The Amish Wonders Collection

by Ruth Reid

  “What were you doing in here?”

  “Researching animal-to-human transmittable diseases. I had a hunch about a case I was called to investigate.” A hunch. Is that all it is?

  “What kind of animals?”

  “Sheep. Horses.” He hadn’t looked up chickens yet, but he remembered a few roaming Mattie Diener’s yard. “Like I said, it was only a hunch.”

  Monday morning Bo and Davis returned to Badger Creek, this time equipped with a signed court order to inspect the premises and remove the children if conditions deemed necessary. During the drive, Bo drilled Davis about the best ways to approach a suspected abuser, pointing out areas she could have handled more tactfully the last time. At the same time, Mattie Diener niggled at the back of his mind. Amish were meek, nonthreatening—at least, most of them lived in accordance with their beliefs.

  “It’d be best if you just observed,” he said.

  “Observe?”

  “Yes.” He wasn’t going to run interference again.

  “Norton added me to the case—”

  “To get field experience, I know.” He turned into the parking lot at the doctor’s clinic.

  “I was going to say to correct what you flubbed in the first investigation.”

  Bo chuckled, pulling into an empty slot. He shifted into Park and faced Davis. “Do you want to watch how it’s done or sit in the car?”

  She hesitated a moment, then unclipped her seat belt and climbed out. “I’m part of this investigation, Bo.”

  He ignored her remark and opened the clinic’s door. The lobby was standing room only. Bo handed the receptionist one of his business cards and briefly explained his reason for being there without divulging any specifics of the case.

  A few minutes later, the receptionist opened the door and ushered them to the office at the end of the hall. “Doctor Wellington asked that you wait for her in here.” She motioned to the two chairs facing the desk. “You can have a seat.”

  Bo glanced at the framed certificates on the paneled walls. Doctor Roswell was certainly involved in the community. Awarded for his humanitarian efforts and for the years of service as chairman of the board for the Upper Peninsula Hands of Hope Foundation.

  Doctor Wellington breezed into the room. “The best I can figure, Nathan Diener has a strep infection.”

  Bo exchanged glances with Davis, who appeared just as surprised by the diagnosis.

  The physician continued, “I’m still not totally convinced strep was the cause of the blisters.” She fidgeted with a stack of charts, straightening them, then moved them to another area of the desk. Finally, she folded her hands. “I received the final report this morning from the radiologist on the esophagus lining; it’s inconclusive. In addition, the toxicology screening came back negative.” She tapped her fingers on the desk. “The strep culture returned positive, that’s it.”

  “So you don’t believe Mrs. Diener abused her son?”

  Doctor Wellington shook her head. “I was sure this was a Munchausen-syndrome-by-proxy case. The classic signs were there. Unusual symptoms, recurrent illness . . . The child’s chart is thick. The mother signed him out AMA. Then there’s the mother’s past medical history to consider. According to her chart, she’s been treated for depression. The last entry Doctor Roswell made in his progress notes indicated a possible bipolar disorder. I don’t feel good about this case.”

  Bo glanced at Davis, who was nodding along with the doctor. He shifted in his chair to give the physician his full attention. “Without any medical proof . . .” He shrugged. None of these accusations would hold up in court without proof. Surely the doctor knew that. “Maybe Doctor Roswell could shed some light since he’s been the one treating the family.”

  She shook her head. “He’s on an extended European vacation. I don’t have a means to contact him. What were your findings? Have you inspected the living conditions?”

  “I visited the home last Friday. I didn’t find anything.” He glanced at Davis seated beside him. Don’t say anything.

  Davis probed him with a glare, then faced the physician. “There isn’t electricity in the home. Or a refrigerator.”

