Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (13 page)

Many of the teenagers have already eaten and fled. Sunday is a big day for socializing for them. Chances are there will be a singing later, and I’m betting a few of the boys have gone off someplace private to smoke cigarettes. Because they’re teenagers and not yet baptized, the adults won’t give them too much static.

I make my way to the place where I left the date pudding, plasticware, and serving spoon, and I busy myself filling the dessert cups. I’ve filled a dozen or so when I see Mary’s daughter, Anna, looking at me from across the room. She’s standing a few feet from her
mamm
, looking bored—and hungry.

I motion her over. “Would you like to help me fill the cups?” I ask.

“
Ja!
” the girl says enthusiastically.

I catch her mother’s eye and the woman gives me a nod. For a few minutes, Anna and I work in silence. All business now, she separates the cups and slides one to me. I dip the spoon into the pudding and ladle a dollop into the cup. As people converge, I introduce myself and make small talk, doing my utmost to engage them. I share the recipe for the date pudding with the women who ask. I discuss Schrock’s sermon with a couple of the men. And there’s always the weather, which seems to be a favorite topic.

After half an hour or so, the crowd at my table thins. Making sure Mary Gingerich is out of earshot, I turn my attention to the girl helping me. “I think everyone liked the pudding,” I say.

“Brick Ivan had two cups!” the girl exclaims.

“Brick Ivan?”

“His real name is just Ivan but everyone calls him brick because he lays bricks.”

“Ah.” I smile, trying to come up with a way to get her talking about Rachel Esh. “You said your friend Rachel liked date pudding, too.”

“She helped me and Mamm make it once.”

“Were you good friends?” I’m not sure how close she was to Rachel Esh and I don’t want to upset her, so I tread carefully.

Anna nods vigorously. “She was my best friend.”

“You must miss her.”

“
Ja
. Everyone thought she was too old to be my friend. You know, because I’m stunted. But my
mamm
said that’s okay because God made me that way and whatever God does is okay.”

“Your
mamm
is right.” I shovel a spoonful of pudding into a cup and hand it to her. “What kinds of things did the two of you do together?”

The girl’s eyes light up as she digs into the pudding. She’s a good little eater and gives me only half her attention as she chews. “She played the clapping game with me. Me and my
mamm
and Rachel made soap once.”

“I bet that was fun.”

“She was so pretty and grown-up.” A wistful sigh. “She smelled good and she used to let me brush her hair.”

“I bet she had lots of friends.”

“
Ja
, but I was her best.”

I try again. “Who were her other friends?”

“Emma next door.” She lowers her voice and whispers in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Don’t tell, but Rachel told me Emma smells bad.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. “What about Marie Weaver?” I ask, recalling Suggs’s notes.

“I almost forgot about her. Rachel loved Marie.” The girl’s face scrunches up. “I always thought Marie was kind of mean, though.”

“Mean? How so?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs. “My
mamm
says Marie has a sharp tongue. And she’s always getting into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“She wears English clothes.” Again the girl lowers her voice to a whisper. “And she says bad words.”

“I bet her parents don’t like that.”

“Neither does the bishop.”

“The bishop? Really?”

She glances left and right and whispers, “Rachel told me he put Marie in the chicken coop.”

I almost don’t know what to say to that. “The chicken coop?”

For the first time, wariness enters her expression, as if she’s realized she’s talking about something she shouldn’t be talking about. Trying not to feel guilty for plying a kid with dessert, I add a small dollop of pudding to her cup.

“You mean to
clean
it?” I ask.

“No, he locked her in.”

“Why would he do that?”

Her eyes skate away from mine. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“You mean the chicken coop part? Or Rachel?”

She takes a big bite of pudding. “I dunno,” she says around the food.

I help myself to some of the pudding, let the silence ride for a moment. “How do you like the pudding?”

“It’s the best I ever had.” She stops mid chew. “Don’t tell my
mamm
I said that.”

A wave of affection rolls through me and I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. She’s so innocent and unsuspecting. The kind of girl a counterpart might confide in or speak freely before without the worry of repercussions. But does she know anything about Rachel Esh?

