Page 47 of A Gathering of Secrets

I reach Winesburg Street and take a left. Ruth Petersheim had said her husband was working on a fence at the Amish Door Village. I don’t recall seeing one on US 62 when we drove past, so I make a left on Lawnford. Sure enough, a quarter mile in, just past the dogleg, I see two Amish men working on a four-rail white fence.

Parked on the shoulder, an older Dodge pickup truck bakes in the sun. Its tailgate is down and in the bed I see a pile of tools—a shovel, a hammer, boxes of screws, a battery-powered screwdriver—and an insulated water cooler.

I pull up behind the truck and kill the engine. “Since we’re here, I thought we might make contact and double-check Ruth’s story about where she was the night Gingerich was killed.”

We get out and start toward the men. The older guy is standing next to the fence, leaning on the shovel, a collapsible cup in hand, watching us approach. I guess him to be about forty years of age. He’s got a full beard that’s shot with gray. Blue work shirt. Dark trousers. Suspenders. A summer straw hat and sunglasses. The younger of the two is digging a post hole, a physically taxing chore, especially with the sun beating down. He’s dressed much like the older man, but his shirt is soaked through with sweat beneath his arms and along the center of his back.

“Hays genuk fa du?” I say as I approach. Hot enough for you?

Grinning, the older man takes a sip of water and motions toward the man digging the post hole. “Hays genuk fa eem fleicht.” Hot enough for him maybe.

I introduce myself. “I’m looking for Mark Petersheim.”

The young man glances over at me before ramming the digger back into the hole. He’s blond-haired with a thick red beard and eyes the color of tea. “I’m Petersheim,” he says.

“I’m investigating the death of Daniel Gingerich,” I tell him. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The two Amish men exchange looks. Sighing, Petersheim tugs the post hole digger from the hole, sets the tip against the ground, and offers it to the other man. “Alle daag rumhersitze mach tem faul,” he says. Sitting all day makes one lazy.

Chuckling, the older man takes the handles and gets to work.

I watch as Petersheim crosses to the truck, snaps up a collapsible cup, fills it, and after removing his hat, dumps it over his head. He fills the cup a second time and drinks it down before returning to where Mona and I stand. He doesn’t look pleased that we’re here.

“I didn’t know Gingerich,” he says, wiping the water from his face with a kerchief.

“Did you ever meet him?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Do you know of him?”

“Heard about the fire. That kind of thing is big news, especially since he was Amish and all.”

I nod. “I understand your wife knew him before you were married.”

A brief hesitation. “I think they might’ve been in the same church district for a while. We’re Beachy now, so…” He motions toward the truck and shrugs.

“Were Daniel and your wife friends?”

He looks away, watches the other man dig, then turns his attention back to me. “Don’t think so.”

“She never mentioned him?” I ask.

“Not that I recall.”

“We just talked to Ruth a few minutes ago,” I tell him.

“I reckon you should have asked her instead of me.”

While he hasn’t said or done anything overtly hostile, he’s being rude and evasive. Resentment simmers beneath the surface of his otherwise calm facade. Since no one I’ve talked to today seems inclined to talk about Daniel Gingerich, I push, hoping to find out why.

“I understand your wife and Daniel went to a singing together.”

“A lot of Amisch go to singings. That’s what the young people do. So what?”

“Would you mind telling me where you were Monday night, Mr. Petersheim?”

“Same place I am every night.” He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away; he’s not the least bit intimidated by me or my questions. “Home. With my wife and our baby.” He glances over at the other Amish man, who has finished with the post hole, then turns his attention back to me. “You done? I gotta get back to work.”