* * *
The trees thicken as I make my way down the lane and a sense of isolation surrounds me. Two hundred yards in, the branches curl overhead like black, arthritic fingers. I’m starting to wonder if the not-so-helpful woman gave me the wrong directions when I spot the old farmhouse nestled in the trees to my right. It’s a two-story brick structure that’s been painted white with a tin roof. No shutters. No winterized flowerbeds. No landscaping to speak of. Just hundreds of trees and, farther back, a massive bank barn and what looks like a good-size coop where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck at the yellow grass poking up through snow mottled with chicken shit.
A big dog of indistinguishable pedigree lumbers over to me, ears flopping, tongue lolling, emitting the occasional woof. He doesn’t look like a biter, or much of a watchdog, for that matter, but I give him a wide berth and head toward the front door.
I step onto a wood-plank porch that’s been painted gray. My boots thud softly as I make my way to the door and knock. A young Amish woman opens the door. I guess her to be in her late teens. Pretty face. Big brown eyes. She’s dressed modestly in a dark gray dress, black apron, and kapp. Plain clothes only go so far when it comes to obscuring the feminine silhouette, and this girl is hugely pregnant. Interesting.
“Guder mariye,” I begin. Good morning.
She opens the door wider. The smell of vinegar wafts out and I realize she’s cleaning. “Guder mariye.” Her voice is soft, like a child’s.
“I’m Kate Miller. I live down the road.”
I wait, but she doesn’t respond.
“Are you Bishop Schrock’s daughter?” I ask.
She looks down at the broom. I notice her red chapped hands. Nails chewed to the quick. “I just clean for him,” she tells me.
I want to ask her age, but fearing too many questions will set off red flags, I don’t. “What’s your name?”
“Esther.”
“What’s your last name?”
The girl looks away, doesn’t respond.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “Is the bishop here? I need to speak to him.”
“In the barn.” She motions toward the bank barn, looking relieved to be rid of me.
“Danki.”
She closes the door without responding.
I leave the porch, cross the wide gravel area and start toward the barn. One of the big sliding doors stands open. Inside, I see the silhouette of a horse in crossties standing in the aisle. A young Amish man is next to the horse, bent at the waist. As I draw closer, I hear the clang of a hammer against steel and I realize he’s shoeing the horse. A second animal is tethered to the stall door, awaiting its turn.
“Hello,” I say to him as I step into the shadows of the barn.
The farrier lowers the horse’s hoof to the ground and straightens. He’s thickly built, with bright blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, which tells me he’s unmarried. Though it’s cold this morning, he’s removed his overcoat and wears a black jacket over work trousers, a blue work shirt, and suspenders. “Hello,” he says.
“Is Bishop Schrock around?” I ask.
He nods toward the back part of the barn. “He’s unloading hay.”
“Danki.” I run my hand over the horse’s rump as I pass, its coat warm and soft beneath my palm.
I find Schrock standing in a hay wagon that’s been backed up to the rear door. His back is to me; he’s using a pitchfork to drop loose hay from the bed of the wagon to several horses in the paddock below. “Hello? Bishop Schrock?”
Slowly, he turns to me. His dark eyes zero in on mine with startling directness. He’s clad in black. Overcoat. Jacket over a white shirt. Work pants. Black felt hat.
He doesn’t offer a smile, but I discern recognition in his expression. “Kate Miller,” he says. “Good morning.”
“You remembered my name.”
“You have a memorable face.” He jams the pitchfork into the hay and climbs down from the wagon, moving with the surety of a man in good physical condition. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something that happened last night.”
Concern enters his expression. I can’t tell if it’s practiced or genuine or somewhere in between. “Of course.”
“I heard the sound of engines outside my trailer, so I put on my coat and walked outside and I saw two Amish men on snowmobiles.”
“Amisch?” His brows snap together. “On snowmobiles? Who were they?”
“They wouldn’t give their names. They were wearing ski masks beneath their helmets.”
“You’re certain they’re Amish?”
“They spoke Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch.” I grimace, take a half step closer. “Bishop, there were women with them. English women. I saw one of the men strike the woman riding with him. Hard enough so that she fell to the ground.”
He stares at me, dismay spreading over his features. “Was she hurt?”
“Her lip was bleeding.” I drop my gaze, pretend to struggle with the weight of the message with which I’ve burdened him. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought you should know.”
He nods. “Tell me, Kate, are the men of the age where they might be on Rumspringa?”
I shake my head. “Had that been the case, I wouldn’t have come to you. I understand sometimes the young men who’ve not yet been baptized … do things.” I let my expression become pained. “Bishop,” I say in a low voice. “I can’t be sure, but I think one of the men wore a beard.”
Sighing, he reaches out and sets his hand on my shoulder. I suppress the urge to cringe when he squeezes gently. “Thank you for bringing this to me. I’ll see if I can figure out who they are and what I can do to help them.”
If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I might’ve missed the flash of condescension, of amusement, in his eyes. He didn’t ask a single question that might help him identify the men. You already know who they are, a little voice whispers in my ear.
Giving me a nod, he climbs back onto the wagon.
