Page 27 of A Gathering of Secrets

It’s a vague answer, and in the back of my mind I hear Milo Hershberger’s parting words. You want to know about Danny the Saint? I’d suggest you talk to Emma Miller.

“Were Daniel and Emma friends?” I ask.

Something ugly peeks around the corner of its hidden spot. “Just to say hello.”

Either she’s being willfully evasive, or Milo Hershberger has sent me on a wild-goose chase. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, I sense this woman is keeping something cached away, just out of sight, so I push a little harder. “Are you certain about that, Mrs. Miller? I was told your daughter and Daniel Gingerich knew each other.”

“Someone got their information wrong,” the woman says.

“Maybe Emma and Daniel became friends and you didn’t know about it.”

“I knew everything about my daughter. Everything.”

I try another tactic. “Did you or your husband have any problems with Daniel while he was working for you? Were there any disagreements? About his pay or his work? Anything like that?”

She shakes her head. “Danny was a good boy. A good worker. Did his job every day and we paid him a fair wage for his time.”

“Die zeit fer is nau.” The time to go is now.

I turn at the sound of the deep male voice to see a middle-aged Amish man standing in the doorway of the barn, leaning on a pitchfork, watching us. He’s wearing dark trousers. Blue work shirt. Suspenders and a wide-brimmed straw hat. His expression tells me he’d been standing there for a while, listening.

“Mr. Miller?” I start toward him and identify myself.

Taking his time, he meets me halfway, his eyes sweeping over my uniform. “What are all these questions about?”

“I’m investigating the death of Daniel Gingerich.”

“Daniel Gingerich? We barely knew the boy. We don’t know anything about him. I don’t see how we could help you.”

“Your wife was just telling me Daniel did some work for you.” I pause. “I understand your daughter, Emma, was friends with him.”

Something that resembles a shiver runs the length of his body. High emotion, I think. Anger? Grief? A mix of the two? Whatever the case, my question touched a nerve.

“All I know about Dan Gingerich is that he was en faehicher schreiner.” An able carpenter.

“Mr. Miller, this is a death investigation. It’s important for you to tell me everything you know about Daniel Gingerich. If your daughter was friends with him or had any dealings with him, I need to know about it.”

The Amish man stares at me, saying nothing.

“Did you or your wife have any problems with Daniel while he was here?” I ask.

“There were no problems,” he says.

“What about—”

“We’ve answered enough of your questions. Our business with you is finished. You should go now.”

“Mr. Miller—”

“We don’t know anything. We have nothing more to say to you or anyone else.” He motions toward the lane. “Go now. Just go.”

* * *

My odd exchange with the Millers nags at me on the drive back to Painters Mill. There’s no doubt in my mind they know more about Daniel Gingerich than they were willing to discuss; I’m even more certain that knowledge has something to do with their deceased daughter. But why are they so reluctant to discuss it? While it’s true that many Swartzentruber Amish prefer to remain separate from the “English,” I don’t believe that’s the case in this instance. The Millers are, after all, running a business and evidently dealing with tourists on a daily basis. So why are they so reluctant to speak openly with me?

It’s after ten A.M. when I arrive back at the station. Lois is at the dispatch desk, squinting at some handwritten report, bright pink fingernails pecking at the keyboard. I’m not surprised to find my third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, occupied with busywork that could more than likely wait until her shift at midnight. I’ve talked to her about her penchant for “staying over” and my inability to pay overtime due to budget constraints. So far my concerns have fallen on deaf ears.

At twenty-four and a recent grad from the local community college with a degree in criminology, Mona is enamored with every facet of law enforcement. I decided a while back that when my most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, retires, I’m going to promote her.