Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  The trailer rocks slightly when I walk to the kitchen. The flames from the lanterns throw shadows against the ceiling. I look through the cupboards. There’s a mismatched set of dishes, but not a scrap of food. I’ll need to make a trip to the grocery, and once again I’m reminded that the lack of transportation is going to be a pain in the ass. I find a small pad of paper in one of the drawers and start a list.

  I find an electrical outlet in the living room and plug in the phone given to me by Betancourt and Suggs. Relief sweeps through me when the charge symbol flicks on.

  I call Suggs. “The eagle has landed.”

  “You getting settled in okay?”

  “So far, so good. I have power to charge my phones. I’m probably going to end up buying that bicycle, even if I can’t use it on snowy days.”

  “I can pick one up for you.…”

  “As much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, probably best if I can find one for sale by an Amish person. Might be one more way for me to make contact with the community.”

  “I reckon that newspaper will come in handy after all.”

  “I plan to get out and make myself known tomorrow.”

  “Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll get it done.”

  Next, I call Tomasetti and fill him in. “A fucking trailer?” he says. “I guess Suggs takes his budget constraints seriously.”

  “It’s not quite as awful as it sounds.” I laugh because we both know it is. “Not the best accommodations but it’s close to all the places I need to be, including Schrock’s farm.”

  He sighs. “You without electricity?”

  “I’ve got access to electricity—there’s a trusty little outlet here—so I’ll be able to keep my phone charged.”

  “That’s something. You’re keeping your twenty-two with you?”

  “My new best friend.”

  A lull ensues. I hear the TV in the background and I know Tomasetti is watching the news. I hear the wind tearing around the trailer outside and a pang of loneliness assails me. “I haven’t even been gone twenty-four hours and I miss you.”

  “Kind of quiet around here without you,” he tells me.

  “You’re not trying to tell me I talk too much, are you?”

  “Well, now that you mention it…” Another silence falls, but it’s thoughtful. “I miss you, too,” he says quietly.

  “It’s cold as hell here. We might need to take that vacation when I get back. Someplace tropical.”

  “I’m going to hold you to it, so don’t give me that I’m-the-chief-and-I-can’t-get-away line.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Will you call me if you need anything? Or if you get into trouble?”

  “I will.”

  “I’m only eight hours away, Kate. Four, if I catch a flight out of Cleveland.”

  “I know. Thanks. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Keep warm.”

  * * *

  At first light, I’m fully dressed in my Amish garb and bundled in my barn coat, muck boots, and winter bonnet. I pack two of the crib quilts in a canvas bag, hoping to put them up for sale at the quilt shop in town. I’m craving hot coffee as I go through the front door and into a monochrome morning.

  I didn’t sleep much last night. The trailer is poorly insulated and drafty as a cave. Even with two blankets, I couldn’t get warm. I could hear the coyotes yipping in the woods to the north, but they sounded like they were right outside my window. I spent most of the night huddled beneath the blankets, cursing Suggs and his bright idea of putting me up in a trailer. But as I make my way toward Roaring Springs, I have to admit it was a good choice with regard to logistics. The Walmart is about half a mile down the road. Roaring Springs proper is just a few blocks farther. Schrock’s property is just as close, but in the opposite direction. My dumpy little trailer home is the heart of it all.

  At least the weather has improved. The endless blue sky boosts my spirits, and though the temperature hovers somewhere around freezing, I feel the warmth of the sun on my back. I walk at a steady clip and it takes me just ten minutes to reach Roaring Springs.

  The downtown area comprises a dozen or so two- and three-story brick buildings, some with interesting architecture. Most were built at the turn of the century; a few are marked with historical plaques. Despite both of those things, many are vacant, with the front windows boarded up and brick marred with graffiti. The main thoroughfare is cobblestone, but in desperate need of repair.

  I’m midway down the first block when I spot the sign for The Dutch Kitchen. It might’ve been quaint in its heyday. Those glory days are long past, evidenced by a cracked front window, an antique door in need of restoration, and a crumbling sidewalk. I recall Suggs telling me this is where Mary Gingerich works. The woman Rachel Esh had been living with when she died.

  I jaywalk and stop to read the whiteboard that has been set up on a tripod displaying the day’s breakfast special, which is biscuits and gravy. The coffee of the day is Colombian dark roast. Hefting the bag onto my shoulder, I go inside.

  I’m met with the pleasant aromas of sage sausage and freshly brewed coffee. The restaurant is a narrow space with a black-and-white-checked tile floor. A row of red booths lines the wall to my left. To my right, a long counter with old-fashioned stools separates the dining area from the kitchen. There’s a smattering of tables at the rear and a battered door marked RESTROOM. The place is doing a decent business this morning. Locals, farmers, and merchants alike sit at the counter. A family of four shares a table at the rear. The waitress is a heavyset blond woman with pink cheeks and a harried expression. The second woman behind the bar is Amish. Wine-colored dress. Dark hair tucked into an organdy kapp. Hazel eyes. Her nametag tells me her name is Mary.