I’d wanted to speak to him longer to see where the conversation might take us, but I’ve been dismissed. I start toward the door. I’m midway there when he calls out to me, “Do you need a buggy ride back to your trailer?”
“No, thank you, Bishop. I have my scooter bike.”
As I turn and start toward the door, it occurs to me that even though I hadn’t mentioned it, he knows where I live.
CHAPTER 13
My exchange with Schrock niggles at me all the way back to the trailer. When I told him about the men in the woods, he made all the right noises. He said all the right things. But he wasn’t convincing. I didn’t see genuine concern. There were no questions. Granted, he’s a reticent man; he’s difficult to read. I’m not sure if my perspective is tainted because of the suspicion that has been laid at my feet. But I know if I’d brought the same information to my former bishop in Painters Mill, he would have been all over it—and enormously displeased.
I drop the kick scooter at the trailer and continue into town on foot. My first stop is The Dutch Kitchen for a mug of dark roast and some conversation with Mary Gingerich. There are only three other customers in the restaurant. Two men sit in the nearest booth. A silver-haired man wearing a John Deere cap and insulated coveralls sips coffee at the end of the counter. I take my usual place, where Mary is pouring pancake syrup into a glass container.
“Morning,” I say as I upend the coffee cup in front of me.
She looks up from her work and grins. “Can’t stay away from my coffee, eh?”
“Or the biscuits.” I slide the cup toward her and tell her about the men on snowmobiles. “I think they were Amish.”
Mary pauses mid pour. “None of the Amish around here use snow machines.” Topping off my cup, she replaces the carafe, grabs a towel from the edge of the sink, and begins to wipe the counter. “It’s against the rules.”
“They were speaking Deitsch,” I tell her.
“Probably not from around here. Or m
aybe young men on Rumspringa, then. You know how they are when they’re that age.”
“One of them wore a beard.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “One of the men hit the woman in the face.”
Something akin to caution flickers in her eyes. “An Englischer, more than likely. A loose woman. Drinking alcohol or whatnot.”
“Maybe.” I sip the coffee, wondering why everyone is so ready to dismiss such blatant rule breaking. “It was a disturbing thing to see.”
“And what exactly were you doing out in the woods at night?”
“I thought I saw a stray dog.” I shrug. “He looked cold and I didn’t want him to be eaten by coyotes.”
She sends a scowl my way. “You’d best be careful out there all by yourself.”
I watch her work for a moment, sipping my coffee. “I went to see the bishop this morning.”
“The bishop?” She stops wiping and straightens, her gaze meeting mine. “You told him about the boys?”
“I thought he should know.”
“What did he say?” she asks in a low voice.
“Just that he’d look into it and take appropriate action.”
Taking the towel to the sink, she runs it under the tap, twists out the excess water, and takes it back to the counter. I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to the window behind her.
I glance past her and notice the Amish man in the kitchen area. The same one I saw before. Bent slightly, he’s watching us through the pass-through window. I stare back and he looks away, slinking deeper into the kitchen. Eavesdropping.
“I didn’t know the bishop has a daughter,” I say conversationally.
“He doesn’t have any family here that I know of.”
“I just assumed … The girl that answered the door. Her name’s Esther.” I shrug.
She wipes the counter harder, her mouth tightening. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours. Or mine.”
“She’s in the married way,” I say, using the preferred Amish term for pregnancy.
She stops wiping. Giving me a cross look, she sets her hand on her hip. “I’m no fan of gossip, Kate Miller. Or tall tales, for that matter.”
“I just thought—”
“You misunderstood what you saw, is all.”
I set my cup on the counter, look down at it. “I’m sure you’re right.”
She continues wiping the counter with a little too much vigor. “Such things aren’t spoken of here.”
I add a trace of hurt to my voice. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I was curious—”
“Not here,” she hisses.
My cop’s antennae cranks up. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve got to get back to work now, Kate.”
“But…”
“You’ll have to get your biscuits another time.” Sliding the condiment tray aside, she wipes beneath it. “Probably best if you just left.”
* * *
I stand outside the door of The Dutch Kitchen for a minute, trying to figure out what just happened inside. Only two options make sense. Either Mary knows the men on snowmobiles and didn’t appreciate my going to the bishop, or she knew the man in the kitchen was listening to our conversation and didn’t want to speak openly in front of him. But in either case, why?
I puzzle over the odd exchange as I start toward The Calico Country Store. Hopefully, I haven’t alienated her and decide I’ll try to make good with her tomorrow.
I’m surprised and pleased to see the quilt shop bustling with activity. Like yesterday, I’m greeted by the homey aromas of lavender and yeast bread. I spy a platter of sliced bread on the counter. I snag a piece and nibble the crust as I make my way to rear of the store to check on the status of the quilts I left. I find Laura Hershberger using a telescoping retriever pole to snag a crib quilt from its place on the wall. Next to her a woman in a red leather jacket and matching boots watches.
“That’s a pretty one,” I say to no one in particular.
The woman in the jacket glances at me and offers a toothy smile. “I’m buying it for my grandbaby.”
