Page 56 of A Gathering of Secrets

By the time I finish with the flares, most of the buggies have entered the grounds and parked with extraordinary neatness along the gravel lane. I drive through the gate and park in the shade of the old bois d’arc tree that’s guarded this entrance since I was a kid. I try not to think of the other funerals I’ve attended here, my own parents’ included.

While a funeral is always a somber occasion, the Amish generally view death as part of life’s cycle and God’s divine plan. They’re accepting of death and often don’t question its cause, however untimely or unfair. Most believe the dead are in a better place, with God, and are confident of, and comforted by, the knowledge that they will one day join them.

I respect the Amish ways. It’s pretty futile to rage against something as inevitable as death. That said, I could never quite buy into the whole acceptance thing. I was always the one to rail against the unfairness of it, whether it was from natural causes or something a hell of a lot more malevolent.

Aside from keeping an eye on traffic, I’ve come to observe the mourners. Listen to them. In the course of a homicide investigation, attending the victim’s funeral can be helpful. There are many ways in which guilt manifests itself. Undue crying. Excessive emotion. Making a scene. With the Amish, even the subtlest of reactions today could be telling.

My being here is also good PR for the department. Despite my efforts since I’ve been chief, there remains a level of distrust between the Amish and the English government. My being formerly Amish goes a long way toward bridging the gap, but a divide still exists. I want them to know I’m here to support them.

I hang back until the coffin is removed from the hearse. Leaving the Explorer, I enter the cemetery as the casket is carried by pallbearers using two stout hickory poles. I reach the crowd as the casket is placed over the open grave.

Miriam and Gideon Gingerich and their three children—Fannie and the two little girls—stand nearest the grave, heads bowed in silent prayer. Bishop Troyer with his long silver beard stands next to his wife a few feet away from them. Luane Raber, her siblings, and her parents are on the other side of the grave. Luane is leaning against her mamm, shoulders hunched, her face in her hands. I spot the three girls I met at The Mercantile yesterday, standing together instead of with their respective families. Neva Lambright makes eye contact with me, but looks away quickly. Even Milo Hershberger has shown up, though I suspect he came more out of loneliness than to pay his final respects. There’s no sign of Esther and Sam Miller.

Once the casket is in the grave, one of the Amish ministers reads a hymn. A silent prayer follows, and then the four pallbearers begin to shovel dirt into the grave.

“Chief Burkholder?”

I turn, surprised to see Ralph Baker, from the farm store, approach. “Hi, Mr. Baker.”

He’s wearing a navy JCPenney suit with a shirt still creased from its packaging. He draws up next to me, shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “After talking with you the other day, I remembered something that might be important. About Danny.”

Realizing we’re standing too close to the mourners to discuss the case, I motion toward the Explorer. “Sure.”

“Anyway,” he says as we start that way, “I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but the day before Danny was killed we took our supper break together, went out for burgers. He was all pumped up about some woman. Said she’d left him a note and he was going to hook up with her that night.”

My interest jumps. “Did he mention a name?”

He shakes his head. “No. And to tell you the truth, I was kind of ticked off at him. I mean, I’d met that sweet Luane a couple of times.” He gestures toward the crying girl. “I’d liked her. I told Danny I just couldn’t see him two-timing her like that, right? But he was all hot under the collar about meeting this woman. Talked about it like he was going to … uh, you know, get lucky and he’d been wanting to hook up with her for some time.”

I think about that a moment, try to make sense of the scenario. “Is it possible the note was from Luane? Maybe she was going to surprise him?”

“Seems like it was kind of an illicit thing, you know? Some kind of tryst.”

“Did he say where they were meeting?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did he say when?”

“Well, he got the note the day before he was killed in that fire. I assumed it was that night,” he tells me. “The night he was killed.”

“Did you see the note, Mr. Baker?”

“Caught a glimpse of it. I mean, he was laughing and sort of waving it around. I kind of gave him the cold shoulder about it because I didn’t think it was right.”

“Do you remember anything specific about the note?” I ask. “The kind of paper? Was it handwritten?”

“I think it was just regular notebook paper.” Brows knit, he rubs his chin. “I think it was colored ink. Pink or purple. Come to think of it, the writing was kind of girlish, with swirls and hearts and stuff like that.”

I pull out my notebook and write it down. “Any idea what happened to the note?”

He shakes his head. “Never saw it again. Me and Al went through Danny’s locker at the store, but there wasn’t anything in there. Just an old cap and his work gloves.”

“Had he ever mentioned this mystery woman before?”

“Well, you know, he wasn’t an alley cat or anything like that. But he was a young guy. He liked … you know … girls.” Ralph Baker ducks his head. “Talked about ‘getting some’ all the time. I figured he was lying, like the rest of us. Now, I’m not so sure.”

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