, trying to decipher the meaning, but her face gives me nothing. “Did something happen between them and the bishop?”
“Not Ada,” she tells me. “Rebecca.”
In my mind’s eye I see her bandaged hand; I recall the reactions of the other women, and I know there’s something there. Something important. I hope Laura trusts me enough to tell me what it is.
“What happened?” I ask.
Without replying, she walks to the front door and throws the deadbolt. Glancing through the plate glass window at the darkened street beyond, she lowers the blinds. Once they’re closed tightly, she lifts a slat with her finger and peers out at the street. Finally, she leaves the window and ushers me to a table at the rear of the shop.
“What I’m about to tell you…” she says in a low voice. “Probably best if you don’t repeat it.”
I offer a concerned, sympathetic look. “Of course.”
“I’m a firm believer that there are some things best left unsaid. Some things most people are better off not knowing. I don’t want to burden you, but I think you’re a strong woman and I’d like your perspective.” She lets out a long breath. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting to get this off my chest for some time.”
Reaching across the table, I squeeze her hand. “What is it, Laura?”
“Rebecca and I have been friends for a lot of years. We’ve had babies at the same time, husband troubles, and we’ve eaten more than our share of fattening cookies.” Smiling wistfully, she looks down at the cookie in her hand. “Last summer, she came to me, crying. Kate, the story she told me … I didn’t know what to make of it.” Shaking her head, she lets the words trail. “I didn’t want to believe it, but let me tell you: It sent a knife through my heart.”
“What happened?”
A gust of wind rattles the windows. Laura startles, her eyes jerking to the door. She covers her reaction with a laugh, but for the first time she looks frightened.
“Rebecca told me that two of her granddaughters, just thirteen and fourteen years old, and her sixteen-year-old grandson were taken in and ‘counseled’ by Bishop Schrock. The children spent four nights at the bishop’s farmhouse.” She looks down at the tabletop. “She said the two girls weren’t the same when they came out. They wouldn’t talk about it; wouldn’t tell anyone what went on. Rebecca claims the bishop turned them against her.”
“Turned them against her how?” I ask.
“Evidently, the girls wanted nothing to do with her. Wouldn’t speak to her or visit with her and Levi, her husband. Rebecca blames the bishop. Says he took them from her. She’s bitter, and that’s not the Amish way.” She shudders. “Some of the things she says about the bishop … Terrible things.”
“Like what?”
She shakes her head, letting me know she won’t repeat them.
“What do you think happened to the girls?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I know how it must look to an outsider. Like the bishop overstepped. But in his defense, those girls had become prideful. I could see a … wildness in them. And Little Andy, with the drinking and smoking. There’s no doubt those kids were heading down the wrong road.” She shakes her head. “There’s so much temptation in the world for the young people these days.”
“That much is true,” I say.
“Kate, I’ve seen the bishop with the youngsters. He’s good with them.” But it doesn’t elude me that she says the words as if she’s not only trying to convince me, but herself. “Some might say he’s too firm. But I think he’s seen the devil at work and he knows the power of evil. I think he saw the direction they were going and somehow talked all that temptation right out of their heads.”
I stare at her, my mind reeling with the knowledge that Schrock is a predatory son of a bitch. After what he did to me, the thought of what might have happened to two innocent Amish girls twists my gut into knots.
“Rebecca wants to leave Roaring Springs,” she tells me. “She wants to go back to her old church district in Ohio. The bishop asked her and Levi to stay, but I don’t think they will. Honestly, I don’t blame her. With her grandchildren and children gone.”
“They left?”
“Rebecca’s son and daughter-in-law, Big Andy and Irene, packed up and left in the middle of the night shortly after it happened. Took the girls with them. Left without a word. Didn’t even tell Rebecca. Poor woman didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye.”
I put the names to memory so Suggs can run them through the various law enforcement databases. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering how Rebecca’s missing digit fits into all this.
“Where did they go?” I ask.
“Shipshewana, Indiana, I think.”
“What about the grandson?” I ask.
Though the shop is locked down tight, the blinds pulled, her eyes flick toward the front of the store, as if she’s expecting someone to come through the door. I find my own gaze following hers, the hairs at my nape standing on end.
“Little Andy never came back,” she whispers.
“What? But … where did he go?”
“Evidently, the bishop sent the boy to another church district in Missouri to help an elderly couple whose family was killed in a buggy accident.”
Suspicion creeps over me, as cold and hard as January ice spreading over the surface of a pond. “Without speaking to his parents? I mean, did the boy want to go? Did he volunteer?”
“No one knows. And no one’s talking.”
“Did Rebecca confront the bishop?” I ask.
“She’s not one to take things sitting down.” The smile that follows is humorless and tight. “She’s a strong-willed woman and isn’t afraid to speak her mind. I don’t know everything that was said, but there’s bad blood between them now.”
Around us the shop is eerily silent. The only sound is the occasional hiss of tires on Main Street. The rattle of heat coming from the vent overhead.
“Laura,” I whisper, “did the bishop do something bad to the children?”
The words hover, like the smell of something long dead that neither of us wants to acknowledge. She stares at me, anguish and fear etched into her features. “I can’t imagine, Kate. I mean, he’s the bishop.”
“He’s a mortal man,” I tell her. “A human being with weaknesses just like the rest of us. Maybe more, from what I’ve heard.”
“I think I’ve said enough.”
She starts to rise, but I reach out and set my hand on her arm. “Laura, did the bishop have something to do with what happened to Rebecca’s hand?”
Pulling her arm away, she rises so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the floor. Without looking at me, she shoves it against the table. The shop no longer feels homey or cozy or even comfortable. It feels like a dangerous place that’s exposed and watched.
“I can’t.” Turning away, she walks to the counter.
I rise and follow. “Did someone hurt Rebecca?”
“I shouldn’t have told you any of this. I shouldn’t be burdening you with my worries.”
“I’m glad you did.” When she says nothing, I add, “That’s what friends are for.”
When she turns to face me, she’s pulled herself together. Her eyes are cool when they meet mine. “I think it’s time you went home, Kate.”
“But what about—”
She cuts me off. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”