In the Troyer horse barn, Becky covered Sparky with a wool horse blanket. She scratched the white star in the middle of his forehead, and he leaned into her touch like a cat. “You did gut, Spark. You probably saved Grossdaddi today. You deserve a big bag of carrots.”
Sparky whinnied.
We entered the Troyer home from the back door, which opened into a small mudroom. On the other side of the mudroom was the center of the home, Mrs. Troyer’s kitchen. The Amish mother spent the majority of her day in this space. It was where she cooked, baked, canned, ironed clothing, and sewed at the large table. Now that I thought about it, every time I visited the Troyer farm, Mrs. Troyer was in the kitchen working, no matter the time of day.
The kitchen had all the appliances an Amish woman, or an English woman for that matter, would need. The refrigerator and stove were powered by propane. The sink had running water. Jars of canned goods lined the shelves of the beautifully-made Amish hutch in the corner of the room, and hand-embroidered tea towels hung from the oven door handle.
While Mrs. Troyer was at the hospital, Ruth, Becky’s thirteen-year-old sister, kept the evening meal warm on the propane stove. The girl, who looked more like Becky every day, stirred what looked like stew in the huge cast iron pot on a front burner. Although her light blonde hair and features were like Becky’s, her expression resembled her father’s stony glare.
I pulled off my gloves. “Hi, Ruth.”
She only nodded.
My forehead creased.
Thomas zoomed over to me and took my coat. “Chloe, you came. Gut!” He took Becky’s coat too.
A smile broke out on my face. The seven-year-old bounced out of the room, dragging our coats on the floor. He was back before I could take another step.
“Thomas, don’t run,” Mrs. Troyer admonished the boy. Thomas slowed his pace just a tad as he fell onto the bench next to Grandfather Zook at the family’s long kitchen table. The table had pine benches on either side and paddle-backed chairs at the ends. The table ran the length of the kitchen, the largest room in the Troyer home, and could seat up to twelve people. Grandfather Zook sat at one end of the table, warming his hands on a large mug of coffee. The jagged edge of his beard had already been trimmed. “What took you two so long?”
Becky rolled her eyes and gave her grandfather a hug before helping Ruth and her mother finish preparing the meal.
Mrs. Troyer moved around her kitchen with confidence she never displayed outside of the safety of her own home.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
Like I knew she would, she shook her head. “You’re a guest.”
I wondered if there would ever be a time when I would no longer be considered a guest.
Timothy sat closest to the wall, and I was struck by how well he seemed to fit in to this place. I bit my lip. Did he miss being part of the Amish like Becky did? Would he ever want to go back? As much as I cared for him, I knew a transition from English to Amish was one I could never make.
Naomi, the youngest Troyer, who had just turned four, was curled up on Timothy’s lap. She looked up at me with watery blue eyes. She clutched her faceless doll under her arm and said something in Pennsylvania Dutch to Timothy. She was still a year from school. The little English she knew she learned from her brothers and sisters. When I visited the Troyer farm, they often spoke English so that I could understand. She gave me a small smile and murmured, “Chloe here.”
My heart melted.
Ruth and Becky buzzed about the room, setting the table. Mr. Troyer was absent.
“My son-in-law is checking on the cows,” Grandfather Zook said as if he read my mind. He patted the empty bench seat next to him. “Chloe, you sit right here next to me. The women will knock you down if you get in their way.”
Ruth flew by me with a crock of stew. Grandfather Zook was right.
Thomas wiggled in his seat. “I’m glad that Sparky took a bite out of the perp.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Apparently, Grandfather Zook had shared his new favorite English word with the children.
“Thomas!” Mr. Troyer’s voice cracked like a whip as he stepped into the room. “There will be none of that. The Lord commands us to forgive.”
Thomas dropped his head. “Ya, Daed.”
Mr. Troyer held the door open as he removed his work boots in the mudroom. A cold burst of wintry air blew through the kitchen. A paper napkin on the table took flight, and Naomi giggled into Timothy’s shoulder. He whispered something to her in their language, and her giggles increased.
The door slammed shut after Mr. Troyer entered room. He washed his hands at the sink.
“How do you think my trim looks?” Grandfather Zook scratched his chin and turned it back and forth, so that I could have a good look at it. “My beard hasn’t been this short since I was Becky’s age.”
“You look distinguished,” I whispered, knowing that Mr. Troyer would not approve of my praising the shorter beard.
He grinned. “I think so too. It will grow back better than ever.” He lowered his voice. “I do have one of the best beards in the county. This is probably why I was singled out. Beard jealously.”
I smiled, but my tone was serious. “Are you sure you weren’t hurt? It must have been frightening.”
“It was a shock, that’s for sure. I only have a few bruises, nothing a pack of ice and a hot water bottle can’t mend.”
