by Emma Miller
“Someone or something,” George said.
The sound of Sophie’s barking echoed through the house. “Here comes trouble,” George said. “But you haven’t quite gotten to the heart of this mess yet. Have you thought much about the deceased? Why would somebody hate him enough to kill him?”
“Most of the Amish have nothing but good to say about Daniel. He was a faithful member of the church, a hard worker, a blessing to his wife’s family.”
“And you believe that?” George asked shrewdly.
“Not everybody said that, but enough to put the community opinion squarely in Daniel’s corner. Daniel was, at least in public, exactly the type of man the church community praises. And Moses, unfortunately . . .”
“Isn’t,” George finished. “Moses is different, which makes him a good scapegoat.”
“And he confessed to the crime. The authorities . . . most people in the community don’t believe anyone would confess if they weren’t guilty.”
“Which we both know is a lot of hooey.”
Ell came to the open doorway. “Rachel, would you like some tea? Coffee?”
“Did you feed Sophie her lunch?” George asked. “It’s about that time.” He glanced at Rachel. “And bring Rachel some of that pumpkin coffee you tried to tempt me with yesterday. She loves it.”
Ell nodded and disappeared into the hall.
“That girl makes the best coffee,” George told Rachel. “She’s the only one in the house that can use that fancy coffeemaker.”
Rachel folded her arms across her chest. “So, out with it, George. What do you know about Daniel Fisher that I don’t know?”
“About time you asked.” He pointed to the green leather-backed notebook on the desk. “In there. I don’t sleep much at night, so I have a lot of time to look up stuff on the Internet. Not to mention that I pride myself on knowing more about every person in this county than their own mothers.”
“Tell me,” she said, reaching for the notebook.
“The short version or the long version?” Then he pressed a hand against his hip and gritted his teeth. “Short would probably be better for us both. Daniel Fisher moved here two years ago from an isolated community in Wisconsin. He came alone and quickly ingratiated himself into the valley. Mary Rose Fisher is his third wife.”
“His third? But—”
George cut her off. “Now listen. Once the pain gets serious, I don’t think so well. Here are the facts. Daniel Fisher was married at age twenty to Susan Gingerich, a Canadian citizen. Daniel moved to Ontario with his wife. Eleven months into the marriage, Susan suffered a fall and died from complications of childbirth. Daniel returned to his father’s home, where he married Jane Stoltzfus the following year.”
“Don’t tell me that Jane died as well?”
George shook his head. “Divorce.”
“Divorce? The Amish don’t divorce,” Rachel protested. “That can’t be right.”
“I think our Daniel proved to be a less-than-satisfactory husband. Claiming spousal abuse, Jane filed for an order of protection from the police six months after they were married. Three months later, she filed for divorce. There’s a photo of her on the web showing her in a hospital bed. Someone had beaten her badly. It made the local news, but Jane later dropped the charges. Either she left the Amish after her divorce or moved to another part of the country. But we know where Daniel went.”
“So it looks as though he might have been abusive to his spouses,” Rachel said. “But how could he have moved here without anyone learning about his past? Usually, there’s communication between your old bishop and your new.”
“According to the news article, Daniel Fisher’s father was the bishop of his local church.” George shrugged. “I suppose they’d want to hush the whole thing up.”
“Or Daniel confessed to beating his wife and said he was sorry. If he was convincing, the church community would have to forgive him,” Rachel said. “It’s part of the faith, and the crime would be as though it never happened.”
“It’s all I could find out,” George admitted. “And it doesn’t prove he was physically abusive to the Studer girl.” He pressed the green notebook she had given him back into her hand. “It’s all in here so you can double-check what I told you.”
“Nothing you told me proves he beat Mary Rose or his other wives,” Rachel said, thinking out loud. “But if Daniel was abusive, it would have given someone a good enough reason to kill him.” She met George’s gaze. “And I think I know who I need to talk to again.”
Chapter 15
The midwife was just loading a large black suitcase into the back door of a gray-top buggy when Rachel pulled into her yard.
“Salome,” Rachel called as she jumped out of the Jeep. “Could I talk to you for just a moment?”
