Page 72 of A Gathering of Secrets

“You think she knows about the camera?”

“Maybe.” I reach over and usurp the mouse. Right-click and enlarge, but it’s no help because the resolution deteriorates tenfold. I can’t make out the details of her face. All I can see of her clothes is the silhouette of her dress and kapp.

Mona runs it again and sighs. “At least we know the culprit is a woman.”

“And Amish. That’s significant.”

“What’s next?”

“I thought we might borrow this tape and see if we can get some stills.” Even as I say the words I’m not optimistic that an image will be helpful in terms of the case. Not only is the quality poor, but I have no idea if the note is even legitimate. I don’t know the motive of the person who left it. Does she know what happened the night of the fire? Is she trying to influence the case? Or does she have some ax to grind against Petersheim? Some agenda? Still, it’s something; it’s more than I currently have, so I’m obliged to explore it further.

“Once we get the images,” I say, “I want you to courier this tape up to BCI to see if they can enhance it.”

“I’m on it.”

“Thanks.” I start toward the door. Midway there I stop and turn to her. “Did Bob Schoening with the fire marshal’s office send that key over?”

“It came in this morning.”

“On your way home I want you to hit the two hardware stores in Painters Mill to see if they can tell us if they made that duplicate key.”

Mona looks after me, her face broadcasting how pleased she is to be part of this. “Anything else, Chief?”

“If it’s not too difficult, you might want to squeeze in a few hours of sleep.”

We grin at each other and then I turn and go through the door.

* * *

A lot of people had motive to want Daniel Gingerich dead. My mind always circles back to a single name: Emma Miller. Of all the people who were victimized by Gingerich, it was Emma who ended up dead. A sweet Amish girl forced into an agonizing situation. A girl whose parents blamed her. Whose church district would not support her if they found out she’d become pregnant out of wedlock. She took the only way out she could find.

It’s a heartbreaking story, especially for the people who loved her. Her parents, Sam and Esther Miller, and her boyfriend, Elam Schlabach, all of whom now have a motive for murder.

By the time I get my hands on a decent image of the mysterious woman who left the note, the morning is gone. I’d been entertaining the notion of picking up Mark Petersheim and bringing him to the station. Push him a little to gauge his reaction. See if I can shake up his alibi or catch him in a lie. But I’m not convinced the note is legitimate. I opt instead to drive over to Charm to talk to the three Amish girls at The Mercantile.

According to Milo Hershberger, Neva Lambright was at the singing with Ruth Petersheim the night she was assaulted. Why didn’t Neva mention it when I talked to her? Honest oversight? Was she simply trying to protect her friend’s privacy? Or does she know more about what happened that night than she’s letting on?

My forearm is pounding like a son of a bitch when I park in the gravel lot of The Mercantile and shut down the engine. I’m troubled by the growing pile of unanswered questions and grouchy because I’m in dire need of food and caffeine and a painkiller and not necessarily in that order.

I push through the antique door of The Mercantile. Half a dozen or so customers are standing in line at the cash register to pay for merchandise. A middle-aged Amish woman operates the register, laughing at something one of them is saying. The type and color of her dress tells me she’s Beachy Amish and I wonder if she’s Neva’s mother, the owner of the shop.

I go to the aisle where the candles are displayed, select a pillar I’d spotted last time I was here, and take it to the register.

“That bergamot and sweet rosemary combination is a lovely scent,” the woman says as she slides it across the counter and upends it to read the price sticker. “Is it a gift?”

She’s about fifty years old with a stout build and a ruddy complexion that tells me she spends a good bit of her time out of doors. Dishwater blond hair just starting to go gray is tucked neatly into her kapp.

“It’s my sister’s birthday.” I look around the store as she rings up the sale. “Is Neva around?”

“In the back, I think.” Lifting a brow, she gives my uniform a once-over, her gaze landing on my bandaged forearm. “Anything I can help you with?”

I show her my badge and identify myself. “I’m looking into the death of Daniel Gingerich over in Painters Mill.”

“I read about all that.” Clucking, she assumes a somber expression. “Such a terrible thing losing a young one like that. Hard to believe anyone would do such a thing. Some of our men are going up there tomorrow to rebuild the barn for them, you know.”

“The Gingerich family will appreciate that,” I tell her in Deitsh.

If she’s surprised by my fluency, she doesn’t show it, but a smile touches the corners of her mouth. When she’s finished with the sale, she offers her hand. “I’m Edna Lambright, by the way. My husband and I own the shop.”