by Emma Miller
“That he might have been . . . harsh with Mary Rose? Harsh . . . handed?”
Her mother shook her head slowly. “Ne, nothing like that. I have heard he had a temper, but a lot of men do, especially young ones. Your Uncle Aaron has the worst temper of anyone I’ve ever met, but he’d cut off his own hand before he’d strike your Aunt Hannah.” She started for the door. “Of course, you never know what goes on between a man and his wife.”
“So, what you’re saying is that there’s a possibility that Daniel could have abused his wife?”
Her mother turned back, her features growing solemn. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“But . . . wouldn’t she have told someone?” Rachel asked incredulously.
Her mother thought on that a moment. “Ne. Most women would hide such a thing out of shame . . . or fear of the man and what he might do. Not a thing a man would want known. Our bishop wouldn’t stand for it. You remember, he put Andy Peachy on warning of being shunned for yanking on Elsie. A man and woman are equal under God, and it is wrong for any man to use his strength to harm his wife.”
Rachel studied her mother’s face. “So, Mary Rose might have been afraid of Daniel.”
“A lot of mights in your thinking, Rachel.” She raised a finger. “Cast not the first stone, daughter.”
“But he could have been abusing her, and she and her family could have kept it a secret,” Rachel said.
Her mother nodded. “Possible, but you could be wrong. And saying something like that aloud, you don’t want to be wrong.”
“Well, I’m going to ask Mary Rose straight out.” Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Of course, what are the chances she’ll tell the truth? Especially since Daniel’s dead. But what if . . . what if he did beat her and she killed him for it?”
Her mother scoffed. “That’s a step too far. Mary Rose doesn’t have the gumption to swat a fly. Don’t make accusations you can’t prove. It’s wrong to blacken a dead man’s name without proof.”
“So how could I go about finding out? There has to be more to this. It doesn’t make sense that a good man without enemies would be killed without a good reason. He wasn’t robbed and . . .” She almost told her mother that Daniel had been shot a second time, but she bit back her words. It wasn’t her message to deliver. “Why? Why was he killed?” she said. “There has to be a motive.”
“Well, if it was me asking such questions,” her mother said thoughtfully, “I’d talk to the midwife. She delivered Mary Rose’s baby, and she tended her through a rough pregnancy. No matter how tight-lipped a woman is, she’s vulnerable when she’s with child. And Salome is a woman other women naturally get close to. If anyone knows if such things went on, it might be her.”
“You think Salome will talk to me?” Rachel pushed open the smokehouse door.
“Doubt it,” her mam pronounced. “Salome probably knows more secrets than that old mountain out there, and so far as I know, she’s never let slip a one.” She walked out into the cold gray morning. “But you’ll never know until you ask.”
Chapter 12
I’d talk to the midwife. Rachel’s mother’s words echoed in her head as she downshifted to make the final ascent to the small, gray stone house tucked into the side of a wooded hill. The road seemed almost too steep for a horse and buggy and Rachel wondered how the midwife’s clients reached her. A low stone wall surrounded the house and a tidy herb garden. Smoke puffed from the chimney on one end, giving Rachel hope that this time, after two other attempts, she’d found Salome Plank at home.
Rachel parked her vehicle outside the fence. An arched frame held what must be climbing roses over the gate. Down the hill and to her left lay a vegetable garden with raised beds and a small stone stable. There was also a pasture with a three-rail wooden fence containing sheep and goats and one mule. The midwife, Rachel remembered, drove a mule rather than a horse when she called on her clients or made the trip to town or church services. A string of antique sleigh bells dangled from the gate, and when Rachel pushed it open, they rang loudly in the still air.
Almost immediately, the door swung open and Salome Plank called a cheery greeting in Deitsch. “Come in, come in out of the cold, Rachel Mast. How nice to see you.”
The tiny midwife was all in black: black dress, black stockings, black elder’s kapp, and black shoes. Only the hair curling around her surprisingly unlined, heart-shaped face broke the pattern; Salome’s hair was snowy white. Her laced, high leather shoes were much like the ones Rachel remembered her Grandmother Mast wearing. And, as was always, Salome was smiling. “Not a one has been by all day and I was just boiling up a cough syrup. None down sick yet, praise His mercy, but winter is coming and the little ones will have their mothers up walking the floor with them.” She came out on the step to welcome Rachel with a hug, and Rachel caught the swirling scents of Ivory soap, peppermint, and cinnamon.
