A Hidden Secret (3 page)

She thinks about it for a moment and then shakes her head. “We’re a relatively small department, Chief Burkholder. I come into contact with most of our maternity patients, and I can’t think of a single woman who was in any way ambiguous or unhappy about her pending birth. Then again, women are good at keeping secrets when they feel they need to.”

Disappointment ripples through me, but it’s short-lived. I hadn’t really expected her to relay much in the way of useful information. I’m pretty sure the woman who abandoned Baby Doe is Amish. While the hospital was the logical place to begin my search, I know this case isn’t going to reveal its mysteries easily.

*   *   *

I drop Tomasetti at the farm. By the time I park in front of the
Siess Kaffi
baby shop on Main Street, it’s nearly ten A.M.
Siess Kaffi
is Pennsylvania Dutch for “Sweet Coffee.” The term is borne from the tradition in some Amish communities of a new mother serving coffee with sugar when she receives visitors after the birth of her baby. The shop is a tourist favorite and sells everything from crib quilts to bassinettes and just about everything in between.

On the passenger seat beside me the quilt in which Baby Doe was wrapped and the rattle found with her are sealed in evidence bags. Grabbing both items, I exit the Explorer and head inside.

The wind chimes hanging on the front door tinkle like tiny bells when I walk in. The aromas of vanilla and lavender greet me. A middle-aged Amish woman stands behind the counter manning an antique-looking cash register and chatting with a tourist who’s just purchased an Amish-made stuffed lamb and a wooden sign that reads: MY GREATEST BLESSING.

The shop is jam-packed with every kind of baby item a new mom or dad could possibly need, including old-fashioned baby bottles, handmade vintage toy,s and an entire wall of awe-inspiring crib quilts.

“Can I help you with something?”

I turn to see a second Amish woman standing a few feet behind me. She’s wearing a gray dress with the requisite organdy
kapp
and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. I guess her to be about forty years old.

“Hi.” I introduce myself and extend my hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I’m Laura Schlabach. Welcome to Siess Kaffi.”

“You have some lovely things.”

“
Danki
. All made with
Amisch
hands, too,” she tells me. “Hard to find that kind of workmanship these days.”

“I’m investigating a case, Mrs. Schlabach, and I’m wondering if you might be able to identify a couple of baby items.”

She’s already peering down at the evidence bags in my hand, curious eyes prying. “I can try.” Nodding, she turns and starts toward the counter. “Better light over here.”

I follow her to the cash register, set the evidence bags atop the well-worn counter, and pull out the folded quilt. “Do you recognize the workmanship?” I ask.

She picks up the quilt and tilts her head back, gazing at it through her bifocals. “It’s nicely made.” She runs her fingers over the fabric. “Stitching is good and straight. And such pretty colors for a little one.” She lowers the quilt and looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t recognize the workmanship, though, and it didn’t come from this shop.”

“What about the fabric?”

The Amish woman shakes her head. “These pieces are old. See the fading there? The worn threads? The patchwork on this quilt comes from a lifetime of use.”

Nodding, I tuck the quilt back into its plastic nest and pull out the rattle. “What about this?”

Laura takes the rattle, turns it over in her hands, looking at it carefully from all angles. “I’ve seen some like it over the years. The wood is nice and smooth. Probably
Amisch
made. The men are so good with the carving.” She hands it back to me. “It didn’t come from Siess Kaffi.”

Disappointment presses into me as I slide the rattle back into the evidence bag. “I appreciate your time.”

She offers a sage look. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so anxious to find out where those items came from?”

As the police chief of a small town where gossip can quickly grow into unwieldy half-truths or hurtful speculation, I’m careful how much information I pass along and to whom. But with this case—and since the cat is already out of the bag, so to speak—the community may be one of my best sources of information. “A newborn was abandoned early this morning,” I tell her. “A little girl, just hours old. Someone left her on the bishop’s front steps.”

“Oh, Good Lord. A baby.” The woman presses a hand to her chest. “Is the poor thing okay?”

“She’s doing fine.” I think of the tiny face that had stared back at me and, despite the situation, I find myself smiling. “We’re calling her Baby Doe.”

