Page 45 of A Gathering of Secrets

I show her my badge and introduce myself. “We’re looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich,” I tell her. “May we come inside for a few minutes to speak with you?”

“But … why?” Looking like a trapped animal that’s just realized its life is in danger, she glances from me to Mona. “I don’t know anything.”

She’s too polite to refuse my request and steps back, ostensibly allowing us entry.

“Thank you.” I take the initiative and step inside. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

I’m greeted by the smells of burned toast and fresh-brewed coffee. The house is slightly cramped and typically Amish. The living room contains an overstuffed sofa piled high with crocheted pillows. Two end tables, both adorned with kerosene lamps set on doilies. Two rocking chairs with homemade seat cushions. Through a wide entryway I see a decent-size kitchen. White cabinets. A wringer washer on the back porch. A baby crib is set against the wall between the kitchen and living room.

“I don’t know why you’re here.” Petersheim crosses to the crib and looks down at the baby before turning to us. “I don’t know anything about Daniel.”

“I was told you were friends,” I begin.

“I don’t know who told you that, but we weren’t friends. I knew him. I mean, when I lived in Painters Mill with my parents. But that was a long time ago. I’m married now.” She takes a breath as if she’d forgotten to breathe while speaking.

I puzzle over the level of her nervousness. Of course, anxiety isn’t an indication of guilt; some people simply get nervous around cops. Or they don’t like strangers. But even taking those things into consideration, Ruth Petersheim seems disproportionately affected by our presence.

“Is your husband home, Mrs. Petersheim?”

“He’s working.”

I pull out my notebook. “Where does he work?”

“Obermiller Construction. He’s putting in the fence out to the Inn this week.”

I jot it down, giving her a chance to calm down, and then try again. “I understand you went to a singing with Daniel Gingerich.”

She looks at me as if the statement makes her nauseous. “Oh, that. It was an … informal thing. And there were lots of other Amish there. We weren’t … together or alone. I mean, it wasn’t just the two of us.”

I’m not sure why any of those things matter, or why she felt the need to point them out, so I don’t press her too hard. “So you were never close,” I say easily.

“No.”

Nodding, I offer a smile, but I sense the tension coming off her. She’s wringing her hands and keeps looking at the baby, as if hoping the infant will cry so she can escape.

“Did Daniel ever have any arguments or disagreements with anyone that you know of?” I ask.

“No, but then I didn’t know him very well. Hardly at all.”

Her reply came too quickly. She’s not thinking about the question before blurting out the answer she wants me to hear. The one that will bring this unpleasant exchange to an end and send us on our way. What the hell?

I try to engage her. “Are you sure, Ruth? Maybe he had a disagreement with someone over money? Something like that?”

“He never argued with anyone that I know of.” She looks longingly at the door as if she wants us to make use of it.

Mona interjects. “Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal at the time?”

Petersheim blinks at her as if realizing it’s now two against one. “No.”

The baby begins to cry. Looking unduly grateful for the interruption, the Amish woman turns away and rushes to the crib. “Ich bin om cooma.” I’m coming.

When her back is turned I look at Mona, and she shrugs.

Ignoring us completely, keeping her back to us, Petersheim scoops the baby into her arms. “Wie geht’s, mei lamm?” How goes it, my little lamb?

I cross to the crib and, trying to find a way to put her at ease, I look down at the baby in her arms. “Er is schnuck.” He’s cute.

For the first time, she looks at me as if I’m a person, not some monster that’s forced its way into her home, and a smile touches her mouth. “Cannscht du Deitsh schwetze?” Can you speak Dutch?