  Bo’s jaw twitched. “That’s true. Old Order Amish don’t believe in modern conveniences. They use horse and buggy for transportation, heat their homes with wood, grow a lot of their own food, and yes, they don’t own appliances. But neither did our forefathers.” He looked at Davis. “People in the 1800s didn’t have any of today’s luxuries, but they managed.” Bo faced the doctor. “I’m sorry to get off on a tangent.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Lambright. I’m not from this area, and you certainly have more knowledge of the Amish than I do.”

  “There was evidence of livestock living in the house,” Davis blurted.

  Next time Davis was going to wait in the car. Bo stymied his agitation. “Although it should be noted, we didn’t see any such animals in the home.” He laughed lightheartedly. “I think even some celebrities have had potbelly pigs. It wouldn’t be my choice of a pet, and I’m guessing not yours, Erica. But who’s to say which pets can be housetrained?”

  Doctor Wellington smiled. “Yes, I think I recall hearing something about George Clooney’s pig.”

  Davis groaned under her breath. Either she was bent on discrediting Mattie or Davis was annoyed she wasn’t the center of attention.

  Doctor Wellington tapped the end of her pen on the desk contemplating something.

  “If you’re willing to support my recommendation, we can close this case,” Bo said. “Unless you have more test results you’re waiting to hear back on.”

  “Other than the results from the mother’s milk, no, everything is back.”

  “If the milk was contaminated . . .” Bo needed to tread lightly and not step on the doctor’s toes. “Of course, I’m not a doctor, but wouldn’t it have shown on the boy’s toxic screen?”

  “I suppose there are exceptions, but I’m currently not aware of any. I’m assuming the results will be negative when the report comes back.” After a brief hesitation, Doctor Wellington tossed her pen. “Okay then,” she said with a sigh. “There’s just one other problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nathan Diener needs to start a regimen of antibiotics immediately. I have samples from the manufacturer, but the only means I have to contact Mrs. Diener is through the mail. That’s going to cause a major delay in her son’s therapy.”

  Bo smiled. “The Dieners’ farm is on my way home. I’d be more than happy to deliver the medication.” And the news.

  Chapter Ten

  You’re pacing,” Grace said to Mattie.

  “No, I’m cleaning off the counter so I can scrub it.” She set the cookie jar on the table, went back for the canister of sugar, then for the bread box.

  “I figured as much when I smelled bleach from the front door. What are you doing, trying to sterilize this place?”

  “Something like that,” Mattie muttered under her breath.

  “Did you say something?” Grace crinkled her brows.

  “I’ll put the kettle on for tea.” She could use a short break. Until the water boiled, she would continue cleaning. Mattie dipped the rag into the bleach water and cringed. Her raw hands stung from the strong chemicals.

  “I thought we could go into town together,” Grace said.

  “Can’t. Nathan and Amanda are asleep.” She vigorously scrubbed a small beet stain on the counter from last canning season.

  Grace leaned over her shoulder. “You’ve tried to remove that before.”

  “I know.” She scrubbed harder.

  “When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Mattie gave up on the stain and moved to another section.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” Grace said, reaching for Mattie’s hand. “What happened to your head? It looks like you got hit with a two-by-four.”

  Mattie’s muscles tensed and Grace released Mattie’s hand. Mattie tossed
the rag on the counter and touched the swollen knot on her head. Her gaze flitted to Grace who was studying her with raised eyebrows. Mattie went to the stove. “A watched kettle never boils. Who do you think came up with that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Grace came up beside her and wrapped her arm around Mattie’s waist. “Something’s wrong, Mattie. What is it?”

  She half shrugged, afraid if she tried to speak, her voice would ripple out in sobs. Hold it together. Don’t break down.

  “We’ve been friends a long time.”

  Mattie stepped away. “And you’re worried I’m going to fall to pieces—again. Well, I’m nett.” Mattie’s hands shook and to hide the tremors, she swept the front of her apron as if she’d spilled something on it. Oh, Lord, maybe she was falling apart again. No! Not again.

  “Mattie, how did you get the bump on your head?”

  She heaved in a deep breath. “I blacked out.”

  “What? When? Have you seen the doktah?”

