Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (11 page)

“
Rumspringa
can be a confusing time for young people,” I say, staying neutral, trying to keep her talking. “A lot of temptation these days.”

“The sheriff’s department has been sniffing around and asking all sorts of questions. Word around town is, Rachel wasn’t out there by herself.”

I stare at her, trying not to look too interested, not sure I’m succeeding. “Who?”

“No one knows. I heard she had a boyfriend. She went to see him. Got lost on her way home and died.”

“How sad.” I press my hand to my chest. “The boy is English?”

Another look around. “Word is, he was older. And married.” She whispers the last word as if the walls themselves have ears. “No one knows for sure.”

“The police must be anxious to speak with him.”

“I wouldn’t know.” She shrugs. “Most of us don’t deal with the
Englischers
much. Bishop Schrock is strong on separation from the unbelieving world.”

I want to keep the conversation focused on the death of Rachel Esh, but I’m not sure how to do so without garnering suspicion, and the moment slips away.

The Amish woman doesn’t notice, and motions toward the window facing Main Street. “Before Eli Schrock became bishop, there were six or seven Amish shops. We have such an entrepreneurial spirit, you know. But the government came after us with all their taxes and regulations.” She huffs a laugh. “Can’t even put in a new front door without some kind of permit. The bishop defended us; he knows how to deal with them. But he lost. A week later, he held a meeting and told all the shopkeepers here in town that when their leases were up, they shouldn’t renew.”

“Such a shame,” I say.

“A lot of Amish sell things from their homes or farmhouses now. Most of them make a pretty penny doing it. I have a three-year lease here. Time’s up in ten months.” She heaves a wistful sigh. “I love this place, but right is right, and of course the bishop has the final say. When the time comes I’ll say good-bye to it and not look back.” She laughs. “Listen to me, gossiping like some old woman.”

“It’s good to know these things,” I tell her.

We fall silent, so I move to keep the conversation flowing. “Mary and her husband were nice enough to offer me a ride to worship.”

“Well, that’s kind. Daniel and I will be there, too.”

“I hear Bishop Schrock is a good preacher.”

“Barely has to read because he keeps all of it in his head.”

“I’m planning to join the church,” I tell her.

“He’s taken in many, including a few who were lost.” Offering a small smile, she reaches out and pats my shoulder. “He believes a strong
Ordnung
bestows a free heart and a clear conscience. But if you came here because of Bishop Schrock, you already know that now, don’t you?”

I offer my best smile. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“Well, a lot of the church districts have fallen to having worship every other Sunday. Bishop Schrock preaches every week. You’d be wise not to miss one.”

“I don’t plan to.”

Sighing, she looks down at the bag in my hand. “What do you have there, Kate?”

“I was wondering if you take quilts on consignment.”

“Ah! You’re a quilter.” Nodding her approval, she motions toward the rear of the shop. “Let’s take a look and see what you have.”

I follow her to an open area where a large rectangular table is set up with five chairs around it. There’s no one else present at the moment, but I know by the sheer number of quilts for sale that most days the chairs are filled by Amish women. If the walls could speak …

I set my bag on the table and pull out the two crib quilts. Laura assumes a deadpan expression, but I see her eyes light at the sight of the craftsmanship. She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “That’s some fine work.”

“My
mamm
and
grossmuder
were quilters,” I say, trying not to feel guilty for passing someone else’s work off as my own. “I learned from an early age.”

She takes the quilt from me and runs her fingertips over it, taking in the texture of the fabric, the intricate stitching. “The colors are pretty for a little one. You just have the two?”

“I’m working on two more. One is nearly finished,” I tell her, pleased I left them back at the trailer, which gives me a reason to return to the shop. “A pink and blue tumbling block.”

“I’m happy to take these on consignment.” She tries not to look too excited, but I can tell she’s more than a little impressed. “I might be able to get two fifty or so for them.” Putting her hand on her hip, she gives me a that’s-my-final-offer look. “It’ll cost you twenty percent.”

“Fifteen percent and you have yourself a deal.”

