In light of the shooting last night, I’d considered bringing Glock with me, but Reuben and Naomi Kaufman are Swartzentruber, and I suspect they’ll be more inclined to talk to me if I’m alone. That’s not to say my being formerly Amish will open any doors. My fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch may help. But I’ve found that when dealing with Old Order Amish, especially with my being a cop, the fact that I left the fold trumps my heritage every time.
It’s a beautiful day. The humidity adds a slight haze, but a breeze and the shade make the air feel good against my skin as I start toward the house. A mourning dove coos from the wind vane mounted atop the nearest barn. Sparrows chatter at me as I walk past a bird feeder filled with millet and crushed corn. I ascend the steps, open the storm door, and knock.
A moment later, the door opens and I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman in a dark gray dress that reaches nearly to her ankles. She’s wearing the traditional kapp over steel gray hair that’s thinning at her crown. “Can I help you?” Her inflection tells me she speaks Pennsylvania Dutch more often than English.
“Guder nammidaag.” Good afternoon. “Mrs. Kaufman?”
“Ja.” Her pale blue eyes sweep over me, taking in my uniform, and her nose wrinkles slightly, as if she’s breathed in some unpleasant odor. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m working on a case, and if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“We’re Amish. I don’t see how we can help you with some Englischer case.”
“May I come inside, Mrs. Kaufman? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”
After a moment of hesitation, she opens the door.
I step into a rectangular living room with rough-hewn plank floors covered with a knot rug that’s seen better days. The windows are covered with dark blue fabric, ushering in barely enough light for me to see a blue sofa against the wall, a rocking chair draped with an afghan, and a black potbellied stove in the corner.
I shove my sunglasses onto my crown. The woman’s eyes narrow when she notices my black eyes. Smiling, I tap my right temple with my finger. “I was in a car accident last night.”
“Oh.” She nods, her expression telling me I probably deserved it for driving a motorized vehicle in the first place. “Would you like iced tea, Chief Burkholder? It’s chamomile and mint, from the garden.”
“Thank you, but I can’t stay,” I tell her.
The sound of the floor creaking draws my attention. I glance toward the kitchen to see an Amish man in a wheelchair rolling through the doorway. Reuben Kaufman, I think. He looks older than sixty-seven. He’s wearing a blue shirt over narrow, bony shoulders. Black trousers. Suspenders. A flat-brimmed summer hat.
He makes eye contact with me. When he opens his mouth, I see he’s missing a lower incisor. His face is slightly asymmetrical, with the left side sagging a little more than the right. His mouth quivers; I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.
“This is my husband, Reuben,” Naomi tells me.
I cross to him. “Hello, Mr. Kaufman.” He raises a limp hand to mine. It feels cold and frail within my grip, and I shake it gently.
“Reuben has difficulty speaking sometimes,” the Amish woman says. “He had a stroke, you see. Going on three years now.” She looks at her husband. “Isn’t that right, Reuben?”
He gives a subtle nod, but his eyes never leave mine.
Naomi moves behind her husband’s wheelchair and sets her hands on the handgrips. “But we manage, don’t we?”
She seems completely at ease with her husband’s disability. They have their own unique mode of communication, and from the outside looking in, it seems as effective as words.
“Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin,” she says. It’s terribly hot in here. “Let’s sit on the porch.”
I go to the door and hold it open while she wheels her husband outside. There, she sets the wheel lock and then lowers herself into a rocking chair. “Sitz dich anne,” she tells me. Sit yourself down.
“Danki.” The rocking chair has a wicker seat and creaks slightly as I lower myself into it. “You and your husband have a beautiful farm.”
“Reuben’s mamm left it to us when she passed. Been in the Kaufman family for years.”
“I’ve driven by a few times. Didn’t she used to raise hogs out here?”
Her eyes narrow on mine. “Never raised hogs.”
“Have you and Mr. Kaufman ever raised hogs?”
“We’ve raised a few head of cattle over the years. Just enough to keep us in meat over the winter. Reuben prefers to work the land. Corn and soybeans, mostly. That’s what his datt taught him. That’s what he knows.” She pauses. “What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder?”
“I’m investigating a case involving some human remains that were uncovered by the tornado.”
“I read about it in the paper.” She shivers. “Such a horrible thing. Do you know who it is?”
“Not yet.” I watch them closely as I speak, looking for any sign of nervousness or discomfort. “We’re looking into the cases of several young men who went missing thirty or so years ago.”