Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Shock resonates in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come.

“I’m sure you’re aware that there’s no statute of limitations on murder,” I tell him.

“I think I’d like to call my lawyer.”

“I think you’re going to need one.” I look down at the file in front of me, letting the silence work. Then I ask, “Do you know who murdered the others?”

“No.”

“What happened to Wanetta Hochstetler?”

A ripple moves through his body. His fingers twitch on the table in front of him. But he doesn’t reply.

“Did you kill her, Blue? Was it an accident? Did you bury her body somewhere? Leave her for dead?” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “I will get to the bottom of it. You help me now, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Setting my hands on the table between us, I partially rise and lean toward him so that my face is only a foot away from his, close enough to smell the meaty odor of his skin. “I have a witness who can put you at the scene. It’s over. You’re done. Do you understand?”

He stares at me, saying nothing.

I move away, work the handcuffs from the compartment on my belt. “Stand up and turn around. Give me your wrists.”

Blue Branson rises and turns his back to me and offers his wrists. I thought I’d draw some small sense of satisfaction from this moment—solving a thirty-five-year-old open case and taking a killer into custody—but the only thing I feel in the pit of my stomach is a great deal of emptiness.

CHAPTER 23

Someone always knows something.

When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I partnered up with a veteran cop by the name of Howie Sharpe. He was old school and just six months away from retirement. I worked my first major case with Howie. A six-year-old girl, little Melissa Sussman, had gone missing, and the entire police department worked around the clock to find her. Like so many missing child cases, Melissa’s story didn’t end happily. But I learned more in the course of that case than at any time in my career. Howie always told me: “Someone always knows something.” It was one of his favorite idioms, and that case proved it true, albeit too late for the child.

I never forgot that weeklong frenzy of good old-fashioned police work. I never forgot little Melissa Sussman or the life that would never be. And I never forgot the things wise old Howie—who got his retirement, by the way—taught me.

I’m at my desk, combing through the Hochstetler file for the dozenth time when it strikes me how few Amish people were interviewed in the course of the investigation. Ron Mackey had been the chief of police back then and retired shortly after. I didn’t know him personally, but I’ve heard that in the late ’70s there was a good bit of friction between the Amish and “English” communities. Most disputes were over the use of slow-moving vehicle signs, building codes, and taxes. I can’t help but wonder if, because of the tension and that cultural divide, Mackey ruled out turning to the Amish for help.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer and heading toward Bishop Troyer’s farm. He’s been the bishop for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know if his tenure goes back to 1979. Even if it didn’t, he probably had a grasp on what was going on in the Amish community. I’m hoping he can tell me something I don’t already know.

I make the turn into the narrow gravel lane of the Troyer farm and park near the sidewalk. Most of the Amish in Holmes County have extraordinarily neat yards with shorn grass and manicured shrubs. Many go so far as to plant flowers, display potted plants, and landscape their yards. Not the Troyers. Both the front and back yards are plain. No flowerbeds or potted plants or even shrubs. Just a small garden and a birdhouse mounted on a fence post in the side yard, but even that is unadorned.

I’m midway to the house when someone calls out my name. I turn to see the bishop trudging toward me from the barn. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since last fall, when I was working the Borntrager case. Though it’s been only a few months, he looks years older. I’ve never seen him use a walking stick, and I can’t help but notice that his legs seem to be even more bowed.

“Bishop.” I start toward him, wishing him a good morning in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder mariye.”

“I’m surprised you still speak the language,” he says, a hint of reproach in his voice.

I withhold a smile. Bishop Troyer may be old, but he’s got a keen mind and a sharp tongue. He’s clad in black trousers. Black jacket. White shirt. Flat-brimmed black hat. His long beard is wiry and gray with small bits of alfalfa hay in it. I stop two feet away from him. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Bishop, but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

“I’ve not heard those names in a long time,” he says. “Such a terrible thing. So many young lives lost. It makes the heart hurt.” His gaze meets mine. “Why do you ask of them now?”

“I’m working on another case that may be related.” I pause. “Were you bishop back then?”

He shakes his head. “Eli Schweider was.”

“Is he still around?”

“Eli lives in the house next to his son’s farm out on Rockridge Road.”

“I know the one,” I tell him. “Not too far from Miller’s Pond.”

