Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (17 page)

“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 high 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.”

I smile. “Tomasetti, you’re full of surprises this afternoon.”

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

“You do.” Snuggling more deeply into the blanket I’ve thrown over me, I tell him about my visit to see Schrock earlier. “He didn’t ask any questions.”

“He already knew.”

“Exactly.” I tell him about the young woman who answered the door. “She’s pretty and young. She could have been there to clean or to cook for him, but I got a bit of an odd vibe.”

“You think she’s there for another reason?”

“The Amish are generally aware of appearances. They care what people think. With Schrock being unmarried, relatively young, and in a position of power, I thought it was odd that he’d have a pretty young woman cleaning his house.” I think about that a moment. “Most Amish would go to great lengths to avoid any hint of impropriety.”

“Was this girl a minor?”

“Late teens. Maybe early twenties. And pregnant.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so, too.” I think about bishop. “I’m no schmuck when it comes to reading people, but I can’t get a handle on this guy.”

“Sometimes that happens when people put forth a false front,” he says.

“I’ve only met him twice. Both times, he was relaxed, said all the right things. Body language matched his words.”

“But?”

“I know it sounds melodramatic, but there’s something about him that seems … off.” I think about my visit with Mary Gingerich earlier in the day, about Laura Hershberger’s reticence. “Nobody wanted to talk about those men. I don’t know if they’re protective of their bishop or … scared of him.”

“Maybe he’s abusing his position. Intimidating people.”

I think about my conversation with Anna Gingerich. “Remember what Suggs said about people being locked in a chicken coop?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“I was chatting with a girl on Sunday and she told me she knows of another girl who’d been locked in a chicken coop.”

“That kind of extreme punishment would explain why people don’t talk about him.”

“They want to stay off his radar.”

“They sure as hell don’t want to piss him off.” He sighs unhappily. “I know I don’t have to remind you, but somehow a fifteen-year-old kid ended up dead. Don’t let down your guard. Don’t trust anyone. And keep your fucking eyes on Schrock.”

Despite my best intentions, the conversation has gone in a direction I didn’t want it to go. “I’m being careful.”

We go silent and I’m suddenly aware of the hiss of the miles stretching between us. “I could drive up there,” he says quietly. “We could shack up for a couple days.”

“That would get the tongues wagging.”

“Probably get us locked in the chicken coop.”

I can’t help but laugh, but I don’t miss the serious note in his voice.

*   *   *

At just before five
P.M.
I’m saved by a knock on the door. Setting my ruinous sewing project on the sofa, I go to the window and part the curtains, surprised to see Jacob Yoder standing on the deck, his hands in his pockets, snow gathering on the shoulders of his black overcoat. Beyond, I see a bony-looking Standardbred gelding hitched to a buggy. He’s alone.

I open the door and give him a look that’s not quite friendly. “What do you want?”

Amusement flickers in his eyes. “Bishop Schrock wants to see you.”

It’s the last thing I expected him to say. For an instant, I’m not sure how to respond. “Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Right now?”

“That’s what he said.”

I stare hard at him, looking for a lie or some deception, but there’s nothing there. “All right.” I start to close the door, but he stops me.

“I’m supposed to take you.” He motions toward the buggy.

“I have my scooter bike.” If things go south with Schrock, I don’t want to rely on Yoder for transportation.

He gives me an incredulous look. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“If I were you, I’d make it ten.”

I close the door without responding.

CHAPTER 14

I watch Yoder pull away. When he’s gone, I rush to the bedroom, kneel next to the bed, pluck the .22 from its hiding place, and holster it. I double check the charge on my phone, make sure it’s on vibrate, and stow it in my pocket. Grabbing a black scarf, I cover my head, pull on gloves and my coat, and then I’m out the door and into the cold.

I push the scooter bike hard, and it takes me ten minutes to reach Schrock’s place. The snow is coming down in earnest now and starting to accumulate. Stopping at the mouth of the lane, I hop off the bike, lean it against a tree, and set off on foot.

The hem of my dress is damp and cold even through my tights, but my feet are dry in my boots as I tromp through snow. There are buggy tracks, telling me someone has driven by recently. I pass the barn where worship was held yesterday. The main door is closed and there’s no one in sight.

The house looms into view like something out of a gothic movie. It’s a grim place in the semidarkness. It’s isolated and, with the falling snow and trees, somehow menacing. I see the flicker of lantern light in the living room window. Taking the steps to the porch, I cross to the door and knock.

While I wait, my mind scrolls through possible reasons Schrock might want to see me and how I might use the visit to my advantage. I look out over the woods, and even with my nerves zinging, I have to admire the beauty of the place. The black trunks of the winter-bare trees. The softly falling snow. The blanket of leaves slowly being covered with white.

The creak of hinges sounds. I turn to see Eli Schrock standing in the doorway, looking at me as if I’m lost and wandered to his doorstop for directions.

“
Guder nochmiddawks
,” I say. Good afternoon.

He doesn’t offer a smile. His eyes are direct and probing. Clad in all black—hat, trousers, and jacket—he makes an imposing figure. I’m not easily intimidated, but the knowledge that we’re wholly alone and I’m miles from help hovers in the forefront of my mind.

“Kate Miller.” He bows his head slightly. “I thought you’d ride with Jacob.”

“I didn’t want to put him to any trouble, so I rode the scooter bike.”

“You must be cold. Come in.”

Stepping aside, he ushers me through the door. I’m keenly aware of his size as I walk past him. He’s well over six feet tall and probably two hundred pounds. He stands so close I discern the smell of fresh-cut wood on his jacket and coffee on his breath. The first thing I notice is the fire blazing in the hearth. A braided rug covers a rough-hewn plank floor. On a table next to the sofa, a kerosene lantern flickers, casting shadows on the ceiling. I notice a copy of
Martyrs Mirror
lying facedown on a sofa cushion.