“Baby Doe.” The woman looks at me over her glasses and smiles back at me. “Kind of catchy.”

“Mrs. Schlabach, if you hear anything that might help me find the mother, will you let me know?”

“You think she’s
Amisch
?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I can’t imagine. The birth of a baby to an Amish family is always a happy occasion. Children are a gift from the Lord.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what kind of woman would leave her own baby.”

“A frightened one. A confused one.” I shrug. “Someone who, perhaps, felt she couldn’t care for a child at this point in her life.”

“Well, I’ll pray for the little one and her
mamm,
” she tells me. “And I’ll keep my ear to the grapevine.”

Leaving her with my card, I gather the evidence bags and start toward the door.

*   *   *

Back in the Explorer, I call my first shift dispatcher, Lois. “I need you to put out a press release on our newborn,” I tell her.

“No luck finding the parents?” she asks.

“I think this is going to be one of those cases where the public might be able to help. Hopefully, someone knows something and will come forward.”

“You think the mother is from this area, Chief?”

“I do. I think she’s Amish or has some connection to the Amish. I just don’t know what it is.” I pause. “Don’t put that in the press release.”

She laughs. “Gotcha.” We fall silent and then she adds, “You know, Chief, a pregnant belly isn’t exactly an easy thing to hide.”

I consider that for a moment. “But not impossible,” I say. “Loose clothing. Minimal weight gain. A lack of suspicion by friends and family members. I suspect it happens more often than we think.”

“I’ll get the press release out immediately, Chief.”

“Thanks.”

The Care Cottage Birthing Center is located off the highway between Painters Mill and the Coshocton County line to the south. The facility is managed by several certified Amish midwives with a local ob-gyn on call. Local Amish women have been having babies here for as long as I can remember.

The birthing center is housed in a circa-1950s bungalow to which a drive-through portico has been constructed so buggies can pull up directly to the front door in inclement weather. There are two buggies in the parking lot, the horses still hitched, and a white van parked at the side. On the west side, there are two horse pens with a divided loafing shed and a big aluminum watering trough in case the father-to-be needs to spend the night. I park beneath the shade of a maple tree bursting with fall color and take the wide steps to the front door.

The interior of Care Cottage is homey and warm and welcoming. Instead of the medicinal odors I’d anticipated, the place smells of cinnamon and clean linens. The door opens to a large waiting area that looks more like an Amish living room. There’s a blue sofa set against the wall and bracketed on either side by vintage end tables. A bay window with lace curtains looks out over a field where the corn has already been cut and bundled. A slightly-battered coffee table is covered with magazines, inspirational books and
Es Nei Teshtament
, a Bible translated into Pennsylvania Dutch. Next to a recliner, a toy box full of wooden Amish-crafted toys—tops and a little dog on wheels that can be pulled with a string—invites fidgety youngsters to play while
mamm
is seeing the midwife.

An elderly Mennonite woman wearing a green print dress and small organdy head covering stands at the reception counter, her arthritis-bent fingers pecking at a computer keyboard. Her name tag tells me her name is Ruth and she’s a volunteer.

“Hello,” I say as I cross to the counter.

She glances up from her work and startles a little at the sight of my uniform. “Oh. Hello there.” She chuckles. “Didn’t expect to see a woman policeman.”

I introduce myself. “I’m working on a case and was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“I will if I can,” she says. “Can’t imagine what would bring a policeman to a birthing center, though.”

I give her the rundown on Baby Doe and take her through the same series of questions I asked the RN at the hospital.

“I’m sure you know the majority of our clientele here at Care Cottage are Amish,” she tells me. “We’ve had several
Englischer
women in the last few months; most were interested in a more natural birthing process. And of course we’re more affordable here than a typical hospital.” Her mouth tightens and she gives a nod. “The birth of a baby is usually a happy occasion.”

“What about a very young woman? Have you had any teenagers come in?” I ask. “Or perhaps an unmarried woman?”

“We had one unmarried Mennonite woman come down from Cleveland. That’s been a couple of months ago, and to tell you the truth, she wasn’t too concerned about not having a husband.”

“Have any women come in for a prenatal checkup and not returned?” I prod. “Or do you know of any women who were in an unhappy or abusive relationship?”

