Smiling, I move to one of the other quilts and run my hand over the fabric. “Is there a reason why you didn’t tell me about the quilts, Mrs. Kline?”
She joins me, pretending to study her handiwork. When she runs her hand over the stitching, it quivers. “You were Amish once, weren’t you, Chief Burkholder? But you left the fold during Rumspringa?”
That’s not exactly the way it happened, but I don’t correct her. “Yes.”
“We’re Swartzentruber. My husband and I. My parents. I love being Amish. I love God, and living my life by the Ordnung gives me joy.”
“I understand.”
“The Amish have always been there for us. When Jeramy hurt his back two years ago, Big Joe Beiler and his friends cut and bundled our corn for us—when he had his own crops to harvest and eight mouths to feed.” She looks out across the pasture, toward the pond where the two pygmy goats nibble green shoots near the bank.
“The Amish can be harsh, too,” I say gently. “Judgmental.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes that harshness is warranted. Sometimes it isn’t.”
When she says nothing, I turn to her, tilting my head slightly to meet her gaze. “Leroy Nolt’s parents told me that in the weeks before he disappeared, he was seeing someone in secret. His sister saw him with a girl. An Amish girl.”
The silence between us thickens. I see discomfort in her face. Her skin reddens above the collar of her dress. “You recognized the ring in the photo,” I say gently. “I saw it on your face.”
After a full minute, she whispers, “I knew Leroy.” She utters the words as if she’s afraid someone will hear and the repercussions will be severe.
“Do you know what happened to him?” I ask.
“No. I figured he left for the city. Columbus or Cleveland or, my goodness, he was always talking about New York City.”
“Were you involved with him?”
“Involved?” She laughs but looks down at the ground. “I was just a girl with a silly crush.”
“Is that all?”
“Of course.”
“You must have missed him.”
“Nooo.” She draws out the “o” for emphasis. “I was happy for him. He’d followed his dreams, foolish as they were. And so different from my own.”
My mind is already poking into all the dark corners of words that don’t quite ring true. “Did anyone know about your relationship?”
“Chief Burkholder, we didn’t have the kind of relationship you’re insinuating.”
“What kind of relationship was it, then?”
“We were … friends. More like acquaintances.”
I nod, but I don’t believe her. There’s something there; something she’s not telling me. “Did anyone know you and Leroy were friends?”
“We had nothing to hide.”
“But you didn’t tell anyone, either, did you?”
If there was an Amish word for “touché” she would have uttered it. “No one knew. At first, anyway. Then my datt saw us in the woods by the creek. Leroy was fishing. I’d gone down to pick raspberries for Mamm. My datt came down to seine for minnows.” She shakes her head. “It was all very innocent.”
“Was your datt angry?”
“He was … offended. You see, Leroy was Mennischt.” Mennonite. “And New Order at that. Datt … overreacted.” She shrugs. “Forbade me to see Leroy.”
“Because he was Mennonite?”
“Because he wasn’t Swartzentruber,” she corrects. “Datt told me I would be put under the bann. That I would have to confess my sins before the congregation.”
“Did your mother know what happened?”
“We never talked about it.”
“What about Jeramy?” I ask. “How did he play into this?”
“He didn’t.”
“Were you involved with Jeramy?”
Her smile is little more than a twist of her lips; her eyes are filled with something akin to nostalgia, only somehow sadder. “I’ve been in love with Jeramy Kline since I was a little girl. He’s always been so handsome. So strong and hardworking and yet humble. All the Amish girls wanted to marry him.”
“Your parents liked him?”
“They wanted me to marry him.”
“Did you want to marry him?”
“Of course I did. I’m lucky to have him. He’s a good husband. A good father. A good provider.”
I wonder if she’s trying to convince me—or herself. “Abigail, if you know something about Leroy Nolt’s disappearance, you need to tell me.”
“That’s all I know, Chief Burkholder.”
I give her a full two minutes to say something more. When she doesn’t, I lean closer to her. “I think something bad happened to Leroy Nolt,” I whisper. “I’m going to find out what it was.”
“Sometimes when bad things happen,” she says, “the only one to blame is the person it happened to.”
*