She huffs, looks back down at the quilt in her hand, and sighs. “I can tell you’re from Ohio.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

“Because we’re a frugal bunch and we can drive a hard bargain when we need to.” Her stern face breaks into a grin. “You have yourself a deal, Kate Miller. Fifteen percent it is.” She hefts the quilt and looks at it admiringly. “You’d best get to work on those others. I suspect these will go fast.”

CHAPTER 8

A quick stop at Walmart for groceries, an extra blanket, and a pair of wool socks, and I’m back at the trailer by noon. When I walk in the door, my hands and feet are numb and I’m shivering so hard I nearly drop the key. Filling the kettle with water, I set it on the stove for hot tea, using the flame to warm my fingers.

After stowing the groceries, I dig out my phone and call Suggs. “Did you know Rachel Esh was rumored to have had a boyfriend?”

“Some of the Amish hinted at it, but no one would say for sure so I could never confirm it or identify him,” he replies. “Did you get a name?”

“The woman I talked to didn’t know. It’s just rumor at this point, but she mentioned he may be older and married.”

“That’s interesting as hell.”

I tell him about my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “Sometimes there’s a grain of truth in a rumor.”

“Think you’ll get the chance to work on her some more?”

“I’ll probably see her at worship tomorrow. Everyone in the community will be there, so I’ll have the opportunity to meet a lot of people.”

“Nice job, Chief. This is exactly the kind of thing we were hoping you’d be able to do.”

“Whether anything will pan out remains to be seen, but it’s a start.” I pause. “I also met the woman Rachel Esh was living with when she died.”

“Mary Gingerich. You work fast.”

“Roaring Springs is a small town. The Amish community is even smaller. I knew she worked at the diner.…”

“Anything new?”

“Not really, but I’m starting to get a better picture of Schrock.” I tell him everything I’ve learned about the bishop so far. “He’s very Old Order. Everyone I’ve met seems devoted. The only hint of discontent I heard was from the owner of the quilt shop. Apparently, Schrock told her not to renew her lease when it’s up.”

“Sounds like him.”

“An unhappy follower is more likely to talk, especially if she’s got something negative to say. I’ll do my best to cultivate a relationship.”

“You get a bike yet?”

“No, but I will,” I tell him. “Mary took pity on me and offered to drive me to worship.”

“She drives?”

I smile. “A buggy.”

“Gotcha.”

“So I’ll have the chance to meet her husband and their daughter, too.”

“Excellent.” He pauses. “I don’t have to remind you to be careful, do I?”

“The most dangerous thing I did today was go to Walmart,” I tell him. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

*   *   *

I’ve never been the domestic type. I sure as hell don’t remember the last time I made date pudding. Probably as a teenager, when my
mamm
was still alive and doing her utmost to instill some semblance of domesticity in her unreceptive daughter. She would drag me into our big country kitchen and my sister, Sarah, and I would help her bake. It wasn’t always the tranquil ritual you might imagine. I was difficult; Sarah outshone me, which only made things worse. Still, it’s a good memory.

My current kitchen is a far cry from my
mamm
’s, my hands not nearly as capable as hers, but I get the job done with a good bit of sampling along the way, and the pudding turns out better than I anticipated. The entire trailer smells good—and it’s blissfully warm. I bought some plastic cups, and tomorrow after worship I’ll serve the pudding with caramel sauce and chopped walnuts on top. Hopefully, it will help get things off to a good start.

By late afternoon, the kitchen is cleared, the pudding is stowed in a sealable food storage bowl, and I’m poring through
The Bridge
for a bicycle that will make it easier to get around, at least when the roads are clear. There are no adult bicycles for sale, but there’s an ad for a scooter bike, which is even better. It’s an added bonus that there’s a phone number, which tells me the owner is local and probably Mennonite.

After bundling up, I hike it down to the Amish phone booth at the intersection a couple hundred yards down the road. The phone is inside a frame building the size of an outhouse. There are dozens of buggy wheel marks in the snow, but there’s no one here now. I slide the quarter into the slot and dial. A man picks up on the second ring with an enthusiastic, “
Ja!
”

“
Guder nochmiddawks
,” I say, greeting him with the Pennsylvania Dutch words for “good afternoon.” “I’m calling about the scooter bike.”

