It was Saturday, market day in Appleseed Creek. Buggies surrounded the town square, and Amish women sold homemade bread, canned jams and jellies, and fresh produce to their English neighbors and visitors. Chief Rose’s police car idled as a tour bus unloaded thirty elderly tourists in the middle of the street.
“I hate market day,” the police chief said.
Finally, the bus was emptied of passengers, and Chief Rose whooped her siren as she cut around it. She turned off the square and made an immediate left into an alley behind the town hall, a two-story, tan brick building with a rooster weathervane on top. There was a small patch of grass, maybe three feet wide, between the building and the road with a flagpole sticking out of it. Red geraniums decorated white boxes below first-floor windows. The American and Ohio flags flapped in the light breeze. A handful of cotton-like clouds bounced across an otherwise clear, blue sky. The weatherman had been right—it was cooler than the day before.
Chief Rose parked in the spot labeled “Chief.” From the parking lot, two doors led into the building, each labeled with forest green lettering. One read, CITY OFFICES, and the other, VILLAGE POLICE. So is Appleseed Creek a city or a village?
The chief unlocked the village police door and flicked on the lights. A scarred-up metal desk sat in the corner of the waiting room with a ten-year-old CPU monitor and computer on it next to a solid black telephone, circa 1980. A door in the middle of the back wall was flanked by windows on either side, their vertical blinds drawn. Wooden folding chairs lined the walls. Not much of an office. Where are the other officers?
“We share a 911 system with the city of Mount Vernon.” Chief Rose spoke as if reading my mind. “If it’s minor enough, we respond; if not, we call on Mount Vernon or the Knox County sheriff’s department for support. If it has something to do with Harshberger College, which most of our calls do, we work in conjunction with campus security.”
She used the royal “we” even though she was the only one here.
She stopped and regarded me. “I have two officers, in case you’re wondering, but they are both busy today keeping an eye on the farmers’ market. It’s always good to have a police presence there. You never know when city folk are going to put up a fight over the price of watermelon.” She kept a straight face when she said that.
The chief sorted through her key ring, found what she needed, and unlocked the second door, which opened into a meeting room. A long cafeteria-type table sat in the middle of the room surrounded by more wooden folding chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll grab the photos.”
I sat, careful not to pinch myself on the chair. The chief unlocked a third door and slipped through, closing it behind her before I could see inside. Seconds later she returned, carrying a three-inch black binder.
She sat catty-corner from me at the table and placed the binder on the table. “How’s Becky doing?”
“She’s upset.” I stopped myself from telling her what a stupid question that was. How does the chief think Becky is?
“She seemed better this morning than I expected her to.”
My brow wrinkled.
“I assumed she would be more upset, considering her relationship with Isaac Glick.”
“I thought I came here to check photos, not to talk about how Becky is doing. If you wanted to do that, why didn’t you ask her when you were at my house?” I frowned. “How would you know about Becky and Bishop Glick’s son anyway?” I moved my seat a few inches back from the table.
“The Amish aren’t as closemouthed as some would think.” She tapped the cover of the binder with blunt, clear-polished nails. “There are other complications too, of course. Becky’s father could lose his chance to be a preacher. His grasp was already tentative with his two oldest children leaving the Amish life behind. Now, the Troyer family will always be associated with the death of a beloved bishop.”
“What about the recent harassment of the Amish?” I asked. “The shotgun fire? The destruction of crops?”
She raised one eyebrow. “How do you know about that?”
“I heard the Troyer family discussing it, and I asked Timothy about it.”
“For being here less than two weeks, you’ve gotten a lot closer to them than I ever have.”
I remained steadfast. “What are you doing about the problems?”
She scowled and blew out a long breath. “Everything I can. It’s hard to investigate the case when none of the witnesses will tell you what they saw. They are too busy ‘turning the other cheek’ to talk to me.”
“But it could be related, right?”
“Look at you. You’re like the Pippi Longstocking version of Nancy Drew.”
I slapped both hands on the table. “Chief Rose, you came to my house this morning and basically told me that someone tried to kill me. Is it any surprise that I would have questions?”
Her brows arched over her peridot-colored eyes. “Maybe I’ve been dealing with the Amish too long to know how a big-city girl like you would react.”
“May I see the photographs, please?” I reached out my hand.
She shrugged and slid the binder in front of me. “This is a book of thirty eight-by-ten mug shots. Look at each photo carefully. If you recognize one or both of the men who threatened you and Becky, let me know.”
I opened the binder. The first photograph was a man with a blunt nose and a horizontal scar across his right cheek. I wondered if he moonlighted as a pirate. The next photo held the likeness of a glaring man with huge ears. Each picture was scarier than the last. I glanced up at Chief Rose. “Do all these guys live in Appleseed Creek?”
She didn’t answer my question, so I flipped to the next page. Brock’s dark eyes stared at me. I knew him right away. Even in the mug shot he looked like a giant teddy bear, which he was not. “This one,” I said. “This is the one called Brock.”
She made a note in the spiral notebook in front of her. “Keep going.”
I was a bit disappointed with her reaction but moved on. Three ugly mugs later, I reached the end of the notebook and viewed the last photograph—Brock’s friend. I’d know that dirty goatee anywhere. “This is the other one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You are positive on IDs?”
“Yes.”
She studied me with her disquieting green eyes for a long moment. Finally, she sat back. “You ID’d Brock Buckley and Curt Fanning, just as I thought.” She tapped her index finger on the dirty goatee guy’s nose. “Curt Fanning.” She flipped back through the binder and came to Brock’s photograph. “Brock Buckley.”
For some reason, knowing their names gave me courage. As unknown men in the green pickup, they were terrifying, but now that they were Brock Buckley and Curt Fanning—real people however unsavory—they were just scary.
The chief closed the binder. “We’ll pick them up and bring them in for questioning.” She slipped her hand into the breast pocket of her uniform, removed a business card, and placed it on the table in front of me. “If you see them again, or if they approach you, or even if you see their truck on your street, call me.”
I examined the card, embossed with the Appleseed Creek seal. It listed Chief Rose’s name, phone numbers, and address. “Shouldn’t I just call 911?” I tapped the card on the table before dropping it into my purse.
“If you feel you are or someone else is in danger, by all means dial 911, but in any other case, call me.” She stood. “I’ll give you a ride back home.”
I shook my head. “I’d rather walk.” The Pippi Longstocking comment still annoyed me.
She shrugged.
Before I left the room, the chief said, “I forgot to tell you, welcome to Appleseed Creek.”
I glanced back at her, and she smiled. Only it didn’t reach her eyes.