“I was wondering if you take quilts on consignment.”
“Ah! You’re a quilter.” Nodding her approval, she motions toward the rear of the shop. “Let’s take a look and see what you have.”
I follow her to an open area where a large rectangular table is set up with five chairs around it. There’s no one else present at the moment, but I know by the sheer number of quilts for sale that most days the chairs are filled by Amish women. If the walls could speak …
I set my bag on the table and pull out the two crib quilts. Laura assumes a deadpan expression, but I see her eyes light at the sight of the craftsmanship. She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “That’s some fine work.”
“My mamm and grossmuder were quilters,” I say, trying not to feel guilty for passing someone else’s work off as my own. “I learned from an early age.”
She takes the quilt from me and runs her fingertips over it, taking in the texture of the fabric, the intricate stitching. “The colors are pretty for a little one. You just have the two?”
“I’m working on two more. One is nearly finished,” I tell her, pleased I left them back at the trailer, which gives me a reason to return to the shop. “A pink and blue tumbling block.”
“I’m happy to take these on consignment.” She tries not to look too excited, but I can tell she’s more than a little impressed. “I might be able to get two fifty or so for them.” Putting her hand on her hip, she gives me a that’s-my-final-offer look. “It’ll cost you twenty percent.”
“Fifteen percent and you have yourself a deal.”
She huffs, looks back down at the quilt in her hand, and sighs. “I can tell you’re from Ohio.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Because we’re a frugal bunch and we can drive a hard bargain when we need to.” Her stern face breaks into a grin. “You have yourself a deal, Kate Miller. Fifteen percent it is.” She hefts the quilt and looks at it admiringly. “You’d best get to work on those others. I suspect these will go fast.”
CHAPTER 8
A quick stop at Walmart for groceries, an extra blanket, and a pair of wool socks, and I’m back at the trailer by noon. When I walk in the door, my hands and feet are numb and I’m shivering so hard I nearly drop the key. Filling the kettle with water, I set it on the stove for hot tea, using the flame to warm my fingers.
After stowing the groceries, I dig out my phone and call Suggs. “Did you know Rachel Esh was rumored to have had a boyfriend?”
“Some of the Amish hinted at it, but no one would say for sure so I could never confirm it or identify him,” he replies. “Did you get a name?”
“The woman I talked to didn’t know. It’s just rumor at this point, but she mentioned he may be older and married.”
“That’s interesting as hell.”
I tell him about my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “Sometimes there’s a grain of truth in a rumor.”
“Think you’ll get the chance to work on her some more?”
“I’ll probably see her at worship tomorrow. Everyone in the community will be there, so I’ll have the opportunity to meet a lot of people.”
“Nice job, Chief. This is exactly the kind of thing we were hoping you’d be able to do.”
“Whether anything will pan out remains to be seen, but it’s a start.” I pause. “I also met the woman Rachel Esh was living with when she died.”
“Mary Gingerich. You work fast.”
“Roaring Springs is a small town. The Amish community is even smaller. I knew she worked at the diner.…”
“Anything new?”
“Not really, but I’m starting to get a better picture of Schrock.” I tell him everything I’ve learned about the bishop so far. “He’s very Old Order. Everyone I’ve met seems devoted. The only hint of discontent I heard was from the owner of the quilt shop. Apparently, Schrock told her not to renew her lease when it’s up.”
“Sounds like him.”
“An unhappy follower is more likely to talk, especially if she’s got something negative to say. I’ll do my best to cultivate a relationship.”
“You get a bike yet?”
“No, but I will,” I tell him. “Mary took pity on me and offered to drive me to worship.”
“She drives?”
I smile. “A buggy.”
“Gotcha.”
“So I’ll have the chance to meet her husband and their daughter, too.”
“Excellent.” He pauses. “I don’t have to remind you to be careful, do I?”
