A horse barn with Dutch doors and a cupola with a weather vane on the roof is the focal point of the property. Both the front and back sliding doors are open and I can see the silhouette of a horse standing in cross ties. Two more horses stand inside steel pipe runs. The pound of hooves draws my attention to a large round pen comprised of stock panels. Within a cloud of dust, a young man in a cowboy hat is astride a rangy Appaloosa gelding. The animal lopes prettily, its nose tucked, body collected. Not a buggy horse …
I get out of the Explorer and walk over to the round pen, enjoying the evening as much as the sight of the horse. “He’s gorgeous,” I say by way of greeting.
The young man’s hat slants toward me. “And don’t he know it, too,” he says in a deep voice. “Whoa.”
The animal plants its hindquarters and stops on a dime. The man turns his attention to me. “He’s a headstrong one, that’s for sure.”
“I’m looking for Milo Hershberger.”
“You found him.” He plucks sunglasses off his face and drops them into his shirt pocket, then gives me a thorough once-over. “You here about Danny?”
Milo Hershberger is nineteen years old and boy-next-door attractive. He’s got a round face with brown puppy-dog eyes and a full mouth. His shoulder-length hair is pulled into a short ponytail, revealing a gold stud in his lobe. All of it accentuated by a scruffy beard stylish enough to give Tom Ford a run for his money.
I nod. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Let me get him cooled off and I’m all yours.”
I don’t feel like waiting, so I follow Hershberger and his horse into the barn and watch while he untacks the animal and slips a sheet over its back. When he’s finished he goes to the small refrigerator in a niche off the aisle and pulls out a cola.
“You want something to drink?” he asks. “Fresh out of beer, but I got pop.”
I shake my head. “It’s a nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks. I’m training horses full-time now. I got two colts, a barrel horse, and a kid horse that ain’t no kid horse.” He dips his head and grins. “I got a rent-to-own deal with the owner. If all goes well, this place should be mine in about a year.”
“Sounds like you’re doing well.”
He takes a long pull of the soda and then sobers. “But then you’re not here to talk about me or my place, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I run my hand over the Appaloosa’s shoulder as we make our way to the big door. Beyond, my Explorer sits in the waning light, ticking as the engine cools. We stop just outside the doorway.
“I heard Danny got killed in that barn fire. Is that true?” he asks.
“The coroner made positive ID yesterday.”
“Shit.” He looks out over the land. Anguish flashes on his face. “God, I hate that. Hard to believe he’s gone.”
I’m no schmuck when it comes to identifying phony emotions, but his seems genuine.
“I’ve known Danny since we were a couple of dumb Amish boys, six or seven years old. We were best friends once upon a time. I mean, he was like a brother to me. We basically grew up together.”
“You were Amish?”
“I still am, really.” But he looks down at his clothes and laughs. Dusty jeans. Denim shirt. Cowboy hat and boots. “On the inside, anyway.”
“What happened?”
“Couldn’t keep my nose clean. I pissed off my parents. Pissed off the bishop. I’m under the bann now. Haven’t seen my family in almost three months.”
“So you’ve been baptized.”
“Ran around for a couple of years and got baptized last year.”
It’s an all-too-familiar scenario. I don’t have to ask if he misses them; the pain of it is written all over his face. Every time I catch a glimpse of it, he’s quick to cover it with a smile.
“Brothers and sisters?” I ask.
“Six of them. Younger. Three girls and three boys. God, I miss them something fierce.”
“Why did they put you under the bann?”
Grinning, he motions toward the F-250. “She was the love of my life the instant I heard the purr of that engine. So they got me on the truck. We’ve got such an entrepreneurial spirit, you know. I mean, the Amish. I don’t know how they expect me to haul all these horses around without a truck.”
“Wouldn’t be easy. Unless maybe you have your clients bring them to you.”
“I could, I guess.” Smiling, he sighs. “Sure do like that truck, though.”