The midwife was dressed in her customary black dress and stockings, but wore a black wool scarf instead of a bonnet or kapp. Her oversized coat was blue denim without buttons and lined with sheepskin. She shook her head. “I have to go,” she answered in Deitsch. “Irma Coblentz’s husband just came to tell me that she needs me. She’s in her third trimester and is having contractions. I’m sorry you came all the way out here, but I don’t have time to dally.”
Rachel knew Irma from the farmers’ market. She was a large woman with a large family. Irma didn’t belong to Rachel’s parents’ church community, but her farm wasn’t far away. “This will only take a moment,” she pressed the midwife.
“I like you, Rachel, even if you have strayed from the flock. And I’d like to help you, but my patients come first.” She climbed up into the buggy and reached for the reins.
“Wait,” Rachel said. “I’ll come with you.” She dashed back to the Jeep, tossed her keys under the seat, and dug her navy scarf out of a basket on the floor. She’d come to the midwife’s home in one of Mary Aaron’s dresses and coats. If she remembered correctly, Irma and her husband, Shadrack, were very conservative, but had always been friendly toward her.
Salome turned the buggy around. “Come if you like,” she called, pulling back on the reins to halt the mule. “But don’t blame me if we get snowed in. Smell the air. Weather’s coming in fast over the mountains. And even if it doesn’t snow, there’s no telling how long I’ll need to stay with Irma.”
Rachel glanced up at the dark clouds racing overhead as she hurried toward the buggy. Hulda, who’d come over to tend the office at Stone Mill House, had warned her of dropping temperatures and the possibility of four to six inches of snow. Rachel knew that the wisest course would be to return home, but she was determined to get some answers from Salome. “I’d be happy to drive you,” she offered. “My Jeep is good in snow.”
“I don’t like motor vehicles. Too bouncy. And I trust my mule and this buggy a lot more than I do your car. I’ve been traveling these roads in snow, rain, and heat for a lot of years, and I’m not ready to give it up yet.” She frowned. “You’d best not be in the way. My first duty is to the mother and the second to that babe. I’ve no time or patience for coddling you.”
Rachel smiled. “I won’t be in the way,” she promised the midwife. “Remember, I was there when my younger brothers and sisters were born. And, if I recall, I was more help than hindrance.”
“If you’re coming, climb up,” Salome said. “We’re wasting time jabbering.”
Rachel scrambled up into the buggy, not in the least offended by the midwife’s fussing. Usually jolly, Salome grew serious and tart when it came time to deliver a baby or to help a mother. The woman’s mouth tightened and she leaned forward, making clicking noises to the mule as she guided the animal out of the yard.
A short distance from the house, Salome turned the mule off the blacktopped road and onto a narrow wooded lane. “I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten how to drive,” she said.
“Don’t suppose I have,” Rachel said.
Salome passed the leathers to her. “You may as well do it then. My joints are aching today. Makes me certai
n this is snow coming. If I’d stayed home, I could have soaked them in warm apple cider vinegar. That helps, and of course, there are lots of other ways to reduce the pain. The best thing is to keep active.” She draped a section of a feather tick over Rachel’s lap and tucked her gloved hands into her wool-lined coat.
“Thank you,” Rachel said.
“Rest your feet on that rock. I keep them on the hearth to heat. Toasty feet will keep the rest of you from taking a chill.” Salome smiled at her. “Truth is, it’s nice to have company on a cold day. Keeps me from worrying about what I’ll find when I get to Irma’s.”
Rachel was surprised to hear the midwife express her fears. Salome was known from one end of the valley to the other for her steady hand and steadier character. They rode in silence for a while, and Rachel, who’d been on edge to question the older woman further about Mary Rose, was content to let the peace of the creak of harness and the rattle of buggy wheels over the frozen ground seep through her. She sensed that this wasn’t the time to ask. Instead, she rested her feet on the heated rock and snuggled inside the feather tick. Occasionally, birds flew up from the branches overhead, and once the mule and buggy disturbed a browsing doe that was nibbling on tree bark. All Rachel heard was the snort of the mule and the snap of branches as the deer bounded away into the forest. Snow and sleet began to spit and then to swirl on the gusts of air. Rachel was glad that Salome had thought to cover the mule’s back with a quilted blanket so that the animal wouldn’t suffer from the cold.
