by Emma Miller
“So, it was Alma’s second husband who owned the farm?” Rachel asked.
“I should say so,” Dora confirmed. “Alma and her first husband didn’t own anything but one skinny horse and the clothes on their backs.” She took up another square and eyed the pattern before beginning to stitch it onto the backing. “It was a love match, so everybody said. And they were both hard workers. If he’d lived, they would have made a living, that’s for certain.” She passed the needle to Rachel. “Thread that for me, will you? My glasses need changing for some stronger.”
Rachel took the needle and Dora went on. “She married some kin of her dead husband a year after they buried him. The first husband, not the second. He died, what, two years ago?”
“Something like that,” Rachel’s mother supplied.
“So, the farm should go to Lemuel, or maybe split between Mary Rose and Lemuel,” Dora went on. “But if it hadn’t been for Daniel, they all might have starved to death before Lemuel got old enough to leave school and do a man’s work.”
“I don’t know Moses that well,” Rachel admitted, handing the threaded needle back to Dora.
“He’s strange, that one,” Miriam said. “Doesn’t talk much and doesn’t take well to authority, my Paul says. But he’s not the kind you’d expect to do anything like that. Unless, maybe, it was a hunting accident.”
“I suppose a lot of people were hunting that day,” Rachel said innocently. “It being the first day of the season.”
“Moses for certain,” Aunt Hannah said. “And the man he works for. And our Uncle Aaron and our John Hannah. They came home to tell us Daniel was gone.”
Rachel’s mother nodded to her. “Your brother Benjamin took Danny with him hunting that morning, but I don’t expect they were anywhere near the Studer farm.”
Miriam looked up from her sewing. Her stitches were so small and even that Rachel would have thought it had been done on a sewing machine. “Paul went, too. He was gone all day. I don’t know who went with him or where they went. Didn’t get back until after dark.”
Sadie chuckled. “Probably half the men in this valley went hunting that day.”
And I probably need to talk to them all, Rachel thought as she rose to excuse herself. But first she needed to go and see Moses at the county prison, because Alma’s insistence that her son was innocent might be wishful thinking. Maybe there’s no need for me to play detective, no need to ask questions of anyone. Maybe, in spite of what his mother believes, he really did do it.
Chapter 5
“Make this brief,” Evan said. He was at the wheel of his SUV, driving her over the mountain to Bellefonte, where Moses was being held at the Centre County prison. “You’ll get to talk to him in one of the rooms used by lawyers and clients,” he continued in a brisk, officer-of-the-law tone. “Obviously, you’re not an attorney or a cop, so I had to call in some favors to get you inside.”
“I know that, and I appreciate it,” Rachel said, looking at him. She didn’t care that he was being curt with her this morning. His tough exterior didn’t work with her. She could always count on him to be supportive. He might grumble and try to argue her out of one of her plans, but in the end, he came through for her. He was a fantastic guy, and it was always a marvel to her that they’d found each other and that he truly loved her, in spite of all the baggage she dragged behind her.
Evan grunted noncommittally. He was wearing his uniform, although it was Monday and his day off. He’d already told her that he’d need to be present when she spoke with Moses, since, technically, she had no business there.
“I understand that, with Moses’s confession, there isn’t much that can be done,” she said, “but I promised his mother that I’d speak with him.”
“You need to convince him that he has to have legal counsel,” Evan replied, keeping his eyes on the road. “Even a guilty man needs legal assistance in our justice system. If his family can’t afford an attorney, the court will appoint one for him.”
“Right. You said.” She grimaced. “Public defender. Not the best option for someone who says he killed a man. And not the best for an Amish man. A court-appointed lawyer might have no experience with the Amish. And then with the way he is—”
“The way he is?” Evan asked.
“You know . . . odd. I told you, I’m no expert, but my guess is that he has Asperger’s syndrome. He doesn’t respond to things the way we expect a person to respond.”
“Hence the ax.”
Rachel almost laughed at Evan’s dry joke, but the matter was too serious for laughter. It was easy for a man like Moses to be mistreated in the justice system; there weren’t enough people trained to deal with men and women who were different from the average Joe. And without an official diagnosis, any request for special treatment would be denied.
“Anyway,” Evan went on, “any public defender is better than having no attorney.”
She pressed her lips together and puffed out her cheeks, but stopped short of blowing a raspberry. He was right, but the idea of some just-out-of-law-school do-gooder or overworked, stressed-out lawyer just going through the motions worried her. Even if Moses was guilty, he deserved to be treated fairly.
She glanced over at Evan. He’d shaved this morning, and she caught the faint whiff of aftershave lotion. His campaign-style trooper hat rested on the backseat, and she noticed that he must have stopped for a haircut on the way to pick her up because the line along the nape of his neck was militarily precise.
Chet’s Barber Shop opened at six thirty sharp six days a week, and if a regular was ill or elderly and unable to get out of the house, Chet would stop by in the evening or on Sunday to give a trim. He’d been cutting hair in Stone Mill since Rachel was a little girl, and unlike some no-frills, unisex haircut places, Chet knew how to give a man’s haircut.