The portly man standing next to her bends slightly and makes eye contact with me. “She’s our first,” he tells me. “Just a week old, so our daughter will get a lot of use out of this one.”
I offer a smile. “The quilts are made to swaddle as many babies as a mother and father wishes to have.”
The woman looks delighted by the notion.
Laura Hershberger retrieves the quilt and steps down from the short ladder upon which she’d been standing. “The double wedding ring pattern has always been my favorite.”
“And the pink and blue is perfect for a little boy or a girl,” I add.
Laura hands the quilt to the woman in the red jacket. The woman holds it up, beaming, and actually rubs the thing against her cheek. “Oh, I love it. And Christine will, too. I don’t care how much it costs.”
Not looking quite so sure, the man finds the tag, turns it over for a look, and winces. “Do you take credit cards?” he asks.
Ten minutes later, Laura and I are sitting at the table at the rear of the store, drinking coffee. We’ve both helped ourselves to another piece of bread.
“Did you enjoy worship yesterday?” she asks.
“Very much,” I reply. “Everyone in the congregation is friendly and welcoming. Bishop Schrock is a good preacher.”
She smirks. “A little long-winded if you ask me, but then that’s the bishop for you.”
I let that settle, thinking about my exchange with Mary, and decide to give the beehive another poke. “I went to see him this morning.”
She looks at me over the rim of her cup and raises her brows. “About what?”
I tell her about the men on snowmobiles.
“What on earth would Amish men be doing on snow machines?”
“I was wondering the same thing.” Lowering my voice, I tell her about the two women. “Laura, I don’t think they were Amish.”
Her frown conveys disgust. “Boys that age have the brains of a chicken. I suspect Bishop Schrock will show them the error of their ways.”
I stare at the chunk of bread in my hand, unmoving, playing the role in which I’ve been cast. “I saw one of the men hit the woman he was with. Right in the face.”
She stiffens and for the first time looks uncomfortable. “Maybe they were just roughhousing. You know how the young people are these days, especially the boys.”
That was one of the attitudes I despised most growing up. People were always making excuses for the boys when they misbehaved. Not so for the girls, who have much less in the way of freedom and are held to a higher standard. “These were not boys,” I say firmly. “They were grown men. One of them had a beard.”
Her mouth opens, forming a perfect oval. “You told the bishop as much?”
I break the piece of bread in my hand in half. “I thought he should know.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he’d find out who they are and deal with them.”
“The bishop is a man of his word.” When she raises her mug to her lips, I can’t help but notice that her hand isn’t quite steady. “You’re not afraid to make waves, are you, Kate Miller?”
“I’m not afraid to do the right thing.”
“Let’s hope it was.”
I shoot her a puzzled look, but evidently she’s had enough talk of wayward Amish men. Brushing crumbs from her apron, she rises. “Some of the women come in to sew a few days a week. If you’re working on something, you’re welcome to join us.”
My nerves tighten at the thought of exposing my sewing skills—or lack thereof—to any of the women, most of whom know their way around a sewing kit. But since the Amish grapevine begins with the heart of the family—the women—it’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.
“I’d love to.”
* * *
Misconceptions about undercover work run rampant—even within law enforcement circles. While there’s no doubt it can be hi
gh octane, the lion’s share consists of building your cover, making yourself visible, and, of course, waiting—the bane of most cops. There’s not much you can do to rush the process. Push too hard, and you risk the suspicion of those you’re investigating. Sit back on your heels, and you get nothing.
I like to think I’ve found the middle road. I’ve made myself known, asking questions without ruffling too many feathers, and I’ve garnered a good bit of information. It’s premature to determine if any of it will result in anything useful, but it’s a solid start.
I spent the afternoon at the shop—time that passed with particular slowness. There were few customers, and although I tried multiple times to strike up a conversation with Laura, she wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. I used the time to purchase a few additional sewing supplies: several yards of fabric, four spools of thread, and a new pair of shears. I left town a little after two o’clock, and back at the trailer, I set to work on the simplest sewing project I could think of: potholders—an activity I haven’t partaken in for twenty years.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize I’ve lost what little skill I had acquired as a teenager. As I use the seam ripper to remove my less-than-stellar stitching, I find myself wishing I’d purchased a few more items from the sewing shop in Painters Mill so I could pass them off as my own work and avoid sewing altogether.
By four P.M., restless and frustrated and freezing cold, I pull my personal cell phone from beneath the mattress and dial the one person who can make me feel better.
“I thought the Amish went to bed early,” he begins without preamble.
At the sound of his voice, the tension clamped around the back of my neck relaxes. “Not this early.”
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“You mean aside from me freezing my ass off, dying of boredom, and basically getting nowhere?”
“You knew going in that impersonating an Amish woman wasn’t exactly going to be life on the edge.”
“No TV. No radio. No electricity. And very little damn heat.” I sigh. “It makes me realize just how far I’ve moved away from my roots.”
“Or maybe being Amish isn’t just about going without the things the rest of us take for granted,” he says. “Maybe it’s something you carry inside. You know, faith. A kind heart.”
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