Shunning Sarah (14 page)

It was Ike—the Everything Amish owner.

He didn’t give me away to anyone else. So I left without a tussle.

I
ke led me to a two-seater buggy hitched to a pleasant brown horse and told me to climb in. I kept tripping inefficiently over my long skirt, so he hoisted me up.

“You’re lucky to be getting out now,” he said. “What were you going to do when everybody headed to the cemetery? How about when they gathered for the meal?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I admitted.

“You were attracting curiosity already. This could have ended badly if they found out you worked for TV. Now they’ll simply think you were with me and dismiss us both as odd.”

“I thought you weren’t Amish anymore, Ike. Why are you here?”

“I can still attend funerals, providing I respect their dress and customs. And that’s never been a problem.”

While he didn’t call himself Amish anymore, he was related to many in the congregation, including Sarah. Apparently half of the Amish population shared six surnames—Miller, Stoltzfus, Schrock, Hershberger, Hochstetler, and Yoder.

“Particularly, since I briefly employed the deceased,” he continued, “my presence was not questioned. Yours, however, would have caused trouble.”

I could certainly understand, but attending Sarah’s funeral raised more questions for me than it answered. “If Sarah left the faith, how come she had an Amish funeral?”

“I guess the church decided to value forgiveness rather than punishment,” Ike said. “After all, once she was identified, there was no one else to claim her body.”

“I’m still trying to understand this shunned business. Are you also being shunned?”

“Technically, yes. That’s why I didn’t mind leaving the funeral early.”

I thought about how hard finding balance between two worlds might be, and wasn’t sure what to say next. That was okay, because Ike kept talking. Maybe his denial of faith was always on his mind and he didn’t have anyone else to listen.

He’d left the Amish life after
Rumspringa
to embrace modern society. “I decided I enjoyed the benefits of electricity and automobiles too much to go back to kerosene lamps and buggy harnesses on a regular basis. Now I’m a techno nut. I even watched you on the news the other night.”

The thought of him clicking a TV remote and stopping at my face kept me quiet even longer. But as I became accustomed to the gait of the horse, I began to enjoy the ride.

“Can I drive, Ike?”

“No,” he replied, as we headed back to town. “The buggy is not a toy.”

“Why do you even have a buggy?”

“Sometimes I have need of primitive wheels.”

During nice weather, he liked to park the buggy in front of the store as part of the rustic decor. The rest of the time he kept it in a large shed with a collection of other vehicles. When he needed a horse, he borrowed a neighbor’s. That’s when I learned he owned the sports car I was admiring the other day outside the store.

To pass the time, I asked him how sales were going at Everything Amish. He talked about making his monthly trip to Ohio soon to pick up fresh merchandise. He even had some special orders that would be ready.

“Seems like a long drive,” I remarked. “Can’t you just carry stock from Amish around here?”

Drily, he explained that he used a truck, not a buggy, for those over-the-road trips. And while he stocked some Minnesota Amish products, there simply wasn’t enough available. Also, because he’d left the faith, many local Amish declined to trade with him. Not wanting to touch money he’d touched. And others simply preferred to sell directly to the public.

“They’re businessmen as well, and see the benefit in eliminating the middleman. Me? I make shopping easy for the tourists. Everything Amish under one roof.”

His store name was catchy. “Is there any resentment that you’re taking money from area Amish?” I asked.

“Well, I’m local, too. And if there’s bad feelings, it’s not just them toward me.”

Evidently, many English around town had mixed sentiments about the Amish contributions to the economy. As one example, he said, English stores selling food have to comply with health codes. The Amish don’t.

“More than once I’ve heard the owner of the town bakery complain about all the government regulations she has to follow before she can open her shop, but the Amish can cook and can next to where horses crap.”

“I guess you could call that rustic atmosphere.” I laughed, enjoying both the vision and Ike’s candid demeanor. “Yet when tourists come to see the Amish, they spend cash here in town.”

“Absolutely, Riley, but it’s still an uneasy alliance.”

