The Dead Will Tell (24 page)

I hit construction east of Pittsburgh and a thunderstorm as I enter Cambria County. By the time I pull into the town limits of Nicktown, it’s after 4
P.M
. and I’m in dire need of coffee. The town is a postcard-pretty village with large homes and a main street lined with spruce and maples that will be budding in a few weeks. Since I have no clue where to begin my search, I pull in to the gravel lot of the first restaurant I come to, Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen.

The dinner hour hasn’t yet begun, so the place isn’t crowded. An older couple sits at a table near the window. A man in a DeKalb cap broods over a mug of coffee in the corner booth. Leaving my umbrella at the coatrack near the door, I walk to the counter and take a stool. A middle-aged woman in a pink golf shirt, black pants, and a black apron approaches me from behind the counter.

“What can I get for you?” she begins, giving me only half her attention.

“Coffee, please.”

“You’re in luck. Just made a pot.”

There’s a pass-through window that opens to the kitchen behind her. Beyond, a cook clad in white scrapes the grill to Zac Brown Band’s “Free.”

“You want cream with that?” The waitress sets a ceramic mug in front of me.

“Sure.”

She pulls two containers of half-and-half from her pocket and drops them on the counter.

I smile at her. “Any chance I could get a piece of that cherry pie to go with the coffee?”

“You bet.”

Two minutes later, I’m midway through the pie and on my second cup of coffee. The waitress, whose badge tells me her name is Daisy, is several feet away, wiping down the pastry display case.

“How long have you lived here in Nicktown?” I ask.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “All my life.”

“You like it?”

“It gets kind of boring, but it’s a good place to raise a family.” She saunters to the counter where I’m sitting and, taking advantage of my company, begins refilling the containers of artificial sweeteners.

“Kids?” I ask.

“Four. Oldest is in high school now. Hard to believe. Seems like yesterday when he was running around here, filling the salt and pepper shakers for me.”

“They grow up fast.” I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill, Ohio.”

“Oh. A cop. Hi.” Grinning, she wipes her hand and we shake. “My husband and I were over that way couple of years ago. He photographs covered bridges. A lot of Amish there.”

“Are there many Amish in this area?”

“Used to be. Swartzentrubers, mostly. But they started moving out a couple of years ago. Didn’t like all the government rules and regulations and were always getting into trouble. You know, with zoning and such because they don’t use indoor plumbing and people were complaining about the sewage. Stuff like that.”

“I hear a lot of them are moving to Upstate New York.”

She nods. “Kind of hate to see them go, to tell you the truth. Nice Amish girl used to bring us pies, but she left with her family six months ago. And of course, the tourists always meant business for us here at the restaurant.”

“Are there any Amish left?”

“Two families that I know of.” She shrugs. “They keep to themselves, so I’m not really sure.”

I sip my coffee. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who went missing thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill. I believe she was injured and somehow ended up with a Swartzentruber family near here.”

“Oh gosh, thirty-five years is a long time. I was ten years old.”

“Do you remember hearing anything like that? Rumors, maybe?”

“Sorry, but I sure don’t.”

“Is there an Amish bishop or elder still around I could talk to?”

She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t know about a bishop or elder, but there’s an Amish family lives down the road from my husband and me.”

“Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Sure.” She tears a sheet from her order pad and turns it over, sets it on the counter between us. “It’s not too far.” She grins. “Kind of hard to get lost in Nicktown.”

I watch her draw a crude map. “It’s only about five miles from here. Take Castine Road and then make a right at the flashing caution light.” She looks through the window toward the parking lot. “What are you driving?”

“Explorer.”

“Four-wheel drive?”

I nod.

“Good, ’cause you’re going to need it. The Swartzentrubers don’t use gravel. Their lane is dirt, and with all this rain, you’re going to sink in something awful.” She slides the map toward me. “There you go.”

“Thanks for the map.” I look at my empty plate. “And the pie.”

She smiles. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Kate Burkholder.”

