A Gathering of Secrets Page 12

  The door opens and I find myself looking at a young Amish woman. Early twenties. Dishwater blond hair encased in a gauzy kapp. Light blue dress, apron, and discount-brand sneakers. I hear a baby gaggling somewhere in the house.

  She looks taken aback by the sight of my uniform. “Has something happened?”

  I show her my badge and introduce myself. “We’re looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich,” I tell her. “May we come inside for a few minutes to speak with you?”

  “But … why?” Looking like a trapped animal that’s just realized its life is in danger, she glances from me to Mona. “I don’t know anything.”

  She’s too polite to refuse my request and steps back, ostensibly allowing us entry.

  “Thank you.” I take the initiative and step inside. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

  I’m greeted by the smells of burned toast and fresh-brewed coffee. The house is slightly cramped and typically Amish. The living room contains an overstuffed sofa piled high with crocheted pillows. Two end tables, both adorned with kerosene lamps set on doilies. Two rocking chairs with homemade seat cushions. Through a wide entryway I see a decent-size kitchen. White cabinets. A wringer washer on the back porch. A baby crib is set against the wall between the kitchen and living room.

  “I don’t know why you’re here.” Petersheim crosses to the crib and looks down at the baby before turning to us. “I don’t know anything about Daniel.”

  “I was told you were friends,” I begin.

  “I don’t know who told you that, but we weren’t friends. I knew him. I mean, when I lived in Painters Mill with my parents. But that was a long time ago. I’m married now.” She takes a breath as if she’d forgotten to breathe while speaking.

  I puzzle over the level of her nervousness. Of course, anxiety isn’t an indication of guilt; some people simply get nervous around cops. Or they don’t like strangers. But even taking those things into consideration, Ruth Petersheim seems disproportionately affected by our presence.

  “Is your husband home, Mrs. Petersheim?”

  “He’s working.”

  I pull out my notebook. “Where does he work?”

  “Obermiller Construction. He’s putting in the fence out to the Inn this week.”

  I jot it down, giving her a chance to calm down, and then try again. “I understand you went to a singing with Daniel Gingerich.”

  She looks at me as if the statement makes her nauseous. “Oh, that. It was an … informal thing. And there were lots of other Amish there. We weren’t … together or alone. I mean, it wasn’t just the two of us.”

  I’m not sure why any of those things matter, or why she felt the need to point them out, so I don’t press her too hard. “So you were never close,” I say easily.

  “No.”

  Nodding, I offer a smile, but I sense the tension coming off her. She’s wringing her hands and keeps looking at the baby, as if hoping the infant will cry so she can escape.

  “Did Daniel ever have any arguments or disagreements with anyone that you know of?” I ask.

  “No, but then I didn’t know him very well. Hardly at all.”

  Her reply came too quickly. She’s not thinking about the question before blurting out the answer she wants me to hear. The one that will bring this unpleasant exchange to an end and send us on our way. What the hell?

  I try to engage her. “Are you sure, Ruth? Maybe he had a disagreement with someone over money? Something like that?”

  “He never argued with anyone that I know of.” She looks longingly at the door as if she wants us to make use of it.

  Mona interjects. “Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal at the time?”

  Petersheim blinks at her as if realizing it’s now two against one. “No.”

  The baby begins to cry. Looking unduly grateful for the interruption, the Amish woman turns away and rushes to the crib. “Ich bin om cooma.” I’m coming.

  When her back is turned I look at Mona, and she shrugs.

  Ignoring us completely, keeping her back to us, Petersheim scoops the baby into her arms. “Wie geht’s, mei lamm?” How goes it, my little lamb?

  I cross to the crib and, trying to find a way to put her at ease, I look down at the baby in her arms. “Er is schnuck.” He’s cute.

  For the first time, she looks at me as if I’m a person, not some monster that’s forced its way into her home, and a smile touches her mouth. “Cannscht du Deitsh schwetze?” Can you speak Dutch?