“Sounds like marriage.”

This time he chuckled and I found myself pleased at making him laugh. I was just appreciating what a fun connection we’d developed on our ride when he spoiled the mood by turning our talk to more serious matters.

“I suppose your career doesn’t leave time for a personal life or family?” he asked.

I felt like I’d been put on the spot too much lately for not rushing home to kids or a spouse. I had been first to mention the M word, so perhaps the fault was mine. But I’d only said it in jest.

“Actually, I’m a widow.” I told him that my husband, Hugh Boyer, was killed a few years ago in an explosion in northern Minnesota. I avoided the law enforcement line-of-duty details and Ike didn’t pry. It wasn’t that I wasn’t proud of Hugh. But it was still too grievous to relive his hero’s death as the bodyguard for a governor who didn’t deserve to be saved from a terrorist blast.

“He was kind of a car freak like you,” I said. “Loved to rent and drive all sorts of vehicles—especially muscle cars. I would have liked to see him behind the wheel of a buggy.”

Hugh was a city boy. The thought of him and a steed made me chuckle.

“They are two very different types of horsepower,” Ike said. This time we both laughed.

“How about you? I don’t see a ring on your finger. Or is lack of jewelry one of those Amish customs you’ve kept close?”

“I don’t like being alone, but I haven’t found a good fit. The English I’ve met weren’t Amish enough and the Amish weren’t English enough.”

“Sounds like a hard match.”

After leaving the church years ago, he had simply showed up at the local hardware store and been hired. He’d saved his paychecks for modern purchases, like computer and television, which reaffirmed his life course. So rather than concentrate on the empty house awaiting him at the end of his work shift, he kept his mind focused on his techno toys.

Then one day he envisioned Everything Amish.

“I realized when it came to Amish goods,” he said, “demand was greater than supply. And I had a certain expertise. Now, I’m running a booming business and thinking of expanding nationally.”

“So you probably don’t have time for a personal life, either.”

“I’d consider making time if I met the right person.” Then he turned the topic back on me and invited me out to dinner.

“You mean like a date?”

I hadn’t gone on a date in a long time. Garnett and I had evolved well past the dating stage. And since Hugh’s death, I had developed a policy against dating anyone I couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime with because that seemed a good way to weed out time wasters.

Lots of reasons came to mind for not dating Ike. Distance. Education. Religion. But maybe I was being too fussy. Maybe I needed to let myself date for the moment, not the future.

I realized I liked Ike. So I said yes.

“But I can’t guarantee when or where. My job is a little unpredictable. You’ll have to call me and drive to Minneapolis.”

He replied that transportation and communication would not be a problem. Unlike traditional Amish, he had a telephone and plenty of cars.

T
he Lamplight owner was glad to see I’d found my way back from the funeral and helped me climb out of Ike’s buggy. “I was starting to worry when I didn’t hear from you about a ride back.”

I understood Linda’s concern and apologized for not calling. After all, the last woman who came to her place had ended up dead.

She took a picture of me in my Amish garb on my cell phone for a souvenir. Then I changed back to my English clothes and thanked her for all her help. We agreed to stay in touch in case either of us heard anything break about Sarah Yoder.

I almost missed the Amish cemetery on my way back to my parents’ farm. Because I had no notebook with me, Ike had drawn a map on the palm of my hand. Since the graveside service would be over, this seemed like a good time to see Sarah’s final resting place.

When covering homicides, viewing the victim’s grave was a routine of mine. I’d give a silent prayer for God to help me report the truth, and for the family to find peace despite their pain.

In this case, the cemetery looked even smaller because it sat in the middle of a large pasture. In the distance, an Amish barn bordered one side, a grove of trees the other. Backing up the car,
I parked on the side of the road and climbed down into the ditch for a close-up.

The grave markers were small and white. Plain. Many of the older ones were overgrown.

None of the tombstones indicated status or wealth. No fancy angels or crosses, only a listing of name and date of birth and death. Nothing to reflect personality.