“He’s very old now, Katie. Ninety years old, I think. His fluss is bad and he’s frail.” Fluss is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for “rheumatism.”

“Danki,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.

“You watch your manners with him, Katie Burkholder,” he calls out after me.

“Don’t worry, Bishop. I’ll behave myself.”

I leave him standing on the sidewalk with his walking stick in his hand, a frown on his face.

*   *   *

Minutes later, I turn onto Rockridge Road. Half a mile in, I pass by a plain metal mailbox with the name SCHWEIDER finger-painted in black on the side. I turn into the gravel lane and bounce over potholes as I head toward the big white farmhouse. I crest the hill only to notice the smaller cottage-style home on my left, and I realize it’s probably the original farmhouse, where the elders would live now.

I drive past the larger house and park near the cottage. Though it’s midday, the sky is low and dark and spitting rain. As I pass by a mullioned window, I see the glow of lantern light inside, telling me someone is there. I step onto the porch, knock, and wait. I’m about to knock a second time in case Eli Schweider is hard of hearing, when the door creaks open.

I find myself looking at a bent, white-haired man who’s at least a foot shorter than me. Tiny eyes peer out at me from the folded-leather creases of eyes set into a face that’s brown from the sun and mottled with age spots. Wire-rimmed glasses sit on a lumpy nose, and he tilts his head back to look at me through Coke-bottle lenses.

“Who’s there?” comes a crushed-gravel voice.

“I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police of Painters Mill.”

He stares at me long enough for me to notice cloudy irises that had once been blue, and a mat of drool in a beard that reaches all the way to his belt. “You’re an Englischer.”

“Yes.”

“I have no business with you.”

He starts to close the door, but I stop him. “Please, Bishop Schweider. Bishop Troyer sent me.” The statement is out before I can amend it. I add in Pennsylvania Dutch, “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

As always, my fluency in the language garners his attention. “Burkholder is a good, strong Amish name.”

Raindrops begin to tap on the ground behind me. When he doesn’t invite me inside, I ask, “May I come in? I promise not to stay too long.”

He shuffles back and I step into a small room with low ceilings and exposed beams. The odors of woodsmoke and toasted bread fill the air. But the room contains the slightly unpleasant smells of mildew, cedar, and old things, too. From where I’m standing, I can see into a small kitchen with stone walls and a two-burner stove. Atop a table, a mug of something hot sits next to a paper plate with a single piece of toast.

“I’ve interrupted your lunch,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if it’s because he didn’t hear me or he chose not to. Turning his back to me, he shuffles toward the kitchen, sliding his feet across the wood planks a few inches at a time.

“You speak Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch and yet you’re an Englischer,” he says. “There’s something wrong with that.”

“I left the Amish when I was young.”

He tries to look at me over his shoulder, but his neck is too stiff. He continues shuffling toward the table. “Who is your father?”

“Jacob Burkholder.”

He turns and looks at me. “You must be Little Katie.”

I smile. “Not so little anymore.”

“What is it you need?”

“I’m working on a case. From a long time ago. It’s about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

A quiver goes through the old man’s body, as if he’d been hit with a brisk wind and the cold took his breath away. “They are with God,” he says. “The children, too.”

“Except for William.”

“God spared Billy.” He starts toward the table, shuffling. The soles of his shoes scrape across the floor, sounding vaguely like a saw through wood. “Are you going to catch the men responsible, Katie Burkholder?”

“I’ve taken one man into custody. The others were murdered.”

“God will make the final judgment.”

His progress is slow and uncomfortable to watch. I have to resist the urge to help him into the chair. I wait until he’s settled in before continuing. “Did the police talk to you about what happened that night?”

“The English police.” He says the words with disdain. “They don’t care about the Amisch. Not then. Not now.”

“I care.”

He meets my gaze, but he is unmoved. “What is it you need from me?”

“Is there anything you can tell me about the night Willis Hochstetler was killed?” I ask. “Do you know of anything unusual that happened in the days before or after? Or did you hear any rumors?”

“What happened in the house that night was gottlos.” Ungodly. He sets down the toast as if realizing it’s covered with maggots. “When we found the boy, he was … shattered. It was a painful time for all of us.”

“Did you know Wanetta and Willis?”

