“I didn’t know the Amish could take on outside jobs or associate with the English.”
“It varies depending on the church district and how loosely the Ordnung is interpreted.” I slide out of the Tahoe.
The bell on the door jingles merrily as we enter. The scents of candle wax, eucalyptus, coffee and a potpourri of essential oils—sweet basil, rosemary and sandalwood—titillate my olfactory nerves. To my left, old-fashioned wood shelves filled with every imaginable type of folk art line the entire wall. I see rustic wooden plaques upon which colorful hex symbols are painted. These are allegedly taken from old Amish barns. I smile at that because the Amish have never used hex signs to decorate their barns. Of course the tourists don’t know that, and shop owners like Janine Fourman don’t necessarily give a damn about cultural accuracy.
Ahead, several dozen Amish quilts bursting with color are draped over smooth wooden racks. To my right, an ancient spiral staircase sweeps upward to the second level where I see a small collection of books and dozens of handmade candles. In the center of the room, a snazzily dressed woman with coiffed gray hair stands behind an antique cash register.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of tiny square bifocals. “May I help you?”
My boots thud against the wood plank floor as we cross to her. I flash my badge. “Evelyn, this is John Tomasetti with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus.”
“You’re here about that poor Plank girl.” She shakes her head. “What an awful thing to happen.”
“I understand Mary worked here part-time.”
“Three days a week from ten to three. Such a pretty thing, and from such a nice family. I was shocked to my bones when I heard what happened to them.”
“How well did you know Mary?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. She worked here about five months, but she was very quiet and kept to herself.”
“How did you come to hire her?”
“Mary and her mother brought in quilts every so often. You know, to sell. They did lovely work. I mentioned once that I needed help with stocking the shelves. A few days later Mary’s mother brought her back and she filled out an application.” She lowers her voice. “I guess they needed to get permission from their pastor or something.”
“What can you tell us about Mary?” Tomasetti asks.
“She was a good little worker. Pretty as a picture. Quiet, though. Always seemed to be watching you with those big eyes of hers.”
“Had you noticed any unusual behavior on her part recently?”
“Not really. She did a lot of daydreaming. I’d walk by when she was supposed to be working and catch her staring off into space.” She gives a small smile, as if we share a secret. “I actually had to reprimand her a few times, just to keep her on the ball. I hired her because the Amish have such a good work ethic. You know those religious types, they don’t complain.” She laughs. “But for an Amish girl, bless her heart, Mary was as lazy as a summer day.”
That’s when I realize Janine and her sister share more than blood. They also share a nasty streak that runs straight down the middle of their backs.
“Had you noticed anyone hanging around the shop?” Tomasetti asks. “Any customers talking to Mary? Males paying too much attention to her?”
“Well, all the males gave her a look when they came in. She really was a very pretty girl even though she didn’t wear a shred of makeup and wore the same frumpy dress almost every day. But she never paid them any heed.”
“Did you ever see her talking to anyone?” Tomasetti asks.
“Like I said, she was quiet. Didn’t really talk to anyone.”
“Do you have any other employees?” I ask.
“A couple of high school girls help out on the weekend. Otherwise, I’m it.”
“Can you give me their names?” I ask.
She rattles off two names, and I jot them down.
“What about males?” Tomasetti asks. “Any males come into the shop on a regular basis?”
“You mean customers?” Steinkruger asks. “We get a few, but most of our shoppers are female.”
“What about suppliers?” I ask. “Or have you had any work done on the place recently? Construction work, maybe?”
“Well, we have a coffee guy comes in once a week. Replenishes our coffees and creamers.”
“Same guy every week?”
She nods. “Nice young man. Attractive. His name is Scott, I believe.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know, but he’s cute as a speckled pup.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What’s the name of the coffee service?”
“We use Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters. Fabulous coffee.” She draws out the A so that the word sounds very northeastern. “Our customers love the Pennsylvania Dutch chocolate. Can’t keep it in the store.”
I write the name of the coffee service and the route man in my notebook.