Page 3 of The Hidden One

Hay forgotten, he urged the mules into a lope.

CHAPTER 2

There is a vibrancy in downtown Painters Mill on Saturday mornings. A pulse that beats a little faster. An energy that beckons motorists to roll down their windows as they idle down Main Street and drink in the sights of small-town USA. Or if they have time, plunk twenty-five cents into one of the vintage parking meters and spend the afternoon shopping.

My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of this charming little hamlet. I was born here and raised Amish, but left the fold when I was eighteen. I spent several years in nearby Columbus, Ohio, where I emerged from the mess I’d made of my life to earn my GED and a degree in criminal justice, and I eventually found my way into law enforcement. I spent years learning how to not be Amish. And though it was a time of profound personal and professional growth, it didn’t take long for me to realize I missed home.

When the position of chief became available, I came back. Though I’ve remained Anabaptist, I’ve never returned to my Amish roots. For a lot of reasons, some of which I still haven’t reconciled. I’m working on mending fences with my family. Some members of the Amish community still won’t speak to me, but I don’t let it get to me. Painters Mill is home, and like most relationships, it’s a work in progress.

As chief of police, I’m off duty the majority of weekends, unless there’s an emergency or I’m filling in for one of my officers. The only reason I’m in town this morning is to pick up a birdhouse for my significant other, John Tomasetti. He’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation, the best friend I’ve ever had, and the love of my life. His birthday is next week. I ordered the birdhouse from an Amish cabinetmaker who runs a workshop just off the main drag. He promised to have it ready this morning and I can’t wait to get it home.

I’m in the Explorer, inching down Main Street, when a call on my police radio snags my attention.

“Ten-six-A,” comes my weekend dispatcher’s voice, using the ten code for “parking obstruction.”

I reach for my mike. “What’s the twenty on that, Margaret?”

“Main Street, Chief. I just took a call from Joe Neely. Some kind of disturbance outside his shop.”

Joe Neely owns one of the newest businesses in town, a nice little upscale coffeehouse called Mocha Joe’s, a place I’ve ventured too many times to count.

“A fight?” I ask.

“Not yet, but he says there are a bunch of people in the street, arguing. Parking slots are blocked and someone is refusing to move.”

Painters Mill is a tourist town; gridlock on a Saturday morning is a serious offense. “I’m just down the street,” I tell her. “I’ll take it.”

“Roger that.”

Even as I rack the mike, I spot the disturbance ahead. Flipping on my overhead lights, I pass the vehicle directly in front of me, but traffic is at a standstill. I park where I am and start toward the crowd. The first vehicle I see is the Amish buggy. The harnessed Standardbred gelding looks uneasy being in the center of the throng. In the buggy, a woman wearing a gray dress and organdy kapp sits in the passenger seat, clutching a squirming toddler. I’m familiar with most of the buggies in the area and I recognize this one as belonging to Abner Nisley and his wife, Mary Jo. They’re Swartzentruber and the parents of nine children. For years, Abner eschewed the use of a slow-moving-vehicle sign, which is illegal according to Ohio Revised Code. I’ve pulled him over half a dozen times. When my warnings didn’t work, I issued a couple of tickets, the cost of which finally convinced him to add the signage to the back of his buggy, too ornate or not.

Parked at a cockeyed angle in front of the buggy is a silver Toyota RAV4. Ohio plates. A woman in blue jeans and a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves has her cell phone pressed to her ear. She’s shouting into her cell, gesturing angrily, glaring at the Amish man standing next to her. Several passersby are taking videos with their phones, probably hoping to post the next viral hit on social media.

I tilt my head to speak into my shoulder mike, but of course it’s not there. I’m out of uniform because it’s my day off. Sighing, I pull out my badge and make my way toward the kerfuffle.

“Chief Burkholder?”

I glance right to see Joe Neely trot toward me. I slow down, but I don’t stop. “What’s going on?” I ask him.

Wearing his usual coffee-spattered apron and Mocha Joe’s cap, Neely keeps pace with me. He’s usually an unshakable guy, keeps his cool even during the morning rush when caffeine-deprived customers are lined up at the door like zombies. This morning, he’s breathing hard, his shirt wet beneath his armpits, and a bead of sweat on his upper lip.

“Buggy horse took a crap in the street,” he tells me. “Lady in the RAV stepped in it.”

“Bet that didn’t go over very well,” I mutter as I squeeze between two teenage boys who’ve stopped to see what all the excitement is about.

Joe’s mouth twitches. “She’s pissed, Chief. Went over to confront him. Just about tore my head off when I told her to move her car.”

“Anyone get hit?” I ask.

“Not yet, but I sure wouldn’t want to be that Amish dude.”

“Let me see if I can calm things down.” I leave Joe and make my way through the crowd.

I spot Abner Nisley first. The Amish man is standing in the street, leg cocked, his eyes fastened to the asphalt. He’s wearing his usual straw hat and dark trousers, work shirt, and suspenders. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his trousers. The woman in the white blouse and blue jeans is standing a foot away from him, shouting something I can’t yet hear. Judging from her frothing-at-the-mouth expression, it isn’t very nice.

She’s about thirty years old with blond hair, blue eyes, and cheeks infused with color.

I reach the edge of the crowd and approach her. “Ma’am?” I hold up my badge. “I’m with the Painters Mill PD. What’s the problem this morning?”