by Julie Kramer
“Yes, and his name is Walden.” I didn’t mention that the shot could have showed my entire body next to Walden if I’d had a photographer along. And that that would have made a prime promotion picture.
Malik would have loved this assignment. I felt guilty without him sharing the glory. The desk was probably making him shoot boring old weather video in Minneapolis to keep him handy in case spot news hit.
Since I vowed to keep my distance from Walden’s den as part of our broadcast deal, I had time to kill before the newscast. I didn’t have the nerve to return to the Yoder farm after my haircut, so I decided to drive around the Amish countryside. A one-horse carriage in the distance prompted me to practice shooting rural atmosphere.
I did my best to hold the camera steady, watching the buggy come over a hill in a romantic scene of black against white. When the wheels were close enough for me to distinguish passengers, I turned the camera off and held it down, facing the ground, to be clear they weren’t being photographed.
Children coming home from class were crowded inside the two-seater. I remembered their schoolhouse was across a couple of farm fields to the west. As they drew closer I could hear singing, an outdoor a cappella choir of young voices. As they came closer and saw me, their singing stopped.
When the buggy passed, I started videotaping the back and didn’t notice a little girl behind me until she said, “Hallo.”
It was Hannah. She hadn’t been anywhere in sight a minute ago and must have cut through the fields on her way home. Our other encounters had all been initiated by me. This was different: she had made contact. I wondered if the child had something she wanted to discuss.
“Hello, Hannah,” I said. “How was school?”
“Better.”
Not exactly an overwhelming endorsement. “Some days is it not so good?”
“Sarah was going to be my teacher.”
Now we were getting somewhere. I hadn’t wanted to always be the one to bring up her sister.
“Really? I bet that would have been fun. For you and for her.”
Hannah nodded, then started swinging her lunch pail nervously.
“I’m sorry Sarah died,” I said. “This must be a hard time for you. But just like school was better today, life will get better, too.”
“She was in the bann, so she could not teach us.”
I had thought Sarah wasn’t teaching because she was dead. “Teachers can’t be in the bann?”
She nodded her head.
That rule sort of made sense, if you bought into the whole shunning matter. Teachers probably had to be above reproach.
“Why was your sister in the bann, Hannah?”
She started walking down the road. I wondered why she always walked alone and never rode the buggy. I supposed she lived closer than the others and the buggy was the Amish version of the school bus for those who lived farther out.
“I wasn’t supposed to talk to Sarah in the bann, but sometimes I did.”
“What did you like to talk about?” I asked.
She didn’t answer that question. So I tried another. “Do you still look at Sarah’s picture?”
“Neh. Gideon took it,” she replied even though she stared straight ahead and didn’t look back at me. “He found it in my room.”
Darn, I didn’t have any more copies on me. “I’ll bring another for you, Hannah, the next time we see each other.”
She stopped and this time turned around to face me. “Danke,” she said.
CHAPTER 56
I invited Ike to watch my bear-cam live shot in person from the satellite truck. He’d rushed over and immediately complimented me on my hair. “It sure looks better than it did last night.” He may not have been sincere, but his flattery improved my mood.
Afterward the truck engineer even let him climb up on the roof for a close-up look at the satellite dish. While he was getting a television tutorial, I got another phone call about my hairstyle change. This one was from my former fiancé.
When Garnett heard that two men had held me down in the dark and chopped my hair off, he wanted to hop on the next plane for revenge. “Cutting off their hair is too good for them.”
He was upset I hadn’t filled him in sooner about the attack, instead of simply texting him a confusing photo. “I thought it was some kind of joke.”
I saw his point, but also thought that if he really loved me, his first reaction should not have been to make fun of me.
Two other reasons weighed on me for convincing him to stay out east. One I shared with him, the other I kept quiet.
First, I couldn’t positively identify the men, so retribution would be difficult.
Second, I sort of had a date with Ike.
We didn’t actually have the details worked out, but we had agreed on dinner together after my shift. And I rationalized that an evening out with another man might help me better decide where my relationship with Nick Garnett was headed.
• • •
Dinner was full of good food and conversation. The menu made no claims about fat and calorie testing, so I was able to ignore work.
I learned more about Ike’s past, and he learned more about my television life. We each found the other’s background fascinating. As we were leaving the QUARTER/quarter Restaurant & Wine Bar, Harmony’s fanciest dining spot, he suggested an evening drive in his fast car.
“Enticing.” I could sense the ghost of Hugh Boyer urging me to climb aboard. “But here’s where I sound like I’m still in high school, Ike. I promised my parents I’d spend the night at the farm. So I have a curfew.”
He laughed and promised not to keep me out too late. “Maybe someday I can meet them.”
“They would like that,” I assured him.
I didn’t tell him they would insist on it.
• • •
I didn’t want to kiss Ike unless I thought we had a chance for something more. But I also didn’t want to kiss him and be committed to something more. If our liaison was doomed, I wanted to halt any courtship now and save time and anguish.
Such is the pessimism of love.