*   *   *

I’m feeling a little more optimistic when I leave Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen and head north on the main drag. It’s four thirty now; I’ve devoted half the day working a hunch that has a high probability of turning into a wild goose chase. But the coffee and sugar helped, and my cop’s gut urges me to keep going.

Daisy’s directions are perfect right down to the distances. I make the turn on Castine Road and then hit the flashing caution light just a few miles down and make a right onto a dirt road. She was right about the mud, too. I encounter deep ruts and standing water, and twenty feet in, the Explorer bogs. I throw it into four-wheel drive and muscle through. Half a mile down, I come to a dirt lane. There’s no name on the mailbox, but the plainness of the house and outbuildings beyond tells me it’s an Amish home, so I turn in.

The house is white with a tin roof that’s striped with rust. It looks as if the place originally had a wraparound front porch, but over the years—probably due to a growing family or the addition of elderly parents—the porch was transformed into an extra room. The barn is also white, but in need of paint. A rail fence surrounds a muddy paddock, where several Jersey cows chew their cud, watching me.

Growing up Amish, I never thought twice about living on a farm. I’ve always been an animal lover, and having livestock was one of the things I enjoyed most. The only thing about rural life I hated was the spring mud, which was always made worse by manure. I park behind a windowless black buggy with steel-clad wooden wheels, telling me this is, indeed, a Swartzentruber farm.

Resigning myself to muddy shoes and wet feet, I get out and tromp through several inches of mud toward the side door. Despite my best effort to keep my shoes clean, I leave clods of mud on the concrete steps as I ascend to the porch. I knock on the door and wait.

Around me, the air is heavy and wet with the smells of manure and wet foliage. I’m looking down at my muddy boots, thinking about going into the yard to wipe them on the grass when the door swings open. I find myself looking at a middle-aged Amish woman wearing an ankle-length gray dress and a dark winter bonnet.

“Guder middag,”
I begin, wishing her a good afternoon.

She mumbles the same, but her eyes widen as she takes in my non-Amish clothes.

“I’m Kate Burkholder from Painters Mill, Ohio,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch. “I’m looking for a missing Amish woman, and I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Voahra.” Wait.
The woman turns and walks away.

I stand on the porch, relieved that she didn’t close the door. The smells of kerosene and woodsmoke waft out. No matter how many years pass, those are the smells that take me back to my youth of endless days spent on a farm much like this one. Through the dimly lit living room, I see an old woman sitting at the kitchen table, sewing or mending some piece of clothing. She leans back just enough to make eye contact with me and then goes back to her work without acknowledging me further.

I’m a full minute into my wait and thinking about knocking again when a man approaches. He’s dressed in black except for a white shirt. In keeping with the Swartzentruber ways, his long beard is untrimmed. His face is deeply lined and grim, but I guess him to be in his mid-forties.

“May I help you?” he asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

I introduce myself. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who disappeared about thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill,” I begin. “It’s possible she was injured and may have suffered some memory problems.”

He eyes me with open curiosity, and I know he’s wondering about my use of Pennsylvania Dutch. But I know the Amish too well to take for granted that it will garner his cooperation. I’m as much an outsider as any camera-toting
Englischer
. Still, it can’t hurt, and I’m certainly not above using whatever means I can to get him to talk to me.

“I’ve traveled a long way,” I tell him. “Please. The woman has a son back in Painters Mill.”

“I’m Eli Zook.” He doesn’t offer his hand. “I have an uncle in Painters Mill.”

“What’s his name?”

“William.”

“I know William and his wife, Alma.” When he doesn’t open the door, I try to keep the conversation going. “I understand many of the Swartzentruber Amish are leaving Cambria County.”

“That is true. We live simply. The government people don’t care if we make it to heaven or not.” He sighs. “God provided for us in New York, and I intend to follow my conscience. We will go soon.”

“You’ve lived here your entire life?”

He nods.

“Do you know anything about this Amish woman who would have arrived in the area about thirty-five years ago? Her name is Wanetta Hochstetler, but I don’t know if she used that name.”

