I glance at him and nod. “Hopefully the bishop will be able to shed some light.”
I grab my Maglite, and Tomasetti and I take the sidewalk to the back door. I’ve not even knocked yet when the door opens and I find myself staring at the bishop. Clad in black with a long, steel-wool beard, eyes as dark and penetrating as mica, he’s still got that powerful presence that intimidated me so completely as a child.
“Katie.” His usually stern face is a mask of worry this morning.
“Bishop.” I look past him toward the kitchen. “Thank you for calling me.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.” His eyes flick to Tomasetti.
Extending his hand for a shake, Tomasetti introduces himself, using his official title. “Is the baby healthy?” he asks.
“If that baby’s cry is any indication, she’s as healthy as a horse.” Stepping back, the bishop ushers us inside. “This way.”
The mudroom is dimly lit, too warm, and smells of coffee and frying scrapple, an Amish breakfast staple. The plank floor creaks beneath our shoes as we cross to the kitchen. I find the bishop’s wife, Ada, standing at the sink, cradling a small, wriggling bundle against her generous bosom.
“Guder mariye, Ada.” I bow my head slightly. Good morning.
She nods, but doesn’t smile. “Wie bischt du heit, Katie?” How are you this morning? The elderly woman’s eyes flick to Tomasetti and only then do I realize the discomfort on her face is due to the fact that she’s wearing a plain flannel nightgown, with an oversize cardigan and well-worn socks.
I cross to her and look down at the bundle. Tomasetti holds his ground just inside the doorway. Ada opens a flap, exposing a tiny, wrinkled face and cloudy blue eyes. “She’s a pretty little thing,” the Amish woman tells me.
“A girl?” I ask.
The woman nods. “I checked. And brand-new, too. Cord is still attached.”
I stare down at the small, alienlike creature and a combination of affection and uneasiness presses into me. I’ve not spent much time around babies. In fact, I’ll be the first to admit I’m more than a little out of my element. Even so, there’s nothing more heartrending than to look into the eyes of such a tiny and vulnerable human being and know someone abandoned her.
“I’ll just let you hold her while I get dressed.”
Before I can object, the Amish woman places her gently in my arms. She must have sensed my hesitation—or maybe the instant of panic in my eyes—because she chuckles. “Keep her head in the crook of your arm to support it.” Bending slightly—ignoring my discomfort—she coos at the baby. “Just like that.”
Tugging the cardigan around her, she nods at Tomasetti and leaves the kitchen.
I’m staring down at the baby in my arms, relieved she’s not crying. I’m already looking to hand her off to someone else. I’m aware of Tomasetti moving closer to get a look at her face.
“She doesn’t look very old,” he says.
For a second I wonder how he could know that, then I realize he was a father of two before we met. “How old?” I ask.
“If the cord is still attached”—He shrugs—“a few hours. ER doc should be able to narrow it down.”
Bishop Troyer sidles up to me. “I’m very glad she stopped crying.”
Alarm niggles me at the thought of holding a screaming baby, but I shove it aside. “Bishop, do you have any idea who might’ve left her with you?”
The three of us stare down at the baby. “I don’t know,” he says, looking baffled.
“Do you know of any expectant mothers who might’ve been confused or frightened about having a baby?” I prod. “Troubled marriages, maybe?”
“No, Katie,” he tells me. “Nothing like that.”
I nod, knowing that even in the Amish community, some secrets are tightly held.
“Bishop, can you take us through exactly what happened?” Tomasetti asks.
The old man relays the story from the moment he was awakened until he opened the door and discovered the laundry basket on the front porch. “I think there was a knock, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?” I ask. “A car? Or a buggy?”
He nods. “When I stepped onto the porch, I heard something or someone on the other side of the lilac bushes. I called out, but they ran away.”
I recall the tall bushes that grow alongside the lane. “Did you see anyone?”
He shakes his head. “It was too dark.”
“Any idea how long the baby was on the porch?” Tomasetti asks.
“Not too long,” the bishop replies. “Once I was awake, I got up right away and came downstairs.”
Tomasetti nods down at the baby in my arms. “The quilt was with her?”
“Yes.”
I look closely at the quilt. It’s a pretty patchwork of rose and cream. “It’s Amish,” I tell him.
“A nine patch.”
I glance up to see the bishop’s wife approach, fully dressed and toting a second crib blanket. “To keep her from catching a chill.”