Page 21 of A Gathering of Secrets

“More like a punch-first, think-later kind of guy.”

We smile at each other.

“When we get back I want you to go talk to the ex-wife,” I tell him. “See if she can corroborate Prince Charming’s alibi.”

“So we’re going to keep him on the list for now.”

“For now,” I say.

* * *

Daniel Gingerich’s girlfriend, Luane, is just sixteen years old. She lives with her parents, Mose and Sue Raber, and six siblings on a farm seven miles south of Painters Mill. The Rabers are Swartzentruber Amish, one of the Old Order sects that maintains a vise grip on the long-standing traditions. Untrimmed beards for the men. Black bonnets for the women. Windowless buggies. They refuse many modern conveniences used by other Amish. Things like indoor plumbing, milk machines, and linoleum floors. Unfortunately for me, they’re also known to maintain the so-called wall of silence when it comes to dealing with outsiders, a practice that promises to make the extraction of information an exercise in frustration.

The use of gravel for their lanes is another convenience the Swartzentruber Amish choose not to make use of. The Raber lane is a quarter-mile track of pitted dirt with potholes large enough to swallow a tire. By the time I pull up to the house, the Explorer has developed a rattle. I park behind three buggies, the horses still hitched. Two young hostlers with dirty bare feet and flat-brimmed straw hats eye me suspiciously.

“Wie geth’s alleweil?” I say to them. How goes it now?

The boys exchange looks as if I’ve just spoken to them in Swahili.

Despite my mission, I’m smiling as I take the sidewalk to the front door, cross the porch, and knock. A pretty girl not yet into her teens pushes open the screen, her young face solemn.

“Sinn du eldra haymet?” I ask. Are your parents home?

Without responding, she calls out over her shoulder, “Mir henn Englischer bsuch ghadde!” We have a non-Amish visitor!

Before I can say anything else, she turns and runs back into the house.

They don’t keep me waiting. A heavyset Amish woman in a gray dress walks cautiously to the door and gives me a once-over. “Can I help you?”

I have my badge at the ready. “Sue Raber?”

“Ja.”

“I’m looking into the fire at the Gingerich place,” I tell her. “I’d like to ask you and your husband a few questions.” I glance past her and see four girls standing in the shadows of the hall behind her, eyes wide, watching the exchange with curiosity. “Luane, too, if that’s all right.”

The woman lowers her gaze to the floor with a great deal of solemnity. There’s no surprise in her expression; she’d known about the fire, and I’m reminded how quickly word travels among the Amish.

“We heard about the fire,” she says quietly. “Sweet Danny, too. Such a terrible thing.” Her eyes flick to the girls and she motions in the general direction of the next room. “Gay kinner hiede misse.” Go mind the children.

“Mrs. Raber,” I begin, “I’m talking to everyone who knew or had contact with Daniel in the days before he died. I’ve been told Daniel and Luane were close. That they were planning to get married.” When she only raises her gaze to mine and stares, I add, “May I come in?”

A few minutes later, I’m seated at the big table in the kitchen with Mose and Sue Raber. It’s a somber assemblage. There’s no offer of coffee or iced tea. They are polite, but one thing is clear: I’m an outsider and the sooner I leave, the better.

From all indications the Rabers thought the world of young Daniel. They liked him as a person as well as a prospective son-in-law. They approved of his relationship with their daughter. In fact, when I asked them about the engagement they seemed anxious to marry her off. Whether they’re looking forward to grandchildren or simply one less mouth to feed, there’s no doubt they believed the two were destined for marriage.

“Would it be possible for me to speak with Luane?” I ask.

The couple exchanges a look.

“She’s been … umshmeisa,” Sue tells me. Upset.

“Ich fashtay,” I tell her. I understand. “I won’t keep her long.”

Mose looks at his wife and shrugs. “Ich hab nix dagege.” I don’t object.

The Amish woman rises and disappears into the living room. A minute later she returns with one of the Amish girls who’d been watching us when I first arrived. Now that she’s closer, I recognize her as the girl in the photo I found beneath Daniel’s mattress. She’d looked a lot happier back then.

“This is Chief Burkholder with the police,” Sue tells her daughter in Deitsh. “They’re looking into the fire over to the Gingerich place and she wants to ask you some questions.”