“The most dangerous thing I did today was go to Walmart,” I tell him. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
* * *
I’ve never been the domestic type. I sure as hell don’t remember the last time I made date pudding. Probably as a teenager, when my mamm was still alive and doing her utmost to instill some semblance of domesticity in her unreceptive daughter. She would drag me into our big country kitchen and my sister, Sarah, and I would help her bake. It wasn’t always the tranquil ritual you might imagine. I was difficult; Sarah outshone me, which only made things worse. Still, it’s a good memory.
My current kitchen is a far cry from my mamm’s, my hands not nearly as capable as hers, but I get the job done with a good bit of sampling along the way, and the pudding turns out better than I anticipated. The entire trailer smells good—and it’s blissfully warm. I bought some plastic cups, and tomorrow after worship I’ll serve the pudding with caramel sauce and chopped walnuts on top. Hopefully, it will help get things off to a good start.
By late afternoon, the kitchen is cleared, the pudding is stowed in a sealable food storage bowl, and I’m poring through The Bridge for a bicycle that will make it easier to get around, at least when the roads are clear. There are no adult bicycles for sale, but there’s an ad for a scooter bike, which is even better. It’s an added bonus that there’s a phone number, which tells me the owner is local and probably Mennonite.
After bundling up, I hike it down to the Amish phone booth at the intersection a couple hundred yards down the road. The phone is inside a frame building the size of an outhouse. There are dozens of buggy wheel marks in the snow, but there’s no one here now. I slide the quarter into the slot and dial. A man picks up on the second ring with an enthusiastic, “Ja!”
“Guder nochmiddawks,” I say, greeting him with the Pennsylvania Dutch words for “good afternoon.” “I’m calling about the scooter bike.”
“It’s a nice one. Aluminum, with twenty-inch wheels and a basket in front for the grocery or whatnot. Good to get around on if the snow isn’t too deep.”
I’ve seen the Amish around Painters Mill travel on kick scooters, even Amish women, and the contraptions are amazingly fast and easy to power. “How much?”
“It’s used, so I’m asking two hundred.”
“Where are you located?”
“East of Roaring Springs.”
My heart sinks. I’m west of town, which tells me his place is too far for me to travel on foot. “I’m without transportation,” I tell him. “Any way you can haul it over to my place so I can take a look? I’m pretty interested and I have cash.”
“The cash part is talking. Where are you located?”
Twenty minutes later, a pickup truck pulls in to the driveway. Grabbing my coat, gloves, and bonnet, I go out to greet him.
He’s lifting the scooter bike out of the truck bed when I meet him in the driveway. “I’m Kate Miller,” I tell him.
“Christian Kempf.” We shake and then he motions toward the scooter. “What do you think?”
I give the contraption a skeptical look. “I would have preferred black.”
“Most of the Amish do around here. You could paint it.”
“Why are you getting rid of it?”
“My wife and I are Mennonite now, so we don’t need it.”
“You used to be Amish?”
His gaze moves away from mine. “Ja.”
I return my gaze to
the scooter, pretend to study it, but it’s the seller I’m most interested in. “What made you decide to leave the church?”
He looks down at the ground, then he shrugs. “I’m a furniture maker and sell cabinets to the builder over at Ellenburg Center. Schrock didn’t like it and asked me to stop.”
“Must have been difficult.”
“Hard for the wife. He put us under the bann. Her friends won’t speak with her. Our daughter…” His voice trails off as if the words are too painful to utter.
I’m about to ask about Schrock’s use of Meidung, but he shakes his head. “I have a car now, so we no longer need this.” He turns his attention back to the scooter bike. “There are a few chips in the paint. Otherwise, it’s in good condition. Would you like to try it?”
I glance toward the road, where most of the snow from yesterday has melted. “Sure.”
He wheels the scooter to the asphalt and offers it to me. “Keep one foot on the platform and push off with the other.”
I take the handlebars, and keeping my left foot on the platform, I shove off with the right. It’s awkward at first, but I know immediately that it’ll be easier—and faster—than walking. I take it down the gravel road about fifty yards, make a U-turn, and come back.
