It’s a heartbreaking story, especially for the people who loved her. Her parents, Sam and Esther Miller, and her boyfriend, Elam Schlabach, all of whom now have a motive for murder.
By the time I get my hands on a decent image of the mysterious woman who left the note, the morning is gone. I’d been entertaining the notion of picking up Mark Petersheim and bringing him to the station. Push him a little to gauge his reaction. See if I can shake up his alibi or catch him in a lie. But I’m not convinced the note is legitimate. I opt instead to drive over to Charm to talk to the three Amish girls at The Mercantile.
According to Milo Hershberger, Neva Lambright was at the singing with Ruth Petersheim the night she was assaulted. Why didn’t Neva mention it when I talked to her? Honest oversight? Was she simply trying to protect her friend’s privacy? Or does she know more about what happened that night than she’s letting on?
My forearm is pounding like a son of a bitch when I park in the gravel lot of The Mercantile and shut down the engine. I’m troubled by the growing pile of unanswered questions and grouchy because I’m in dire need of food and caffeine and a painkiller and not necessarily in that order.
I push through the antique door of The Mercantile. Half a dozen or so customers are standing in line at the cash register to pay for merchandise. A middle-aged Amish woman operates the register, laughing at something one of them is saying. The type and color of her dress tells me she’s Beachy Amish and I wonder if she’s Neva’s mother, the owner of the shop.
I go to the aisle where the candles are displayed, select a pillar I’d spotted last time I was here, and take it to the register.
“That bergamot and sweet rosemary combination is a lovely scent,” the woman says as she slides it across the counter and upends it to read the price sticker. “Is it a gift?”
She’s about fifty years old with a stout build and a ruddy complexion that tells me she spends a good bit of her time out of doors. Dishwater blond hair just starting to go gray is tucked neatly into her kapp.
“It’s my sister’s birthday.” I look around the store as she rings up the sale. “Is Neva around?”
“In the back, I think.” Lifting a brow, she gives my uniform a once-over, her gaze landing on my bandaged forearm. “Anything I can help you with?”
I show her my badge and identify myself. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich over in Painters Mill.”
“I read about all that.” Clucking, she assumes a somber expression. “Such a terrible thing losing a young one like that. Hard to believe anyone would do such a thing. Some of our men are going up there tomorrow to rebuild the barn for them, you know.”
“The Gingerich family will appreciate that,” I tell her in Deitsh.
If she’s surprised by my fluency, she doesn’t show it, but a smile touches the corners of her mouth. When she’s finished with the sale, she offers her hand. “I’m Edna Lambright, by the way. My husband and I own the shop.”
We shake over the counter. “You’ve done a nice job with the place.”
“Always loved the idea of taking something old and forgotten, like this barn, and making something new out of it.”
“I understand you’re going to open a restaurant in the old round barn in the back.”
She chuckles. “Well, it’s a work in progress. Place is older than the hills and there are some structural issues according to our construction man. But God is smiling down on us. With Him leading the way, it’ll get done.”
Her eyes sharpen on mine. “What do you need to speak with my daughter about?”
“I know Emma Miller used to work here. I understand she knew Daniel Gingerich.” I shrug, trying to keep my answers vague. “I’m hoping Neva might be able to answer some questions or at least offer some insights on their relationship.”
“Well, the Amish are a tight-knit bunch. Everyone knows just about everyone else. Let me call her up here for you.”
She picks up the phone and presses a button. “Neva, come to the front please,” she says over the intercom system. “Would you like a gift box with that, Kate Burkholder?”
“I would. Thank you.”
The sound of female chatter draws my attention. I turn to see Ina Yoder and Viola Stutzman coming down an aisle. They’re deep in conversation, dresses swishing around their legs, arms loaded with what looks like this evening’s projects. Ina is carrying a canvas bag with two rolls of fabric sticking out the top. Viola totes a wicker sewing kit in one hand, a bundle of what looks like crafting grapevine in the other.