“You’re hard to find at home,” Rachel said. “You really need a cell phone. How do your mothers find you when they’re ready to deliver?”
Salome laughed, a merry, tinkling sound. “When did you come? Yesterday morning? Mary and Zack Hostetler welcomed another little son into their family, Mary’s fourth in six years. Both doing splendidly.” She waved Rachel into a tiny sitting room where darkened beams stretched overhead and a corner fireplace crackled.
Stretched on the hearth was a yearling-calf-sized, shaggy gray dog of no certain breed. Two bright blackberry eyes peeked out from under a fringe of hair to inspect the visitor. Apparently, Rachel passed muster, because the dog’s eyes closed and the lazy animal’s head dropped back onto oversized paws, the hairy tail flopped once, and the sound of snoring rang through the little house.
“Pay no mind to Uzzi,” Salome said. “He’s big, but a friendly sort.” Using a long-handled wooden spoon, the midwife stirred the bubbling mixture that hung over the fire in a copper kettle. “No spiders in my cough syrup,” she teased. “And not a single toad. Nothing but my good apple cider vinegar, lemons, and clover honey from my bees.”
She motioned Rachel to a coatrack. “Take off your coat. It’s warm in here and you don’t want to take a chill when you go out.”
As she removed her outer things, Rachel glimpsed the kitchen through a narrow doorway. She could remember being there with her mother once before she was old enough to go to school. She’d been fascinated by the herbs hanging from the kitchen ceiling and the long table with its jars of unfamiliar objects and dried berries. “I was here Monday afternoon, too,” she said, eager to get into the reason for her coming.
“Monday, hmm, two days ago. Abraham Sweitzer’s daughter Sylvia. Visiting from Ohio. Seven months along with her second. The first was a breech, but Sylvia carried full term. A long labor, according to her mother. But, fortunately, a healthy baby girl at the end of it. Anyway, the young mother’s back was aching, and she’d started with a few regular contractions. Better safe than sorry. I stayed with her most of the day until they passed. Stopped on the way to tend a burn on Jethro Peachy’s thumb. Foolish man to let it go untended so long. But Sylvia’s right as rain,” the midwife chattered on. “By my calculations, she’ll carry safely another six to eight weeks. And hopefully, this one will know which way to turn to find the door.”
“I see,” Rachel said, wondering how Salome managed to talk so much without drawing a breath. She had more energy than two five-year-olds.
The midwife chuckled. “So, you’re getting married in two weeks to that handsome Englisher policeman. We’ll be sorry to lose you from the faith, Rachel, but not all are called. Ne, they are not. God, in His mercy, has plans for all of us and none can judge another’s.”
“Ne, I mean ya. He does.” Rachel wasn’t quite sure what part of the midwife’s statements to reply to or if any reply was necessary. She smiled and nodded. “He does,” she added. “I’m sure He does.”
Salome drew her stool a little closer. “Your mother tells me that she’s come to accept your decision. It troub
led her a great deal, but she recognizes your right to choose. And she sees the good heart of your young man.”
A log fell and sparks sprayed up. Rachel inhaled the sweet smell of apple wood. “Evan is a good man,” she agreed. “The best.”
Another chuckle bubbled up through the midwife’s rosy lips. “There are quite a few who expect you to leave him empty handed at the last moment. But I see by the glow on your face that you are content to join him in honest wedlock.” She nodded. “And time enough, too. You should not wait too long to bring little ones into the world. You’re not old, but neither are you twenty-one. English women sometimes wait too late to start thinking of children and then it can be more difficult.” She smiled and patted Rachel’s arm. “Has your mother spoken to you?”
Rachel nodded. “Ya, we talk all the time, now that the . . . misunderstanding has been smoothed over.”