“I baptized them when they joined the church. I spoke to them many times. Saw them at worship.” He nods. “Willis es en faehicher schreiner.” Willis was an able carpenter. “Wanetta—” He shakes his head.

“What about her?”

“I talked to William after … what happened. He was a boy. Only fourteen years old and innocent. But even then, he knew things.”

“Like what?”

He raises his gaze to me. “Those men … they took Wanetta. They used her. Soiled her. Forced her to break her vows to her husband. Her sacred vow to the church.”

The words, the meaning behind them, light a fire of outrage inside me, a mix of anger and disbelief and the sense of unfair judgment levied upon the innocent. “She had no choice in the matter.”

He raises rheumy eyes to mine. “Some things are so broken, they cannot be mended. It is the way of the world.”

“I don’t agree with that.”

He gives me a sharp look. “I thought it best that she didn’t return.”

I stare at him, incredulous, and so taken aback by his narrow-minded arrogance that for a moment I’m rendered speechless. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not for you to understand. It’s done. In God’s hands.”

Before I realize I’m going to move, I’m hovering over him. “Do you know something about what happened to her?” Despite my efforts, my voice has risen.

His eyes roll back in their sockets slightly when he looks at me. “A few years after Willis and the children were killed, I received a message from the bishop of the Swartzentruber Amish in Pennsylvania.”

The Swartzentruber clan are the most conservative Amish. The group emerged after a split of the Old Order back in 1917 over a conflict between two bishops regarding Bann und Meidung, or “excommunication and shunning.” Several Swartzentruber families live in Painters Mill. Generally, they’re stricter with regard to the use of technology, rejecting conveniences like milking machines and indoor plumbing. Their buggies are windowless. Even their dress is plainer, especially for the women.

“What message?” I ask.

“One of the families in Cambria County had taken in an Amish woman who’d been in an accident and had severe injuries. The woman had no memory. She didn’t know her name or where she lived. The family nursed her back to health, fed her, clothed her, and opened their home to her.” He looks down at his gnarled fingers. “Months after she arrived, the woman began to remember things. She was fluent in Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch. She knew she had a husband and children and wanted to come home. The Swartzentruber family began contacting Amish bishops all over Pennsylvania and, later, Ohio.”

“The woman was Wanetta Hochstetler?”

“All I can tell you is that she was not the woman who had been married to Willis Hochstetler.”

I can’t tell if he’s speaking figuratively or literally. “What happened?”

“The Swartzentruber Amish do not permit a community telephone booth, as we do here. It took several weeks, but she was finally able to contact me.”

“You spoke with her?”

“On the telephone.” He hesitates. “She didn’t know that Willis and the children had passed. When I told her, she became very distraught. She accused me of lying and used ungodly words.” He touches his left temple. “Sie is ganz ab.” She was quite out of her mind.

“Did you go to the police?”

“Why would I? We are Amish. It was an Amish matter.”

“But they would have—”

“There were bad feelings between the Amish and the English police.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how it would have been for her, coming back, after everything that happened. There had been talk.”

“What kind of talk?”

“That she’d left her husband and children. That maybe she didn’t want to come back.”

“But she had a son,” I say. “William.”

“The boy was with an Amish family. A good family that had welcomed him into their lives and given him a home. This woman was … narrish.” Insane. “It was for the best. For the boy. He needed to be protected from what she had become.”

“That wasn’t your choice. It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I left it in the hands of God.”

I look at him, this grizzled, disapproving old man, and I want to rail at him, call him a son of a bitch. I want to tell him the woman could have sustained a head injury or suffered a stroke. But I hold my tongue. “How long ago did you speak with her?”

“Many years,” he says.

“She was living in Pennsylvania at the time?”

“Yes, but many of the Swartzentruber Amish have left that area for New York. Too many disputes with the government.”

“What was the name of the family that took her in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember the bishop’s name?”

He shakes his head.

I sigh. “Where in Pennsylvania? What’s the name of the town?”

“Cambria County,” he tells me. “Near Nicktown.”

CHAPTER 24

My head is reeling with the bishop’s disturbing revelations as I get into the Explorer and start down the lane. It’s difficult for me to believe an Amish bishop could be so cruel. Is it possible Wanetta Hochstetler is still alive? Did she, as a damaged and broken woman, try to return home to her family, only to be shattered by news that they were dead? Or that she wasn’t welcome?

