After the Storm

by Linda Castillo

  * * *

  En Schtich in Zeit is Pennsylvania Dutch for A Stitch in Time. It’s an Amish quilt and sewing shop on Main Street just two blocks from the police station. I’ve driven past the place hundreds of times in the years I’ve been back. I don’t sew, so I’ve never had reason to venture inside. One of the things I love about it is the display windows. Every holiday, the owner decorates the old-fashioned windows in creative and interesting ways, but especially at Christmastime.

  The wind chimes hanging on the front door jingle merrily when I step into the shop. The aromas of cinnamon and hazelnut greet me, conjuring images of fresh-baked pastries and coffee. The space is long and narrow with plenty of natural light coming in through the storefront windows. The walls to my left and right are adorned with children’s clothing—plain dresses, boys’ shirts and trousers—hanging neatly on wooden hangers, the hand-printed price tags dangling and discreetly turned. Ahead and to my right are a dozen or more hinged wooden arms set into the wall. Each arm is draped with a quilt that’s been neatly folded so that its best qualities are displayed. I see traditional patterns—diamond and star and peace birds. Farther back, twin beds are set up. Each is covered with an heirloom-quality child’s quilt. Crib quilts and wall hangings are displayed on the wall above the beds.

  At the rear, five Amish women sit at a long folding table that’s covered with fabric, tools of the trade, and, in the center, an antiquated sewing kit. The women are looking at me as if I’m a stray dog that’s wandered in. Their stares are not unfriendly, but I’m not met with smiles either, and I wonder if they know who I am.

  “May I help you?”

  I glance to my left to see a young Amish woman wearing a plain blue dress, a black apron, and an organdy kapp standing behind the counter. She’s slender with a milk-and-honey complexion and liquid green eyes fringed with thick lashes. On the counter next to her is a platter heaped with what looks like homemade oatmeal raisin cookies.

  “Hi.” Returning her smile, I cross to her, pulling out my badge. “I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

  “Oh. Hello.” She cocks her head. “You must be Sarah’s sister.”

  “I am. Do you know her?”

  “Sarah comes into the shop every so often for supplies. In fact, she was here just yesterday for thread and some fabric. She’s working on a wedding quilt for her neighbor.” She looks away, uncomfortable now because she’s aware that the other women are listening and she isn’t sure how friendly she should be, now that she knows who I am.

  “Sie hot net der glaawe,” one of the woman says beneath her breath. She doesn’t keep the faith.

  “Mer sot em sei Eegne net verlosse; Godd verlosst die Seine nicht,” whispers another. One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.

  The young woman tightens her mouth and looks down at the cash register in front of her. Not speaking. Not meeting my gaze.

  I lean close to her and lower my voice. “Wer laurt an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.” If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults.

  The young woman bursts out laughing, catches herself, and puts her hand over her mouth. But I can tell by the way her eyes are lit up that she appreciates good Amish humor.

  “How can I help you, Kate Burkholder?” she asks.

  “I probably need to speak with one of the other ladies, if they’re not too busy,” I say loud enough for the women to hear.

  A plump woman of about forty anchors her needle and sets her fabric on the table in front of her. Scooting back her chair, she rises, her eyes holding mine as she starts toward me. She’s a large, solidly built woman and moves like a battleship, shoulders back, chin up, her practical shoes clomping against the wood-plank floor.

  “Wei geth’s alleweil, Katie Burkholder?” How goes it now?

  She’s got a voice like a chainsaw. I’ve seen her around town, but I feel as if I’m at a slight disadvantage because I don’t remember her name. “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good.

  She dismisses the younger woman with a cool look. The girl slinks from behind the counter and walks to the table, where she goes back to her stitching.

  “I’m Martha Yoder,” she says, sizing me up, not sure if she likes what she sees. “We met at the Carriage Stop a couple of years back.”

  “Good to see you again, Martha.” We shake hands. “I’m working on a case,” I begin, speaking loudly enough for the other women to hear. “I’m looking for an Amish woman, a quilter or seamstress with the initials ‘A.K.’ She made an heirloom-quality quilt back in 1985 and embroidered her initials in the corner.”

