Page 33 of A Gathering of Secrets

Outside the seating area, I spy a rack of straw hats, Western style as well as Amish. Beyond, the store is a jungle of items Amish-country tourists and locals can’t live without. Gardening tools and fertilizer. An endcap display of handmade cards. Two rows are dedicated to Amish-themed Halloween costumes. I see hot pads in the shape of dog paws and I find myself thinking about my sister’s birthday.

“Can I help you find something?”

I turn to find myself looking at a pretty young Amish woman. Late teens. Raven hair. Peaches-and-cream complexion. Eyes the color of cognac. Not a stitch of makeup and she’s cosmetic-commercial pretty. She’s wearing a pastel pink dress with a white, organdy head covering that tells me she’s Beachy Amish.

She’s smiling at me, brows raised as if I’ve somehow amused her, waiting. “There’s more stuff in the back,” she tells me. “My mamm makes the soap. We’ve got lavender and rosemary this week. She puts olive oil in it for soft skin.”

“Tempting, but I’m actually here on official business.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich.”

“Oh.” Her smile falters. “I heard about it. That awful barn fire over in Painters Mill. What a horrible thing. Mamm said a bunch of the men from the church district are going to rebuild the barn for the family. We’re going to send pies. I can’t imagine losing a loved one that way.”

“That’s one of the things I admire about the Amish,” I tell her. “When tragedy strikes, you can always count—”

“Neva! Look! I finished! And it’s so pretty!”

Female voices and the pound of footsteps against the floor snap my attention to the rear of the shop. Two young Amish women burst through a curtained door. Moving fast, they dart between shelving units. I guess them to be in their late teens or early twenties. They’re wearing conservative Amish dresses in different shades of blue. Off-brand sneakers. They’re giggling, shoes sliding on concrete as they race around an endcap of pet supplies.

The girl in the lead draws up short at the sight of me. She’s a tad shorter than the other two, blond and hazel eyed with a round face and twenty pounds of extra weight. Her eyes go wide upon spotting me. “Oh. Sorry.”

The second girl literally runs into the first, grunting on impact. She’s brown-haired with a widow’s peak, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on a turned-up nose. Tall and thin of build, she has the gangly arms and legs of a girl who hasn’t quite grown into them yet.

The girls are toting a large swath of fabric that looks like a quilt. It strikes me that these are the three girls in the photo taken with Emma Miller.

“I didn’t realize you were with a customer,” the brown-haired girl says softly.

The blonde is staring at my uniform. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

The Amish are generally low-key; they’re not prone to loud verbal outbursts, particularly in public. Evidently, I’ve caught them at an unguarded moment, and I find myself charmed by their innocent fun.

The girl I’d been talking to sighs. She’s trying hard to maintain her professional persona. She’s not quite succeeding, because she’s having a difficult time withholding a smile. “You finished the quilt?”

The blond girl glances at her sidekick and grins. “Just now.”

“She cheated on stitches,” says the brunette.

The blonde elbows her. “Did not.”

“Go on back to the sewing room.” The black-haired girl slants her eyes at me. “I’ll be there in a minute and we’ll take a look.”

“Ich will’s sana,” I say, looking at the quilt. I’d like to see it. “If you have a minute?”

They stare at me, as surprised that I know Deitsh as they are to see a uniformed police officer in their homey little shop. I introduce myself and show them my badge. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich over in Painters Mill.”

No one has anything to say about that.

I wait a beat and then ask, “What are your names?”

The black-haired woman—evidently the leader of the trio—sticks out her hand. “I’m Neva Lambright.”

I take her hand and we shake. She’s got small, delicate hands, but they’re callused, telling me she spends much of her time working not only here at the store, but at home as well.

“I’m the manager here at The Mercantile,” she tells me. “My parents own the place.”

I turn my attention to the blond girl. She’s several inches shorter than me, so I have to look down to meet her gaze.

“I’m Viola Stutzman.” Mimicking the older girl, she sticks out her hand with great panache, but doesn’t quite convey the same level of confidence. I don’t hold it against her. Amish girls aren’t exactly taught how to make acquaintance with the English police, and this girl seems to be the youngest of the group.

I turn my attention to the brunette. She’s tall and gangly with intelligent, watchful eyes.