  “I used to be Amish.”

  Her eyes shift to Mona. “You, too?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. Not me.” Mona raises both hands as if to fend off an attack. “I’m an Englischer through and through.”

  The three of us look down at the infant.

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  Smiling, she raises the baby’s face to hers and rubs her nose against his. “William.”

  “How old is he?” Mona asks.

  It’s an innocent question, but Petersheim stiffens slightly. “Almost a year now.”

  The baby chooses that moment to spit up. Clabbered milk dribbles onto the front of his plain little onesie.

  The Amish woman clucks her mouth. “Well, that’s what I get for not burping you, isn’t it?” she coos.

  “Can I help?” I ask.

  She sends me a grateful smile, but shakes her head. “I’ve had lots of practice. Happens every time he drinks too much milk and I don’t burp him right away. Midwife says he’ll grow out of it soon.”

  Little William is wearing a onesie with Amish-like suspenders over a white T-shirt. Mona and I watch as Petersheim deftly folds down the bib and slips the soiled T-shirt over his head.

  “It’s just a little bit of schmierkees,” she mutters in a baby voice, referring to the Amish version of cottage cheese. She turns her attention back to the baby, covers his fat cheeks with a dozen smacking kisses. “Isn’t that right, mei lamm?”

  She leaves him for a moment to grab a fresh shirt from a drawer beneath the changing table. That’s when I notice the dark brown spot on the right side of the baby’s tummy. It’s large for such a little guy—about four inches in length and an inch wide. A birthmark, I realize, and I get the odd sense that I’ve seen it before.…

  Petersheim returns and with deft hands, slips the fresh shirt over the baby’s head, carefully pulling his little arms through the holes and then smoothing down his hair.

  I wait until the baby is dressed before addressing her. “Ruth, can you tell me where you were Monday night?”

  Her gaze jerks to mine, her eyes widen. “What? Why do you need to know that?”

  “I have to ask everyone who knew or came in contact with Daniel Gingerich. You understand?” I offer a smile I hope will reassure her. “Just to eliminate you from the equation.”

  “I was here,” she tells me. “Mothers with new babies can’t just run off in the evening.”

  “Can your husband vouch for you?”

  “Of course he can,” she snaps. “He was here, too. Please, if you could just go now … I need to feed him.”

  “Of course.” But I hesitate. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Daniel Gingerich that might help me with the investigation?” I ask.

  “Like I said, I barely knew him.” She motions toward the door. “That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  * * *

  A minute later Mona and I are back in the Explorer.

  “That’s got to be the most uptight Amish woman I’ve ever met,” Mona says.

  “No doubt.” I pull away from the curb. “The question is why.”

  “You think she knows something about Daniel Gingerich?”

  “I think she knows something she doesn’t want to share.”

  I reach Winesburg Street and take a left. Ruth Petersheim had said her husband was working on a fence at the Amish Door Village. I don’t recall seeing one on US 62 when we drove past, so I make a left on Lawnford. Sure enough, a quarter mile in, j
ust past the dogleg, I see two Amish men working on a four-rail white fence.

  Parked on the shoulder, an older Dodge pickup truck bakes in the sun. Its tailgate is down and in the bed I see a pile of tools—a shovel, a hammer, boxes of screws, a battery-powered screwdriver—and an insulated water cooler.

  I pull up behind the truck and kill the engine. “Since we’re here, I thought we might make contact and double-check Ruth’s story about where she was the night Gingerich was killed.”

  We get out and start toward the men. The older guy is standing next to the fence, leaning on the shovel, a collapsible cup in hand, watching us approach. I guess him to be about forty years of age. He’s got a full beard that’s shot with gray. Blue work shirt. Dark trousers. Suspenders. A summer straw hat and sunglasses. The younger of the two is digging a post hole, a physically taxing chore, especially with the sun beating down. He’s dressed much like the older man, but his shirt is soaked through with sweat beneath his arms and along the center of his back.