Despite the circumstances, I find myself liking Milo Hershberger. He’s soft-spoken with a boyish charm and a quiet, kind demeanor.
He looks at me closely, narrows his eyes. “You that cop used to be Amish?”
Now it’s my turn to smile. “Guilty.”
“Guess that makes two of us.” He raises his can of soda in a toast and takes another swig.
“Milo, what happened between you and Daniel?” I ask.
“Girl got in the way, I guess.” When I continue to stare at him, he continues. “Luane Raber. Me and Danny, we had it bad for her. I don’t know if you’ve met her, but she’s pretty as a picture. I’ve known her most of my life, too. I was always too shy to talk to her. But we saw each other at worship. I’d see her in town every so often. Then, during Rumspringa, the three of us—me, Danny, and Luane—went to some parties. Hung out.”
I wait.
Frowning, not quite so comfortable now, he sighs. “I thought she was … you know, interested. I mean, in me. I knew she was sort of with Danny, but I figured girls can change their minds, right?” He looks at me as if expecting me to confirm it, but I don’t bite. “A guy can hope.
“Anyway, Luane and I went out a couple of times.” He shrugs. “I liked her. A lot. I mean, seriously. I was really smitten with her. But I reckon the feeling wasn’t mutual because when it was all said and done she chose Danny. End of story.”
“How did all that affect your relationship with Danny?” I ask.
“How do you think? He didn’t like it much. Neither did I.”
“Did you argue about it?” I ask. “Fight?”
“Both.” Another shrug. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know which was worse, losing him as a friend, losing Luane as my girlfriend, or losing my family. Life’s been pretty lonely without them.”
“So, you and Daniel came to blows?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Couple times. Let me tell you something, Danny had a hell of a left hook.” When I say nothing he flushes. “Look, it was a guy thing. We were both being a couple of shitheads. We were on Rumspringa, had a few too many beers, and for the first time in our lives we had a lot of freedom. We both … loved her. But no one got hurt. I mean, physically.”
“When’s the last time you saw Daniel?”
He blows out a breath, takes a moment to search his memory. “I honestly don’t know. I saw him down at the farm store a couple weeks ago. Went in to buy some stuff for my truck and he was there. He works in the tire department part-time, you know.”
“Did you speak?”
“I would have, but he just sort of looked away and went back to whatever he was doing.”
“When’s the last time you were at the Gingerich farm?”
“A few months. Maybe last fall. Used to go over all the time. I’d help Mr. Gingerich bale hay. Stayed for dinner a hundred times, probably. Then the shit hit the fan and I stopped going.”
“When’s the last time you saw Luane?”
“I went to worship when it was at her parents’ farm a few weeks ago. She was with Danny, so…” He lets the words trail. “It was awkward. We didn’t even speak. I don’t think anyone spoke to me. Haven’t been to worship since.”
I nod, sensing there’s something else there that he’s not telling me, but I’m not sure how to get him to open up. “Where were you night before last?”
He frowns, letting me know he’s not happy with the question, but he doesn’t voice it. “I was here. All night
. I rode until dark. I had a beer, hit the shower, and I was out like a light.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
He grins. “That Appaloosa over there, but he ain’t much on conversation.” When I don’t smile, he sobers. “Hey, I’m not a suspect or anything, am I?”
“At this point I’m talking to everyone who knew or had contact with Daniel.”
“I reckon I’m the only one who punched him.”
I say nothing.
“Look, me and Danny might’ve had a falling-out, but there’s no way I’d ever hurt him, or anyone else for that matter.”
“So what aren’t you telling me?”
He stares at me as if I’ve reached into his brain with my fist and stolen his most private thoughts. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I hold my silence.
Looking left and right, he steps closer, and for the first time I realize he’s a good-size young man. He’s got big hands and strong shoulders. He smells of horses and dust and sweat.
“Keep your distance,” I say.
