A Gathering of Secrets Read online

  “She was sweet and pretty.” Ina sighs. “It’s like you just fell in love with her the instant you met her. That’s what kind of person she was.”

  Grief flashes in Neva’s eyes, followed by a wistful smile. “She had way too much common sense to go out with most boys.”

  I didn’t know Emma Miller, but I find myself liking her. “That’s not such a bad thing.”

  Ina folds her arms across her chest. “Especially when most of them her age were on Rumspringa and had the sense of a cow.”

  “Did Emma ever have any problems with any of the guys that liked her?” I pose the question to Neva. “Were any of them too forward? Anything like that?”

  “If they were, she never said. But then she wasn’t a complainer, either. To tell you the truth, I can’t imagine her giving any of them anything to be jealous of. Emma was a good girl. She had no interest in running around. She wasn’t boy crazy. Didn’t go out. Never drank beer or anything like that.”

  Ina has been watching the exchange with interest. When we fall silent, she narrows her eyes on mine. “Chief Burkholder, do you think what happened to Daniel Gingerich has something to do with Emma?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I was just surprised to hear Daniel and Emma knew each other and now both of them are gone.”

  “The Amish community is a small one.” Neva shrugs. “Everyone knows everyone. You know how it is.”

  I nod because I do. Still, I’m no fan of coincidence, and I don’t think it’s happenstance that these two innocent teenagers’ paths crossed—they knew each other, spent time together—and now both of them are dead.

  I look from girl to girl. “Was Emma upset about anything in particular in the days leading up to her passing? Some life event? Was there something going on in her life that led up to what happened to her?”

  A heavy silence ensues, ticks on for a too-long span of time. Finally, Neva heaves a sigh that’s fraught with emotion. “Her mamm said Emma always had a sad heart. Even when she was a little girl she had days when she was blue. You know, depression. Emma was…” Her voice trails and for the first time, tears well. “She was innocent and yet she had an old soul, if that makes sense. She felt things deeply. Too deeply, probably. She was thoughtful and incredibly kind. She couldn’t bear the thought of hurting others, even if it was inadvertent.”

  “She was a worrywart, too,” Viola says.

  “The silly thing.” Wiping at the tears, Ina chokes out a laugh. “She worried about everything and everyone.”

  The girls chuckle quietly, remembering, but they’re edging closer to being overcome with emotion. For them to be experiencing this level of grief after six months is profound.

  “Was she worried about anyone or anything in particular?” I ask.

  Neva shakes her head. “I don’t think it was any one thing. She was just … sad. And too quiet. I mean, when most people get upset about something, they talk and complain.”

  “Piss and moan,” Ina inserts.

  Viola chuckles.

  Halfheartedly, Neva smacks her on the arm. “Not Emma. When things got bad or she was trying to work through some problem, she just sort of clammed up. She held things inside.”

  “Her mamm says that’s what killed her,” Ina whispers. “Her heart couldn’t contain all the sadness,” Neva says. “The only comfort she could find was with God.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Before leaving The Mercantile, I purchase three individually wrapped rosemary and lemon soaps, a hand-dipped candle, and a tin of cinnamon tea for my sister. I call the station as I stow everything in the back of the Explorer.

  “Hey, Chief, what can I do you for?” asks Lois.

  “I need an address for Elam Schlabach.” I spell the last name and glance down at the time. “Get me a work address, too, will you? Check for warrants. See if he’s got a sheet.”

  “You got it.” Computer keys click on the other end of the line. “Here we go. Schlabach, Elam.” She taps a few more keys. “Home address is 4139 Hogpath Road.”

  “Work?”

  Fingers snap against keys. “Last place of employment … Buckeye Woodworks and Cabinetry on Fourth Street in Painters Mill.”

  I know the place. It’s an Amish-owned cabinet and woodworking shop that caters to local home builders, remodeling companies, and DIY homeowners, both Amish and English.

  “You got a lead on the Gingerich case?” Lois asks.

  “Probably just spinning my wheels.”

  “Well, if you’re going to talk to Schlabach at work, you’d best hurry,” she says. “I think they close at six.”

  Buckeye Woodworks and Cabinetry is a large establishment set up in a metal building that faces Fourth Street. The front of the structure is adorned with rustic wood siding and two Craftsmanesque windows replete with flower boxes overflowing with bright orange mums. Half a dozen Adirondack chairs span the length of a wide porch. I’ve been inside once or twice, when Tomasetti and I were looking to repair some of our water-damaged hardwood floors, and I know the owner employs some of the best woodworkers in the state.

  All the parking spaces in front are occupied, so I pull around to the rear and park next to a loading dock and Dumpster. I get out, traverse the pitted asphalt, and take the concrete stairs to a big double door that stands open. A sign above the door reads GOTT SEGEN AMERIKA. God Bless America.

  The roar of tools—saws and drills and the rumble of what sounds like a generator—increases as I approach. The smells of sawdust and wood stain fill the air as I go through the doors. I see several good-size workbenches with air hoses hanging down from steel arms mounted on the ceiling. Most of the tools are being operated by Amish men with full beards and wearing straw hats and work clothes—trousers with suspenders and blue shirts. A couple of the guys have noticed me, but they don’t stop what they’re doing. I’m midway through the shop when a male voice rings out.