Evan slowed the SUV behind a mammoth motor home lumbering ahead of them. The road surface was pocked and uneven due to potholes caused by falling rocks, and the guardrails on the outer side of the highway didn’t inspire confidence. The slow-moving RV had a Florida license plate, and it was obvious to Rachel that whoever was driving didn’t have much experience on narrow mountain roads. At least they were behind the RV and not descending the far side of this mountain with the big vehicle breathing down their necks.
“I really do appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, looking at him again. “I know this sort of thing is outside your comfort zone.”
“I’m not happy about it,” Evan repeated for at least the third time since they’d left her house. “You shouldn’t be involved in this at all. Sharpe told me that you were lucky that he didn’t bring charges against you for interfering at the Studer farm. He complained that you were speaking to them in Deitsch and wouldn’t tell him everything being said.”
“Thus the get your woman under control.”
He didn’t even crack a smile.
She sighed. “But you understand how it is with my people. If I’d spoken English to them, they might not have listened to me. Detective Sharpe may not realize it, but I prevented more trouble than I caused.” She thought about fourteen-year-old Lemuel and his threat to get his shotgun and she winced. That wouldn’t have gone well, but it wasn’t something she wanted Evan to worry about, either. Some things were better not brought up.
As if he guessed that there was more to the story than Sharpe had realized, Evan raised a hand in protest. “I don’t want to know about it. I can’t be involved in this. You can’t be involved. Have you forgotten that we’re trying to plan our wedding?”
“Ne, I haven’t forgotten. Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she said with enthusiasm.
Truthfully, the wedding was fast becoming a headache. Not marrying Evan. She wanted to marry him, but the wedding itself was stressing her. There was so much to do. Food. First there had been a caterer; now her mother was preparing the meal. Flowers. She hadn’t known what to choose and the arrangements had seemed expensive. A wedding dress. Appointments to be made an
d missed. An Amish wedding would have been so much simpler. She would have chosen an ordinary dress, and they would have had the entire community helping prepare and serve the food. But that wasn’t possible, since neither of them was Amish.
“I need you to help me decide what we’re doing on our honeymoon,” Evan said. “We have to make reservations for the good stuff.”
She smiled at him. “Turks and Caicos. Seven days.” She’d never been to the Caribbean before, and it sounded wonderful. Warm. Palm trees and sand. Blue ocean. It had been Evan’s choice, and she couldn’t have chosen better. He’d researched the various islands and given her three destinations to pick from. But she’d guessed from his enthusiasm that he really wanted her to choose Turks and Caicos. “Whatever you decide will be fine with me,” she assured him. “I trust your judgment.”
They’d reached the crest of the mountain and had begun the steep descent on the far side. The brakes on the motor home ahead of them were grinding. Traffic was backing up behind Evan and Rachel because this was a no-passing area for the next several miles.
“How about scuba-diving lessons?” Evan suggested. “It’s something neither of us have done before. I’ve read that you really can’t appreciate the beauty of the island without seeing the fish and . . .”
Rachel knew she should be paying attention to Evan, but she kept thinking of the expression on Moses’s face when he’d said that he’d shot Daniel. He’d sounded desperate, but, to her, he hadn’t sounded guilty . . . at least not guilty of murder. A hunting accident was probably the most logical answer, but if so, why not explain it that way? And it bugged her that she didn’t know why the authorities were so certain that Daniel hadn’t killed himself. Suicide wasn’t unknown among the Plain people, although it was abhorrent to their beliefs. Of course, Daniel could have been depressed or mentally ill. Why did the investigation point to—
Abruptly, Evan’s tone jerked her out of her thoughts.
“Rachel? Are you listening to me?”
“I’m sorry.” She struggled to remember what he’d been saying. “You wanted to know if I think we should take scuba lessons?” She glanced around, realized that they’d moved onto a larger road, and that the annoying RV was nowhere to be seen.
“We moved on from that. I was telling you about this evening cruise I’ve made reservations for. A sailing ship. Dinner on the boat. It’s supposed to be very romantic, couples only. I think we get free champagne because we’ll be newlyweds.”
She wasn’t much for champagne or any sort of alcoholic beverage; the Amish didn’t drink. Against Evan’s mother’s protests, there would be no champagne toast at the wedding reception. She smiled anyway. “It sounds great.”
“But not great enough to hold your interest.”
“No, really,” she insisted. “It will be the trip of a lifetime. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I want it to be special for you. For both of us.”
“And it will be,” she promised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to zone out. I don’t want to mess this up for Moses.” She offered Evan an apologetic smile. “I’ll feel better after I talk to him.”
“And then, that will be the end of it?”
“Definitely,” she said. “Well . . . probably.”
* * *
The room was small and windowless, no more than eight by eight, the walls painted institution gray to match the cement floor. There was one table, secured to the floor, and two plastic chairs that had seen better days, also immovable. Beneath the table, on the floor, was a metal ring; there was another attached to the table. The rings, she suspected, were to secure wrist and ankle cuffs of violent or dangerous inmates. No pictures on the walls, not even any graffiti. The décor was definitely lacking in charm. She’d seen more style in Amish outhouses.
