Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Can I help you?”

I turn to see the Amish man who was in the barn come around the corner of the house. He’s clad completely in black—slacks, vest, and jacket—and a white shirt. I guess him to be around fifty years of age. Pale blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. A salt-and-pepper beard reaches nearly to his belt. The Amish don’t work out or belong to gyms. But physical labor is often part of the lifestyle and this man has the physique of a man half his age. Shoulders the size of tires. A thick neck corded with muscle. Large hands with callused palms and nails worn down to the quick. He makes for an imposing figure as he stops at the base of the steps and squints up at me.

“Mr. Fisher?” I ask.

“That’s me,” he drawls as he ascends the steps. “Who wants to know?”

I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill.”

“Police?” He ignores my hand. “What do you want with me?”

I relay the basics of the Joseph King situation. “I’m actually looking for Salome. I understand she was friends with Naomi.”

“She knew her.”

“Is she home? I’d like to speak with her if she has a few minutes.”

He doesn’t look happy about the request and takes a moment to look out over the pasture to the north. “She’s been trying to put that business behind her,” he says after a moment.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” I add in Deitsch. “I won’t take up too much of her time.”

“Burkholder, you say?” His eyes narrow.

“My parents were Amish.” I’ve no idea if it will get me in the door, but I’m not above using my roots to get things done, especially when it comes to a case.

“I don’t know if she will speak to you. About Naomi, I mean.” He brushes past me. “I’ll go get her.”

He disappears inside, the screen door slamming behind him.

I spend a few minutes watching the chickens move from the now-mangled irises to massacre a beetle that dared trespass onto the sidewalk. I’m wondering if the Fishers forgot about me and thinking about knocking again when the door squeaks open.

To my dismay, it’s not Salome Fisher. “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he tells me in Deitsch.

“Mr. Fisher, I’m just trying to find the truth. Your wife may be the only person who can help.”

He starts to close the door, but I set my hand against it. “Did you know Joseph?”

“Good-bye, Miss Burkholder.” He glares at the place where my hand is preventing the door from closing, so I let it slide away. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The door clicks shut.

I stand on the porch, disappointment sizzling beneath my skin. “It’s Chief Burkholder,” I mutter.

I take the steps to the sidewalk and make my way toward the rear of the house, where I parked. As I walk past the window, I see the curtains flutter. I wonder if Salome is inside, watching me leave. I wonder if she’s curious, if she feels guilty for not helping me. I slow my pace, hoping she changes her mind, but no one emerges from the house.

Upon reaching the Explorer, I yank open the door, climb behind the wheel, and start the engine. I make a U-turn and start down the lane. My mind is already forging ahead. I’ve just picked up my cell to see if Lois was able to find an address for Sidney Tucker, when I glance in the rearview mirror. Through the billowing dust, I see the figure of an Amish woman running after me, waving her arms.

I hit the brake so hard the tires slide. By the time I get out she’s just a few yards away, breathing hard, her cheeks pink from the exertion of the run.

“Salome?” I call out.

“Ja.” She reaches me, bends at the hip, and takes a moment to catch her breath. “Couldn’t make up my mind if I wanted to talk to you or not.” She straightens. “You’re that Amish police?”

“Yes.” I introduce myself.

Salome Fisher is a pretty woman with a face full of freckles and eyes the color of a summer storm. I guess her to be at least ten years her husband’s junior, but that’s not so unusual among the Amish.

“I knew something bad was going to happen when I heard Joe got loose from jail.” The Amish woman cocks her head. “How are the children?”

I tell her what I know. “They’ll be reunited with their aunt and uncle today, I think.”

“Poor little things.” She closes her eyes briefly. “I’ve been praying hard for them.”

“Jonas told me you were friends with Naomi,” I say.

The Amish woman looks away, but not before I discern the quick flash of emotion. When she finally turns her gaze to mine, her face is serene, her eyes soft. “Friends?” She hefts a laugh. “More like shveshtahs.” Sisters. “Naomi was the best friend I ever had and probably ever will. I know she’s with God now, but I miss that woman every day.”

“You knew her well?” I ask.

“Better than she knew herself.” Salome’s mouth curves into a melancholy smile. “She was a good friend. A good mother. Wife.” She gives a short laugh. “Naomi King was a force to be reckoned with. So full of life. And a little bit of vinegar, too.”

“Did you know Joseph?” I ask.

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I was no fan of Joseph King.” She spits out the words as if they’re chunks of rotting meat. “Everything that’s happened to him was his own doing. The man was dense as a log.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Well enough to know he was a brute and a drinker. Men like him?” She hefts another laugh. “Sie scheie sich vun haddi arewat.” They shrink from hard work. “Joseph King was a lazy fool with a cesspit for a mouth and a head full of rocks. He had no business having all those children. Always yelling at them. Naomi, too, like she was some dense animal. He liked them to do their share around the farm, but never held himself to the same standard.”

“What kind of relationship did he have with Naomi?” I ask. “Did they get along?”

“They had their differences,” she tells me. “Naomi had a spine on her and a sharp mouth to boot. She put both to good use on that no-good husband of hers.”

Up until now I’d been under the impression that Naomi King was a browbeaten wife who’d had little in the way of a support system. I amend my opinion. “Naomi stood up to him?”

Salome sets her hands on ample hips. “I seen her put him in his place a time or two. I reckon she should’ve taken a buggy whip to him. Doubt that would’ve helped, though.” Her mouth twitches as if she’s remembering something particularly amusing, but there’s pain behind the smile, too. “No one knew it, but sie hot die hosse aa.” She wore the pants in the family.

“Was he ever abusive to her?” I ask. “I mean, physically?”

“Never saw it. I mean, not outright. But Naomi was private that way. Especially when things weren’t going well. She never complained, though I suspect she had plenty of grievances.” She shrugs. “But we talked like women do, you know. Too much if you ask our husbands, but then what do they know?”