  “Looking for work?”

  I turn to see a white-haired Amish man approach. He’s about my height with a silver beard and a friendly, open expression. He stops a few feet away and tilts his head back, looking at me through thick-lensed glasses that magnify rheumy brown eyes.

  “Actually, I’m looking for Elam Schlabach,” I say.

  “Some people come in through the front door and ask for who they want to see.” He says the words good-naturedly, but I’ve been effectively dressed down.

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I visit,” I reply.

  His mouth twitches and he leads me to a workstation where a young Amish man pushes a saw blade through an intricately grained piece of walnut. He glances up, but takes the time to finish his cut before pushing his goggles onto his crown.

  He’s in his early twenties with sandy-colored hair and green eyes. His beard is of the barely-there variety, telling me he’s a newlywed. He’s got a keloid scar on his left cheekbone and I wonder if at some point he was injured in the course of his work. Judging from the way he’s handling his tools, he’s been at it since he was too young to get paid for his time, and he’s good at what he does.

  “Elam Schlabach?” I ask.

  “Yup.” His eyes flash over my uniform, more curious than worried. He reaches for a second piece of wood, lines it up for a cut. “Who wants to know?”

  I have my badge at the ready and introduce myself. “I’m investigating the death of Daniel Gingerich.”

  “Heard about all that,” Schlabach tells me. “Bad business.”

  I look at the partially finished table next to where he’s standing. “That’s a beautiful piece.”

  “Still gotta distress and stain it. I made the benches, too. There’s going to be six of them.” I see pride in his eyes as he runs his hand over the wood. “I’m making all the dining room tables for the new restaurant going up at the end of town.”

  “The Red Rooster?”

  He almost smiles. “That’s the one.”

  “I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you.” I slide my
badge back into my pocket. “I understand you knew Emma Miller.”

  A quiver moves through his body. He doesn’t look away from the saw and for an instant, I think he’s going to make the cut. Instead, he straightens and switches off the saw, giving me his full attention. “I knew Emma.”

  “You were close?”

  He takes his time responding. “What’s that got to do with Dan Gingerich?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I don’t have anything to say about that.” He turns back to his work, flips on the pneumatic saw. He lines up the board and makes the cut. I can’t tell by his demeanor if I’ve hit on a nerve or if he’s simply impatient and irritable by nature. The one thing that is obvious is that he doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s doing a little too good a job ignoring me, so I decide to push.

  When he’s finished with the cut, I round the bench and turn off the saw. “Du sinn heiyahra nau.” You’re married now.

  He gives me an annoyed look. “I reckon the Deitsh earns you points. You Amish or what?”

  “Used to be. I left.”

  He’s not impressed. “So what do you want with me?”

  “I want to know why Emma Miller committed suicide.”

  Another quiver. More pronounced this time. His eyes flick away. Some of the attitude drains from his eyes. He looks longingly at the cutting bench; he’d rather be working. He wants to make that cut. Instead, he’s standing here with me being forced to answer questions he doesn’t want to answer.

  “She’s gone. Dan Gingerich is gone. I don’t see why any of it matters now.”

  “It matters because I don’t think Daniel Gingerich got locked in that tack room all by himself.”

  He stares at the wood he’d been cutting, refusing to look at me. Is he being stubborn? Or is there something in his eyes he doesn’t want me to see?

  I try another tack. “How long have you been married?”

  “Three months.”

  “You’re a newlywed.”

  “We got a baby on the way.” He doesn’t seem too happy about either of those things. One thing has become abundantly clear: Elam Schlabach is an angry and bitter young man.

  “Congratulations.” I wait a beat. “You and Emma were close.”

  He reaches for another board, lines it up for a cut. It’s as if he can’t control the impulse to keep moving. As if he’d rather be doing anything but partaking in the conversation at hand, including cutting off his own fingers.

  “You could say that. I was going to ask her to marry me. Is that close enough for you?”

  “What happened?”

  “She hung herself.” His voice breaks with the final word, but he covers it with a cough. “It was…” He lowers his voice. “A fucking mess.”

  I give him a moment. Let him make another cut. Save face. Maintain his dignity. When he’s finished, I ask, “Why did she do it?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, she’d still be here. I would have … I would have stopped her.” He sets down the saw with a little too much force. “How does anyone even conceive something like that? I mean, if you were Amish, Chief Burkholder, then you know that to take your own life is a sin.”

  He’s trying to play it cool, keep his emotions under control, put all of that energy into the anger. But it’s evident that even after six months the death of Emma Miller affects him deeply.

  “Sometimes people get caught up in a dark place and can’t get out,” I say. “Sometimes no matter how much we love them, we can’t save them.”

  Tightening his mouth, he lifts the board and sets it atop the others he’s already cut to size. “So you think someone murdered Dan Gingerich, or what?”

  “I do.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I didn’t know him very well.”

  “Did Emma?”

  Instead of answering, he picks up another length of wood, sets it on the saw, and lines it up. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Are you sure about that, Elam?”