I glance over at Anna, who’s finished her pudding and is eyeing another cup. “Is the chicken coop for teenagers who’ve misbehaved? Or do bad chickens get put in there, too?” I ask with a grin.

The girl flashes a smile, then looks down, her shoulders curling in. “I dunno.”

Her reticence hints that there’s something there she doesn’t wish to discuss—or has been told not to. I don’t want to frighten her with too many questions, so I go to another topic. “Is Marie here today?”

Twisting in her chair, she points at a girl sitting alone at another table, eating a wedge of rhubarb pie. The instant Anna points, the girl glances our way, as if knowing she’s the topic of gossip. She gives Anna a withering glare and then her eyes slide to mine. She’s got auburn hair. Brown eyes alight with intelligence. A sprinkling of freckles on an aquiline nose. A full mouth that’s far too sensuous for a sixteen-year-old kid. She’s unusual looking and extraordinarily pretty. A troublesome combination, even if you’re Amish. Rolling her eyes in that universal annoyed-teenager way, she goes back to her pie.

“She’s pretty.” I place a spoonful of pudding into the next cup. “I bet the boys like to court her.”

“She’s mean to them, too.”

“Did any of the boys like Rachel?”

She separates two cups, sets both in front of me. “Jacob Yoder.”

I put the name to memory. “Did they go to singings together?”

She looks at me as if I’m naive, and I remind myself not to underestimate her or how much she may know simply because she’s special needs. “My
mamm
says
Er harricht gut, awwer er foligt schlecht
.” He hears well, but obeys poorly, which basically means he’s willfully disobedient.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, I try a few different angles with Anna, but she’s grown bored with me, makes an excuse and wanders away.

The date pudding was a hit and the container is empty. I keep an eye on the crowd as I pack things away. A dozen or so elderly women are seated at a folding table, drinking coffee and speaking quietly. Most of the men have gone to another section of the barn; through a wide doorway I see them standing around an ancient-looking manure spreader. Several groups of girls are scattered about, sitting at tables or packing leftover food and utensils. A couple of boys are breaking down tables, folding and stowing them.

I glance toward the place where Marie Weaver had been sitting but she’s left. I’d wanted to meet Rachel’s parents, Fannie and Samuel Esh, but I have no idea what they look like or if they’re even here. Normally, a briefing would have included photographs of all the players involved. But since most Amish do not have their photos taken, I can’t rely on recognition.

I spot Mary Gingerich sitting at a table with some other women, one of whom is crocheting. Picking up my bags, I carry them over to the table.

“Hi, Kate.” Mary addresses the other women. “This is Kate Miller. She just moved here from Holmes County.”

All eyes turn to me. I smile demurely. “Hello.”

“Kate’s a widow,” Mary informs them.

Eyes are averted, heads bowed slightly, and the women make a collective sound of sympathy. “How long ago did your husband pass?” a white-haired woman asks.

“Nine months,” I reply. “John and I wanted to move here, but he got sick.”

“You’re here permanently?” the crocheting woman asks.

I nod. “I’ve rented Mrs. Bowman’s trailer home.”

“You have children?” another woman asks.

It’s a question I’ve fielded several times now. Children and family are the heart of Amish society. I purposefully look away, glance down at the tabletop. “No, it’s just me.”

The white-haired woman shakes her head. She’s probably too kind to say it aloud, but I know what she’s thinking. If you’re Amish, unmarried, and without children at my age, you’re living an unfulfilled life.

“Welcome to Roaring Springs, Kate Miller.” A red-haired woman whose face is mottled with freckles offers a kind, sympathetic look. “My cousin, Ruth, lives in Berlin.”

The crocheting woman looks up at me. “I was in Holmes County last summer for my
grossmuder
’s funeral. It’s beautiful, and the Amish are so friendly.”

“Lots of
Englischer
tourists, though,” the red-haired woman puts in. “They come right up to you and start taking pictures!”

“Gawking at the Amish as if they’ve never seen a plain person before,” another asserts, and chuckles ensue.