Blinking, he takes a step back and lowers his voice. “Look, I may have that truck over there, and I might’ve done some things that ain’t very Amish like. But I’m still one of them. I believe in God. I loved Danny like a brother and I was raised not to speak ill of the dead. But let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder. Everyone who thinks Danny was some kind of saint? Maybe they didn’t know him as well as I do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he treated Luane like shit and that ain’t all.” For the first time, his voice is bitter. “She didn’t seem to mind, though, did she?”
“Milo, you need to explain that to me. Right now.”
“Let’s just say Danny wasn’t always a nice guy and leave it at that.” He glances toward the barn, where the horse is still tied and pawing at the ground. “Look, I gotta get back to work. We done here?”
“You can’t make a statement like that without backing it up,” I tell him.
“You want to know about Danny the Saint? I’d suggest you talk to Emma Miller.” He starts to turn away and then stops as if thinking better of it. “But I reckon it’s a little too late.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Where do I find her?”
“Good luck, Chief Burkholder.” Turning, he walks away without looking back.
CHAPTER 7
In Holmes County, the most common Amish surname name is Miller. After leaving Hershberger’s place last night, I went directly to the station. My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, and I spent two hours looking through the latest Ohio Amish Directory for Holmes County and Vicinity, an enormous tome published in nearby Walnut Creek that lists local Amish church districts, their bishops, and the names of all their members, including their children. By the time we found Emma Miller, it was nearly ten P.M.—too late to pay her a visit.
At eight A.M., I’m back in the Explorer just east of Charm and heading north on County Road 159. A few miles down the road I find the address I’m looking for. A hand-painted sign at the end of the lane reads: BIRDHOUSES. FEEDERS. DOGHOUSES. NO SUNDAY SALE. I make the turn.
Sam and Esther Miller live on a well-kept farm that sits prettily atop a hill overlooking a picturesque valley. I pass by an old cinder-block milk house and continue on.
The brick farmhouse was built at the highest point on the property and offers stunning views in every direction. The house is plain; there’s no landscaping, no shutters or flowerpots, but the lack of ornamentation doesn’t detract from its beauty. A massive pine tree dominates the front yard, which is enclosed by a split-rail fence and a row of lilac bushes. The sliding doors of the barn stand open. I see someone inside, so I pull up to the base of the ramp and get out.
I’m on my way to the door when I notice the bird feeders. Dozens of them are mounted on freestanding poles; others hang from the eaves of the barn. They’re handmade artistry, fashioned to look like mini gazebos, log cabins, buggies, and the iconic Amish-country red barn. Sparrows and cardinals chatter and vie for millet and sunflower seed.
“Can I help you?”
I look up to see a middle-aged Amish woman in a dark blue dress approach. She’s Swartzentruber—I can tell by the black bonnet and the style of her dress—but her expression is friendly and open.
“The bird feeders are lovely,” I tell her. “Do you make them?”
“My husband does. I do the painting. We make everything here. Doghouses. Birdhouses. God gave us strong hands and strong backs, and we sure ain’t afraid of a little work.” She looks around and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “We don’t usually open till ten, but if you got your eye on something, I can sell it to you.”
“I’m afraid this is an official call.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich.”
Her smile falters. She recognizes the name. Something else in her eyes I can’t decipher. A quick dart of apprehension. “Heard about that,” she says. “Awful for that poor family. A young man just starting his life.” But she doesn’t look too broken up about it.
“I’m looking for Emma Miller,” I say. “Is she around?”
That shadow again. More pronounced this time. Something dark emerging from the shadows where she keeps it hidden away. “Emma was my daughter,” she tells me. “Passed away six months ago.”
Surprise ripples through me. I find myself wishing I’d done more homework before coming here. “I’m sorry.”
“Sis Gottes wille.” It’s God’s will.
“She was just seventeen?”