We were parked on a bluff overlooking the Root River, admiring the moon through the trees. A dreamlike mist rose from the partially frozen water. Like teenagers, we danced around our desires to kiss, while we watched the curfew clock.
His arm was around me, and in my mind I listed all of the potential complications that might doom our relationship. His Amish roots loomed large.
“What about me working for TV, Ike? Is that going to be trouble for us?”
Apparently he was also tired of being stuck in the flirting stage of dating. “Maybe the only way to know for certain is for me to taste the devil’s tongue.” Then Ike pulled me close and kissed me long and hard, his tongue dancing against mine. His unfamiliar lips were tantalizing. When he pulled away, I wanted more.
“The devil’s tongue poses no problem for me,” he assured me as his lips traveled down my neck.
Unbuttoning his shirt, I was glad I didn’t have to mess with hooks and eyes or suspenders. His chest was smooth, and TV she-devil that I had become, I spread my hands across his muscles.
“As for the devil’s tail … perhaps I should check.” His hand slid down and caressed the back of my jeans. “No difficulty here.”
By now our bodies were as close as two bodies can be with clothing on. I understood the blessings of spontaneity, but even though I wanted him, I also wanted romance.
Candlelight. And love under an Amish quilt. Not in a sports car, even with leather seats.
Ike understood that I wanted our first night to be memorable. So while we buttoned and zipped, he promised that when he returned from Ohio, he would bring back a virgin Bargello heart quilt just for us.
“A beautiful, complicated pattern. Like you, Riley.”
Softly, in my ear, he whispered those words—possibly the most tender compliment any man has ever given me—and they lingered in my mind long after we drove off in separa
te directions.
I could feel myself falling for him hard, aching for our reunion.
In some ways, I was like the heroine in my Amish melodrama, torn between two men from very different worlds. Except I didn’t feel so divided anymore. Maybe the reason Garnett and I never worked out was because we were never meant to stay together.
CHAPTER 57
When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, my parents had prepared a hearty farm breakfast spread of eggs, hash browns, and pancakes. I told them I was dieting.
“TV adds ten pounds, Mom, and your meals double that.”
“Oh, Riley, you’re lovely,” my mom assured me. “Don’t you worry about how you look. You probably weigh less with that haircut.”
I decided to end the food debate by simply digging in with a fork now and being glad I wasn’t served Amish specialties like sausage and tomato gravy. I could always skip lunch later.
I didn’t tell my parents about Ike because I wasn’t sure what to say. My love life was certainly more complex than it had been twenty-four hours earlier, but I was committed to seeing where our liaison might lead. Should my mom and dad learn I was possibly falling for a man who lived near them, they would become giddy with visions of grandchildren.
I pushed Ike out of mind and concentrated on pancakes. I showed my parents the notebook from Sarah’s room, but didn’t have much hope they’d be able to help interpret it.
My ancestors spoke German as well as English on the farm, until the world wars came and that language was considered unpatriotic. Those who knew Deutsch stopped speaking it, even at home, to demonstrate their allegiance to America. My father was the first generation of his kin not to learn German.
While Amish speak Pennsylvania Dutch, my mother believed they wrote English, just from watching them jot down her holiday pie orders. “But they do speak German during church, so maybe they can write it.”
“Maybe Sarah didn’t want her innermost thoughts easily comprehended by others,” I said. “I have to find someone who can translate the diary. Someone I trust.”
I had been thinking of asking Ike to look at the pages. He had told me he’d call in a few days when he got back from Ohio. While I relished the thought of his return, I didn’t want to wait that long for an interpreter.
“How about Father Mountain?” my mom asked.
I dialed him immediately, but he had his own problems. The Catholic Church was changing some of the words for Mass. He gave me one example. Instead of responding “and also with you,” the congregation was supposed to say, “and with your spirit.”
“And the list of changes is long,” he said. “This is making my job harder.”
“Maybe you should retire,” I suggested.
“Not with the current priest shortage,” he said. “I’ll probably have to say Mass till I’m eighty.”
And as for German, yes, he said Amish children are taught to write the language, but no, he couldn’t read it himself.
“Latin challenges me enough.”
Our rapport felt so good at that moment that I stepped outside so my parents couldn’t hear. I asked Father Mountain about anointing me.
“You mean the sacrament of last rites?” His voice was incredulous.
“Yes, Father, but I thought you didn’t call it that anymore.”
“We don’t, but that’s still essentially what it is, and you don’t sound very close to death to me. We now call it Anointing of the Sick, and you don’t even sound sick.”
“I’d like it as insurance. I’ve had some close calls. I think I would feel like God was on my side more.”
“I’m concerned about your motivation for this sacrament, Riley. I don’t think I’m comfortable anointing you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You haven’t seemed spiritually healthy lately. I don’t want you feeling at ease with death.”
Suddenly I understood what he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud. “You’re worried I’m suicidal.”
He didn’t answer, and was probably thinking back to when my husband died and my neighbor found me in the garage with the car running.