  “Everyone says he was such a great guy.” He spits out the words, a quick spew of venom. And hate. “He was maulgrischt.” A pretend Christian.

  “Why do you say that?”

  He flips on the saw, cuts the board, tosses it with a good deal of vigor, and it clatters onto the stack.

  “Elam.” I say his name firmly. “Talk to me. Please. It’s important.”

  He leans against the bench, and skewers me with a hard, uncomfortable look. “I guess you’re pretty smart for putting two and two together.”

  My heart jumps, wondering if he’s just made some sort of bizarre confession.

  He sees my reaction and his mouth twists into an unpleasant caricature of a smile. “Wish I could make it easy for you, but … I didn’t do it.” He shrugs, a coiling of muscles beneath his shirt. “I didn’t figure things out until … after.”

  “Figure what out? After what?”

  “Why she did it,” he says. “I blamed myself for a long time. I mean, she was … sensitive about things. I figured I’d done something wrong or hurt her in some way. I thought I’d put too much pressure on her.” His face colors, another emotion he’s not comfortable with, and he mutters a curse beneath his breath. “I wanted to … you know. She didn’t. I mean, she wouldn’t … until we were married. She was clear about it. And she was … pure. After she died, I thought I was the reason she did it. I mean, I’d wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and I’d see her with that rope around her neck…”

  I wait.

  “My mind would just … run with it. Replaying all these things she’d said to me in the weeks before she died. It wouldn’t stop.” Shaking his head, he makes a sound I think is supposed to be a laugh, only it’s not. At some point, he’s begun to sweat—his forehead and upper lip; the keloid scar glows bright pink. He doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s like she was trying to tell me something from heaven. Or hell, maybe.”

  “Tell you what?”

  He hesitates. “She never came right out and said it. So I’ll never know for sure.”

  “Said what?”

  “I think Gingerich … I don’t know. I think he did something to her. Something she didn’t want him to do.”

  I feel myself recoil, but I’m not sure if it’s emotional or physical. I try to cover it, find myself hoping he didn’t notice. I remind myself this case isn’t about me or my past. Not even close. But I remember all too well what it was like to be a fourteen-year-old Amish girl. I remember all too well what it was like to be innocent and then feel that first brutal punch of shock when I learned that violence existed in my small, perfect, and safe world.

  In the back of my mind I wonder if he knows Emma Miller was pregnant when she died.

  “What did he do to her?” I ask.

  For the first time he becomes aware of his surroundings. He looks around as if to make sure no one is listening. “Look, Dan Gingerich did some work for the Millers a few months before Emma died. He was over there all the time. It took me a while to figure it out, but that was about the time when I noticed … changes.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  He shrugs, but his body language tells me he does, indeed, know. “Emma wasn’t much of a talker. She was kind of shy. Liked to keep the private shit private. But she … stopped laughing. She stopped looking at me the way she had before. She just, I don’t know, changed. I’d never heard her say anything bad about anyone, but she didn’t like Dan Gingerich.”

  “Any idea why?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Elam, you know Emma was ime familye weg when she died, don’t you?” “In the family way” is the Amish term for “pregnant.”

  He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Yeah, I found out about that.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t see how she could have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was innocent. I mean, I thought…” His gaze meets mine. This time I
see something sharp and hard in his eyes. Even for an Amish man, an emotion that if unleashed could fester into something unpredictable and dangerous. “We never…” He looks away. “You know.”

  “Is it possible she was seeing someone else?”

  His smile is bitter. “You know I’m going to say no. Dumb fucking guy always does, right?”

  “What do you think happened between Emma and Daniel?” I ask.

  He bends, picks up another board, and slams it down on the bench hard enough to draw the attention of the man standing at the next workstation. “I don’t know.”

  Now it’s my turn to look around. I lower my voice. “Do you think Daniel made advances toward her? Forced her to do something she didn’t want to do?”

  Bracing both hands against the board, he stares at the piece of wood as if it’s his only salvation. “She wouldn’t talk to me. She just wouldn’t say.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t even look at me.

  “Where were you two nights ago?” When he glares at me, I add, “I have to ask.”

  “Home with my wife. You can ask her.” He swings around to face me. “Don’t expect me to be sorry about Dan Gingerich being dead. Far as I’m concerned, that son of a bitch got what he deserved, especially if he’s burning in hell.”

  * * *

  Certain cases take on a life of their own. They touch us in unexpected ways. Sometimes they touch us in ways we don’t want to be touched. They take us to places we don’t want to venture. Remind us of people we don’t want to be reminded of. Cases are rarely limited to the victim or loved ones or the families. Cops get drawn in, too. They become involved with the people they come into contact with. While we do our best to keep a handle on all of those gnarly emotions and preconceived notions we keep tucked away in that back drawer, we don’t always succeed.

  When I walked into the Gingerich case, I saw Daniel as a victim. An innocent kid who’d been preyed upon and murdered brutally. But as in most cases, the deeper you dig, the more you learn—and sometimes you realize the people you’re fighting for aren’t who you think they are, and none of what happened is black and white.