  “Hays genuk fa du?” I say as I approach. Hot enough for you?

  Grinning, the older man takes a sip of water and motions toward the man digging the post hole. “Hays genuk fa eem fleicht.” Hot enough for him maybe.

  I introduce myself. “I’m looking for Mark Petersheim.”

  The young man glances over at me before ramming the digger back into the hole. He’s blond-haired with a thick red beard and eyes the color of tea. “I’m Petersheim,” he says.

  “I’m investigating the death of Daniel Gingerich,” I tell him. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The two Amish men exchange looks. Sighing, Petersheim tugs the post hole digger from the hole, sets the tip against the ground, and offers it to the other man. “Alle daag rumhersitze mach tem faul,” he says. Sitting all day makes one lazy.

  Chuckling, the older man takes the handles and gets to work.

  I watch as Petersheim crosses to the truck, snaps up a collapsible cup, fills it, and after removing his hat, dumps it over his head. He fills the cup a second time and drinks it down before returning to where Mona and I stand. He doesn’t look pleased that we’re here.

  “I didn’t know Gingerich,” he says, wiping the water from his face with a kerchief.

  “Did you ever meet him?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know of him?”

  “Heard about the fire. That kind of thing is big news, especially since he was Amish and all.”

  I nod. “I understand your wife knew him before you were married.”

  A brief hesitation. “I think they might’ve been in the same church district for a while. We’re Beachy now, so…” He motions toward the truck and shrugs.

  “Were Daniel and your wife friends?”

  He looks away, watches the other man dig, then turns his attention back to me. “Don’t think so.”

  “She never mentioned him?” I ask.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “We just talked to Ruth a few minutes ago,” I tell him.

  “I reckon you should have asked her instead of me.”

  While he hasn’t said or done anything overtly hostile, he’s being rude and evasive. Resentment simmers beneath the surface of his otherwise calm facade. Since no one I’ve talked to today seems inclined to talk about Daniel Gingerich, I push, hoping to find out why.

  “I understand your wife and Daniel went to a singing together.”

  “A lot of Amisch go to singings. That’s what the young people do. So what?”

  “Would you mind telling me where you were Monday night, Mr. Petersheim?”

  “Same place I am every night.” He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away; he’s not the least bit intimidated by me or my questions. “Home. With my wife and our baby.” He glances over at the other Amish man, who has finished with the post hole, then turns his attention back to me. “You done? I gotta get back to work.”

  “I appreciate your time.”

  He walks away without looking back.

  * * *

  “He’s a font of information,” Mona says when we’re back inside the Explorer.

  “He knows more than he’s letting on,” I say as I buckle in and start the engine.

  “Seems like no one wants to talk about Daniel Gingerich,” Mona says. “I wonder why.”

  “Sooner or later all of these weird little secrets everyone is keeping are going to come to light.” I put the vehicle in gear and pull onto the road. “When they do, we’ll have our answer.”

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s after noon when I pull up to the police station and drop Mona. I’m thinking about Emma Miller and the possibility that her death was the result of some event linked to Daniel Gingerich in the days he worked for the Millers. Instead of going inside, I make a U-turn and I’m back on the road, heading north on County Road 159 toward the Miller farm.

  The last time I spoke to Esther and Sam Miller, they made it clear they had no intention of opening up about their daughter. The case has evolved since then. Now that I know more about Daniel Gingerich—more about young Emma—I realize their silence may not be solely based on grief, but secrets.

  I take the winding lane to the house on the hill. The barn door stands open, so I park in the gravel a few yards away and go inside. The interior is shadowy and smells of horses and hay and earthy things. But I also smell a hint of paint.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Mr. Miller?”

  I wander toward the rear of the barn, passing a workbench loaded with several unfinished birdhouses and feeders. I’m thinking about going up to the second-level loft when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to find Esther Miller standing there in her black dress and bonnet, a gallon bucket of paint in her hand.

