Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Were you aware of the domestic-violence charge against Joseph?”

“Naomi told me about it the day after they took Joe away. Everyone was talking about it—you know how the Amish are. They might be pious, but they like their gossip.”

“What did she say?”

Salome takes her time answering. “I got the impression she didn’t understand exactly what was going on when the policeman came to the house. She didn’t mix much with the Englischers, you know. She didn’t even realize it was a serious thing until she read about it later in The Budget. By then it was too late for her to do anything about it, so she just let Joe deal with it on his own.”

“Salome, did Joseph hit her?”

Grimacing, she shakes her head. “Joe might’ve been as dense as a stump, even a little mean at times, but he never hit her. Not that I ever heard about, anyway.”

A frisson of titillation zips through me. The kind that comes with a new tidbit of information on a case that’s been stingy with facts. “Naomi let them charge and convict her husband when she knew he was innocent?”

“Joe wasn’t exactly innocent now, was he? He was drinking and spoiling for a fight so the police came out and did what they do.” She knows what I’m getting at and frowns. “We are separate, Chief Burkholder. Naomi didn’t understand exactly what the police were doing. It didn’t help that the policeman didn’t explain. All she knew was that they took Joe to jail because he’d broken some English law.”

Her expression turns troubled. “This is just me talking, but I suspect she was glad to be rid of him. Maybe she thought spending a little bit of time in jail would teach him a lesson. Give him some time to think and give her and the kids a few days of peace.”

Her eyes slide toward the house and then her voice drops to a whisper. “My husband is the bishop. Naomi had come to him before, talked to him about Joe. Once, when she told him Joe had been taken to jail, he told her it was God’s way of getting him off the road he’d been traveling.”

If I didn’t understand the Amish mind-set so well, I might’ve experienced a moment of indignation. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen something like this happen; I’m not surprised. In their quest to remain separate from the rest of the world, some Amish will stick their heads in the sand. They learn the hard way that ignorance is no protection from the law.

I move on to my next question. “Did Joseph get along with the kids?”

“Oh, he loved them. In his own way, I suppose. Always had a way with them because they loved him right back.”

“Did Naomi and Joseph have a phone in their home?” I ask.

“Joe had a cell phone a time or two. Never was one to follow the Ordnung. But they didn’t have one in their home. If Naomi needed to make a call she used the pay phone at the end of the road.”

“Do you have any idea who called the police?” I ask. “Or how the police knew Naomi and Joseph were arguing?”

She blinks as if the question hadn’t occurred to her, but should have. “I don’t know.”

For a moment I think she’s going to say more. I wait, but she doesn’t.

“How did you find out Naomi had been killed?” I ask.

“Stink Ed drove the buggy over and told us. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was just beside himself. Didn’t go into much detail. Could barely speak. Just enough to tell us she was gone.” She presses her hand against her chest. “I went to pieces. Couldn’t believe it.” She shores up her emotions with a smile. “The only comfort came with knowing she was with God.”

“Did you suspect Joseph?” I ask.

“I figured there’d been some kind of accident with the buggy or maybe something medical. Then I heard Joseph was in trouble and … I don’t even know what I thought.”

“Do you think he did it?” I ask.

She locks her gaze on mine. “I reckon he did if the law says so.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Much as I disliked Joseph, I never thought him capable of something like that. Shooting his own wife while she slept? With all them kids in the house?”

“Is there anyone else you can think of who might’ve wanted to hurt Naomi?”

“Someone else?” She looks at me as if my hair is suddenly peeling away from my scalp. “But … I thought Joseph was … I mean, he had a trial and it was decided.”

I wait and she finally gives an adamant shake of her head. “Everyone loved Naomi.”

“What about Joseph? Did he have any enemies that you know of? Any ongoing disputes? Over money or—”

My words are cut off by a male voice. “Ich bin sell geshvetz laydich!” I’m tired of that kind of talk. “Die zeit zu cumma inseid is nau!” The time to come inside is now.

I look past Salome to see her husband standing in the gravel lane twenty yards away, his hands on his hips, staring at us. I didn’t hear him approach.

Knowing our time is limited, I repeat my question. “Did Joseph have any enemies?” I ask quickly.

She glances over her shoulder at her husband, then back at me. “I believe I’ve said enough. Got to get back to work now.”

She starts to turn away, but I reach into my pocket and pass her my card. “Call me if you think of anything else or if you just want to talk.”

She takes the card without looking at it and drops it into her apron pocket. Without bidding me good-bye, she turns and starts toward the house.

*

It’s almost always helpful to see the crime scene, even if the case is cold. Photos and sketches and notes are beneficial, but a walk-through can add perspective, scope, and clarity. The farm where Naomi and Joseph King lived with their five children is just fifteen minutes from the Fisher home, so I head that way.

The house is abandoned now. After Naomi King’s death—and Joseph’s incarceration—the children moved in with Rebecca and Daniel Beachy in Painters Mill. The eighty acres they left behind was leased to the Amish family next door, and they use it to farm hay and corn, and run a couple of dozen head of cattle on the pasture. The money, which probably doesn’t amount to much, goes to the Beachys.

The gravel lane is overgrown with weeds and lined on both sides by blackberry bushes that will undoubtedly bear copious fruit by summer’s end. As I zip past, I can’t help but wonder how many times Naomi King sent her children down the lane to pick berries.