My heart sinks when he shakes his head. “I was just a boy back then. I don’t recall.”

He starts to close the door, but I set my hand against it. “Mr. Zook, are there any other Amish families in the area I could talk to? The woman I’m looking for may have been taken in by one of the families. It’s important that I find her.”

“Grossmuder!”
He calls out over his shoulder, then tosses me a look. “She’s nearly deaf, so you will have to speak up.”

I look past him to see the old woman look our way. “You’re lucky to have your grandmother,” I tell him.

“She is my wife’s
grossmuder,
but we are happy to have her.” He calls out to the woman again.
“Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,”
he tells her.
We have non-Amish visitors.

With excruciating slowness, the woman sets her mending on the tabletop and scoots away from the table.
“Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.

Her voice is like sandpaper against stone, coarse and wet and abrasive, but it makes me smile. I like old people with attitude.

One side of Zook’s mouth hikes, and he lowers his voice.
“Sie hot die hose aa.” She wears the pants in the family.

The old woman shuffles across the wood plank floor. When her eyes meet mine, I see instantly that despite her advanced years, they are clear, as is her mind.
“Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk.

Zook nods. “The
Englischer
doctor calls it selective hearing loss.”

Waving off his words, the woman reaches us and gives me a slow once-over. “What’s this about a missing
Amisch
?”

Leaving out the details of the crime, I explain to her what might have happened to Wanetta Hochstetler. “She may have been injured or had some memory problems. Do you remember anything like that happening about thirty-five years ago?”

“I remember plenty.” Nodding, she looks from her grandson to me, and in that instant she doesn’t look quite so cocky. “There were lots of stories. About her. Terrible stories.”

“What kinds of stories?”

“Joe Weaver and his family found her. He owned some land near Ebensburg. Didn’t live there, but kept hay on it. He was out there with his family one day and heard something in the well. Kids thought it was a cat some fool had thrown down there. But it wasn’t. It was an Amish woman, and she was in a bad way.”

“Injured?”

“
Ja.
Bad, too. Joe took her to the midwife.”

“Not the hospital?”

“Joe had no use for English doctors.” She says the words as if they explain everything. “Joe and his wife knew she wasn’t from around here—the clothes and such, you know. Still, she was Amish, so they took care of her.”

“Did he call the police?”

“He didn’t have much use for the English police, either. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard the woman was slow in the head. Didn’t know where she was from. Joe and his wife took her in to their home. Clothed her. Fed her. Did their best to teach her the Swartzentruber ways.”

“Didn’t they worry that she had a family somewhere?” I ask. “Someone who was worried about her?”

“I wouldn’t know the answer to that.”

“What became of her?”

“She left the Amish a few months after they took her in. Stole some money from Joe. It was a bad thing.”

“Is she still around? Would it be possible for me to talk to her?”

“She passed a couple of months ago.”

The words hit me like a cold, buffeting wind. All I can think is that I’ve come all this way for nothing. “So she stayed in the area all these years?” I ask.

“Last I heard, she lived over in Nanty Glo, south of here. There’s a trailer home park off of Blacklick Creek.”

“What name did she go by?” I ask.

“They called her Becky. Used the last name of Weaver.” Her expression darkens. “I’m no friend to the gossipmongers or busybodies. But there was talk about that woman.”

“What kind of talk?”

“That she wasn’t as nice as she wanted everyone to think, and she remembered a lot more than she let on.” The old woman looks at her grandson.
“Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.” Where there’s smoke, there is fire.
“That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.”

CHAPTER 25

One of the things that separates a good cop from a great cop is the ability to sift through the bullshit you’re fed in the course of your job and get to the usable information sprinkled throughout. I’ve always had a pretty good handle on that particular skill set, some of which is old-fashioned common sense. As I turn onto the highway, I’m forced to admit I’m not sure what to make of the story Zook’s grandmother relayed about Wanetta Hochstetler. Is it possible she lived out her days here and never made her way back to Painters Mill?