“What’s your bottom dollar?” I ask.
“Like I said. Two hundred.”
“Basket’s bent,” I say, indicating the wire rack mounted on the handlebars.
“Well, I might take one seventy-five. That’s as low as I can go without getting my wife riled up.” But he grins.
I grin back. “I’ll get my cash.”
CHAPTER 9
Sunday morning dawns brilliant and cold—and with me rethinking the wisdom of bringing food to my first worship service. It’s a small concern in the scope of things, but it kept me up last night. I don’t know the congregation or its unwritten rules—and apparently there are a lot of them. I’m not even sure if my welcome will be warm.
I do, however, know the Amish, and I’m well aware that they appreciate good food. While I don’t want to draw undue attention to myself, I do want to make a good impression. Most important, I want to meet and speak with as many people as possible. When you’re Amish, food is usually a pretty decent icebreaker.
Mary and Abe Gingerich arrive ten minutes early, but I’m ready. I’ve stowed the date pudding and plastic containers in two paper bags. Grabbing both, I go through the front door and into a morning cold enough to steal my breath.
Abe has already turned the buggy around. Mary sits in the rear along with a teenage girl, their legs covered with a hand-knitted afghan.
“Guder mariye!” I call out as I make my way to the buggy.
A rotund Amish man of about fifty grins at me. “Wei geth’s alleweil?” How goes it now?
“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. “You must be Abe Gingerich.”
“And you must be Kate Miller.”
I stop outside the buggy and offer my hand for a shake. “I appreciate the ride this morning.”
“It’s right on the way,” he tells me.
I peer into the back. “Hi, Mary. You look nice and warm back there.”
“We’re plenty toasty.” The Amish woman smiles back at me. “This is our daughter, Anna.”
I recall Suggs mentioning that the girl is special needs and about the same age as Rachel Esh had been. She’s got a round face and chubby cheeks mottled with acne. Though she’s wearing a black cape, I can tell she’s overweight. Her pale blue eyes are slightly strabismus, or cross-eyed, and possess the guilelessness of a much younger child.
“Hi, Anna.” I reach out for a shake. “Cold enough for you this morning?”
The girl smiles, looking uncertainly at my hand. “Even my nose is cold.”
“She’s shy until she gets used to people.” Mary elbows her. “Get on up front with your datt so Kate and I can sit back here and talk.”
I raise my hands. “Thank you, but I don’t mind riding up front.”
The woman reaches into a slot behind her and pulls out another afghan. “Figured we might need an extra this morning.”
Taking the cover, I climb into the buggy and settle onto the seat a respectable distance from Abe.
“What’s in the bag?” comes Anna’s voice from the rear.
“Anna!” Mary exclaims.
Smiling, I turn. “Date pudding,” I tell her. “Do you like it?”
The girl’s eyes light up. “It’s my favorite. I helped Mamm and Rachel make it once and it was good.”
I hold my smile, not even allowing myself to blink. “Is Rachel your sister?”
Anna falls silent, her eyes dropping to the afghan.
The woman picks up her daughter’s hand and rubs it between both of hers as if to warm it. Sighing, Mary turns her attention to me. “Rachel is a girl who stayed with us for a while. She wasn’t getting along with her family. We tried to help.…”
“She went to live with God,” Anna adds.
“Oh.” I feign shock. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a bad thing,” comes Abe’s voice from beside me.
“Rachel was a troubled child,” Mary adds.
“She went out in a snowstorm and died in the cold,” Abe finishes.
“How incredibly sad,” I murmur.
“It was truly awful and a terrible loss,” Mary says.
Though I’m already privy to the details of Rachel Esh’s untimely death, it doesn’t take much effort to show that I’m aghast at the thought of a young girl freezing to death.
“It must have been devastating for her parents,” I say with a shudder.
Abe clucks to the horse and jiggles the reins. “She’s in a better place,” he says as the horse breaks into a working trot.
