Chapter 10
For a moment, Alvin Herschberger continued to glare at the two women. “Maybe we should leave,” Mary Aaron said from the passenger’s side.
“Ne.” Then, to Alvin, Rachel called in Deitsch, “We don’t mean trouble for you or your family. I just wanted”—her gaze strayed to the field of goats—“to buy a goat,” she said in a rush, looking at him again. “Two goats.”
“Goats?” Mary Aaron said under her breath, cutting her eyes at Rachel. “You didn’t say anything to me about buying a goat.”
Alvin relaxed a little and lowered the ax to the ground. He squinted. “You want to buy goats?” he asked in the same dialect.
Verna appeared from behind the barn, carrying a toddler. “Mary Aaron?” Another child, a little girl about three, trailed after her. From the look of Verna’s middle, there would be another little one before winter.
“Verna!” Mary Aaron smiled and climbed out of the Jeep. “My cousin Rachel wants to buy three of your goats.”
“Three?” Rachel said to Mary Aaron as she got out of the vehicle.
“Ya.” Mary Aaron nodded, walking around the Jeep. “Maybe a doe and two kids? You have any for sale?”
Alvin walked back and leaned the ax against the building. He picked up his daughter, and she clung to her father’s neck and shyly buried her face in his shirt. “These aren’t scrub goats,” he said defensively. “They are purebred milking goats. We have Nubian and Toggenburg, and some crosses.” He hesitated. “But some we might part with.”
“Alvin was chopping wood,” Verna volunteered. “He wasn’t coming after you with the ax.”
“Of course not.” Rachel forced a chuckle. The notion had been silly, but for a moment there, when she first saw Alvin with his wild beard and the ax, she had to admit, he’d spooked her. She didn’t watch much TV since returning to Stone Mill, but in her college days, she’d seen plenty of scary movies. The Shining came to mind.
“I have milk cooling in the springhouse,” Verna said. “Would you like to try some?”
Rachel could see the eagerness in the woman’s face. They needed the money a sale would bring. “I’d like that. It’s a hot morning, eh?”
“Did your father send you here?” Alvin looked at Mary Aaron. “No need, because the bishop’s already been.”
“I don’t understand. My father didn’t send me,” she answered. “I haven’t seen the bishop.”
Alvin studied her, his eyes narrowing. “The bishop thought maybe the police would come to talk to me. About your dat. He wanted to warn me.”
The bishop was the leader of the church and responsible not only for church services but also for the moral behavior of his congregation. He was not responsible for interfering in a police investigation, not even one involving one of his parishioners.
“The police haven’t come,” Alvin went on. “I told the bishop, even if they did, I wouldn’t say anything about what I saw. This is none of our business.”
“Why was the bishop afraid you might speak to the police? Do you know something about my father . . . and Willy O’Day?”
Alvin glanced at his daughter, still in his arms, and murmured something to her. The little girl smiled, and he whispered again to her.
Though his response might have seemed odd to some, Rachel knew this was typical behavior among the Amish. If they didn’t want to answer a question, they just pretended it hadn’t been asked. Conversation could be painfully slow when trying to get information, particularly from Amish men. This kind of conversation bordered on an art.
Mary Aaron waited, then glanced at Verna. “I think I’d like some milk, too, if it isn’t any trouble.”
Rachel would have continued to prod Alvin, so she was glad she had Mary Aaron along. After living in the English world for so long, Rachel could be impatient with her Amish friends and neighbors. Not Mary Aaron.
Verna shrugged and jiggled the toddler on her hip. The child was in a long dress, but Rachel wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl. The Amish often dressed male and female babies alike until their second birthday, at which point they would be clothed identical to their father or mother.
“Milk we have aplenty.” Verna looked at her husband. “What about Thomasina? We could sell her.”
Alvin set his daughter on the ground and straightened her white kapp. “Maybe.”
The little girl stepped behind her father but then peered around his leg.
“A good doe, friendly to people,” Alvin mused aloud. “She and Meta don’t like each other. Meta is my best milker.” He looked at Rachel. “Thomasina was never dehorned. You care about horns?” he asked, squinting.
“I don’t mind horns.” Rachel hesitated, then asked, “Did the bishop have reason to be concerned about what you might say if the police did come by?” They were still conversing in Deitsch.
