Page 37 of A Gathering of Secrets

“You got it.” Computer keys click on the other end of the line. “Here we go. Schlabach, Elam.” She taps a few more keys. “Home address is 4139 Hogpath Road.”

“Work?”

Fingers snap against keys. “Last place of employment … Buckeye Woodworks and Cabinetry on Fourth Street in Painters Mill.”

I know the place. It’s an Amish-owned cabinet and woodworking shop that caters to local home builders, remodeling companies, and DIY homeowners, both Amish and English.

“You got a lead on the Gingerich case?” Lois asks.

“Probably just spinning my wheels.”

“Well, if you’re going to talk to Schlabach at work, you’d best hurry,” she says. “I think they close at six.”

Buckeye Woodworks and Cabinetry is a large establishment set up in a metal building that faces Fourth Street. The front of the structure is adorned with rustic wood siding and two Craftsmanesque windows replete with flower boxes overflowing with bright orange mums. Half a dozen Adirondack chairs span the length of a wide porch. I’ve been inside once or twice, when Tomasetti and I were looking to repair some of our water-damaged hardwood floors, and I know the owner employs some of the best woodworkers in the state.

All the parking spaces in front are occupied, so I pull around to the rear and park next to a loading dock and Dumpster. I get out, traverse the pitted asphalt, and take the concrete stairs to a big double door that stands open. A sign above the door reads GOTT SEGEN AMERIKA. God Bless America.

The roar of tools—saws and drills and the rumble of what sounds like a generator—increases as I approach. The smells of sawdust and wood stain fill the air as I go through the doors. I see several good-size workbenches with air hoses hanging down from steel arms mounted on the ceiling. Most of the tools are being operated by Amish men with full beards and wearing straw hats and work clothes—trousers with suspenders and blue shirts. A couple of the guys have noticed me, but they don’t stop what they’re doing. I’m midway through the shop when a male voice rings out.

“Looking for work?”

I turn to see a white-haired Amish man approach. He’s about my height with a silver beard and a friendly, open expression. He stops a few feet away and tilts his head back, looking at me through thick-lensed glasses that magnify rheumy brown eyes.

“Actually, I’m looking for Elam Schlabach,” I say.

“Some people come in through the front door and ask for who they want to see.” He says the words good-naturedly, but I’ve been effectively dressed down.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I visit,” I reply.

His mouth twitches and he leads me to a workstation where a young Amish man pushes a saw blade through an intricately grained piece of walnut. He glances up, but takes the time to finish his cut before pushing his goggles onto his crown.

He’s in his early twenties with sandy-colored hair and green eyes. His beard is of the barely-there variety, telling me he’s a newlywed. He’s got a keloid scar on his left cheekbone and I wonder if at some point he was injured in the course of his work. Judging from the way he’s handling his tools, he’s been at it since he was too young to get paid for his time, and he’s good at what he does.

“Elam Schlabach?” I ask.

“Yup.” His eyes flash over my uniform, more curious than worried. He reaches for a second piece of wood, lines it up for a cut. “Who wants to know?”

I have my badge at the ready and introduce myself. “I’m investigating the death of Daniel Gingerich.”

“Heard about all that,” Schlabach tells me. “Bad business.”

I look at the partially finished table next to where he’s standing. “That’s a beautiful piece.”

“Still gotta distress and stain it. I made the benches, too. There’s going to be six of them.” I see pride in his eyes as he runs his hand over the wood. “I’m making all the dining room tables for the new restaurant going up at the end of town.”

“The Red Rooster?”

He almost smiles. “That’s the one.”

“I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you.” I slide my badge back into my pocket. “I understand you knew Emma Miller.”

A quiver moves through his body. He doesn’t look away from the saw and for an instant, I think he’s going to make the cut. Instead, he straightens and switches off the saw, giving me his full attention. “I knew Emma.”

“You were close?”

He takes his time responding. “What’s that got to do with Dan Gingerich?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”