“Hi, girls,” I say.
Viola’s stride falters. “Oh, hi, Chief Burkholder.”
“Looks like you found another birthday gift for your sister.” Ina’s eyes flick to the bag in my hand. “Did you pick the bergamot and sweet rosemary?”
“I did.” I look past her to see Neva Lambright striding toward us from the rear of the store. She looks harried, holding a large corrugated box in her arms, but there’s a bounce in her step. She’s wearing a lavender print dress and has a brown paper shopping bag sporting The Mercantile logo slung over her shoulder.
“You girls look as if you’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of you,” I say.
“Always,” Ina says.
“But we love it,” Viola adds.
“Speak for yourself.” Neva is still smiling when she crosses to Viola and hands her the shopping bag. “You forgot your yarn.”
Viola takes the bag, peeks inside. “You’re determined to keep me working, even when I’m off, aren’t you?”
“I think she forgot it on purpose,” Ina teases.
I watch the exchange, and I can’t help but remember a time in my own life when everything was about friendship and fun and a future I couldn’t wait to explore.
“I need a few minutes of your time,” I tell them. “Is there a place where we can sit and chat?”
“We could sit at the café,” Viola offers.
“Someplace private?” I say.
Edna Lambright looks up from the quarters she’s counting. “You can use the break room in the back. Just leave it the way you found it.”
“In the meantime.” I pull out the photo of the woman who left the note on the police station door and set it on the counter. “Do any of you recognize her?”
Edna slides glasses onto her nose and looks down at the photo. Simultaneously, the three girls set their bags on the floor and gather around the counter.
“She’s Amish,” Edna says.
“Not a Beachy dress,” Neva adds.
“Looks like gray fabric,” Viola says to no one in particular.
“Do you have a better photo?” Ina asks.
“Just this one,” I tell her.
As unobtrusively as possible, I watch the four women as they scrutinize the still. They’re bent over the counter, expressions serious, brows knit.
“Can’t really see her face,” Ina says.
“Maybe if there was more light?” Neva adds.
“Angle isn’t great, either.” This, from Viola.
“Is there anything at all about her that’s familiar?” I ask. “The shape of her silhouette? The dress? Shoes?”
Edna straightens, removes her glasses, drops them to the lanyard around her neck. “What did she do?”
“I’m not sure she did anything,” I tell her. “At this point, I’m just trying to identify her.”
“I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful.” Edna’s eyes flick past me, to a customer who’s approached with a shopping basket laden with an autumn wreath and kitchen towels. “Zrikk zu verk,” she mumbles to me. Back to work.
A few minutes later, Ina, Neva, Viola, and I are seated at a small oak table in a room that’s not much bigger than a walk-in closet. There’s a rustic butcher-block counter with a porcelain farmhouse sink, a microwave, and a coffeemaker. A mini refrigerator hums from its place in the corner. The table’s centerpiece is a wicker basket containing several dozen candy bars with a small bowl with the words ?
??Honor System” written in Deitsh.
The three girls sit stiffly at the table, trying not to look anxious. Probably wondering why I’ve come back a second time to speak with them. Viola can’t seem to keep her eyes off the bandage on my forearm. “We heard what happened to you,” she says solemnly.
“It must have been scary,” Ina says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell them. I pause a moment before continuing. “You know I’m working on the Daniel Gingerich case,” I say.
Three heads bob in unison.
I focus my attention on Neva. “I know you were close friends with Emma Miller and I understand your loyalty to her.” I take a moment to get my thoughts, my words in order. “I know there may be certain things you don’t want to talk about. Things that are private or painful or both. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable or pry into your personal business. Or Emma’s. But I need you to be honest with me. Do you understand?”
Neva stares at me, eyes wide. Ina and Viola are looking down at the tabletop, not meeting my gaze.
They know where this is going, I think.