His face flushed a dark red. He wasn’t a good-looking man, Rachel thought, but when he wasn’t scowling, he had a kind face. His hands were rough from hard work, and although his clothes were worn and patched, his hair was clean and freshly cut. Her earlier opinion of the Herschbergers softened. Life here was not easy for them, and maybe they had reason to be wary.
“We want no trouble.” Verna shifted the baby from one hip to the other. “And we want to make none for your father.”
Rachel was puzzled. What could Alvin know or have seen that the bishop didn’t want him talking to the authorities about? “Look, I know that Uncle Aaron can be difficult at times, but he didn’t kill Willy.”
Verna and her husband exchanged guarded glances, and Rachel tried to read what was unspoken. What did they know?
“You still want that milk?” Verna asked.
Rachel nodded. “I’d like that.” She looked back at Alvin. “And I’d like to see the goats you’d be willing to part with . . . the mother and two little ones.”
Hope flared in Alvin’s eyes. “Ya, let me go and catch her. She’s in the pasture, but they’ll all come in for grain.”
“That’s the last bag,” Verna warned.
“And cheese,” Rachel said. “I’d like to buy some of your cheese, as well.”
“You would?” Verna looked surprised.
“Ya. My guests at the B&B like goat cheese.” Though maybe not yours, she thought, thinking about what Mary Aaron had said about the taste of it. If the cheese was awful, though, Ada could always feed it to her chickens.
The young mother, still carrying the infant, led the way to an old stone springhouse built into the side of the hill. Inside, it was cool and dark, and Rachel heard the music of running water.
“We keep our milk here,” Verna explained. “And anything else we need to refrigerate. Our propane ran out, and . . .” She shrugged.
All three women were quiet for a long moment while Verna poured a cup of milk from a covered stainless steel bucket. Several buckets sat on wooden shelves inside the springhouse.
“I saw your garden,” Rachel finally said. “It looks good.”
The garden lay on stony ground between the springhouse and a shed. Rows of lettuce, spinach, and kale ran straight as ranks of soldiers, while the first leafy tops of carrots pushed through the ground. Peas climbed the fence beside hills of potatoes. It was too early for corn or tomatoes here in the higher elevation, but Verna didn’t have to tell them how much effort had gone into the vegetable patch that would go a long way toward feeding the family all winter.
“I just have one cup out here,” Verna apologized. “But it’s clean. Nobody used it.”
“We don’t mind sharing.” Mary smiled and reached for the cup. They walked back out into the hot sunshine, and Mary Aaron and Rachel shared the cool milk.
The three women sat on a low stone wall outside the springhouse, and Rachel admired the blond-haired baby, which Verna proudly told them was a nine-month-old boy. Now, obviously more at ease with her visitors, she smiled in the same shy way as her daughter. She surveyed Rachel’s shapeless skirt and blouse. “You still look Plain. Are you sure you wouldn’t be more happy if you went back into the church?”
“I think about it sometimes,” Rachel admitted truthfully, “but . . . I don’t think so.” Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t say anything more.
How many nights had she lain awake and wondered the same thing? But she always came to the same conclusion. Her path lay somewhere between the English world and the Amish one, and she had to find her own happiness on that precarious ridge. She knew she had done the right thing, leaving the Amish all those years ago, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been difficult. Or that it didn’t hurt . . . even still.
“Thank you for the milk,” she said, handing back the empty cup. “It’s good.”
“Some folks don’t like goat milk,” Verna said. “We like it fine, and it makes good cheese.”
“I’d like to buy some of your cheese,” Rachel said. “If you have any.”
Verna stood and lifted the baby onto her hip. She motioned for them to follow her to the new shed. When she opened the door, Rachel saw a dairy and cheese-making area. There were cabinets, a propane stove, and a long table. Tall stainless pots, thermometers, ladles, and a cheese press were stored on open shelves. Everything was spotless and orderly.
“Alvin knows how to make cheese,” Verna said. “He learned from his grandfather, and he has bought books and studied them. And he has even talked to the state people about getting a permit to sell it.”
“Do you make different kinds?” Rachel asked.
“Ya.” Verna opened an insulated box stacked with neat, parchment-paper-wrapped squares and rectangles. “I don’t know how much to ask . . .” She blushed. “If you buy some, it would be our first sale. So far, we’ve just been giving it away.”
“I’ll take five pounds,” Rachel said, making a snap decision.
“For sure? You want so much?” Tears gathered in the corners of the Amish woman’s eyes. Embarrassed, she shifted the baby from one shoulder to the other and rubbed her face against his blanket.