Ruth slammed a basket of rolls on the table between Grandfather Zook and me. Several fell out of the basket, and I quickly put them back. I raised my eyebrow at Grandfather Zook. He shook his head.
Carefully, Becky placed a large tureen of stew in the middle of table, and the Troyer women took their seats. Mr. Troyer said grace in their language, and Becky whispered the translation into my ear, “And comfort the Young family during this time of loss.” Stew, rolls, biscuits, and mixed vegetables were passed around the table.
Ruth’s smooth brow crinkled. “What’s wrong with the Young family?”
Mr. and Mrs. Troyer shared a look across the table. “Ezekiel Young passed away yesterday.”
Ruth frowned. “I didn’t know he was sick. I saw him a few weeks ago when I delivered cheese to Young’s and he was fine.”
“He wasn’t sick,” Becky said.
Ruth’s head snapped around in her sister’s direction. “What would you know about it?”
Becky gripped her spoon. “I work at the Young’s restaurant and saw Ezekiel almost everyday. He wasn’t sick.”
“Then, what happened?” Ruth looked to her parents for the answer. “Was there an accident?”
“Let’s not speak of it in front of the younger children,” Mrs. Troyer said.
Ruth’s lower lip protruded from her mouth. “We can never speak of anything because of the children.”
“Ruth,” her father’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “That is enough.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “No one will talk to me about anything. I’m tired of it.”
Her father slammed his coffee mug on the table. “Ruth, you’re excused from the table.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it. “Fine.” She picked up her dish, walked it over to the sink, and stalked from the room.
We ate in silence for several minutes. Both Naomi and Thomas kept their heads down. Mrs. Troyer touched her youngest son’s arm. “If you’re finished, take Naomi upstairs to play.”
He nodded and pulled his little sister from the room. Before they left, Naomi gave Becky, Timothy, and me each a goodbye kiss.
Mrs. Troyer began to clear away the children’s dishes. She had barely touched her food.
“Why is Ruth so upset?” Timothy asked.
Mr. Troyer’s brow furrowed.
Grandfather Zook buttered a roll. “Anna Lambright’s parents won’t let the girls see each other.”
I frowned. Anna was Ruth’s best friend.
“Why not?” Becky asked.
“The bishop believes our family is a poor example to the district.” Grandfather Zook broke off a piece of his roll and held it. “And we may lead others away from the Amish way.” He tossed the bite of roll into his mouth.
Becky’s mouth fell open. “Who have you led from the Amish way?”
“You.”
Becky’s head jerked back.
Grandfather Zook sighed. “And Timothy. Had we have been a more Amish family, you would not have chosen to leave.”
“Are you being shunned?” Timothy asked.
“Nee,” Mrs. Troyer said as she retook her seat.
Becky’s forehead creased. “What does the bishop expect of you? Does he think we will come back?”
Mrs. Troyer moved food around her plate with the back of her fork.
“No,” Mr. Troyer said. “But he wants us to be more Amish.”
“How much more Amish could you get?” Becky asked.
Mr. Troyer sipped his coffee. “The first step is distancing ourselves from you and Timothy.” He glanced at me. “And Chloe.”
Tears welled in Becky’s eyes. “What?”
Mr. Troyer’s typically stern face softened. “I’m sure this is only temporary until the new bishop finds his way. When he is in charge of the district for some time, he will see there’s no danger in seeing Englisch children. Until then, we need to limit how often you come to the house.”
Timothy gripped his spoon so tightly the edge made an indentation in his skin. “How long is temporary?”
“A few months, until we can prove to the bishop we have taken his guidance to heart.” Mr. Troyer set the dinner roll he was about to take a bite from back on his plate as if he had lost his appetite. I knew I had lost mine.
Becky’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Even though I left the church, it’s still trying to control me by hurting you.”
Mrs. Troyer wrung her hands. “The bishop said—”
“It wasn’t the bishop.” Timothy clenched his jaw. “Deacon Sutter is behind this. He was with the bishop when he delivered the news, wasn’t he?”
Since moving to Appleseed Creek, I’d received a crash course in Amish governance. The bishop was the head of the district and set the rules. Each district had its own bishop. Rules varied between districts depending on who the bishop was since everything was at his discretion. Much had changed in the Appleseed Creek district because Bishop Glick had been a relatively liberal bishop. Apparently, Bishop Hooley was not. The deacon was the district’s enforcer. He was the one who made sure everyone followed the rules that the bishop established.
Timothy’s mother wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Your father is right. The bishop will relax his rules after a time. Bishop Glick never shunned anyone over seeing their Englisch children.”
Becky gnawed on her lower lip. “I thought you said you weren’t being shunned.”
Her father’s brow furrowed. “We’re not. Yet.”
