Goddard and Clyde exchange cockeyed looks, as if they share some amusing secret. “Might not be a bad idea,” Goddard says.
The deputy chuckles. “Karns doesn’t have much respect for small-town cops.” His gaze narrows on Tomasetti. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you kind of have that big-city look about you.”
“I also carry a sidearm,” Tomasetti says, deadpan.
The beat of silence lasts an instant too long; then everyone in the room breaks into laughter.
*
It takes Tomasetti and me almost an hour to reach Rocky Fork and locate the Branch Creek Joinery, the woodworking shop owned by Eli and Suzy Fisher. They build kitchen cabinets, desks, and other wood furniture, utilizing only old-fashioned methods and tools. According to Goddard, the business has been in the Fisher family for two generations.
Tomasetti parks in the gravel lot, where two draft horses are hitched to a wagon loaded with cabinetry.
“Looks like they’re about to make a delivery,” I say.
“Damn nice cabinets.” Tomasetti shuts down the engine.
The joinery is housed in a nondescript gray building with small windows and a tin roof. We exit the Tahoe and start toward the entrance, which is a plain white door with no window or welcome sign. The absence of a sign, combined with the lack of customer accommodations, tells me they probably don’t sell directly to the public, but to area builders and furniture stores.
The odors of freshly cut wood, propane, and diesel fuel greet us when we walk in. The shop is large, with high ceilings and two Plexiglas panels for added light. Several propane lights dangle from steel rafters. An Amish man wearing a light blue work shirt and dark trousers with suspenders taps a chisel against what looks like a headboard. A second Amish man, this one with a salt-and-pepper beard, his hands gnarled with arthritis, operates an ancient treadle lathe with his foot. Somewhere in the back, a generator rumbles.
For several seconds, we stand there, taking it all in. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. My datt did a good bit of woodworking, making birdhouses and mailboxes, which he sold to one of the local tourist shops. When I was three years old, he made me a wooden rocking horse—against the explicit wishes of my mamm. It was painted red, and the rough edges chafed the insides of my thighs. That didn’t matter to me; I loved that rocking horse, and my mamm couldn’t keep me off it. I don’t think she ever forgave my datt for setting me on the path to eternal damnation.
“May I help you?”
The softly spoken words drag me from my musings. I look up and see an Amish man wearing a light green shirt, dark trousers, and a dark hat approach. I guess him to be about forty-five years old. His full beard tells me he’s married. The bulge at his belt indicates that his wife keeps him well fed.
I extend my hand to him, and Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves. “We’re looking for Eli Fisher.”
“I am Eli.”
“We’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter,” Tomasetti begins.
“Bonnie?” Hope leaps into his eyes, and I realize he thinks we’re here with news. “You have some news of her?”
Quickly, I shake my head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fisher. We just want to get some information from you.”
“I have already talked to the police.”
“These are just a few follow-up questions,” Tomasetti replies easily.
Suspicion hardens Fisher’s eyes. He knows this is no chance visit. “It has been two months. What questions do you have now that you did not have before?”
There’s a thread of steel in his voice. He’s frightened for his daughter and frustrated with the police. He stares at us with direct, intelligent eyes, and I wonder how he was treated by local law enforcement in the agonizing days following her disappearance. I don’t believe the sheriff’s office had treated him callously, but I know that sometimes cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
I notice the other man looking our way and lower my voice. “Is there a place we can speak in private?”
He looks from Tomasetti to me as if trying to decide whether he should throw us out or let us rip his world to shreds one last time. He’s wondering if we’re there to help him find his daughter, or if we’re just two more in a long line of bureaucrats.
After a moment, he nods. “There is an office in the back.”
He takes us through the shop, past wood shelves filled with intricately carved bread boxes and dollhouses with tiny shutters and a chimney fashioned from cut stones. The workmanship is exquisite, and I find myself wanting to run my fingers over the wood to explore every detail.
“You have many beautiful things.” I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
He gives me a sharp look over his shoulder. “You speak the language well. How did you come to know it?”
“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “Did you make the bread boxes yourself?”