  “What’d she do?” whispers the young woman who’d been behind the counter when I walked in.

  The question earns her a sneer from the woman sitting next to her.

  “What was the pattern?” one of the other women asks.

  “Center star,” I tell her. “The colors are unusual, mauve and cream and black.”

  “A.K.” Martha’s brows knit. “Hmm. Let me think.” She glances over her shoulder at the women and asks in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Who was it that used to use all that pink the Englischer tourists like so much? Anna? Ada? She’s from down south, I think. Always got a pretty penny for her quilts.”

  A tiny woman with silver hair and rheumy blue eyes looks up from her needlework. “Little Abby Kline used to use a lot of pink. Been known to add her initials to her work, too. I’ve known her since the day the Lord brought her into this world. That girl’s been making quilts since she was nine years old.”

  A second woman straightens and levels her gaze on me. “Almost forgot about little Abby. I made a wedding quilt for her when she married Jeramy Kline. Gosh, that’s been thirty years ago now.”

  “Thirty years and four babies,” another woman adds, as she leans forward and bites a thread to sever it. “All grown up now.”

  “She doesn’t come into town much anymore,” one of the younger women comments.

  “Saw her at the grocery last week,” says another woman as she pulls a needle through fabric.

  Pennsylvania Dutch was my first language and even after so many years of speaking only English, my brain switches to my native tongue with surprising ease. “What was her maiden name?”

  “Kaufman,” one of the women says.

  The last thing I want to do is start speculation or gossip, but I need information. Evidently, these women are well versed on goings on within the Amish community, so I take the risk. “Do any of you remember if Abigail knew Leroy Nolt?”

  The eyes of the older woman—the one old enough to remember Nolt’s disappearance—attach to mine. “Little Abby was always with Jeramy,” she tells me. “Always.”

  The youngest woman’s eyes go wide. “Does Abby have something to do with those bones?”

  No one looks at her. I don’t answer her question.

  The eldest woman goes back to her sewing. “Little Abby never had eyes for anyone but Jeramy.”

  “Leroy Nolt was a Mennonite,” Martha says. “Abby and her family are Swartzentruber.”

  “The two don’t mix if you ask me,” one of the other women says.

  It’s not the first time I’ve heard those words, and they annoy me as much now as they did when I was an angry and rebellious teen. While Mennonites and the Amish share a common Anabaptist heritage, the differences are vast and include everything from the use of electricity to the ownership of cars. The most significant difference, however, is the tenet of separation, which is central to the Amish but not part of the Mennonite way. Most Amish I know mingle freely with their Mennonite neighbors, but as in all cultures, there are those who are intolerant.

  The old woman looks up from her needle and thread and levels a blue-steel gaze on mine. “Katie Burkholder, I think you’d be best served if you kept your feet under your own table.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Abigail and Jeramy Kline live on County Road 19 just south of the Holmes County line. It’s a hilly, cur
vy road that cuts through farmland and forest and is bordered by a guardrail that’s seen more than its fair share of collisions. The house and barn are close to the road, by Amish standards anyway, and are set into a slope. At the mouth of the driveway, a hand-lettered sign tells me FRESH BROWN EGGS. AMISH QUILTS. (NO SUNDAY SALE!) Towering trees surround the plain farmhouse to my left. Ahead is a cornfield with razor-straight rows of corn that’s already hip high. In the yard, a tractor tire on a rope dangles from the branch of a maple. The barn is white with a cinder-block foundation lined with a profusion of hostas. In a small pen adjacent to a shedrow, a sleek Standardbred mare reaches through a broken rail to nibble grass already shorn to dirt. Beneath the overhang of the shedrow, a black windowless buggy with wood-and-steel wheels is parked, its twin shafts resting on concrete blocks, and I’m reminded that this family is Swartzentruber.

