Page 32 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Any mention of suspected foul play?”

“No.” She glances down, opens the file, rifles through the papers. “There was an autopsy. Girl died of cerebral hypoxia. Self-induced. Petechiae present.” She flips the page. “Tox was ordered. Lab report says no drugs or alcohol were present.”

“No wonder her parents didn’t want to talk about it,” I murmur.

“Oh my God.”

That garners my full attention. Mona gapes at one of the papers in her hand, then looks up at me. “I’m just now seeing this, Chief. Says here Emma Miller was pregnant.”

“Well, hell.” Even as I feel that jump of cop’s excitement, another part of me is saddened by the thought of a seventeen-year-old Amish girl believing death was a better alternative than life.

Mona passes me the file and papers.

“Her parents didn’t mention either of those things when I talked to them.” I look down at the autopsy report where the results of a pregnancy test stare back at me in stark black and white. “This explains why.”

“Do you think any of this has something to do with what happened to Daniel Gingerich?” Mona asks.

“I think it opens a door worth looking into.”

Even as I say the words, I recall Sam and Esther Miller’s reluctance to talk to me. Is their reticence due to my being English and a police officer? Were they protecting their daughter’s privacy? Her reputation? Or do they have something to hide?

You want to know about Danny the Saint? I’d suggest you talk to Emma Miller.

What’s the connection between Daniel and Emma? It’s an important question, because even if there was no foul play involved in her death, if young Emma had a relationship with Daniel, became pregnant, and ultimately committed suicide, her father may have a motive to commit murder.

“Nice work, Mona.”

She dazzles me with a smile. “Thanks, Chief.”

“One of these days you’re going to make a damn good cop.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’ll let me know if some other department tries to steal you away, won’t you?”

“Count on it.”

* * *

It takes me half an hour to get through the file Mona amassed on Emma Miller. I am impressed not only by her thoroughness, but by her creativity when it comes to mining information not necessarily found in law enforcement databases. As I read, I’m vaguely aware of Glock arriving to start his end-of-shift reports and my second-shift officer, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, coming in early for some pre-shift bullshitting.

Mostly, I’m engaged in my reading, trying to find some connection between Daniel Gingerich and Emma Miller. There are a few parallels I can’t ignore. Both were in their late teens. Their deaths occurred just six months apart. Both happened in Holmes County. And of course Daniel did some work for the Millers.

I go through the file again, this time looking for details about Emma Miller’s life in the weeks and months before her suicide. There isn’t much. Mona made a copy of the obituary from The Budget, which, in typical Amish fashion, is simple and short. I move on to the next page to find a printout of a newspaper story from The Daily Record titled “The Mercantile Is Charmed.” In the body of the second paragraph, Emma Miller’s name is highlighted in yellow.

I read the article with interest. It’s a fluff piece written to let people know about the newest Amish-owned business in Charm, Ohio, which is about twenty minutes from Painters Mill. It’s a tourist shop that caters to out-of-towners as well as locals, selling everything from quilts and candles to housewares, chocolates, and teas. According to the article, the owners, Edna and Isaac Lambright, are also planning to open a café in the one-hundred-year-old round barn located on the same property. Mona must have done a general Google search, because Emma’s name is mentioned only in passing. But the story includes a photo of her along with three other young Amish women who are featured in the story. Evidently, Emma was one of four part-time employees, all of whom are Amish. According to the story, she was working at The Mercantile up until the day she died.

I study the photo. Emma was a pretty girl with big brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, a milky complexion, and a serious expression despite the smile. Her dress is dark gray. Kapp strings hanging down. I go to the next photo, which is a group picture of four girls. All look to be in their late teens or early twenties. All of them are smiling. Arms linked. One of the girls has her arm draped around Emma’s shoulder. Her head is thrown back in laughter. They look like a wholesome, carefree group of girls on the cusp of adulthood, their lives just beginning.

“What happened to you, Emma?” I whisper.

The only reply is silence.

* * *

The Mercantile is just down the road from the Keim Lumber Company, where Tomasetti and I spent many an afternoon while we were fixing up our farmhouse. Located in an old barn that’s been completely refurbished, The Mercantile is chock-full of personality, with massive overhead beams, reclaimed wood on three walls, galvanized metal shingles on the other, and a concrete floor that’s seen as many hooves as it has boots. It’s a rustic-chic retail shop that beckons one to peruse—and buy.

A cowbell mounted on the antique door jingles cheerfully when I enter. To my right there’s an attached silo that’s been gutted and transformed into a candle-making shop that smells of patchouli and bergamot. To the left of the counter is a railing, and just beyond it is a small café with a scattering of bistro tables and chairs. An antique buffet has been transformed into a coffee station replete with flavored beans—hazelnut, vanilla, and Southern pecan—half a dozen teas, and a pewter tray piled high with pastries.