“Here,” Mary Aaron offered. “Let me take Mosey while you pick out the cheese.” And then, as Verna handed over the baby, she asked, “What is it that the bishop doesn’t want your husband to tell about my dat?”
Verna didn’t answer.
“Please,” Rachel walked over to the cooler and looked into Verna’s eyes. “It’s important that we find out what happened so we can prove that Mary Aaron’s father is innocent.”
Still, Verna held her tongue. But she looked like she wanted to speak.
“Alvin doesn’t think he did it, does he?” Mary Aaron asked. She looked at little Mosey in her arms, then at his mother. “He doesn’t think my dat is guilty of this killing?”
Verna worked her jaw. “He wonders,” she admitted. “You know—because of the argument at the auction. And because everyone knows that Aaron Hostetler has a temper. We saw his temper that day.”
“What happened?” Rachel asked. “Exactly.”
Verna sighed. She looked at the brimming ice chest and then at her bare feet. “We were there to sell some of our male goats. Alvin and me and the children were just walking through the pens to see how long before our goats would go into the ring when we heard shouting. It was Aaron and Willy O’Day. I heard Aaron say something about his dog, and Willy yelled back that he’d shot and killed it. But it wasn’t just arguing like some said.” She met Rachel’s gaze. “Willy raised his fist and shook it at Aaron. That’s when Aaron raised his hand against Willy.”
“My father hit him?” Mary Aaron’s eyes widened.
“Ne. Not exactly. He raised his hand, then dropped it.” She demonstrated. “But then he pushed Willy hard against the wall.”
“It was over our dog Bo,” Mary Aaron explained. “We’d found him dead at the end of our driveway.”
Rachel nodded. Bo had been their sheep and cattle dog. Not only had the family lost a valuable animal, but the children had been attached to him, too.
“He was a good dog,” Mary Aaron continued. “Getting on in years, but he could still herd the animals. Dat would send him for the cows, and he’d bring them in.”
Rachel remembered that Mary Aaron had said that the animal had been shot. But why would Willy O’Day shoot an Amish herd dog? “So Willy admitted that he shot Uncle Aaron’s dog?” she asked.
Verna nodded. “He did, and more than that. He cursed your uncle and threatened to start shooting his cows next. I don’t know why.”
“Dat and Willy had argued over the cows,” Mary Aaron explained. The baby started fussing, and she bounced him. “Dat’s cows broke through the fence to get to the pond and Willy was angry about it.”
“So, what happened after my uncle shoved Willy against the wall?” Rachel asked.
“Willy swung at Aaron, but Aaron jumped back out of the way. Then he said if Willy ever set foot on his farm, he’d be sorry. And Willy shouted that if the cows ever stepped over onto his property again, he’d be eating steak.”
“Was that the end of it?” Rachel asked.
“Ya. About that time the deacon came and talked to Aaron and got him away. By then, some of the English people had called the security man, the man in the white shirt. We saw Willy talking to the security man and waving his arms. We couldn’t hear all of what he said, but he was pointing in the direction Aaron had gone and he kept saying his name.”
Rachel was shocked; she’d heard about the argument, but not about the physical altercation. Her uncle must have been furious when he learned that Willy really had killed Bo. She’d heard that Willy could be mean, but she couldn’t imagine he could be cruel enough to shoot a dog. Still, for Uncle Aaron to shove Willy in front of witnesses—it would look bad to the police. It would look bad to anyone.
“Don’t tell Alvin that I told,” Verna begged. “He would be unhappy with me.” She looked at Rachel timidly. “Do you still want the cheese?”
Later, as Rachel and Mary Aaron drove back to Stone Mill House, her cousin folded her arms over her chest and glanced at her. “Goats? And cheese? What are you going to do with goats? And all this cheese?”
Rachel could tell she was trying to make light of what they had learned about her father. “I’ll think of something,” she assured her. “And the cheese won’t go to waste.”
She was still going over and over again in her head what Verna had told them. If someone had told the police about the argument, which surely someone had, that would be enough reason for them to take Aaron in for questioning. But maybe the police didn’t have anything else. Was that possible?
“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t want to go to Sampson Miller’s farm to ask questions. We would have come home with the Jeep full of pigs.”
Rachel gestured. “We don’t have goats in the Jeep.”
“Ne, but they’re coming tomorrow.”