“Oh, I sure do hate to think of that happening to a woman with a baby on the way.” Her brows knit. “Chief Burkholder, I’ve been a volunteer here for eight years, and I don’t recall anything like that.”

I pull out my card. “If you think of something, will you give me a call?”

“I sure will.” She sets the card next to her computer. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Chief Burkholder.”

“Me, too,” I tell her. “Me, too.”

*   *   *

I swing by LaDonna’s Diner for a BLT and a large coffee to go and take both to the police station. I’m sitting at my desk, paging through messages, when Lois peeks her head in the door. “Sorry to disturb your lunch, Chief.”

Swallowing coffee, I set down the sandwich. “It’s okay. What’s up?”

“Mrs. Stelinski is here to see you,” Lois tells me. “She owns that fancy baby boutique down the street? Says it’s important.”

The name is vaguely familiar, but I don’t recall ever meeting her and I’ve never been in the shop. “Send her in.”

A moment later, a tall, delicately-built woman decked out in Ralph Lauren and over-the-knee boots walks into my office. “Chief Burkholder?”

I stand. “What can I do for you?”

Offering a dazzling smile from lips the color of overripe plums, she strides to my desk, her perfectly manicured hand outstretched. “I’m Paige Stelinski. I own the Little Buckeye Baby Boutique just off of Main Street?”

The shop is a chic specialty store that caters to upscale clientele and sells every baby item known to mankind. It’s a tourist magnet, one I’m sure has prompted many a new parent to lay down too much cash—and enjoy every minute of it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stelinski—”

“Oh, call me Paige, please.” I catch a whiff of Chanel No. 5 as she takes the chair adjacent to my desk. “I took one of my clerks to lunch this afternoon and she was telling me about that abandoned baby found out at the Amish bishop’s place? Well, I got to thinking and it reminded me of an odd incident that occurred at the shop a few weeks ago.”

My interest piqued, I lean forward. “What kind of incident?”

“Shoplifting.” She tilts her head at me, her brows raised nearly to her hairline. “Crazy, right? I mean who steals baby things?”

“I don’t recall my department taking a call for shoplifting at your shop.”

“That’s because I didn’t file a complaint. I came this close.” She raises her hand, indicating a small space between her thumb and forefinger. “I mean, stealing? Seriously? Ultimately, I chose not to press charges against this young man. There was just something about him. Earnest, you know? And he was Amish. Clean-cut. He seemed truly embarrassed and, frankly, ashamed. Not just because he got caught, mind you. But because he’d stooped to the level of stealing. Like it went against his code of honor or something. To top things off, he offered to make it right by working off the cost of the items.” She laughs. “Just between us, by the time he finished with me, I was putty in his hands.”

I’m not holding out hope that this incident is related in any way to Baby Doe, but I listen with interest nonetheless. “What makes you think that has something to do with the abandoned newborn?”

“That’s what was so strange and pathetic about the whole thing. The items he took.”

“What were they?”

“He had this cute little onesie. The yellow one with bears on it. And two pairs of newborn socks. A knit hat. Who steals stuff like that?”

“Did you get his name?”

“In a sad twist, Chief Burkholder, his name was Noah Fisher.”

The words impact me like a sucker punch. Not too hard, but in just the right place. Six weeks ago, I worked a fatality farm accident in which a young Amish man driving a horse-drawn manure spreader fell and ended up under the wheels. He was killed instantly. It was one of the saddest and most disturbing accidents I’d ever worked. Noah Fisher was seventeen years old. An only child. And his parents were absolutely devastated.

Paige Stelinski is still talking. “Anyway, after I caught him and we talked, he spent the rest of the day cleaning the storage closet and the bathroom, too. I’m telling you, the place
gleamed
when he was finished. I let him have the items he wanted, and I threw in a pack of cute little bibs.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t give it much thought and just figured he had a little brother or sister on the way and his mom needed help. Just about broke my heart when I heard he was killed. Really nice boy and talented, too.” She laughs. “A woodcarver, of all things. I ended up buying some toys from
him
.” A wistful sigh escapes her. “I’m sure one day he would have been quite the businessman.”