Soon, the wooded lane opened up into a rocky pasture. Ahead, Rachel saw the chimneys of the Coblentz house and the great gray stone barn. Barking dogs announced their arrival and two teenage boys came out to greet them and take the mule. “How’s your mother faring?” Salome called.
“Good, good,” answered the oldest of them. “Dat says to tell you to make haste, though, because the little one does.”
The midwife slid down out of the buggy and made to pick up her black leather satchel from behind the seat. “One of you lads take the suitcase,” she said. “Mind you don’t drop it.” She glanced at Rachel, who’d slipped the strap for the satchel over her own shoulder. “The suitcase has towels and linens and such. This small case is my blood pressure kit, my fetoscope, and my instruments. I’ve been meaning to get myself one of those suitcases on wheels, but so far, it’s just thinking and not doing. This is early yet for Irma’s time. It’s probably just a false alarm.”
A plump, red-cheeked teen daughter opened the kitchen door for them and waved them in. “Mam says she thinks this is for real,” she said. “Let me take your coats. It’s getting cold out there, isn’t it?”
Other girls of various ages held smaller children, one a toddler. Rachel tried to remember how many children Irma Coblentz and her husband had.
The kitchen was spotless and smelled of apples and spice. A huge kettle of soup simmered on the stove. Shadrack, short, wiry, bald, and not much older in appearance than his teenage sons, waved them through a spacious living room. “She’s in the parlor,” he said. “I’ll be outside in the barn with the boys if you have need of me. Thank you for coming so promptly.” If he was surprised at seeing Rachel with the midwife, it didn’t show. He smiled and nodded and hurried out, clearly preferring the cows to women’s affairs.
Rachel smiled back, dodged children and a tabby cat, and followed Salome. A girl about thirteen in a starched apron and black scholar’s kapp clapped her hands and called to her young siblings. “Come on, now. Leave Salome and Rachel to look after Mam.”
“Does she have the new baby in that bag?” a pigtailed cherub about six asked.
“Maybe,” the teen replied. “But maybe she’s not brought a baby at all but a bag of dried turnips.” The other kids giggled, and the big sister clapped her hands and shooed them out.
An old-fashioned white iron double bed had been set up in one corner of the parlor near the Papa Bear woodstove that stood in front of a sealed-off fireplace. Rachel thought she’d see the expectant mother in bed, but that was not the case. Irma, clad in an everyday housedress and apron, her hair covered with a blue scarf, stood on a low stool with a bottle of vinegar, vigorously scrubbing the panes of one of the parlor windows with a cloth.
“Irma Coblentz, get yourself down off that stool,” Salome scolded. “Do you want to fall and bring on the child before its time?”
The mother laughed heartily. “It’s coming soon, whether I clean these windows or not. And what with all the company I get once the boppli is here, I’d not have anyone think I keep a dirty house.”
Rachel glanced around the room. Painted a soft shade of green, the chamber was far from ill kept. The hearthstones were scrubbed clean, the paint in the room had been freshly applied, and the propane lamps and older kerosene lamps gleamed with nary a fingerprint to be seen. Someone had recently blackened the woodstove, the basket of wood was neat, and the braided rug was bright and welcoming. By the bed stood a white table, a stack of fresh towels, and likewise of sheets. The bed had been stripped to the mattress and covered with plastic sheeting. A kettle and a pot of water boiled on top of the woodstove, and a cradle waited nearby, tiny sheets and blankets new and soft.
“Are you hungry?” Irma asked as she climbed down from the stool. To Rachel, the big woman didn’t look near her time or even in distress. “My oldest baked an apfelstrudel and a hickory-nut kuchen. I can offer you coffee, tea, or hot cider. The cider’s wonderful this year. Our Spitzenburgs produced a bumper crop, God be praised.”