His announcement fell like a lead weight in the middle of the table. The implication being that the family would be shunned if Becky, Timothy, and I continued to visit them.
“We aren’t dealing with Bishop Glick anymore.” Timothy placed his hands on the table. “He’s dead. Deacon Sutter will hurt our family anyway that he can. He is using Bishop Hooley as his puppet. He must be thrilled he finally has a bishop who will make the rules he wants to enforce.”
Mr. Troyer glared at his son. “Don’t speak of the deacon that way in my house.”
“But Daed—”
“He’s a leader in the community and deserves respect.” His father’s face softened. “Gott will help us, but we must obey the rules even if we don’t agree with them.”
“What about Thanksgiving?” Becky cried.
Mrs. Troyer dropped a dish, and it shattered on the floor. “Es dutt mir leed,” she apologized and knelt on the floor to began picking up the ceramic pieces.
I sprang from my seat. “Let me.” I crouched on the floor next to her.
“Nee, it is my fault.”
I placed a hand over hers. “Please.”
She nodded and stood.
Grandfather Zook stamped the end of his butter knife on the table. “Thanksgiving is different. You will come here. Martha makes a meal like no other.”
Mr. Troyer gripped his coffee mug. “The bishop . . .”
“I don’t care what the bishop said. It’s a holiday. We can start obeying his rule after Thanksgiving.” The older man folded his arms across his chest as if the issue were settled.
Mr. Troyer’s brows knit together and his nostrils flared.
Grandfather stirred milk into his coffee. “Besides the Glick-Yoder wedding is on Thanksgiving. The whole district will be there. They’ll be too busy to worry about us.”
“You’re not going to the wedding?” Timothy asked.
“No, we’re not.” Mr. Troyer’s voice clearly said he didn’t want to talk about the Glick-Yoder wedding.
Mrs. Troyer stared at her husband as if pleading with him. His stern expression softened just a tad. “Fine. They can come for Thanksgiving.” He didn’t look at me but added, “Chloe too.”
A grin spread across Grandfather Zook’s face. “Chloe, will you help me into the living room? I’d like to sit a spell.”
I stood and helped him into his crutches, then took his elbow as we shuffled into the adjoining room. I set him on a gray armchair and placed his feet on an ottoman. He settled into the seat. “Much better.”
“Grandfather Zook, can you tell me anything more about the person who cut off your beard?”
“What do you want to know?”
“You said Sparky bit the man’s shoulder. You think the attacker was a man?”
He touched his short whiskers. “Yes, it sounded like a man when he cried out.”
“How big was he?”
“I can’t say. Are you helping the lady police officer again?”
I didn’t answer his question directly. “Could what happened to you be related to Ezekiel’s murder and the attack on the four Amish girls?”
He took my hand. His cool and dry grasp felt like crepe paper. “Don’t put yourself at risk on my account. I don’t seek vengeance for what happened. Gott will use this for gut.”
I squeezed his hand but couldn’t help wondering if that were true. I swallowed, gathering courage to ask my next question. “Will the family be shunned?”
He settled back into his seat. “I can’t say. I know things are changing in the district, and change puts folks on edge. Hooley has a tough job stepping into Glick’s shoes. There wasn’t a more beloved bishop in the district than Glick. Perhaps Hooley believes he needs to flaunt his authority by being strict to get folks to give him respect.” He took my hand again. “Don’t worry about that. Gott knows we’ve done nothing wrong. Everything will be as the Lord wants it in the end.”
His response did little to alleviate the guilt I felt by putting the Troyer family in this position with the district. On Thanksgiving, I would allow myself one final day to be with all of them, but after the holiday, I would stay away from the farm.
Timothy drove Becky and me back to the hospital to collect my car and then followed us home. The moment I parked in the driveway, Becky ran into the house, leaving me to struggle with the monster mums.
Timothy got out of the truck and held the car door open for me. “What is that?”
My heart sank a little at his question. If he didn’t know what the mums were, he didn’t send them. “Someone sent flowers to my office today.”
Even in the dim light, I saw his brow wrinkle. “Who would do that?”
My heart sank a little further. I gave the flowers one final yank, and they popped out of the Bug. I stumbled back, and Timothy placed a hand on my back to steady me.
He took the flowers from my arms, which hid his face. “Where’s the note?”
“The student who delivered them lost it, and before you ask, she didn’t read it.”
“Why would someone send you flowers?” The pitch of his voice rose, as if he were confused.
I slammed the Bug’s door. “Is it hard to believe someone would want to send me flowers?”
“N-no.” He dropped the arrangement a few inches so I could see his face. “Maybe they are from your dad?”
I snorted. My father could afford an expensive arrangement, but he certainly didn’t have the time or desire to send it.
“Tanisha?”