“Ne, dear. That’s not what I mean. I’m asking if she explained God’s plan for a man and woman. Has she explained the wonders of procreation? Told you the things a young woman should know before . . . before she becomes a wife?”
Rachel’s eyes widened and she felt her cheeks grow hot. “You . . . I . . .” she said, flustered, suddenly realizing that the midwife thought she’d come for a discussion on the birds and bees. “I . . . I didn’t come for personal reasons.”
Salome Plank wasn’t the least offended. She smiled and patted Rachel’s hand. “Ah. Well, naturally, I assumed . . . many young brides-to-be are more comfortable talking with me than with their mothers or sisters. Of course, the girls today have access to the clinic and books which . . . Never mind.” She smoothed her apron with both hands. “If not for your intimate life, then what? Salves? Creams? Tinctures?” The midwife’s sharp eyes inspected Rachel’s hair. “You’re clearly not in need of a medicated rinse to rid you of lice or mites.” The intense gaze dropped to Rachel’s face. “And you have a lovely complexion, so it isn’t a cure for breakouts. . . .”
“It’s not me,” Rachel protested weakly. “I’m here to talk about a patient of yours. Mary Rose Fisher? I believe you cared for her during her pregnancy and delivery.”
Salome nodded. “I did. That’s no secret. She is a natural. Her labor went on for several days, but she faced it bravely, and she is blessed with a beautiful infant, healthy and strong.”
“It’s not the baby I need to know about,” Rachel continued. “It’s Mary Rose. I’m sure you know this; I know how our community talks.” She shook her head, still flustered. “I’m attempting to help her brother Moses. He’s confessed to shooting Mary Rose’s husband, but I don’t believe he’s telling the truth. I’ve been talking to a lot of people trying to get to what really happened.”
The dog rose and came to lie beside Salome on the colorful rag rug, resting a hairy canine chin on her shoe. Absently, the midwife leaned down to pat the dog on the head. “I don’t know anything about Daniel’s death, Rachel,” she said. “I was sitting with Cyrus Verkler all that day and night. He hasn’t long for this world, poor man. His heart has long worn out. Only his spirit keeps him alive. He hates to leave his wife. She’s not in the best of health, either, but fortunately, she has her daughters to lean on.”
“What I was wondering was if . . . you treat people for more than childbirth, right?”
“I’m not a licensed medical professional,” Salome said as if she had memorized the statement. “I use nothing but the old remedies that have come down to us for generations. Common sense, my girl. Garden herbs, honey, willow bark, witch hazel, aloe, and ginseng. You’d be surprised how many ailments can be eased with patience and ginseng tea or salve. I’m no doctor and I don’t deal in love potions or hexes. I do no more than pass on the wisdom I learned at the knee of my mother.”
“But . . . what about injuries?” Rachel pressed. “Didn’t you set a broken arm for my Uncle Aaron when he was a boy? He speaks of it often. Says you gave him a maple sugar sweet to take away the pain of moving the bone into place. Surely you must have taken care of more serious injuries. Sewn up cuts? Cleaned infections?”
“Little of that now. Most folks are away to the clinic and rightly so. But when your uncle was a lad, there were few doctors of any worth within driving distance and none of the cell phones that the young take for granted. A mother comes to me with a weeping child with a twisted arm, what was I to do but try to help as best I could? They’d send me to jail for that today, I suppose. Even my catching of babies is frowned upon by the Englishers, although I suspect that I’ve brought more into the world than most of those fancy hospital doctors. And few mothers have I ever lost. Some babes, I’ll admit, but that is always in God’s hands. Fifty years and two I’ve been helping mothers. I’d have to be a fool not to have learned a thing or two about my craft.”
Rachel shook her head. “You misunderstand. I’m not here to judge you. And I don’t doubt that you know more about delivering healthy babies and helping mothers than I could imagine, but it’s Mary Rose in particular I need to ask about. Have you ever treated her for an injury?”
“An injury?” Salome rose and went to the kettle. She stirred the contents with the spoon and pushed the swinging iron arm back over the fire. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with your questions. My patients don’t expect that I will gossip over their conditions. A midwife . . . even a granny woman, must keep personal things private.”