Sarah’s headstone was easy to find by following the trampled path to the fresh dirt of her hand-dug grave. SARAH YODER. I knew nothing of the years of her life, only the day of her death. And that’s unsatisfying to any reporter.

I found an extra copy of her forensic sketch, still in a side pocket of my purse. Even though I knew the Amish disapproved of graven images, I spread Sarah’s face flat over her burial plot and placed a small rock in each corner because I wanted to do something personal for her. If the rest of the cemetery was any indication, I didn’t think she’d get many visitors.

A
s my parents grew older, their fascination with funerals also seemed to grow. The newspaper obituaries were the first items they’d read each day. To me, their captivation with death seemed unhealthy. But they felt strongly that those of their generation still alive owed it to those now departed to note their passing.

My parents, having never been to an Amish funeral, had more questions than I had answers. All our conversation netted was a dialogue of clichés.

“Why didn’t you bring us along?” my mom asked. “You never take us anywhere.”

“I didn’t know I was even going,” I said. “And besides, you wouldn’t have had a thing to wear.”

I showed them the picture of me dressed plain and my mom wanted a copy. “We might use it for Christmas cards.” I lied and told her it was only viewable on phones.

The three of us spent the evening dining on steak from one of the neighbor’s steers, and brainstorming directions the Amish murder might go.

“My boss is still not crazy about the case,” I said. “So keep your ears open if there’s something that makes for irresistible news.”

I had little hope that would happen. But my folks liked to
stay involved in my life, and were pleased whenever their rural grapevine of eclectic sources yielded a story harvest for Channel 3. I’d tell them when the story would run and they’d watch the news on satellite TV, pointing proudly to the screen in ownership.

•   •   •

That night at the farm, silhouettes of distant wind turbines danced outside my bedroom window. I tried counting the red flashing lights to put myself to sleep.

While lying there, I thought about what Ike had said about a possible date and realized that the prospect of being desired by a stranger sounded enticing.

Reporters aren’t supposed to date sources. That’s one of those ethical rules we embrace along with not doing puff pieces on advertisers. But Ike had been a source for only about thirty seconds. He really wasn’t involved in the case anymore, although I could see using him as an Amish consultant. I wondered if he really would call me, but decided to stop worrying about whether we had rapport.

That’s when I realized I hadn’t called Garnett. And he’d left two messages. My cell phone reception was lousy in bed, so I moved to an opposite upstairs corner and crouched in the hallway until the signal improved.

“I’m at the farm,” I told him when he answered.

“I’d rather you were here,” he replied.

I told him the latest about Sarah Yoder’s murder, and that I’d even attended her funeral incognito. I didn’t mention Ike. He’d started to feel like one of the characters in my Amish romance, struggling for goodwill amid a secret society.

“You dressed up Amish?” Garnett said. “I’d like to see that up close. If I fly out there this week, will you play dress-up with me?”

I told him this week looked busy, and texted him the photo
instead. “To work this case, I’m trying to think Amish, Nick, and not so much about sex.”

“Why do you think the Amish aren’t into sex? Each family has a pack of kids. They have sex all the time.”

“Well, for them it’s probably more an obligation than an urge.”

“Don’t go assuming, Riley. You know what you always say about that.”

He had me there. But he wanted more.

“If we can’t have hot sex,” he said, “at least let me leave you with hot dialogue.”

“That’s what phones and friends are for,” I replied. “Start talking, Nick.”

“I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.” He said the words convincingly—just like the star who made them notorious.

“Kevin Costner.
Bull Durham
. 1988.”

And then, to heighten the drama of distance, I hung up.

•   •   •

I woke early the next morning to drive from the farm back to the Twin Cities before work. “Do you hear anything about the Fillmore County sheriff’s race?” I asked my parents. “I see a woman is running against Ed Eide.”

“I think there’s some flap about the sheriff handing out gun permits,” Dad said. “I hear he gave one to the town drunk.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Probably for money,” Mom said.