Page 48 of A Gathering of Secrets

“I appreciate your time.”

He walks away without looking back.

* * *

“He’s a font of information,” Mona says when we’re back inside the Explorer.

“He knows more than he’s letting on,” I say as I buckle in and start the engine.

“Seems like no one wants to talk about Daniel Gingerich,” Mona says. “I wonder why.”

“Sooner or later all of these weird little secrets everyone is keeping are going to come to light.” I put the vehicle in gear and pull onto the road. “When they do, we’ll have our answer.”

CHAPTER 11

It’s after noon when I pull up to the police station and drop Mona. I’m thinking about Emma Miller and the possibility that her death was the result of some event linked to Daniel Gingerich in the days he worked for the Millers. Instead of going inside, I make a U-turn and I’m back on the road, heading north on County Road 159 toward the Miller farm.

The last time I spoke to Esther and Sam Miller, they made it clear they had no intention of opening up about their daughter. The case has evolved since then. Now that I know more about Daniel Gingerich—more about young Emma—I realize their silence may not be solely based on grief, but secrets.

I take the winding lane to the house on the hill. The barn door stands open, so I park in the gravel a few yards away and go inside. The interior is shadowy and smells of horses and hay and earthy things. But I also smell a hint of paint.

“Hello?” I call out. “Mr. Miller?”

I wander toward the rear of the barn, passing a workbench loaded with several unfinished birdhouses and feeders. I’m thinking about going up to the second-level loft when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to find Esther Miller standing there in her black dress and bonnet, a gallon bucket of paint in her hand.

“Thought I heard someone out here.” Watching me out of the corner of her eye, she crosses to the workbench and hefts the paint can onto a section of old newspaper. “You change your mind about buying one of those feeders?”

“I think I’ll take the red one that looks like the Amish barn. For my sister. It’s her birthday next week.”

“That’s a nice one.” Her amicable tone belies the wariness in her eyes as she goes to the chosen feeder and sets it on the bench. “Would you like it wrapped? I use these old copies of The Budget and a bit of twine. Makes for a nice, rustic effect.”

“I think she’d like that.”

The Amish woman tugs a folded newspaper from a shelf beneath the bench, then pulls a length of twine from a roll affixed to big steel bolt that’s welded to the wall. “Can’t use corn in this one, unless it’s the cracked kind. It’ll clog up the holes there at the bottom and the millet won’t come out.”

“Ich fashtay.” I understand.

I watch as she sets the feeder on the newspaper and begins to wrap it. “I know Emma was ime familye weg when she died,” I say.

The Amish woman winces as if I’d reached out and sliced her down the back with a knife. Among many of the Old Order and Swartzentruber sects of Amish society, pregnancy is not discussed. The word “pregnant” is never used. The Amish adore children and usually have a large brood. But when it comes to the mechanics of it—the birds-and-the-bees aspect—there’s a certain level of squeamishness.

Among many of the Amish, there’s an undeniable stigma attached to a woman who becomes pregnant out of wedlock. Oftentimes, the family of the mother-to-be will step in and urge her to marry, even if the prospective groom isn’t the father of the baby.

When Esther doesn’t respond, I cross to her and set my hand on the bird feeder. “I know you’re still mourning your daughter, Mrs. Miller. I understand how painful it must be for you and your husband to speak of her. But I need your help.”

Letting her hands fall away from the feeder, she turns and gives me her full attention. “I won’t speak of her. Not to you. Not about that.”

“Because she was with child?” I ask.

Tightening her mouth, she reaches for the length of string and wraps it around the newspaper covering the bird feeder, yanking it tightly to hold it in place.

“Or maybe you don’t want to talk about her because of what happened to her.”

Esther’s gaze snaps to mine and narrows. “Nothing happened. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. I think Emma went through something awful. You and your husband are either in denial or you’re lying to me because you’re trying to protect her.”

“I don’t want to discuss this,” she hisses. “I won’t. It’s not proper.”