  “Thought I heard someone out here.” Watching me out of the corner of her eye, she crosses to the workbench and hefts the paint can onto a section of old newspaper. “You change your mind about buying one of those feeders?”

  “I think I’ll take the red one that looks like the Amish barn. For my sister. It’s her birthday next week.”

  “That’s a nice one.” Her amicable tone belies the wariness in her eyes as she goes to the chosen feeder and sets it on the bench. “Would you like it wrapped? I use these old copies of The Budget and a bit of twine. Makes for a nice, rustic effect.”

  “I think she’d like that.”

  The Amish woman tugs a folded newspaper from a shelf beneath the bench, then pulls a length of twine from a roll affixed to big steel bolt that’s welded to the wall. “Can’t use corn in this one, unless it’s the cracked kind. It’ll clog up the holes there at the bottom and the millet won’t come out.”

  “Ich fashtay.” I understand.

  I watch as she sets the feeder on the newspaper and begins to wrap it. “I know Emma was ime familye weg when she died,” I say.

  The Amish woman winces as if I’d reached out and sliced her down the back with a knife. Among many of the Old Order and Swartzentruber sects of Amish society, pregnancy is not discussed. The word “pregnant” is never used. The Amish adore children and usually have a large brood. But when it comes to the mechanics of it—the birds-and-the-bees aspect—there’s a certain level of squeamishness.

  Among many of the Amish, there’s an undeniable stigma attached to a woman who becomes pregnant out of wedlock. Oftentimes, the family of the mother-to-be will step in and urge her to marry, even if the prospective groom isn’t the father of the baby.

  When Esther doesn’t respond, I cross to her and set my hand on the bird feeder. “I know you’re still mourning your daughter, Mrs. Miller. I understand how painful it must be for you and your husband to speak of her. But I need your help.”

  Letting her hands fall away from the feeder, she turns and gives me her full attention. “I won’t speak of her. Not to you. Not about that.”

  “Because she was with child?” I ask.

  Tightening her mouth, she reaches for the length of
string and wraps it around the newspaper covering the bird feeder, yanking it tightly to hold it in place.

  “Or maybe you don’t want to talk about her because of what happened to her.”

  Esther’s gaze snaps to mine and narrows. “Nothing happened. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. I think Emma went through something awful. You and your husband are either in denial or you’re lying to me because you’re trying to protect her.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this,” she hisses. “I won’t. It’s not proper.”

  “Mrs. Miller, I need to know what happened between Emma and Daniel Gingerich. I promise I’ll do my best to keep it confidential.”

  “My sweet Emma is in heaven now. She is with God. She’s at peace, and I’ll be with her one day. That’s all that matters now. And that’s all I’ve got to say about it.”

  She shoves the bird feeder at me. “Take it and go. Just … go and don’t come back.”

  I don’t move; I don’t reach for my wallet or take the feeder. “I spoke with Elam Schlabach.”

  The Amish woman turns away, but not before I see the grief and shame in her eyes. “I won’t discuss this.”

  I cross to her, set my hand on her arm. “He said Emma was innocent.”

  She turns back to me, blinks. “Of course she was.”

  “We both know that doesn’t make sense. She loved Elam. She was saving herself until they were married and yet she became pregnant.” I wait a beat. When she doesn’t respond, I add, “What did Daniel do to her?”

  She glances toward the barn door—watching for her husband, I think—and in that instant I know she’s going to tell me something that’s going to change everything. I’ve lanced the boil that’s been festering inside her. For better or for worse, the poison is about to spill out.

  “Emma wouldn’t want anyone to know,” she whispers. “She wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep this just between us.” I’m not sure I’ll be able to uphold complete confidentiality, but I’ll try.

  “Sam and I thought he was such a sweet boy,” she tells me. “Smart. From a good Amish family. Had a good work ethic on him. Daniel never gave us a reason to think otherwise.”