But there are other, darker questions pulsing at the back of my brain. Did Wanetta Hochstetler find her way back to Painters Mill? Did she have something to do with the murders of Dale Michaels, Jules Rutledge and Jerrold McCullough? The people who murdered her husband, caused the deaths of her children and destroyed her life? It doesn’t seem likely. She was thirty-four years old when she was kidnapped; that would put her at around seventy now. The more recent murders required a good bit of strength—too much for a woman that age. Too much for a woman of any age.

But I know better than to discount a female perpetrator based on strength alone. If she’s determined and armed—or insane as the bishop asserted—anything’s possible.

I pull over in the parking lot of a carryout on the west side of town and call Glock. He picks up on the first ring with his usual, “Hey, Chief.”

I summarize my conversation with Bishop Schweider.

“You think she’s got something to do with these murders?” he asks.

“I don’t know. She certainly qualifies in terms of motive, but she’d be old now. I can’t see her pulling off three murders.”

“She might’ve had help.” He pauses. “Hoch Yoder.”

I tell him about my conversation with Hoch. “Pay him a visit. Tell him you’re following up. See if you can get anything new out of him. Put some pressure on him. Rattle him a little. At this point, I think it’s best we don’t let on that she might still be alive.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nicktown, Pennsylvania. It’s about four hours away. The Swartzentruber Amish don’t use community pay phones, so I’m going to drive over there and see what I can find out.”

“Chief, are you sure you don’t want to take someone with you? Any of us are happy to tag along.”

I don’t believe “tag along” is the exact term he had in mind, but he’s being magnanimous. With three people dead, he’s worried that I won’t have backup if I need it. There’s a small part of me that agrees with him, but with my department strapped tight and the threat of flooding in the forefront of our minds, I don’t take him up on the offer. “The Swartzentruber Amish generally don’t like dealing with outsiders, especially the government. Best if I go alone.”

“Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

“You know it.”

*   *   *

The rolling hills, farm fields, and woodlands between Painters Mill and Nicktown make for beautiful scenery, even if the weather doesn’t cooperate. But I barely notice the countryside as I head east and push the speedometer over the limit. I can’t stop thinking about Wanetta Hochstetler and what it could mean if she’s alive. I have no idea if she’s perpetrator or victim or somewhere in between, but if I can find her, she might be able to shed some light on exactly what went down that night thirty-five years ago—or the more recent murders.

But it’s been over thirty years since Bishop Schweider spoke to her; there’s a possibility I won’t find her. She may have died of natural causes or left Cambria County for Upstate New York with the other Swartzentruber Amish. If I was dealing with any other group of people, it might have been wiser for me to call ahead, try to get someone on the phone or, perhaps, speak to the local PD. But I know the Swartzentruber Amish would not speak to me by phone. While this trip and the hours I’ll sink into it may be a long shot, I have to try.

I hit construction east of Pittsburgh and a thunderstorm as I enter Cambria County. By the time I pull into the town limits of Nicktown, it’s after 4 P.M. and I’m in dire need of coffee. The town is a postcard-pretty village with large homes and a main street lined with spruce and maples that will be budding in a few weeks. Since I have no clue where to begin my search, I pull in to the gravel lot of the first restaurant I come to, Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen.

The dinner hour hasn’t yet begun, so the place isn’t crowded. An older couple sits at a table near the window. A man in a DeKalb cap broods over a mug of coffee in the corner booth. Leaving my umbrella at the coatrack near the door, I walk to the counter and take a stool. A middle-aged woman in a pink golf shirt, black pants, and a black apron approaches me from behind the counter.

“What can I get for you?” she begins, giving me only half her attention.

“Coffee, please.”

“You’re in luck. Just made a pot.”

There’s a pass-through window that opens to the kitchen behind her. Beyond, a cook clad in white scrapes the grill to Zac Brown Band’s “Free.”

“You want cream with that?” The waitress sets a ceramic mug in front of me.

“Sure.”

She pulls two containers of half-and-half from her pocket and drops them on the counter.

I smile at her. “Any chance I could get a piece of that cherry pie to go with the coffee?”

“You bet.”

Two minutes later, I’m midway through the pie and on my second cup of coffee. The waitress, whose badge tells me her name is Daisy, is several feet away, wiping down the pastry display case.