  I park adjacent to the house and take the sidewalk to the porch. I’m about to knock, when I spot the Amish woman hoeing in the garden to my left. I leave the porch and start toward her. She’s so intent on her work she doesn’t notice me, so I call out to her. “It looks like you’re going to have a bumper crop of tomatoes this year.”

  She startles and nearly drops the hoe, pressing her hand to her chest and then laughing at herself. “Oh my goodness! I didn’t see you pull up.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” I reach her and show her my badge, nodding at the carefully staked tomato plants. “Looks like they’ll be ripe in a few weeks.”

  “A month, probably. If the worms don’t get them first.” She smiles and then whispers conspiratorially, “And if I didn’t have such a weakness for fried green tomatoes.”

  “You and me both.” Returning her smile, I offer my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police up in Painters Mill.”

  “Hello, Kate Burkholder.” Her grip is firm. She’s got strong hands for a woman, and her palms are well callused from hours of manual labor.

  I guess her to be in her late forties. She’s got a tanned, youthful face with freckles on her nose and the quick, contagious smile of a woman who’s comfortable with who she is and content with her life. She’s wearing a homemade navy dress, black apron, and black sneakers, with an organdy kapp. She’s a few inches taller than me. Despite the plainness of her clothes, I can see that her figure is trim and athletic.

  “Do you have a few minutes to talk, Mrs. Kline?” I begin.

  “Has something happened?” Her smile falters, pretty green eyes sharpening on mine. “One of my children? Has someone—”

  “No one’s been hurt,” I assure her.

  She breathes a sigh of relief. “I guess it’s a mother’s job to worry, even after they’ve grown up. Especially after they’ve grown up.” She laughs at herself again. “And Jeramy’s parents are getting up in years. I thought maybe…” She lets the words trail as if the notion is too unpleasant to utter aloud. “We’ve been trying to get them to sell their farm and move here with us, but—” She stops herself. “Here I am blabbing on, when you’ve driven all the way from Painters Mill.”

  “I’m here about an old case I’m working on,” I tell her. “A young man who went missing back in 1985.”

  “Who?”

  “A local man by the name of Leroy Nolt.”

  Abigail picks up the hem of her apron and begins to wring the material between her hands. “I can’t imagine what that would have to do with me.”

  “Do you know him?” I ask.

  Her hands go still. Her eyes remain level on mine. Her lips maintain the smile. There’s no flicker of recognition. No outward sign of emotion. It’s a completely normal and expected reaction of a woman who has no earthly idea who Leroy Nolt is or why I’m asking about him. But while everything about her is calm and relaxed, her white-knuckled grip on the hem of her apron gives me pause.

  Her brows knit. She repeats the name, her eyes moving upward as if she’s searching her memory. “The name is familiar, but I don’t quite recall where I’ve heard it.”

  “Maybe you knew him a long time ago? Before you were married?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says simply.

  I nod, take a moment to look around and admire the peacefulness of the farm. “You and your husband have a beautiful home here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you a quilter, Mrs. Kline?”

  Her mouth opens as if she’s wondering how I could know that, so I move to put her at ease. “I noticed the sign when I pulled in.”

  “Oh.” She emits a chuckle. “I don’t know where my mind is today.”

  “On the tomatoes, probably.”

  My response seems to put her at ease. “I do enjoy making quilts. God blessed me with the gift, so I do my best to put it to good use.”

  “Do you have any for sale?”

  “I sold the last one a couple of days ago to a nice tourist from Cleveland. I hope to have another finished by the end of the month. Are you looking for a particular pattern?”

  I shake my head. “Just something pretty. I’ll have to come back, then.” I wait a beat and then ask, “Your maiden name was Kaufman, is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes narrow on mine. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you initial the quilts you make?”

  Her expression goes wary. “Sometimes. A lot of the Amish do.”

  “Did you ever make a quilt for Leroy Nolt?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but several seconds pass before the word comes. “No.”

  “What about his mother? Sue Nolt?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” She takes a deep breath, and I realize she’s making an effort to calm herself. “Why are you asking about people I don’t even know?” she asks in a low voice, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear.