“That’s not what’s happening here,” I said. “I just wanted another form of forgiveness from the church.” Of all people, he knew I was still haunted by my actions in a cemetery in Iowa that left one man dead.
“If you need forgiveness, Riley, come to confession.”
“Please, Father Mountain, don’t tell my parents about this.”
“Then don’t give me a reason to.”
CHAPTER 58
Husky followed me out to the car, so I let him climb in the backseat to go home with me. My parents waved to us, pleased that they got to spend so much time with me. They saw more of me in the last week than in the last year and had no idea about my tense conversation with Father Mountain.
On the way back to the station, I stopped at the Kueppers’ farm to see if Michelle had heard anything more about her husband’s DNA test.
While Bowser and Husky ran between the barn and shed, I went inside with Michelle for another look at the Amish table she and her husband had purchased from Sarah. I admired the dark wood and clean lines. A framed military photo of Brian and the American flag were still displayed.
“This is quite patriotic,” I said. “Do you mind if I take a picture with my cell phone?”
I wasn’t sure whether it might be useful, but I liked to be prepared in case something turned into news. She had no objection.
When the time came to leave, I couldn’t find my dog.
“Husky,” I called. “Time for home.” But he didn’t come running. The hounds were probably in the back field, but I stuck my head in an open shed door to check if they were there anyway.
A dog bed in the corner caught my eye. Stunning colors stood out even in the dim light. As I got closer, I realized both dogs were sleeping on a handmade quilt with small, precise stitches and numerous bright fabric patches of green, gold, and maroon.
It looked Amish to me, even heirloom quality.
I’d been craving such a quilt as a souvenir and might have even offered to buy it from the Kueppers family except it smelled awful. That’s what happens when dogs sleep on art. I vowed that when Ike made good on his quilt promise to me, Husky would not be allowed anywhere near it.
When I went back into the house, I mentioned to Michelle that Bowser had nicer bedding than me. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.
I decided to be direct. “How could you give such a beautiful quilt to your dog?”
“What?” Then, hands on her hips, she mumbled something like, So that’s where it went. “Show me this dog bed.”
I motioned for her to follow me out to the shed. “Tell me what Bowser did to deserve such a prize.”
She shook her head. “Bowser must have stolen that quilt from the trash. I had tossed it in a pile of rubbish to be burned.”
I pointed in the corner of the dark building. Both dogs, still nestled on the cloth trophy, raised their heads. “How come you didn’t want the quilt?”
“It’s complicated, Riley.”
“Don’t forget, reporters love stories.”
The one she told was a whopper. “That quilt kept Josh warm in the sinkhole.”
Now I was really confused. “Josh brought a quilt on his hunting adventure?”
Michelle shook her head. “The quilt was already in the hole.”
She explained that the quilt had been wrapped around Sarah Yoder’s body. Josh had used it to keep from freezing, and was still huddled under it when he was rescued. The sheriff ushered mother and son to the back of his squad car. Once Josh started sobbing about the zombie body underground, the interview was cut short and a deputy was ordered to drive them home while the law worked to verify his tale. Michelle didn’t learn about the connection regarding the quilt and the body until later when she and Josh talked.
“The cops described the woman as naked,” I said. “But y
ou’re telling me she was originally shrouded in a quilt? That quilt?”
Now Michelle squirmed. “It smelled horrible. I couldn’t have it in the house. Bowser and I had a tug of war. I won. But he must have retrieved it later.”
Michelle did not seem to realize that the quilt was a part of the crime scene and an important clue.
“Did you wash it?” I asked.
Her answer was critical. “No, the stench was too icky. And knowing its history, I didn’t want it near me or Josh. I threw it out and didn’t think about it till now.”
Maybe it wasn’t too late. I explained that the quilt was evidence. And how the chain of evidence worked.
“Investigators will need to interview you and Josh to establish the connection between the quilt and the body. The crime lab will want to run forensics. They’ll be looking for DNA of the victim and the killer and whatever else comes to mind. They’ll want samples of your hair, Josh’s hair, even Bowser’s hair.”
“Am I in trouble?” Michelle seemed worried. “Did I tamper with evidence?”
“The cops aren’t going to be happy, but you haven’t committed a crime. This is more their fault than yours. They should have asked more questions and confiscated the quilt. But it sounds like by the time the experienced homicide team arrived, the quilt was already gone.”
I could see how, with all the furor about a dead body, Josh’s situation became a lower priority. “It’s important that you contact them before more time passes. It might even help prove your husband wasn’t involved.”
I suspected too much time had passed. But I played optimist rather than realist and sent her inside to call the sheriff. That was a call I was glad not to have to make. While we waited for law enforcement, I brought the quilt out from the shed. I covered my nose with one hand, but could still smell the stench.
I resisted shaking it clean, but spread it on the lawn to take a closer look. Other than dirt, the odor, and a few stains that might or might not have been blood, the quilt was inspiring in both its simplicity and complexity—a geometric pattern with a star.