“It’s a nice one. Aluminum, with twenty-inch wheels and a basket in front for the grocery or whatnot. Good to get around on if the snow isn’t too deep.”

I’ve seen the Amish around Painters Mill travel on kick scooters, even Amish women, and the contraptions are amazingly fast and easy to power. “How much?”

“It’s used, so I’m asking two hundred.”

“Where are you located?”

“East of Roaring Springs.”

My heart sinks. I’m west of town, which tells me his place is too far for me to travel on foot. “I’m without transportation,” I tell him. “Any way you can haul it over to my place so I can take a look? I’m pretty interested and I have cash.”

“The cash part is talking. Where are you located?”

Twenty minutes later, a pickup truck pulls in to the driveway. Grabbing my coat, gloves, and bonnet, I go out to greet him.

He’s lifting the scooter bike out of the truck bed when I meet him in the driveway. “I’m Kate Miller,” I tell him.

“Christian Kempf.” We shake and then he motions toward the scooter. “What do you think?”

I give the contraption a skeptical look. “I would have preferred black.”

“Most of the Amish do around here. You could paint it.”

“Why are you getting rid of it?”

“My wife and I are Mennonite now, so we don’t need it.”

“You used to be Amish?”

His gaze moves away from mine. “
Ja
.”

I return my gaze to the scooter, pretend to study it, but it’s the seller I’m most interested in. “What made you decide to leave the church?”

He looks down at the ground, then he shrugs. “I’m a furniture maker and sell cabinets to the builder over at Ellenburg Center. Schrock didn’t like it and asked me to stop.”

“Must have been difficult.”

“Hard for the wife. He put us under the
bann
. Her friends won’t speak with her. Our daughter…” His voice trails off as if the words are too painful to utter.

I’m about to ask about Schrock’s use of
Meidung
, but he shakes his head. “I have a car now, so we no longer need this.” He turns his attention back to the scooter bike. “There are a few chips in the paint. Otherwise, it’s in good condition. Would you like to try it?”

I glance toward the road, where most of the snow from yesterday has melted. “Sure.”

He wheels the scooter to the asphalt and offers it to me. “Keep one foot on the platform and push off with the other.”

I take the handlebars, and keeping my left foot on the platform, I shove off with the right. It’s awkward at first, but I know immediately that it’ll be easier—and faster—than walking. I take it down the gravel road about fifty yards, make a U-turn, and come back.

“What’s your bottom dollar?” I ask.

“Like I said. Two hundred.”

“Basket’s bent,” I say, indicating the wire rack mounted on the handlebars.

“Well, I might take one seventy-five. That’s as low as I can go without getting my wife riled up.” But he grins.

I grin back. “I’ll get my cash.”

CHAPTER 9

Sunday morning dawns brilliant and cold—and with me rethinking the wisdom of bringing food to my first worship service. It’s a small concern in the scope of things, but it kept me up last night. I don’t know the congregation or its unwritten rules—and apparently there are a lot of them. I’m not even sure if my welcome will be warm.

I do, however, know the Amish, and I’m well aware that they appreciate good food. While I don’t want to draw undue attention to myself, I do want to make a good impression. Most important, I want to meet and speak with as many people as possible. When you’re Amish, food is usually a pretty decent icebreaker.

Mary and Abe Gingerich arrive ten minutes early, but I’m ready. I’ve stowed the date pudding and plastic containers in two paper bags. Grabbing both, I go through the front door and into a morning cold enough to steal my breath.

Abe has already turned the buggy around. Mary sits in the rear along with a teenage girl, their legs covered with a hand-knitted afghan.

“
Guder mariye!
” I call out as I make my way to the buggy.

A rotund Amish man of about fifty grins at me. “
Wei geth’s alleweil?
” How goes it now?

“
Ich bin zimmlich gut
.” I’m pretty good. “You must be Abe Gingerich.”

“And you must be Kate Miller.”

I stop outside the buggy and offer my hand for a shake. “I appreciate the ride this morning.”

“It’s right on the way,” he tells me.

I peer into the back. “Hi, Mary. You look nice and warm back there.”

“We’re plenty toasty.” The Amish woman smiles back at me. “This is our daughter, Anna.”