The Amish woman shakes her head. “These pieces are old. See the fading there? The worn threads? The patchwork on this quilt comes from a lifetime of use.”
Nodding, I tuck the quilt back into its plastic nest and pull out the rattle. “What about this?”
Laura takes the rattle, turns it over in her hands, looking at it carefully from all angles. “I’ve seen some like it over the years. The wood is nice and smooth. Probably Amisch made. The men are so good with the carving.” She hands it back to me. “It didn’t come from Siess Kaffi.”
Disappointment presses into me as I slide the rattle back into the evidence bag. “I appreciate your time.”
She offers a sage look. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so anxious to find out where those items came from?”
As the police chief of a small town where gossip can quickly grow into unwieldy half-truths or hurtful speculation, I’m careful how much information I pass along and to whom. But with this case—and since the cat is already out of the bag, so to speak—the community may be one of my best sources of information. “A newborn was abandoned early this morning,” I tell her. “A little girl, just hours old. Someone left her on the bishop’s front steps.”
“Oh, Good Lord. A baby.” The woman presses a hand to her chest. “Is the poor thing okay?”
“She’s doing fine.” I think of the tiny face that had stared back at me and, despite the situation, I find myself smiling. “We’re calling her Baby Doe.”
“Baby Doe.” The woman looks at me over her glasses and smiles back at me. “Kind of catchy.”
“Mrs. Schlabach, if you hear anything that might help me find the mother, will you let me know?”
“You think she’s Amisch?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I can’t imagine. The birth of a baby to an Amish family is always a happy occasion. Children are a gift from the Lord.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what kind of woman would leave her own baby.”
“A frightened one. A confused one.” I shrug. “Someone who, perhaps, felt she couldn’t care for a child at this point in her life.”
“Well, I’ll pray for the little one and her mamm,” she tells me. “And I’ll keep my ear to the grapevine.”
Leaving her with my card, I gather the evidence bags and start toward the door.
*
Back in the Explorer, I call my first shift dispatcher, Lois. “I need you to put out a press release on our newborn,” I tell her.
“No luck finding the parents?” she asks.
“I think this is going to be one of those cases where the public might be able to help. Hopefully, someone knows something and will come forward.”
“You think the mother is from this area, Chief?”
“I do. I think she’s Amish or has some connection to the Amish. I just don’t know what it is.” I pause. “Don’t put that in the press release.”
She laughs. “Gotcha.” We fall silent and then she adds, “You know, Chief, a pregnant belly isn’t exactly an easy thing to hide.”
I consider that for a moment. “But not impossible,” I say. “Loose clothing. Minimal weight gain. A lack of suspicion by friends and family members. I suspect it happens more often than we think.”
“I’ll get the press release out immediately, Chief.”
“Thanks.”
The Care Cottage Birthing Center is located off the highway between Painters Mill and the Coshocton County line to the south. The facility is managed by several certified Amish midwives with a local ob-gyn on call. Local Amish women have been having babies here for as long as I can remember.
The birthing center is housed in a circa-1950s bungalow to which a drive-through portico has been constructed so buggies can pull up directly to the front door in inclement weather. There are two buggies in the parking lot, the horses still hitched, and a white van parked at the side. On the west side, there are two horse pens with a divided loafing shed and a big aluminum watering trough in case the father-to-be needs to spend the night. I park beneath the shade of a maple tree bursting with fall color and take the wide steps to the front door.
The interior of Care Cottage is homey and warm and welcoming. Instead of the medicinal odors I’d anticipated, the place smells of cinnamon and clean linens. The door opens to a large waiting area that looks more like an Amish living room. There’s a blue sofa set against the wall and bracketed on either side by vintage end tables. A bay window with lace curtains looks out over a field where the corn has already been cut and bundled. A slightly-battered coffee table is covered with magazines, inspirational books and Es Nei Teshtament, a Bible translated into Pennsylvania Dutch. Next to a recliner, a toy box full of wooden Amish-crafted toys—tops and a little dog on wheels that can be pulled with a string—invites fidgety youngsters to play while mamm is seeing the midwife.