  I climb onto the nearest stool and set the canvas bag at my feet. The Amish woman glances my way; her eyes brighten at the sight of me, telling me she’s pleased to be in the company of another Amish woman.

  She works her way over to me. Before she can speak, I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder mariye.” Good morning.

  “Wei geth’s alleweil?” she asks. How goes it now?

  I offer a grin, continue the conversation in Deitsch. “Good, because I know if there’s an Amish woman in the kitchen, the food will be good.”

  “And if she’s behind the counter, the service will be even better.”

  Snagging a glass from beneath the bar, she scoops ice, fills it with water, and sets it in front of me. For the first time I notice the pass-through window and kitchen behind her. A young Amish man wearing a white cook’s apron, with a bowl haircut and gaunt features, watches me through the opening.

  “I haven’t seen you around here before,” the waitress says. “Are you visiting?”

  My gaze slides away from the cook and I introduce myself. “I just moved here from Holmes County.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Mary Gingerich.”

  “You’re the first Amish I’ve spoken to since I’ve been in Roaring Springs.”

  “We’ll have to remedy that, now, won’t we?” She scans the customers, looking for coffee cups that need filling. “What brings you to New York?”

  “My husband passed a few months ago.” I add a grave note to my voice. “We’d become discontent with our church district. The Deiner had become high,” I tell her, meaning the district leadership had developed a loose interpretation of the Ordnung. “Especially the Vellicherdiener.” The bishop. “After John passed, I realized I wanted to go back to the older traditions. A lower church.” I shrug. “We’d heard about Bishop Schrock and talked about moving, but then he got sick.… I decided to make the move on my own.”

  “All alone?”

  I nod.

  “That’s a very brave thing to do.”

  “God was with me the whole way.”

  She nods, like-minded and understanding. “You know of Bishop Schrock, then?”

  “A little. Things I’ve heard.”

  “Well, he be
lieves in das alt Gebrauch.” The old ways. “He believes in Regel und Ordnung, too.” Rules and order. She lowers her voice. “Bishop Schrock still uses Meidung.”

  It’s the Amish term for “shunning” or “social avoidance.” Contrary to popular belief, the bann isn’t a form of punishment. Most often, it’s used to induce a person to confess their sins and apologize to the church, at which point they’re usually reinstated.

  “It’s brought back a lot of backsliders who might’ve otherwise been lost,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “If Bishop Schrock puts you under the bann, it’s for life.”

  A man wearing insulated coveralls and a John Deere cap enters. Mary glances toward the door and goes back into waitress mode, addressing me quickly. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?

  “Coffee and the breakfast special,” I tell her.

  “Coming right up.”

  By the time I’ve finished eating, I know a lot more about the Amish community in and around Roaring Springs than when I walked in. I know that worship is on Sunday and it’s always held in Eli Schrock’s barn. I know that when Mary Gingerich speaks of Schrock, it’s in a hushed tone and with reverence.

  I strike up another conversation while she clears my dishes. “I’m looking for work,” I tell her. “Is The Dutch Kitchen hiring?”

  “Things are slow,” she replies. “Work’s hard to come by around here. Do you sew?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might try The Calico Country Store down the street.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Leaving a five-dollar bill on the counter, I slide from the stool and heft the bag onto my shoulder.

  I start for the door, but she calls out my name. “Do you have a way to get to worship tomorrow?”

  I stop and turn. “I was going to walk.”

  “Abe and I will pick you up in the buggy. We’ve plenty of room and your trailer’s right on the way.”

  I smile. “See you then.”

  * * *

  Situated in the first level of a historic building at the intersection of Main and Fourth Street, The Calico Country Store is the shining star of Roaring Springs’s downtown. The windows are retail artistry, an Amish-style display of locally made furniture, hand-carved toys, and an iconic nine-patch quilt in burgundy and cream.

  The cowbell mounted on the door jingles when I walk inside. The aromas of lavender and yeast bread invite me to venture deeper. The place is a far cry from the slightly chaotic atmosphere of The Dutch Kitchen down the street. This store is orderly, with a character that’s uniquely Amish. The plank floors have been sanded and polished to a high sheen. The wall to my left is affixed with dozens of metal arms from which quilts hang. I see a red and blue double wedding ring quilt, a brown and white patchwork quilt, a stunning blue and red star pattern quilt. Beyond, a wall of crib quilts in pink and yellow, lavender and blue.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  I glance right to see a pretty Amish woman standing a few feet away, admiring the quilts, same as me. She’s about fifty years old, with a freckled nose and eyes as deep and green as a country pond. She’s generously built, but carries the weight well.

  “Yes, they are,” I tell her.

  “Most of our customers are Englischers these days.” She sighs. “And there aren’t nearly enough of them, so it’s nice to see the Amish come in.”

  I offer her a questioning look, but she waves it off. “Downtown Roaring Springs isn’t exactly a bustling retail center,” she tells me.

  “It should be.” Reaching out, I run my hand over one of the quilts. “I’ve never seen a prettier collection.”