“How long have you lived here in Nicktown?” I ask.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “All my life.”

“You like it?”

“It gets kind of boring, but it’s a good place to raise a family.” She saunters to the counter where I’m sitting and, taking advantage of my company, begins refilling the containers of artificial sweeteners.

“Kids?” I ask.

“Four. Oldest is in high school now. Hard to believe. Seems like yesterday when he was running around here, filling the salt and pepper shakers for me.”

“They grow up fast.” I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill, Ohio.”

“Oh. A cop. Hi.” Grinning, she wipes her hand and we shake. “My husband and I were over that way couple of years ago. He photographs covered bridges. A lot of Amish there.”

“Are there many Amish in this area?”

“Used to be. Swartzentrubers, mostly. But they started moving out a couple of years ago. Didn’t like all the government rules and regulations and were always getting into trouble. You know, with zoning and such because they don’t use indoor plumbing and people were complaining about the sewage. Stuff like that.”

“I hear a lot of them are moving to Upstate New York.”

She nods. “Kind of hate to see them go, to tell you the truth. Nice Amish girl used to bring us pies, but she left with her family six months ago. And of course, the tourists always meant business for us here at the restaurant.”

“Are there any Amish left?”

“Two families that I know of.” She shrugs. “They keep to themselves, so I’m not really sure.”

I sip my coffee. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who went missing thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill. I believe she was injured and somehow ended up with a Swartzentruber family near here.”

“Oh gosh, thirty-five years is a long time. I was ten years old.”

“Do you remember hearing anything like that? Rumors, maybe?”

“Sorry, but I sure don’t.”

“Is there an Amish bishop or elder still around I could talk to?”

She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t know about a bishop or elder, but there’s an Amish family lives down the road from my husband and me.”

“Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Sure.” She tears a sheet from her order pad and turns it over, sets it on the counter between us. “It’s not too far.” She grins. “Kind of hard to get lost in Nicktown.”

I watch her draw a crude map. “It’s only about five miles from here. Take Castine Road and then make a right at the flashing caution light.” She looks through the window toward the parking lot. “What are you driving?”

“Explorer.”

“Four-wheel drive?”

I nod.

“Good, ’cause you’re going to need it. The Swartzentrubers don’t use gravel. Their lane is dirt, and with all this rain, you’re going to sink in something awful.” She slides the map toward me. “There you go.”

“Thanks for the map.” I look at my empty plate. “And the pie.”

She smiles. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Kate Burkholder.”

*   *   *

I’m feeling a little more optimistic when I leave Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen and head north on the main drag. It’s four thirty now; I’ve devoted half the day working a hunch that has a high probability of turning into a wild goose chase. But the coffee and sugar helped, and my cop’s gut urges me to keep going.

Daisy’s directions are perfect right down to the distances. I make the turn on Castine Road and then hit the flashing caution light just a few miles down and make a right onto a dirt road. She was right about the mud, too. I encounter deep ruts and standing water, and twenty feet in, the Explorer bogs. I throw it into four-wheel drive and muscle through. Half a mile down, I come to a dirt lane. There’s no name on the mailbox, but the plainness of the house and outbuildings beyond tells me it’s an Amish home, so I turn in.

The house is white with a tin roof that’s striped with rust. It looks as if the place originally had a wraparound front porch, but over the years—probably due to a growing family or the addition of elderly parents—the porch was transformed into an extra room. The barn is also white, but in need of paint. A rail fence surrounds a muddy paddock, where several Jersey cows chew their cud, watching me.

Growing up Amish, I never thought twice about living on a farm. I’ve always been an animal lover, and having livestock was one of the things I enjoyed most. The only thing about rural life I hated was the spring mud, which was always made worse by manure. I park behind a windowless black buggy with steel-clad wooden wheels, telling me this is, indeed, a Swartzentruber farm.

Resigning myself to muddy shoes and wet feet, I get out and tromp through several inches of mud toward the side door. Despite my best effort to keep my shoes clean, I leave clods of mud on the concrete steps as I ascend to the porch. I knock on the door and wait.

Around me, the air is heavy and wet with the smells of manure and wet foliage. I’m looking down at my muddy boots, thinking about going into the yard to wipe them on the grass when the door swings open. I find myself looking at a middle-aged Amish woman wearing an ankle-length gray dress and a dark winter bonnet.