“Sit down, will you, Irma,” Salome instructed. “We’ll gladly take coffee and a sweet, but we’ll sort you out first. Rachel, open that satchel and hand me the blood pressure kit.”
The girl who’d opened the kitchen door for them came with a basin of soapy water and a towel. Rachel glanced at the midwife, then nodded, and proceeded to wash her hands and dry them before opening the case. Meanwhile, Salome followed suit, rolled up her sleeves to her elbows, and washed thoroughly. Irma took a seat on the edge of the bed and offered a meaty arm for the blood pressure cuff. But before Salome could take the reading, the woman’s mouth tightened, her eyes widened, and she groaned.
“They’re coming close together. I started with the backache about midnight, but I didn’t want to trouble you before—” She sucked in a deep breath.
Salome laid a hand on the woman’s midsection. Rachel didn’t need to be a midwife to see that Irma was in labor.
“I’ll need to take a look,” Salome said, catching the expectant mother’s ankles and easing her up onto the mattress.
“What can I do to help?” Rachel asked when Salome gave her a look that confirmed her suspicion.
“Get those instruments into that boiling water.” And then to Irma, “You were right. Good thing you called me when you did.”
“It was such a raw day I didn’t want to call you out for nothing,” Irma explained. “If it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to lay down. I think I need to walk a little.”
“You know how this works,” Salome told her patient, offering her hand to help the woman to her feet. “However you’re most comfortable.”
Two of the older girls remained in the room, and another woman, a middle-aged neighbor woman who Rachel recognized as Annie Raber, soon joined them. She was obviously a good friend of Irma’s because the two laughed and talked easily. Annie and one of the daughters walked several circuits of the room with Irma, and then everything speeded into high gear.
In a half hour, Salome handed Rachel a squirming baby boy, small but red-faced and screaming. Rachel wrapped the infant in a warm towel and carried him to the arms of an older sister. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Irma gasped and began to weep tears of joy as a second baby, every bit as lively as his brother, slid into the midwife’s capable hands.
“You’re certain there’s not a third one?” Annie demanded. “As fat as you are, Irma, you could be hiding three or four in there.”
Irma laughed good-naturedly. “No
more so far as I can see. But there’s always next year.”
“I don’t know,” the midwife teased. “I can wait around to see.”
“Hush, the both of you,” Irma exclaimed. “Are they healthy? Are they breathing right?”
“As right as rain,” Salome pronounced. “And as alike as two peas in a pod. Identical twins, unless I miss my mark. And with as much hair between them as Shadrack has on his head.”
Irma laughed and began to hiccup.
Salome passed baby number two to Rachel, and called for a mug of warmed cider for the new mother. “Have you thought of names?” she asked when Irma’s face had been washed and she was propped on pillows.
“Shadrack’s favorite brother is Jubal. We’d thought of Jubal for a boy, but two boys . . .”
“What about Jabel, Mam?” the eldest daughter asked. “Didn’t we hear about him in church last Sabbath? Jabel would go with Jubal, don’t you think?”
“Ya,” Irma agreed. “We’ll ask your father what he thinks, but he’s not so fast to come up with names. I’m sure that will suit him. Jubal for the first twin and Jabel for the second. What do you think, Salome?”
“I think those are fine names,” the midwife declared. Then to Rachel, “Take a bit of yarn from my bag and tie it around the oldest’s ankle. Otherwise, we’ll never tell them apart.”
“What nonsense,” Irma said. “You give them to me. Let me hold them. I’ll not mix them up, I promise you.” She laughed again, a hearty laughter that spread to all of them and filled Rachel’s heart with the wonder of what she’d just witnessed.
Three hours later, after both of the twins had taken nourishment and Irma was on her feet, Rachel and Salome piled into the buggy for the trip back to the midwife’s home. To Rachel’s astonishment, Irma followed them to the kitchen, a baby in each arm, and instructed her girls to wrap a generous slice of the apfelstrudel in wax paper for each of them to take with them.
“You’re sure you’re all right to go?” Irma asked. “You don’t want Shadrack or some of my boys to drive you down the mountain?”