Rachel answered the first question, ignoring the rest. “I’m asking about bruises, broken bones, lacerations . . . anything that would cause you to suspect someone hurt her.”
Salome concentrated on the fire, stooping to add another log and adjusting the iron arm so that the kettle was not suspended over the hottest section.
“Please,” Rachel said. “This is important. Did you treat Mary Rose Fisher for any injury that might have come from an altercation with someone? With her husband?”
“Now you are prying into matters that belong between husband and wife,” Salome answered tartly. “I’m not saying I ever saw such a thing. I’m not saying I didn’t. What woman would come to me if she thought that her private matters such as that were to be talked about by someone she trusted? You ask too much, Rachel. Why would you ask me such a thing?”
“I told you,” she replied earnestly. “I’m trying to find out who had reason to kill Daniel. If he was abusive to Mary Rose, then . . .”
Salome turned to Rachel. “You’re suspecting her of shooting her husband? That sweet child who never exchanged a cross word with anyone? You need to look further and rethink your questions. I believe you have good intentions, but Daniel is dead. What he may have done or may not have done on this earth is out of our hands. It is God alone who will judge him now and either reward him or cast him down into the pit.”
Rachel stood up. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Salome. I only came to you out of desperation. I need to find Daniel’s killer, and I need to find him or her soon before a judge sentences Moses to prison for the rest of his life for a crime he didn’t commit. If you know anything that will help, please reconsider and tell me.”
“Maybe you’re talking to the wrong person.” She hesitated. “I hear talk. Maybe you should ask Mary Rose’s neighbor Rosh who he thinks shot Daniel.”
Rachel frowned. “You suspect Rosh may be involved in Daniel’s death?”
“I suspect no one, but . . .” The old woman lowered her voice. “I did hear someone say that Rosh’s mother feared for her son’s life.”
“From who? Who was Rosh afraid of?”
“I cannot tell you whether the story is true or false, but it was repeated in my hearing—not to me directly, you understand. You should probably talk to the man with the fences and the dogs. I overheard this person say that the crazy Englisher who lives on the mountain caught Rosh digging ginseng and threatened to nail his ear to a tree and leave him for the black bears if he ever caught him trespassing on his property again.” The midwife pursed her lips and frowned. “Who would say such a terrible thing to
a boy only trying to make a living in hard times? A man so heartless might be cruel enough to take the life of a neighbor he didn’t like.”
The woman went to the outer door and opened it. Clearly, the interview was at an end. “You must come again whenever you are in the neighborhood or when you are in need. You are a dear girl with a loving heart. But ask me no more questions about my patients, for I have no more to tell you.”
* * *
That night, in her bedroom, Rachel stood beside her whiteboard with a red marker in her hand. “I just feel as though we’re going in circles,” she said to Mary Aaron. “And we’re getting nowhere.”
Mary Aaron sat cross-legged on the bed. She was wearing blue jeans and a tie-dye tee. Her feet were bare, and Rachel noticed that her cousin’s toenails were painted a pale pink, a color that looked identical to the new nail polish that Rachel purchased at the boutique next to the wedding shop when she’d gone for her last fitting.
“Don’t look at me,” Mary Aaron said. “I’ve talked to my brothers and your brothers and half the men in the valley. Most of them were hunting that day, but no one knows of anyone hunting near Daniel. I got the same story Joe gave you about how he and Moses were supposed to hunt with Daniel, but then went on their way. Of course everyone had heard it from Joe.”
“Did you ask your father?”
Mary Aaron nodded. “I spent the afternoon helping cook at Mam’s and he came in for the noon meal. He had heard that a couple of men walked up to have a look after Daniel was found, but they were all hunting a ways away. The conversation got a little uncomfortable after that. He told me I’d been rumspringa long enough and it was time I took my baptism classes and married Timothy or someone else he approved of.”
“Does your mother agree with him?”
Mary Aaron nodded again. “If anything, she’s worse than he is.” She sighed. “It was not a good day, lots of arguing. Sometimes I wish . . .” She trailed off.
“It’s hard, I know.” Rachel sighed. “It was awful for me, trying to decide. Stay or go.”