“I know what happened to Emma,” I say, keeping it vague, hoping they’ll fill in the blanks. “I need you to tell me what you know.”
I wait, but no one speaks, so I add, “Emma deserves that. The truth. I think she’d want you to do the right thing.”
I let the silence that follows work for a full minute. Just when I think no one is going to respond, Viola makes a sound. I glance over at her. Her head is bent forward. She’s staring at the tabletop, crying.
“We have to tell her,” the girl whispers.
“Viola,” Neva snaps, a warning in her voice.
“Emma wouldn’t want anyone to know,” Ina says.
I give them another minute, then say, “You can trust me with the information. I’ll do everything in my power to keep it confidential. You have my word.”
None of the women meet my gaze. Neva stares down at her hands. Ina looks away, everywhere but at me. Viola covers her face with her hands. She doesn’t make a sound, but I see tears on her chin.
After a moment, Neva raises her gaze to mine. “How did you find out?” she whispers.
“I can’t tell you that,” I say. “But I need to know exactly what happened. If you know something—anything—you need to tell me. Right now.”
Another lengthy silence and then Ina raises her head and glares at Viola. “Since you’re so keen on telling the world what happened, why don’t you just do it?” she snaps.
If an Amish girl could jump out of her skin and run, Viola would have done just that. I wait, expecting her to comply, but she sits frozen in place, unmoving, looking as if she’s being led to her execution.
“Ina.” Neva says her friend’s name firmly, and then sets her hand over Viola’s. “She’s a police. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Ina hisses. “None of this is okay.”
Viola snaps at her. “We have to tell.”
“Tell me what?” I say.
After a moment, Neva squares her shoulders, raises her chin. “I’ll do it then.”
All eyes fall upon her. Neva maintains eye contact with me. It’s so quiet in the small room, I can hear the air-conditioning rush through the vents, the hum of the refrigerator, the steady drip of water from the sink.
“We all noticed something different about her,” Neva says. “She’d lost weight. Grown quiet. Pale.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “A few weeks before she died, she came to me after work. She was just … broken inside. Her heart torn to pieces.”
The young Amish woman is putting on a brave front, but she’s anxious and upset. Her foot is jiggling a hundred miles an hour, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s perched on the chair as if her legs are springs and she’s ready to launch herself into a run at the first sign of danger, which is apparently very close.
When the silence goes on too long, I push. “What did Emma tell you?”
“It was about Daniel. When he was working for her parents. At first, she said he’d been … looking at her funny. I mean, she’d mentioned it before and we just kind of laughed it off, you know. But this was different. Serious. It had been happening the whole time he was there, working for her parents. Emma told her mamm, but Mrs. Miller … wouldn’t listen. It hurt me to hear that. Emma was so sweet. Innocent. And in love with Elam. She didn’t want anyone to know.”
I pause, take a moment to make eye contact with each girl. Viola has stopped crying, but her eyes and nose are red. “Daniel raped her?” I ask.
Neva nods. “He trapped her out in the milk house. She was … so ashamed. Blamed herself. Thought she must have done something wrong. Her mamm—” She bites off the word, her eyes flashing anger.
“We told her it wasn’t her fault,” Viola whispers.
Neva shakes her head. “She didn’t listen. It was incredibly sad.”
“She’d been saving herself for Elam,” Ina says, her voice shaking with anger. “All she wanted was to marry him and have children.”
“She was … despondent,” Neva says.
Looking miserable, Viola sniffs, keeps her eyes on the table. “It was like we couldn’t … reach her.”
None of what I’ve just heard is news; I’d already heard it from Esther Miller. But hearing it from these young women, seeing the anguish on their faces, adds yet another ugly layer to an already hideous story.
“Did Emma tell anyone else?” I ask.
Neva gives another shake of her head. “I don’t think so.”
“She didn’t want anyone to know,” Viola adds.
“Practically killed her to tell us,” Ina puts in. “And we’re her best friends.”
“Do you think that’s why Emma killed herself?” I ask.