  “Nay. I’m fine. I was overly tired and . . . under stress.” And being interrogated by nosy state workers.

  Grace placed her hand on Mattie’s arm and she jolted. “You’re mighty jumpy.” Grace removed her hand.

  Mattie’s shoulders slumped. How was she going to face the state workers’ questions? She couldn’t even carry on a conversation with her best friend. “I can’t seem to . . . keep mei thoughts straight.”

  “Because you’re sleep deprived. Just like when—”

  “I know,” Mattie snapped. “I won’t break down again. I won’t let it happen.”

  Grace’s lips formed a tight straight line. She blinked a few times as if hurt, but said nothing.

  A long moment of silence passed between them.

  Mattie’s insides churned. Faith in the Lord should have kept her from suffering a nervous breakdown—but her faith had failed; she failed God. Postpartum depression coupled with grieving over her late husband proved to be too much to handle even with the antidepressants Doctor Roswell had prescribed to get through the so-called normal grieving process. Gone was the joy of serving the Lord. For that matter, joy in doing anything. Even working in the herb garden hadn’t brought her much happiness. Days once spent humming as she repotted a plant were gone. She was moving forward the best she knew how—the best under the circumstances.

  Steam and water erupted from the kettle spout, hissing as it pooled on the stove top. Mattie grabbed a potholder and removed the cast-iron kettle. Her hand shook as she lowered it to the wire rack.

  “Let me finish preparing the tea.” Grace stretched her hand out for the potholder. “You have a seat and I’ll make one of Mattie Diener’s cure-all concoctions to fix everything.”

  Grace wouldn’t make those claims if she knew the extent of what needed curing. A cup of tea wouldn’t stop the man from the Child Services from returning. When Grace cocked her head, eyeing Mattie with that silent instant glare of hers, Mattie relinquished the potholder. She ambled over to the table, pulled out a chair, and plopped down.

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Grace,” she said once her friend joined her. “I couldn’t ask for a better confidant.”

  “You’ve seen me at mei worst too.”

  True, Grace had been born with muscular dystrophy along with having one leg shorter than the other. Her disease had wreaked havoc on her joints and muscles, and she lived with pain far worse than anyone Mattie had known.

  “Danki for understanding. The past few days have been . . . difficult.” Downplay the state workers’ looming return. She’d worked too hard to convince the members of her district that she was stable—trusting God’s will—when in reality, she had been questioning God’s will since her husband died eighteen months ago. If the state workers continued to hound her with questions, what little bit of sanity she had regained would vanish once again. But bottling everything up would eventually erode her nerves. She had to confide in someone. The man had suggested having a friend or relative present during the interview. Grace had been like a sister to her, the person she trusted the most. “There’s something I haven’t told anyone yet.” The teacup rattled as she picked it up from the saucer. Calm yourself. Take a deep breath in . . . and exhale.

  “Please tell me you didn’t sign away the mineral rights on your land,” Grace blurted. “The offer they made on our property sounds gut on the surface—but Ben is convinced drilling would open up a lot of problems and nett just from having Englischers roaming our land.”

  Light footsteps came up behind Mattie and a hand tapped her arm. “Wasser, please.”

  Mattie jumped, spilling scalding tea down the front of her dress and dropping the cup on the table. She vaulted off the chair, pulling the wet material away from her skin, and rushing to the sink. The cup rolled to the floor and shattered.

  Nathan started to whimper, and Grace picked him up just as he was about to step barefooted on a piece of glass. She walked him over to the sink where she partially filled a glass with water and handed it to him to drink. “Are you okay, Mattie?”

  “I will be.” She blotted her dress with a dry dishrag.

  “I’ll put him back down for his nap, then help clean up,” Grace said.

  “Danki.” Mattie held back her tears until Grace had taken Nathan out of the room. Her life felt as fragile as the teacup, and she was on the verge of shattering.

