“Ada, do you recognize the workmanship on this quilt?” I ask.
She examines the fabric. “Hmmm. I don’t recognize the stitching. Or the pattern or color combination. And there are no initials. It’s well made, though.”
I turn my attention to the bishop. “Was there anything else with her?”
The Amish man picks up a wooden rattle off the table and hands it to me. “I believe this is Amisch, too. My uncle made several just like it for our children.”
“Sometimes the women will crochet a little cover for the newborns,” Ada adds. “Makes it softer for the tender gums since they like to put everything in their mouths.”
The rattle is made of wood—maple or birch—and constructed with a four-inch-long smooth dowel with one-inch round caps on either end, and three rings around the center.
I turn my attention to the bishop. “We’re going to need to take that.”
Tomasetti reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and removes a small evidence bag. He holds it open and the bishop drops the rattle inside. “Probably need the laundry basket, too,” he says.
“Of course,” the bishop says.
The infant in my arms begins to cry. I try jiggling her gently, but the movement feels awkward and unpracticed. The baby isn’t appeased. Slowly, the cries transform to wails. I break a sweat beneath my jacket.
Everyone seems to take it in stride, but it rattles my nerves, and I realize everyone in the room has experienced this at some point in their lives. To me, this is as foreign as a trip to the moon.
I look helplessly at Tomasetti.
“You look like you could use some backup, Chief,” he says in a low voice.
“The thought crossed my mind,” I mutter.
“I’d take her off your hands, but I was going to grab the Maglite and take a look around outside.”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t notice the sweat beading on my forehead.
Finally, Ada takes pity on me. “I’ll take her, Katie, if you need to do your police work.”
“Thanks.”
With the ease of a woman who’s carried out the maneuver a thousand times, Ada sets both hands beneath the crying child and scoops her into her arms. “Come to grossmudder,” she whispers. Grandmother.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Tomasetti go through the front door.
“Maybe she’s hungry,” the bishop offers.
Ada holds the child against her, rocking and humming softly. “I got a teaspoon or so of goat’s milk down her earlier.”
A knock sounds. Relief flits through me when I realize the social worker from Children’s Services has arrived. The bishop leaves us to answer the door.
“Chief Burkholder?”
A young woman with curly red hair and a navy pantsuit walks into the living room in front of the bishop. “I’m Carly Travis with Children’s Services.”
She looks capable and professional in her chic suit and briefcase/purse slung over her shoulder. I introduce myself as I cross to her and we shake hands. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
The social worker’s face softens into a smile upon spotting the wriggling, crying bundle. “Oh, my.” Her eyes meet the Amish woman’s. “Can I have a peek?”
Smiling, Ada peels back a corner of the quilt. The social worker actually giggles. “I think that’s the cutest newborn I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“They’re not all pretty like this one.” The Amish woman uses her pinky finger to tickle the little roll of fat beneath the infant’s chin.
Leave it to a baby to bring the most unlikely people together, I think. “Carly, do you have a baby seat in your vehicle?”
“Never leave home without it.”
I nod. “I thought we should get her checked out at the hospital first thing.”
“Definitely.” Carly makes eye contact with Ada and holds out her arms. “May I take her?”
“Oh, I kind of hate to see this one go.” But the Amish woman relinquishes the baby.
Carly expertly takes the child into her arms. “Even when you haven’t known them for long, it’s always hard to let them go,” she says softly. “Isn’t it, pretty girl?”
“What will happen to her now?” the bishop asks.
“We’ll take her to the hospital for a checkup,” I tell him. “Once we make sure she’s stable and healthy, she’ll probably be placed in a foster home. In the meantime, I’m going to try to find her mother and father.”
The old Amish couple exchange a look that betrays their concern. For the baby. Maybe for the mother, especially if she’s Amish.
I nod at the social worker. “Tomasetti and I will follow you to the Hospital.”
Taking a final peek at the newborn, Carly flips the corner of the quilt over the baby’s head. “Since we’re getting a police escort, I’ll get her buckled in.”
*