Page 26 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Keep your distance,” I say.

Blinking, he takes a step back and lowers his voice. “Look, I may have that truck over there, and I might’ve done some things that ain’t very Amish like. But I’m still one of them. I believe in God. I loved Danny like a brother and I was raised not to speak ill of the dead. But let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder. Everyone who thinks Danny was some kind of saint? Maybe they didn’t know him as well as I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he treated Luane like shit and that ain’t all.” For the first time, his voice is bitter. “She didn’t seem to mind, though, did she?”

“Milo, you need to explain that to me. Right now.”

“Let’s just say Danny wasn’t always a nice guy and leave it at that.” He glances toward the barn, where the horse is still tied and pawing at the ground. “Look, I gotta get back to work. We done here?”

“You can’t make a statement like that without backing it up,” I tell him.

“You want to know about Danny the Saint? I’d suggest you talk to Emma Miller.” He starts to turn away and then stops as if thinking better of it. “But I reckon it’s a little too late.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Where do I find her?”

“Good luck, Chief Burkholder.” Turning, he walks away without looking back.

CHAPTER 7

In Holmes County, the most common Amish surname name is Miller. After leaving Hershberger’s place last night, I went directly to the station. My second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, and I spent two hours looking through the latest Ohio Amish Directory for Holmes County and Vicinity, an enormous tome published in nearby Walnut Creek that lists local Amish church districts, their bishops, and the names of all their members, including their children. By the time we found Emma Miller, it was nearly ten P.M.—too late to pay her a visit.

At eight A.M., I’m back in the Explorer just east of Charm and heading north on County Road 159. A few miles down the road I find the address I’m looking for. A hand-painted sign at the end of the lane reads: BIRDHOUSES. FEEDERS. DOGHOUSES. NO SUNDAY SALE. I make the turn.

Sam and Esther Miller live on a well-kept farm that sits prettily atop a hill overlooking a picturesque valley. I pass by an old cinder-block milk house and continue on.

The brick farmhouse was built at the highest point on the property and offers stunning views in every direction. The house is plain; there’s no landscaping, no shutters or flowerpots, but the lack of ornamentation doesn’t detract from its beauty. A massive pine tree dominates the front yard, which is enclosed by a split-rail fence and a row of lilac bushes. The sliding doors of the barn stand open. I see someone inside, so I pull up to the base of the ramp and get out.

I’m on my way to the door when I notice the bird feeders. Dozens of them are mounted on freestanding poles; others hang from the eaves of the barn. They’re handmade artistry, fashioned to look like mini gazebos, log cabins, buggies, and the iconic Amish-country red barn. Sparrows and cardinals chatter and vie for millet and sunflower seed.

“Can I help you?”

I look up to see a middle-aged Amish woman in a dark blue dress approach. She’s Swartzentruber—I can tell by the black bonnet and the style of her dress—but her expression is friendly and open.

“The bird feeders are lovely,” I tell her. “Do you make them?”

“My husband does. I do the painting. We make everything here. Doghouses. Birdhouses. God gave us strong hands and strong backs, and we sure ain’t afraid of a little work.” She looks around and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “We don’t usually open till ten, but if you got your eye on something, I can sell it to you.”

“I’m afraid this is an official call.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich.”

Her smile falters. She recognizes the name. Something else in her eyes I can’t decipher. A quick dart of apprehension. “Heard about that,” she says. “Awful for that poor family. A young man just starting his life.” But she doesn’t look too broken up about it.

“I’m looking for Emma Miller,” I say. “Is she around?”

That shadow again. More pronounced this time. Something dark emerging from the shadows where she keeps it hidden away. “Emma was my daughter,” she tells me. “Passed away six months ago.”

Surprise ripples through me. I find myself wishing I’d done more homework before coming here. “I’m sorry.”

“Sis Gottes wille.” It’s God’s will.

“She was just seventeen?”

The woman nods. “Left us all too soon.” The smile that follows is sad. “She’s with the Lord now, but I sure wish I’d had more time with her. She was our oldest and I miss her sweet soul every day.”

I try to get a handle on the rise of tension, identify its source, but it hovers just out of reach. “Did your daughter know Daniel Gingerich, Mrs. Miller?”

“They met a few times. Daniel did some work here at the farm for my husband last summer. Painted that old milk house down the lane. Put up a cross fence for the calves.”