  She stands back, studying me, while I pretend to peruse. “I know all the Amish faces around here and I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m Kate Miller. I just arrived from Ohio.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Kate. I’m Laura Hershberger.” Her eyes brighten. “What part of Ohio?”

  “Holmes County.”

  “I was born in Dundee.”

  Uneasiness quivers through me. The last thing any undercover cop wants is for someone to be familiar with their hometown. “I’ve been through Dundee many times,” I return easily.

  “Is the Amish Door Village still in business?” she asks.

  “And they still have the best meat loaf and mashed potatoes around.”

  Smiling, we share the moment. Two strangers longing for home and knowing they may never see it again.

  “How long have you lived in Roaring Springs?” I ask.

  “Going on twelve years now.” She cocks her head. “What brings you all the way up here to New York?”

  I give her the same explanation I gave Mary Gingerich. “Our church district had become too lenient.” I shake my head. “John and I wanted to get back to the old ways. When we heard about Bishop Schrock…” I shrug. “But John got sick. The Lord took him before we had a chance to move. I knew it was something I needed to do on my own.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your husband. Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I lower my gaze. When you’re Amish and childless, you’re somehow diminished. I work to shift the conversation away from me. The less people know, the less chance I have of getting caught in a lie. “I met Mary Gingerich at The Dutch Kitchen earlier.”

  “Good thing she’s back at work.” She tuts. “She and Abe were pretty broken up after that business with the Esh girl.”

  My cop’s antenna pricks up. “The girl who died?”

  She tosses me a surprised look.

  “I read about it in The Bridge,” I explain.

  “News travels, especially when it’s bad.” She shakes her head. “It was an awful thing, made worse because she was so young. Mary and Abe were just beside themselves. Fannie and Samuel”—she shakes her head—“were inconsolable. Bishop Schrock spent that first terrible night with them.”

  “I can’t imagine losing a child.”

  “At first everyone thought Rachel had run away. But there were all sorts of rumors flying around.”

  “Rumors?” I muster a puzzled look. “But it was an accident, right? She got lost in the woods and succumbed to the cold?”

  “That’s what everyone says.” There are no customers in the shop, but she looks left and right just to make sure. “I think there was more to it.”

  I lower my voice. “What do you mean?”

  “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Rachel Esh was a wild little thing. Pretty as a peach, but she didn’t care much for the rules, and spent a good bit of time breaking them. Wearing Englischer clothes and whatnot. She didn’t get along with her parents, so she moved in with Mary and Abe. Didn’t work out so well there, either, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Rumspringa can be a confusing time for young people,” I say, staying neutral, trying to keep her talking. “A lot of temptation these days.”

  “The sheriff’s department has been sniffing around and asking all sorts of questions. Word around town is, Rachel wasn’t out there by herself.”

  I stare at her, trying not to look too interested, not sure I’m succeeding. “Who?”

  “No one knows. I heard she had a boyfriend. She went to see him. Got lost on her way home and died.”

  “How sad.” I press my hand to my chest. “The boy is English?”

  Another look around. “Word is, he was older. And married.” She whispers the last word as if the walls themselves have ears. “No one knows for sure.”

  “The police must be anxious to speak with him.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She shrugs. “Most of us don’t deal with the Englischers much. Bishop Schrock is strong on separation from the unbelieving world.”

  I want to keep the conversation focused on the death of Rachel Esh, but I’m not sure how to do so without garnering suspicion, and the moment slips away.

  The Amish woman doesn’t notice, and motions toward the wi
ndow facing Main Street. “Before Eli Schrock became bishop, there were six or seven Amish shops. We have such an entrepreneurial spirit, you know. But the government came after us with all their taxes and regulations.” She huffs a laugh. “Can’t even put in a new front door without some kind of permit. The bishop defended us; he knows how to deal with them. But he lost. A week later, he held a meeting and told all the shopkeepers here in town that when their leases were up, they shouldn’t renew.”

  “Such a shame,” I say.

  “A lot of Amish sell things from their homes or farmhouses now. Most of them make a pretty penny doing it. I have a three-year lease here. Time’s up in ten months.” She heaves a wistful sigh. “I love this place, but right is right, and of course the bishop has the final say. When the time comes I’ll say good-bye to it and not look back.” She laughs. “Listen to me, gossiping like some old woman.”

  “It’s good to know these things,” I tell her.

  We fall silent, so I move to keep the conversation flowing. “Mary and her husband were nice enough to offer me a ride to worship.”

  “Well, that’s kind. Daniel and I will be there, too.”

  “I hear Bishop Schrock is a good preacher.”

  “Barely has to read because he keeps all of it in his head.”

  “I’m planning to join the church,” I tell her.

  “He’s taken in many, including a few who were lost.” Offering a small smile, she reaches out and pats my shoulder. “He believes a strong Ordnung bestows a free heart and a clear conscience. But if you came here because of Bishop Schrock, you already know that now, don’t you?”

  I offer my best smile. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Well, a lot of the church districts have fallen to having worship every other Sunday. Bishop Schrock preaches every week. You’d be wise not to miss one.”