I pull out the list of hog raisers my dispatchers assembled, and I scan it for Amish and Mennonite names beginning with the letter “K.” But none of the Amish last names begin with that letter. Either there are none or, more than likely, the Amish didn’t report in with their information.
Frustrated, I toss the list onto my desktop and sigh. That’s when I realize there’s one more resource I can utilize to find the name of the quilt maker, even an old quilt—and it’s within walking distance of the police station.
*
En Schtich in Zeit is Pennsylvania Dutch for A Stitch in Time. It’s an Amish quilt and sewing shop on Main Street just two blocks from the police station. I’ve driven past the place hundreds of times in the years I’ve been back. I don’t sew, so I’ve never had reason to venture inside. One of the things I love about it is the display windows. Every holiday, the owner decorates the old-fashioned windows in creative and interesting ways, but especially at Christmastime.
The wind chimes hanging on the front door jingle merrily when I step into the shop. The aromas of cinnamon and hazelnut greet me, conjuring images of fresh-baked pastries and coffee. The space is long and narrow with plenty of natural light coming in through the storefront windows. The walls to my left and right are adorned with children’s clothing—plain dresses, boys’ shirts and trousers—hanging neatly on wooden hangers, the hand-printed price tags dangling and discreetly turned. Ahead and to my right are a dozen or more hinged wooden arms set into the wall. Each arm is draped with a quilt that’s been neatly folded so that its best qualities are displayed. I see traditional patterns—diamond and star and peace birds. Farther back, twin beds are set up. Each is covered with an heirloom-quality child’s quilt. Crib quilts and wall hangings are displayed on the wall above the beds.
At the rear, five Amish women sit at a long folding table that’s covered with fabric, tools of the trade, and, in the center, an antiquated sewing kit. The women are looking at me as if I’m a stray dog that’s wandered in. Their stares are not unfriendly, but I’m not met with smiles either, and I wonder if they know who I am.
“May I help you?”
I glance to my left to see a young Amish woman wearing a plain blue dress, a black apron, and an organdy kapp standing behind the counter. She’s slender with a milk-and-honey complexion and liquid green eyes fringed with thick lashes. On the counter next to her is a platter heaped with what looks like homemade oatmeal raisin cookies.
“Hi.” Returning her smile, I cross to her, pulling out my badge. “I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”
“Oh. Hello.” She cocks her head. “You must be Sarah’s sister.”
“I am. Do you know her?”
“Sarah comes into the shop every so often for supplies. In fact, she was here just yesterday for thread and some fabric. She’s working on a wedding quilt for her neighbor.” She looks away, uncomfortable now because she’s aware that the other women are listening and she isn’t sure how friendly she should be, now that she knows who I am.
“Sie hot net der glaawe,” one of the woman says beneath her breath. She doesn’t keep the faith.
“Mer sot em sei Eegne net verlosse; Godd verlosst die Seine nicht,” whispers another. One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.
The young woman tightens her mouth and looks down at the cash register in front of her. Not speaking. Not meeting my gaze.
I lean close to her and lower my voice. “Wer laurt an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.” If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults.
The young woman bursts out laughing, catches herself, and puts her hand over her mouth. But I can tell by the way her eyes are lit up that she appreciates good Amish humor.
“How can I help you, Kate Burkholder?” she asks.
“I probably need to speak with one of the other ladies, if they’re not too busy,” I say loud enough for the women to hear.
A plump woman of about forty anchors her needle and sets her fabric on the table in front of her. Scooting back her chair, she rises, her eyes holding mine as she starts toward me. She’s a large, solidly built woman and moves like a battleship, shoulders back, chin up, her practical shoes clomping against the wood-plank floor.
“Wei geth’s alleweil, Katie Burkholder?” How goes it now?
She’s got a voice like a chainsaw. I’ve seen her around town, but I feel as if I’m at a slight disadvantage because I don’t remember her name. “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good.
She dismisses the younger woman with a cool look. The girl slinks from behind the counter and walks to the table, where she goes back to her stitching.
“I’m Martha Yoder,” she says, sizing me up, not sure if she likes what she sees. “We met at the Carriage Stop a couple of years back.”