  A knock sounded on the door. Mattie froze. The caller knocked a second time before she summoned the courage to answer. “God, please grant me mercy.” She attempted to straighten her dress apron and took a moment to suck in a breath before reaching for the handle.

  Opening the door, her eyes beheld one of the state workers. “Mr. . . .” Her teeth grated before she could find the words to greet the caller.

  “Lambright. Bo Lambright.”

  Mattie looked beyond the man to the woman seated in the passenger seat of the silver car. Good, she would rather not deal with the brazen woman anymore. Bo was imposing enough and not just his towering stance. His daunting, pleased-with-himself grin was crooked. Under different circumstances, she might have found it boyishly cute. Mattie placed her hand on the doorframe, blocking his entrance. “This isn’t a good time.” He crinkled his brow and opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Mr. Lambright, mei children are taking a nap, and I don’t want you disturbing their rest.”

  “I’ll keep my voice down.” He lifted a small brown paper bag. “I’m making a house call for your doctor.”

  “I don’t understand. Is Doktah Roswell back in town?” A thread of hope lifted her spirit, only to be clipped by him shaking his head.

  “Do you mind if I come in? Not to investigate,” he was quick to add. “I promised Doctor Wellington I would go over the medication instructions. I also need you to sign a paper stating you received it.”

  She grasped the doorframe tighter and braced.

  “It’ll take less than five minutes.”

  She looked over her shoulder for Grace. Still in Nathan’s room. Then, against her better judgment, she dropped her hand from the frame and stepped aside. “Five minutes, that’s all.”

  He eased into the house. “Is there a place we can sit down so I can go over the instructions?” he whispered.

  “Jah, this way.” She led him to the kitchen.

  He glanced down at the broken cup and wet floor.

  “I was about to clean that up when you knocked.”

  His gaze lifted and for half a second his eyes seemed focused on the front of her dress. “Did you get burned?”

  She wiped the wet spot on her dress with a dish towel. “Nett too badly.” She motioned to the chair on the opposite side of the table. “You said this would only take five minutes?”

  Bo sat down, opened the brown paper bag, and removed the contents: a medication bottle filled with a thick pink substance and a stack of folded papers. “Nathan received some antibiotics in the hospital, but Doctor Wellington wants him to continue the oral meds for another ten d
ays.”

  “He hasn’t run a fever since I brought him home,” she said softly.

  “That’s good. But it’s important that you give him this to complete the treatment. Otherwise the illness might return. Will you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  Bo withdrew the plastic medication dispenser out of the bag. “The doctor gave me a special measuring spoon so you’ll be able to give him the proper amount. Give him 5 cc’s three times a day.” He leaned closer, his finger on the marking, and showed her the line for the proper dosage, then unfolded the papers. “Here’s a list of things to watch for. Diarrhea is the most probable adverse effect, but there are several others listed. Do you want me to read them?”

  Did he think she was illiterate? She folded her arms across her chest. “I can read.”

  He glanced up from the paper. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry.”

  Was he sincere? It didn’t matter. “You said something about a paper I needed to sign.”

  “Yes.” He flipped to the back page, then rotated the paper in her direction and placed his finger on the bottom line. “Do you need a pen?”

  “I can get one.” She stood, stepped around the broken glass, and retrieved a pen from the cabinet drawer. His finger still held the spot. She signed the form. “Anything else?”

  “The doctor wants to recheck him in ten days.”

  “Okay.” Hopefully Doctor Roswell would be back by then.

  “Except for the positive culture, indicating a strep infection, the other test results, the toxic screening, came back negative.”

  “Are you serious?” She screeched, her voice rising with excitement. “Negative is gut news, jah?”

  He smiled. “I’m not able to tell you anything official about my report, but you should receive a letter in the mail that the case is closed.”

  “Really?” Tears pricked her eyes.

  He nodded. “Now, that’s unofficial. But since I’ll be the one putting the final papers in the mail, I thought you might want to know.”