Page 17 of A Gathering of Secrets

I’m still thinking about the keys, wondering if they’re buried in all that debris—or if the person who locked that door took them when they left. “Who knows about the keys?”

“Just me and Danny. My wife and daughter. The little ones probably, but they don’t go out there much.”

“Is there anyone who might be angry or upset with you or your wife? A relative? Neighbor? Extended family? Business associate?”

“We are Amisch.” He says the words as if that somehow explains everything. “There is no one,” he tells me. “No one.”

I pull out my notebook, glance down at my notes. “What can you tell me about Luane Raber?”

“She’s a good girl. Quiet. Demut.” Humble. “She never got caught up in all the Rumspringa goings-on.” He looks down at the tabletop, his fingertips shaking against the surface. He raises his eyes to mine. “Danny was going to marry her.”

“Her family approved of the relationship?”

“Of course they did.”

“Who else was Danny close to?”

“His best friend is Milo Hershberger. He lives up to Millersburg now. Trains horses for the Englischers. He and Danny were good friends. Practically grew up together. Don’t see him much anymore. But Milo is a good man and Danny thought the world of him. They worked together down to the farm store in Painters Mill for a spell.”

We fall silent, our minds working over everything that’s been said. “Mr. Gingerich, is there anything else you can tell me that might be important?”

“We had some things stolen from the barn a few months ago. A saddle. A couple of harnesses.” He shrugs. “That’s when we started locking the tack room door.”

I don’t recall a burglary report, but I’m not surprised. More often than not, the Amish prefer to deal with problems on their own, without involving the police. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering why he didn’t mention it sooner. “Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

“I know who did it. The neighbor, Chris Martino. Lives down the road in that trashy old house.”

I’m familiar with Chris Martino. He’s a convicted felon and did two years in Mansfield for possession with intent to sell. He rents the farmhouse next door to the Gingerich family. The owner of the property still farms the thirty or so acres surrounding it. Martino is forty years old, unemployed, divorced—and has a mean streak as wide as Lake Erie. He spends his days drinking and most weekends hawking goods at the local flea market or Amish horse auction. Two years ago, I pulled him over for running a stop sign and ended up arresting him on a DUI charge. He became so combative, I had to call for backup.

“Did Daniel ever have any run-ins with Martino? An argument? Harsh words?”

“They had words over the stolen tack. Martino got mad when Danny asked him if he took it.”

He raises his head, his gaze locking with mine. “Do you think Chris Martino did this thing?”

“I don’t think anything at this point. I’m just gathering information, Mr. Gingerich.” When he doesn’t elaborate on the altercation between Daniel and Martino, I press on. “Did they argue?” I ask.

“I didn’t see it, but Danny told me they had words.” He shrugs, shaking his head. “We knew Chris done it, but what could we do?”

Call the police, I think, but I don’t say it. “Did Chris Martino make any threats? Anything like that?”

“I don’t think so, but it don’t take much to set him off.”

I pause, shift gears. “How was Daniel in the last week or so? Was he acting normally? Happy? Sad?”

His eyes soften, his mouth relaxes, and I know he’s remembering his son. “He was the same as always. Helpful. Conscientious. Danny worked hard. He loved God. Loved his family.”

“Had he experienced any problems in his life? With friends? His girlfriend, maybe?”

He shakes his head. “He was looking forward to getting baptized.” He closes his eyes against tears, squeezes them away. “Getting married. Starting a family.”

“Mr. Gingerich, do you mind if I take a quick look around Danny’s room?”

“Why on earth do you need to do that?”

“Maybe Danny left something behind that might be helpful in some way. I don’t know. A note or something.”

He doesn’t look happy about the request; his wounds are too fresh, bleeding. But he’s too immersed in grief to voice the reservations I see on his face. “You can look if you want.” He motions toward the stairs. “It’s the second door on the right.”