No one mentions the possibility that Rachel may not have been alone. I don’t press the issue; I’ve probably already asked too many questions. Instead, I make a mental note to get Anna alone at the first opportunity.
Mary makes small talk as Abe drives the rig onto the main road and heads north. Within minutes, we fall in behind another buggy. At the next turnoff, a third buggy pulls onto the road behind us. We pass a group of teenage boys decked out in their Sunday best—black overcoats, black flat-brimmed hats, and black trousers—walking alongside the road.
The frigid air chafes my face as the horse sets a fast clip. By the time we turn into the narrow dirt road that will take us to Schrock’s place, there are six buggies in the caravan. My cheeks are numb, and though I’ve pulled the afghan up to my waist, I’m shivering. I attribute it to the cold, but my nerves are stretched taut beneath my skin as we draw closer to our destination.
The area is heavily treed with ancient hardwoods that soar sixty feet into the air. Abe makes a final turn. We pass a white clapboard schoolhouse, and then a massive bank-style barn looms before us like some primordial beast. The two-story structure is painted white with a tin roof gone to rust. It’s nestled in a clearing with horse pens to the right and a small pasture that slopes down to a creek on the left. The large sliding front doors stand open and I see a dozen or so men milling about inside. Vaguely, I wonder where the women have congregated.
Abe makes a U-turn and stops the buggy in front of the barn with a low “whoa.” A boy not yet in his teens goes around to the horse and, watching Abe, waits for us to disembark. Picking up the bags of date pudding, I slide out of the buggy and wait. Mary climbs down, but I can tell immediately that Anna needs assistance, so I jump in to help. Once we’re out, Abe nods to the boy, who will take the horse to the paddock where the animal will be unharnessed, stalled, and given water and hay.
Worship is a time of anticipation for the Amish, but it’s also a time filled with quiet reflection and hope. Conversation is hushed and respectful. Smiles are subdued. Laughter is not appropriate, even among children.
“This way, Kate.”
Carting the bags, I follow Mary and Anna to the barn door. Some of the men have gathered beneath the
overhang at the end of the building. Having grown up in Painters Mill, I’d attended hundreds of worship services before leaving the fold. Generally, the ordained men enter first, followed by the older men, the married men, the married women, the unmarried, and, finally, the teenagers. The order of things is atypical here; the women are nowhere in sight, and I remind myself that this is a different church district, a different state, and that Eli Schrock is originally from Lancaster County.
I keep my gaze cast down, but I feel the men’s eyes on me as I go through the door. We enter a common area where I imagine the farm implements, wagons, and buggies are usually stored. All that has been cleared to make room for the congregation. The interior is dimly lit by several lanterns. It’s warmer, but not by much. The smell of wood smoke fills the air, and I spot an old-fashioned potbellied stove in the corner. A boy of about ten years of age has been charged with keeping it stoked.
A scarred wooden table has been set up at one end of the main room. Dozens of backless benches have been arranged in rows separated by an aisle. At the rear, a dozen or so chairs have been neatly arranged. Several are occupied by elderly women.
“We’ll put the pudding in the tack room.” Mary motions to a door with a step up to a wood plank floor.
Nodding, I take the two bags into a room that smells of molasses and leather. A lantern flickers from atop an oak barrel. Two women stand next to a rectangular table already teeming with food: pies, rustic breads, and a ham dotted with cloves that looks home-cured. Steam rises from the spout of an old-fashioned enamel coffeepot.
“Hello,” I say.
A stout older woman wearing a black bonnet and heavy black cape smiles at me. “You must be the widow from Ohio.”
I introduce myself.
“Welcome to New York,” the younger of the two says. “You settling in okay?”
I tell them I’m renting Bowman’s trailer and the two women exchange looks. “It’ll be a nice cold winter for you.”
They get a good chuckle out of that.
The older woman jabs a thumb at the bags I brought. “What do you have there?”
“Date pudding,” I tell them. “Where shall I put it?”