Neva nods. “I do.”
“She felt guilty about it even though she had no reason to blame herself,” says Viola.
“And she couldn’t get away from him,” Ina adds.
I tamp down a rise of outrage. “Her parents didn’t protect her?” I pose the question, but I already know.
Neva shakes her head. “They were … old-fashioned that way. I mean, about … you know, men and women.”
No person or society is perfect. Far from it. I would never profess to be a fair judge of the Amish. I’ve got too much baggage to be impartial. There are elements about being Amish that I loved and to this day regret leaving behind. But there are also certain aspects of the community that I was born into that I detest. Generally speaking, the Amish are a patriarchal society. While most women certainly have a voice, a few do not. Growing up, I heard the whispered stories. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized sometimes there’s a fine line between coercion and force. Even when that line is crossed, some prefer to look the other way.
“Did Emma’s datt know what had happened?” I ask.
Neva gives a minute shake of her head. “She never said.”
“We didn’t ask,” Viola says.
“Maybe her mamm told him.” Ina offers the words with a shrug. “I don’t know.”
“She wasn’t that close to her datt,” Neva says. “I mean, he was a good datt and all that, but to talk to a man about.… that. Emma wouldn’t have.”
Nodding, I move on. “Did Emma tell Elam Schlabach what happened? Did he know?”
Neva gives the question a good bit of thought and shakes her head. “She didn’t say, but I don’t think she would have told him.”
“She wouldn’t have risked hurting him,” Viola adds.
Ina shakes her head as if the other girls’ statements are naive. “Or else she was afraid he might—” She cuts the words off abruptly, as if realizing she’d been about to say something that shouldn’t be said.
“That he might what?” I ask.
Ina’s gaze skitters away from mine. “He might’ve blamed her, too,” she mutters.
Neva sighs. “That would have destroyed her.”
“Was Elam protective
of Emma?” I ask.
The silence that follows goes on a beat too long. “Sometimes,” Ina says.
“Does he have a temper?” I ask.
“He didn’t … I mean, before Emma died,” Neva says.
“And after she died?” I ask.
Neva slants a look toward the other two women and nods. “He … changed after he lost her. All that pain, I guess.”
“Can’t blame him,” Viola says.
Ina squares her shoulders. “Anyone would change after something like that.”
Neva looks me in the eye. “Elam Schlabach is one of the most decent young Amish men we know, Chief Burkholder. There’s no way he would hurt anyone.”
Viola wipes her nose with a tissue. “He would never commit such a sin. Not Elam.”
Nodding, I rise. “I appreciate your answering my questions and talking about something so painful.”
The three girls are subdued as they rise and push in their chairs. I take my time with my own chair, lingering as they shuffle from the room. I’m thinking about Ruth Petersheim now, and Neva is the girl I need to talk to. Alone.
“Neva?” I say as she goes through the door.
The Amish woman looks at me over her shoulder and raises her brows. “Yes?”
“One more thing.” I walk to the doorway, motion toward the table and chairs. “Do you have a minute?”
Ina and Viola stop and turn toward us, start back into the room. I make eye contact with both of them. “Just Neva.” I soften the words with a smile. “I won’t keep her too long.”
The two young women exchange looks, their expressions wary. They don’t want to leave her.
Neva shrugs it off. “No problem.” She sends a smile to her friends. “Go on. I’ll be out in a sec.”
I pull out one of the chairs. She returns to the break room and sinks into it. I wait by the door until Ina and Viola start toward the front of the store and then I go back to the table.
“Why didn’t you tell me you went to the singing with Ruth Petersheim the night she met up with Daniel Gingerich?” I ask as I take the chair opposite her.
Her shoulders stiffen. A subtle quiver moves through her body. If I hadn’t been watching her for a reaction, I would have missed it. She tries to cover her discomfiture by choosing a candy bar from the wicker basket and dropping a dollar bill into the mix.