“I doubt it. She barely has enough money to pay her rent.” This conversation grated on my nerves. Maybe it was a secret admirer. What would Timothy think about that? Was that so impossible to believe? It was time to change the subject. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about Grandfather Zook.”
“We all have.” Timothy walked the flowers to the porch and set them by the door. He sat on the porch steps as if he knew this was going to be a long conversation.
I turned up the collar of my winter coat to keep as much of the cold wind off of my skin as possible. “Grandfather Zook believes his attacker was a man.”
Timothy stuck his hands deep into his coat pockets. “You think a woman could have done that? Thrown him against the buggy and cut off his beard?”
I gave him a crooked smile. “That was mildly sexist. Women commit crimes as well as men, and there are some that are strong enough to do that.” I paused. “We need to talk to the other victims.”
He sighed. “The other victims?”
“Of the haircutting.”
Timothy’s mouth formed a straight line.
“I spoke with Miller about it today.”
Timothy’s brow shot up. “Miller, why?”
“His cousin is Leah Miller.”
“I know who Leah is. She’s a couple of years younger than Becky.”
“She was one of the girls who had her hair cut.”
Timothy grew very still. “And that’s why you talked to Miller about it.”
I nodded.
“You want us to get involved again.” His voice was soft.
“We are already involved. Look what happened to your grandfather today, and I found Ezekiel . . .”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t like it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I grinned at him. “If you help me, you can make sure I won’t.”
He watched me. “You’re going to do this whether I help you or not.”
“Yep.”
He shook his head. “Okay. But I think it’s a bad idea, and so will Greta.”
“That’s the right attitude.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I want to start tomorrow. Miller told me Leah works at The Apple Core downtown.”
“I know. It’s a gift shop that sells Amish trinkets to Englischers.”
“Right. I plan to stop by there tomorrow morning and talk to her. Can you come with me?”
He shook his head. “I promised Uri I’d meet him at Young’s first thing. He’d like me to check the pavilion job site to make sure that everything is okay now that the police are out of there. He can’t bring himself to go back inside it.”
“That’s understandable. How is he?”
“He didn’t sound good on the phone.”
“He not only lost his brother, he lost his twin. It must be like losing a piece of yourself.”
“Ezekiel and Uri were twins, but they were so different. You saw that Sunday at the dinner. I’m sure Uri is devastated, but the twins never struck me as particularly close. At least they weren’t as close as other twins I know.”
I shivered. “Something has been nagging at me.”
“What’s that?”
“If we take for granted that all the haircutting attacks are related, why was Ezekiel the only one killed?”
Timothy shifted into his seat. “That’s a good question. Grandfather Zook didn’t see his attacker, but maybe Ezekiel did and was killed so that he couldn’t talk.”
“If he saw him, Ezekiel would have fought back. He’s not a small guy.”
“Did you see any sign of a struggle?”
After two days of trying to forget what I saw, I forced myself to remember the scene. Images flashed across my mind: the orange electrical cords snaking across the floor, the air-compressed nail gun, the sawhorse that tripped me up, Ezekiel’s beard and glasses covered in sawdust, the shears sticking out of his back, and the toolbox lying on the floor.
“There is something,” I said.
“What?”
“A large tool box was on its side. Some of the drawers were opened and tools were on the floor.”
“That’s something,” Timothy said. “Ezekiel was far too precise to treat his tools that way.”
I buried my hands deeper into my pockets. “I wonder if Ezekiel had any other injuries, like defensive wounds.”
“That’s something we will have to ask the chief.”
He was right. “It’s probably best you can’t come with me to The Apple Core tomorrow,” I said, changing the subject. “Leah is more likely to talk to me alone. Woman to woman. I hope to meet the other two girls attacked too. Miller said their names are Abby and Debbie, and he said they work at The Apple Core too.”
“They must be Debbie Stutzman and Abby Zug. You might want to talk to Becky. She went to the Amish schoolhouse with them.”
“I will.”
He touched my chin and turned my face toward his. “Promise me you will be careful.”
I swallowed. “I promise.” I would be willing to promise him so much more.
He let go of my face and stood. “You’d better go inside. It is too cold to sit out here.”
I couldn’t disagree more. Reluctantly, I stood.
Timothy picked up the flower arrangement while I opened the front door.
Becky lay on her dog pillow in the middle of the living room, watching yet another Thanksgiving cooking special. Honestly, how many ways were there to cook turkey?
Becky rolled over onto her back. “Do you think Daed would let us deep-fry a turkey this year?”
Timothy arched a brow at me. “You let her watch too much TV.”
“Hey, she’s an adult.”
Becky grinned. “That’s right.”
“Where should I put this?” Timothy asked.
“By the front window is fine.”
He set the pot down. “If you find out who sent these, let me know.”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I held back the question on the tip of my tongue. Why do you care?