The woman nods. “Left us all too soon.” The smile that follows is sad. “She’s with the Lord now, but I sure wish I’d had more time with her. She was our oldest and I miss her sweet soul every day.”
I try to get a handle on the rise of tension, identify its source, but it hovers just out of reach. “Did your daughter know Daniel Gingerich, Mrs. Miller?”
“They met a few times. Daniel did some work here at the farm for my husband last summer. Painted that old milk house down the lane. Put up a cross fence for the calves.”
It’s a vague answer, and in the back of my mind I hear Milo Hershberger’s parting words. You want to know about Danny the Saint? I’d suggest you talk to Emma Miller.
“Were Daniel and Emma friends?” I ask.
Something ugly peeks around the corner of its hidden spot. “Just to say hello.”
Either she’s being willfully evasive, or Milo Hershberger has sent me on a wild-goose chase. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, I sense this woman is keeping something cached away, just out of sight, so I push a little harder. “Are you certain about that, Mrs. Miller? I was told your daughter and Daniel Gingerich knew each other.”
“Someone got their information wrong,” the woman says.
“Maybe Emma and Daniel became friends and you didn’t know about it.”
“I knew everything about my daughter. Everything.”
I try another tactic. “Did you or your husband have any problems with Daniel while he was working for you? Were there any disagreements? About his pay or his work? Anything like that?”
She shakes her head. “Danny was a good boy. A good worker. Did his job every day and we paid him a fair wage for his time.”
“Die zeit fer is nau.” The time to go is now.
I turn at the sound of the deep male voice to see a middle-aged Amish man standing in the doorway of the barn, leaning on a pitchfork, watching us. He’s wearing dark trousers. Blue work shirt. Suspenders and a wide-brimmed straw hat. His expression tells me he’d been standing there for a while, listening.
“Mr. Miller?” I start toward him and identify myself.
Taking his time, he meets me halfway, his eyes sweeping over my uniform. “What are all these questions about?”
“I’m investigating the death of Daniel Gingerich.”
“Daniel Gingerich? We barely knew the boy. We don’t know anything about him. I don’t s
ee how we could help you.”
“Your wife was just telling me Daniel did some work for you.” I pause. “I understand your daughter, Emma, was friends with him.”
Something that resembles a shiver runs the length of his body. High emotion, I think. Anger? Grief? A mix of the two? Whatever the case, my question touched a nerve.
“All I know about Dan Gingerich is that he was en faehicher schreiner.” An able carpenter.
“Mr. Miller, this is a death investigation. It’s important for you to tell me everything you know about Daniel Gingerich. If your daughter was friends with him or had any dealings with him, I need to know about it.”
The Amish man stares at me, saying nothing.
“Did you or your wife have any problems with Daniel while he was here?” I ask.
“There were no problems,” he says.
“What about—”
“We’ve answered enough of your questions. Our business with you is finished. You should go now.”
“Mr. Miller—”
“We don’t know anything. We have nothing more to say to you or anyone else.” He motions toward the lane. “Go now. Just go.”
* * *
My odd exchange with the Millers nags at me on the drive back to Painters Mill. There’s no doubt in my mind they know more about Daniel Gingerich than they were willing to discuss; I’m even more certain that knowledge has something to do with their deceased daughter. But why are they so reluctant to discuss it? While it’s true that many Swartzentruber Amish prefer to remain separate from the “English,” I don’t believe that’s the case in this instance. The Millers are, after all, running a business and evidently dealing with tourists on a daily basis. So why are they so reluctant to speak openly with me?
It’s after ten A.M. when I arrive back at the station. Lois is at the dispatch desk, squinting at some handwritten report, bright pink fingernails pecking at the keyboard. I’m not surprised to find my third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, occupied with busywork that could more than likely wait until her shift at midnight. I’ve talked to her about her penchant for “staying over” and my inability to pay overtime due to budget constraints. So far my concerns have fallen on deaf ears.
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