“Guder middag,” I begin, wishing her a good afternoon.

She mumbles the same, but her eyes widen as she takes in my non-Amish clothes.

“I’m Kate Burkholder from Painters Mill, Ohio,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch. “I’m looking for a missing Amish woman, and I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Voahra.” Wait. The woman turns and walks away.

I stand on the porch, relieved that she didn’t close the door. The smells of kerosene and woodsmoke waft out. No matter how many years pass, those are the smells that take me back to my youth of endless days spent on a farm much like this one. Through the dimly lit living room, I see an old woman sitting at the kitchen table, sewing or mending some piece of clothing. She leans back just enough to make eye contact with me and then goes back to her work without acknowledging me further.

I’m a full minute into my wait and thinking about knocking again when a man approaches. He’s dressed in black except for a white shirt. In keeping with the Swartzentruber ways, his long beard is untrimmed. His face is deeply lined and grim, but I guess him to be in his mid-forties.

“May I help you?” he asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

I introduce myself. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who disappeared about thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill,” I begin. “It’s possible she was injured and may have suffered some memory problems.”

He eyes me with open curiosity, and I know he’s wondering about my use of Pennsylvania Dutch. But I know the Amish too well to take for granted that it will garner his cooperation. I’m as much an outsider as any camera-toting Englischer. Still, it can’t hurt, and I’m certainly not above using whatever means I can to get him to talk to me.

“I’ve traveled a long way,” I tell him. “Please. The woman has a son back in Painters Mill.”

“I’m Eli Zook.” He doesn’t offer his hand. “I have an uncle in Painters Mill.”

“What’s his name?”

“William.”

“I know William and his wife, Alma.” When he doesn’t open the door, I try to keep the conversation going. “I understand many of the Swartzentruber Amish are leaving Cambria County.”

“That is true. We live simply. The government people don’t care if we make it to heaven or not.” He sighs. “God provided for us in New York, and I intend to follow my conscience. We will go soon.”

“You’ve lived here your entire life?”

He nods.

“Do you know anything about this Amish woman who would have arrived in the area about thirty-five years ago? Her name is Wanetta Hochstetler, but I don’t know if she used that name.”

My heart sinks when he shakes his head. “I was just a boy back then. I don’t recall.”

He starts to close the door, but I set my hand against it. “Mr. Zook, are there any other Amish families in the area I could talk to? The woman I’m looking for may have been taken in by one of the families. It’s important that I find her.”

“Grossmuder!” He calls out over his shoulder, then tosses me a look. “She’s nearly deaf, so you will have to speak up.”

I look past him to see the old woman look our way. “You’re lucky to have your grandmother,” I tell him.

“She is my wife’s grossmuder, but we are happy to have her.” He calls out to the woman again. “Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,” he tells her. We have non-Amish visitors.

With excruciating slowness, the woman sets her mending on the tabletop and scoots away from the table. “Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.

Her voice is like sandpaper against stone, coarse and wet and abrasive, but it makes me smile. I like old people with attitude.

One side of Zook’s mouth hikes, and he lowers his voice. “Sie hot die hose aa.” She wears the pants in the family.

The old woman shuffles across the wood plank floor. When her eyes meet mine, I see instantly that despite her advanced years, they are clear, as is her mind. “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk.

Zook nods. “The Englischer doctor calls it selective hearing loss.”

Waving off his words, the woman reaches us and gives me a slow once-over. “What’s this about a missing Amisch?”

Leaving out the details of the crime, I explain to her what might have happened to Wanetta Hochstetler. “She may have been injured or had some memory problems. Do you remember anything like that happening about thirty-five years ago?”

“I remember plenty.” Nodding, she looks from her grandson to me, and in that instant she doesn’t look quite so cocky. “There were lots of stories. About her. Terrible stories.”

“What kinds of stories?”

“Joe Weaver and his family found her. He owned some land near Ebensburg. Didn’t live there, but kept hay on it. He was out there with his family one day and heard something in the well. Kids thought it was a cat some fool had thrown down there. But it wasn’t. It was an Amish woman, and she was in a bad way.”

“Injured?”

“Ja. Bad, too. Joe took her to the midwife.”