Page 63 of Shamed

The Amish woman shakes her head. “You have to understand, Chief Burkholder, I only caught bits and pieces of the exchange.” Anguish flashes in her eyes. “The thing that surprised me the most—aside from the whole conversation about taking a baby—was that Noah already knew about it. They’d discussed it before. He was the one who suggested Painters Mill. I think he knew someone or had someone in mind for that poor little baby.”

She closes her eyes. “God knows, I knew better than to stand there and listen, but I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t imagine what could have happened that would prompt Sadie to take an innocent newborn baby.”

“Did you have some sense as to why they did it?” I ask.

“All I can tell you, Chief Burkholder, is that there must have been a good reason. That, I know for certain.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs. “I couldn’t say. But I knew my husband and he was a good and decent God-loving man. This must have been … an urgent situation. If the baby wasn’t being fed or cared for. Something like that.”

“Did you ask your husband about it?”

“I did.” Shame flashes in her expression. “I told him I’d overheard part of the conversation.” She chokes out an awkward sound. “It’s the closest I ever came to lying to him.” Another flash of pain. “He wouldn’t speak of it. Said he didn’t want to burden me. He told me some things are better left unsaid.”

She raises her gaze to mine. “He went to Painters Mill the next day. Came home very late. I knew they’d done it. I never broached the subject again.”

We sit in the silence of the kitchen, the smells of cinnamon and cider lingering, the words that passed between us adding unpleasant weight to what should have been an enjoyable moment.

“Do you know if the baby was Amish or English?” I ask.

“I’d always assumed she was Plain.” Her brows furrow. “Why else would an Amish bishop be involved? An Amish midwife?”

“Did you ask Sadie Stutzman about it?”

“I put it out of my mind is what I did.” She shrugs. “Noah said the knowledge would be a heavy burden. That was enough.”

She raises her gaze to mine as if something new has occurred to her. “Chief Burkholder, do you think my husband’s death is somehow related to … what happened with that child? All those years ago?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

Tears glimmer in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “Why now? After all this time?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

Another cumbrous silence and then I ask, “Mrs. Schwartz, do you know of any women who were ime familye weg in the weeks before the conversation you overheard?” “In the family way” is the Amish term for “pregnant.” “Anyone you can think of?”

“I wondered, of course. Was she unmarried? Was she too young? Unable to care for a baby?” She gives another shake of her head. “I didn’t dwell.”

I think about everything that’s been said and what it could mean in terms of finding Elsie Helmuth. “Do you know Marlene Byler or Mary Byler?” I ask, using Mary’s maiden name.

“I didn’t know either of them, but I heard about what happened to Marlene. What she did all those years ago. Jumped off that big bridge up near Portsmouth. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard she took her infant daughter off that bridge with her.”

A rush of interest engulfs me. “A baby?”

“Less than a year old. The police never found the body so no one knows if it’s true.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Not much, really.” The woman shrugs. “She was Amish. Had some mental or emotional issues, I think. There were rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Hush-hush stuff. Boiled down to her not being able to follow the rules. The Amish put up with it for a long time; some tried to help her. But eventually the bishop excommunicated her.”

“Do you know why?”

She shakes her head. “She killed herself shortly afterward and people stopped talking about it.”