Rachel’s cell rang just as she was getting out of the shower. It was ten twenty. She almost didn’t pick up. She was dripping water all over her bathroom rug, and if it was Evan, she could call him back. But even as she was hesitating, she grabbed a bath towel, wrapped it around herself, and made a mad dash for the ringing phone.
It will stop ringing just as soon as I grab it, she thought. True to form, when she did manage a hello, there was a dead silence on the other end of the line. Water dripped onto her floorboards. “Hello?” she repeated.
And then a faint voice asked, “Is this Rachel Mast?”
“Yes, it is.” She thought she recognized the sound of the caller’s voice. The women had a slight southern accent. “Dawn? Dawn Clough? Yes, this is Rachel. Thank you so much for—”
“Did Roy put you up to this?”
Roy? Who was Roy? And then Rachel made the connection. Roy Thompson. The man that Dawn had lived with here in the valley. “No. I’m calling about something else.”
“Do I know you, Rachel?” the woman asked.
“I have the B&B in Stone Mill, and I used to come in to Junior’s. You waited on me a couple of times. I’m a redhead. I always sat in the corner booth. English breakfast tea?”
“Oh, yeah. You’re the one with the cute cop boyfriend.”
“That’s me. He’s not exactly my boyfriend . . . never mind. That’s not important. Do you remember me now?”
“Yeah. You were a good tipper. I always remember the tightwads and the good tippers. So why are you tryin’ to get up with me?”
Rachel sat on the edge of her bed. “You may not have heard, well, I don’t suppose you could have . . .” She started again. “Did the police call you about Willy O’Day?”
“Cops? No. What’d Willy say I did?”
“No, nothing like that. Did you know that Willy was missing?”
“Missing? No. What’s that got to do with me? I haven’t seen him since . . . I don’t know. Since I left Stone Mill in October.”
“Yes,” Rachel said eagerly. “I know. I was wondering why it was that you left town so suddenly.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It’s . . . well . . .” She stopped and started again. “The thing is, Willy disappeared the same weekend that you did. Nobody knew where he went. Then, a few days ago, he turned up dead. Murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Dawn would have had to be a good actress to fake her surprise. And Rachel suspected that she wasn’t good at much, least of all acting. “My uncle has been accused of killing Willy. My uncle’s Amish.”
“An Amish man? How is that?”
“Long story,” Rachel said. “Anyway, I’m just trying to talk to anyone who knew Willy. To help my uncle out. I understand the two of you were . . . going out.”
“Going out? No way. I went on two dates with him, but we were never dating. Willy was a bigger jerk than Roy, if that’s possible. He took me to dinner in Huntingdon and expected me to pay for my own meal. Can you believe that? And he shorted the waitress on her tip. You can tell a lot about people by the way they tip. Nice guys leave a good tip. But murdered and dead? That’s awful. Willy didn’t deserve that.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Dawn was quiet for a second, then, “Why would you think that me and Willy were goin’ out?”
“George. His brother. He said you two were really friendly at the restaurant. The day he disappeared. Joking around, acting as though . . . you know . . . you were . . . good friends.”
“Honey, I’m a waitress. I get paid by tips. I flirt with all the guys because flirting gets you tips. I couldn’t get Roy to understand that, either. Roy was jealous—besides being a mean drunk. I thought maybe him and me might have something . . . but I don’t stand for being knocked around. Had that with my kids’ father, and no more.”
“So you left town to get away from Roy?”
“More or less. My mama tripped over my Tommy’s fire truck and broke her wrist. My kids live with her, and with her arm in a cast she was having a hard time with them. She said she’d send me money to come home, and I took it. I’m sorry about Willy, and your uncle, but I don’t know anything about it. Sorry. I gotta go.”
“I don’t suppose Willy ever said anything about being in trouble with anyone? Or owing a lot of money to anybody or—”
“Nope. Told you. I don’t know nothin’. ’Course anything is possible with that one. He liked to gamble, you know. Wanted to take me to Atlantic City with him for a weekend, but I wasn’t interested. If you ask me, somebody knocked him over the head for that cash he carried. Anyway, really, I gotta go,” Dawn said. “Sorry about your uncle. Tell the cops to look for some mugger.”
“Thanks.” Bishop jumped up on the bed as Rachel disconnected. “Well, that was a dead end,” she told the cat, tossing her cell on her pillow.
Then she remembered the open grave with Willy’s body sprawled in it. And despite the warm May evening, she shivered.
The answer had to be out there. She just had to look harder.