  I pull out the photo of the engagement ring and show it to her. “Have you ever seen this ring before, Mrs. Kline?”

  She stares at the photo. Mouth open. Eyelids fluttering. Then she seems to gather herself and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can help you,” she tells me. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not sure I believe her, but I nod. “Is your husband home?”

  “Yes, but he’s in the—”

  “I’m right here,” a deep male voice calls out.

  Refolding the photo, I tuck it into my pocket and turn. Jeramy Kline is about twenty feet away, crossing the side yard, closing in on us with long, purposeful strides. He’s wearing black trousers and a gray work shirt. His beard is long, reaching nearly to his belly, thick and wiry, black shot with gray. He’s a large man, well over six feet tall and weighing in somewhere around two hundred pounds, with a muscular physique and hands the size of dinner plates. His eyes are shaded by the black, flat-brimmed hat. Though I can’t see them, I feel them on me.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks as he reaches us.

  “I was just asking your wife some routine questions about an old case I’m working on.” I extend my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill Police.”

  He gives my hand a thorough shake. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m wondering if you know a man by the name of Leroy Nolt.”

  “Leroy Nolt.” His eyes narrow, crow’s feet appearing at the corners. “The boy who disappeared way back. I remember the name.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I know of him. But I don’t believe I ever met him. He was Mennischt.” Mennonite. He grimaces as if it pains him to say the word, and I’m reminded that many times in the Amish culture, the more liberal Anabaptists are frowned upon by the Old Order Swartzentruber Amish. “It was big news when he went missing all those years ago,” he says. “I remember reading about it in The Budget.”

  Beside him, his wife has gone silent. I glance at her to see that she’s fingering her apron again, looking over at the tomato plants as if she’s wishing she were anywhere but standing here talking to me.

 
“Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Of course I’m sure.” He tips his head. I can see his eyes now. They’re blue and glinting with keen intelligence. “I’m wondering why you drove all the way down here to ask us about Nolt.”

  I consider telling him about the remains and the quilt emblazoned with initials the same as his wife’s, but I decide not to. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case yet, Mr. Kline. I hope to be able to do that soon.”

  Before either of them can respond, I offer my hand for another shake. “I appreciate your time.” I glance at Abigail and motion toward the garden. “Good luck with those tomatoes.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I’m northbound on Ohio 83 just east of Lake Buckhorn, my mind going over my odd exchange with Abigail Kline. I’m pretty sure she was lying about Leroy Nolt. I think she knew him. I believe she made that quilt for him. And I’m damn sure she knew something about the ring. But why would she lie about any of those things? Does she know what happened to him? Was she somehow involved in his death? Has she been keeping the knowledge to herself for thirty years?

  The questions tap at my brain like a reflex hammer against bone. There’s something there—secrets, I think. But I don’t know what they are or how they relate to the case.

  Tugging on my headset, I call dispatch. “Jodie, can you get me the names of Jeramy Kline’s parents?” I think about that a moment. “Abigail Kline’s, too. Her maiden name was Kaufman.” I spell the last names for her. “Get me addresses. Run them through LEADS, including Jeramy and Abigail. And check to see if any of the elders are on the hog-raisers list.”

  “You got it.” She pauses. “You on your way in?”

  I glance to my left, where Lake Buckhorn shimmers silver and green. Beyond, I see the lush rise of trees through the haze of humidity coming off the water. And I find myself thinking about Tomasetti.

  “I’m going to call it a day,” I tell her. “Just leave everything in the file, and I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  The farm is beautiful at dusk. As I pull into the gravel lane, I’m reminded of all the reasons I’ve come to love this place. It’s the kind of beauty that settles over you in layers. The old farmhouse with its kind, grandfather face. The massive maple trees that stand like proud sentinels. Beyond, the lush green of the pasture and the mist rising from the pond. As I draw nearer, I spot the lilac bush Tomasetti discovered when he cleared away brush from a bramble in the side yard. The peonies we planted together a few weeks ago. At some point in the last few days, he mounted a hammock between two trees, a chore I missed out on because I was working.