It’s harmless small talk, but the nerves at the back of my neck tingle with unease and I remind myself the Amish world can be a small one. While most adults don’t use phones, they write letters. If one of them happens to mention me by name, I could have some explaining to do.…

“How did you like the preaching service?” a thirtysomething woman asks, looking at me from beneath impossibly long lashes.

The group falls silent and I realize this is the most important question I’ll be asked today. I wait a beat, letting the anticipation build. “It was without blemish,” I say. “Bishop Schrock observes the true ordinances of Christ.”

Heads nod, but not all of them, and I’m intrigued. “My church district in Ohio was…” I pause as if seeking the perfect word. “—fallen. All the Amish were mixed in with the rest of the world. Some of our young people were confused. You know, drinking and smoking with their English friends.”

“Here, we are separate,” the red-haired woman tells me.

“Schrock protects us from the blind and perverted,” says another.

Again, it doesn’t elude me that not all the heads nod in concurrence, and I realize not everyone agrees with that assessment.

I spend twenty minutes with the women before excusing myself under the guise of needing a restroom break. I’m told there are two outhouses behind the barn, one for women and one for the men. “Just go through the barn door and to the left,” Mary tells me. “You can’t miss them.”

After being inside for over three hours with so many people and having to be “on” the entire time, I feel as if I can breathe the instant I step outside. The wind has kicked up and smells of woodsmoke and snow. Clouds have gobbled up the sunshine from earlier. I shiver as I make my way around the side of the barn toward the rear.

To my right a dozen or so buggies are parked in a neat row. The two young hostlers stand nearby, watching me. I wave, but they turn away without returning the gesture.

I reach the back of the barn and take the stone steps to a path of trampled snow that wends through the trees. Ten yards away, two white clapboard buildings stand side by side. The one to my right is marked
FRAW,
so when the path splits, I go right. The outhouse is exactly that, but more closely resembles the kind you might find in a park. After making use of the facilities, I walk to the rear of the building to see what’s there.

I find myself staring into an ocean of winter-dead trees tangled with vines and a few evergreens. To the west, the land dips down and over the tops of the trees, I see the smooth white surface of a plowed field. Remembering the aerial photos, I realize that beyond the field is a good-size creek.

A shriek breaks the silence. I look around, try to discern the direction from which it came and the nature of the sound. Spotting tracks, I leave the walkway and follow them down the hill. I’ve only gone a few yards when I hear male laughter. Youthful. More than one. I change direction slightly, my boots nearly silent against the snow.

The trees open to a clearing where four Amish teenagers have gathered. Three boys and one girl. At first I think they’ve slipped away to hang out and have some harmless fun. Then one of the boys lunges forward and shoves the girl using both hands. She reels backward, arms flailing, and lands on her behind in the snow. Instinct kicks in and before I can stop myself I move out of the trees. The three boys turn toward me, mouths open, arms loose. I see surprise on their faces. A topical uneasiness tells me they’re not overly alarmed by my presence. The boy who shoved the girl casts me an annoyed glare. He’s disappointed I had the gall to interrupt.

I look at the girl, recognize her immediately: Marie Weaver. “Are you all right?”

Getting to her feet, she brushes snow from her coat. “I’m fine.”

I turn my attention to the boy who shoved her. He’s about nineteen years old. Sandy hair. Bad haircut. Vivid blue eyes. An attitude I’m no stranger to, especially when it comes to young males pumped up on testosterone. He might’ve been attractive if not for the angry patches of acne on his cheeks and the bad attitude in his eyes.

“What’s your name?” The question is out—in my cop’s voice no less—an instant before I remind myself who I am and why I’m here. Amish women aren’t pushovers, but they’re not as assertive as I am, especially when it comes to men.

In the periphery of my vision, I see the other boys exchange looks that relay the question:
Who the hell is she?
The one I’m addressing meets my gaze head on and holds it. “Jacob Yoder.”

The boy who’d been courting Rachel Esh.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask.

“We could ask you the same thing.”

I glance over to the other boy to my left. Dark brown hair. Too long with blunt-cut bangs. Pale skin. Brown eyes. A sharp retort dangles on my tongue, but I curb it. Instead, I stare hard at him until he looks away and I turn my attention back to the girl. “What’s going on?”