It was warm in the tiny room, despite the cool temperatures outside the prison. It smelled of disinfectant and hospital floor wax. Rachel wondered how long they’d been waiting. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? She’d left her cell phone in the SUV and never wore a watch. Evan had come in with her, but now he was outside in the hall speaking with one of the guards. She hated prisons. Hated them. The sound of metal doors closing behind her always gave her the creeps. It was such a sad sound.
Rachel thought about what would have happened if something had kept her from meeting with Moses Studer. If she were forbidden to talk with him, what would she say to his mother? She couldn’t imagine a young man who was used to fresh air and quiet being imprisoned in this gloomy tomb with all the other inmates. Unable to sit still, she rose from the chair and began to pace. She hated being cooped up in tight places, without a window . . . without being able to see the sky. The air seemed stagnant, and she was conscious of the sound of her own breathing.
How long would they have to wait?
She paced the room, from one side to the other, five more times, and then at last, the door opened and Moses walked in. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit and looked as out of place here as a live lamb in a supermarket. Fortunately, he was not in handcuffs or ankle chains.
Evan peered in. “Make it short,” he said before the door closed behind Moses. “We’ve got to be out of here in twenty minutes.”
She nodded and motioned to the table and chairs. Moses sat down and she took the seat across from him. He appeared frightened and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He stared down at them, then hung them at his sides. By the time she’d straightened in her chair, Moses had laid his hands flat on the table, flexed them, and dropped them limply into his lap.
“Hello, Moses,” she said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” he said, reverting to Deitsch.
He didn’t make eye contact with her, which was a little awkward in such a small room.
“I’m not stupid,” he added.
Rebuffed, Rachel took a deep breath and tried again. “Your mother sent me.”
He didn’t respond, just stared down at his hands. His thin lips were drawn tight.
She’d never known an Amish person with Asperger’s, but she’d worked with a brilliant accountant, Travis Crane, who never looked at anyone directly, and he was straightforward to the point of rudeness. As she remembered, Travis was socially awkward in much the same way as Moses seemed to be. Everyone in the office had said Travis had Asperger’s syndrome.
“Moses, to keep it straight between us,” she said, “I never thought you were stupid.”
It took him a moment to respond. “Some people do.”
“I’m not some people. I care about you and your family, Moses. And I’d like to help you, if I can.” She clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “But you have to help yourself. You know that you’re in a lot of trouble, don’t you?”
Again, it took him a long time to answer. “Ya, I know that.” His gaze moved from his lap to a spot on the wall to her left.
“Your mother and your sister and your brother are worried about you,” she said.
He closed his eyes. “I worry, too. About them.”
She studied him for a moment. With Travis, it had always been better to just get to the point of her visit to his office or her phone call. There was no exchange of pleasantries. “Moses, did you shoot Daniel?”
“I said that I did.”
Rachel leaned forward in her chair. “Moses, you don’t seem like a bad person to me. Was it an accident? If you shot Daniel, did you mean to shoot him?”
He glanced at her, and for just the fraction of a second, she saw desperation in his eyes. He looked away. “He’s dead. Daniel will go to heaven. He’s better off there. Isn’t that what the preachers say?” He sounded as if he were reciting from rote memory. “Heaven is a better place. We should be happy for him.”
“The preachers also tell us that it’s a sin to lie. Are you lying, Moses?”
“What is a lie?”
Confused, she shook her head. “You know the difference b
etween a lie and the truth. I know you do.” She hesitated. “Are you telling the truth when you tell the police you killed Daniel?”
“I had to.”
“You had to what? Kill Daniel or confess to killing him?” she asked, starting to get impatient with him. “Was what you told the police the truth?”
Moses hesitated and then said, “There can be different truths.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. This wasn’t going anywhere and they were running out of time. And she hadn’t even broached the subject of a lawyer yet. But something definitely didn’t feel right. As odd as he was, Moses didn’t seem like a killer. “Why would you confess if you didn’t do it?”
He spread his hands on the table again. “I lost my hat. I don’t know where. Do you think I should have my hat on?” He ran fingers down the back of his head. “They say hats aren’t allowed, but I should cover my head.”
“I don’t think God will mind,” she answered. “You’re inside. I think He will understand.” She tapped her fingers on the scarred Formica tabletop to get his attention. “Moses, you didn’t answer my question. Why would you confess to a murder you didn’t do?”
He smiled, a sad smile. “Why do men do any of the things they do?”
She exhaled loudly. “I don’t think you’re the one who killed Daniel. Am I right?”
He murmured something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear you, Moses. Please, look at me,” she said beginning to feel a little desperate. Moses’s behavior wasn’t going to bode well at a hearing. Not if a judge tried to speak to him. “I want to help you. If you know who I am, you know that I would never do anything intentionally to harm you or your family.”
“I think you mean well, Rachel.”
He said it while staring at the wall, and his observation startled her. “I do mean well. I can’t abide injustice. And if you are convicted for something you didn’t do, that would be the worst kind of injustice. Is it true that you’ve refused a lawyer?” When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Moses, you have to have an attorney. Even if you did shoot Daniel, you need someone to ensure that you’re treated fairly. If it was an accident, and you shot him, it’s different than if you deliberately—”
