Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Just us ghosts, a little voice whispers.

I continue on to the next farm. The name Nisley is hand-painted on the mailbox. I start down the gravel lane and realize quickly that this is a large farm. The lack of telephone poles and the general appearance tell me it’s Amish-owned. I idle past a loafing shed and a pen to my right, where half a dozen Hereford cattle mingle with some spotted hogs. The lane cuts between two massive white barns and a corn silo to my left; then the lane veers right and the house comes into view. It’s a two-story red brick with a big elm tree in the front yard and a flowering cherry tree at the side. I park a couple of yards from the cherry tree and take a narrow sidewalk around to the front of the house and knock.

An Amish woman in a dark blue dress opens the door and looks at me as if I’m some vermin that’s wandered in out of the woods. I can tell by her kapp and dress that she’s Swartzentruber, one of the most conservative of the Amish sects. She’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and holding a threadbare dish towel in her hand. I estimate her to be about sixty years of age.

I move quickly to get this off on the right foot. “Guder nammidaag.” Good afternoon. “Mrs. Nisley?”

She arches a brow, not impressed with my knowing her name or my use of Deitsch. “What can I do for you?”

I introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill.” This woman is no pushover, so I launch into my spiel. “I’m closing out the case on Joseph King. I don’t know if you heard, but he’s dead.”

“I heard. Everyone’s been talking about it since it happened.” She doesn’t invite me inside. “What do you want?”

“Did you know the King family when they lived next door?” I ask. “Naomi and Joseph?”

“Knew both of ’em. Rode to worship with the family every now and again. When he bothered to go, anyway.”

“I’m trying to … understand what happened, Mrs. Nisley. What were they like?”

“Naomi was nice as could be. Demut.” Humble. “A good mamm to her children. A good wife, too.”

“What about Joseph?”

“My grossmuder told me once that if you don’t have something nice to say about someone, don’t say anything at all. I have nothing to say about Joseph King.”

“Did you ever hear them arguing or anything like that?”

“From here?” She laughs. “Don’t think so.”

“Did you ever call the police? Ever have a reason to?”

She looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Why would I do something like that?”

“I’m wondering if you ever heard or saw something that gave you cause to be concerned or worried.”

She sets her hand on her hip and stares at me. “No.”

“When’s the last time you saw them?”

“I saw them the Sunday before it happened. The whole family. We all rode to worship together and—”

“Veah is datt?” A gruff male voice calls out from inside the house. Who goes there?

I look past Mrs. Nisley to see an Amish man hobbling toward us on crutches. He’s wearing typical Amish clothes—blue work shirt, black trousers, suspenders, and a flat-brimmed hat. He’s an amputee, missing his left leg at the knee. His trousers are folded up and pinned to keep the hem from dragging.

He doesn’t look pleased by my presence, so I heft a smile, hoping to charm him into answering a few more questions. “I hope I’m not disturbing your lunch.”

Grimacing as if his missing limb is causing him pain, he glares at me. “Vass du vella?” What do you want?

I identify myself and tell him the same thing I told his wife—in Deitsch. “I’m closing the case and I was hoping you might answer some questions about Joseph and Naomi King.”

“We don’t know anything about them.” He looks at his wife. “We’ve much to do.” Then he turns his sights to me. “Die zeit zu gay is nau.” The time to go is now.

“Mr. Nisley, did you ever become concerned about Naomi or the kids and call the police?” I ask.

He closes the door in my face.

*

I hit every house within a three-mile radius of the King farm, venturing into chicken coops, a slaughterhouse, and within smelling distance of manure pits, all to no avail. Most of the Amish answered my questions without qualm, but none of them offered anything new. I’d hoped to find some busybody who liked to spend his or her time looking out the window and gossiping about what she’d seen, but no such luck. So far the afternoon has been a big, fat strikeout.

I’m westbound on Nash Road when I come upon a group of five Amish boys walking along the shoulder, two in front and three in the back. They’re talking and gesturing, probably on their way home from school. On impulse I slow and stop next to them.

“And wie bischt du heit?” I begin. How are you today?

The boy nearest me slows. The others look away and keep going. I keep the Explorer in gear and idle along beside them. “My name’s Kate Burkholder. I’m the police chief in Painters Mill and I’m wondering if you guys would mind answering a few questions for me.”

The group slows. I’ve snagged their interest. Bored, I realize, and probably not too anxious to get home and start chores. Pulling the Explorer slightly ahead of the group, I shut down the engine and get out.

“I won’t keep you too long,” I say in Deitsch as I approach.

The boys stop walking, exchanging glances, all ears now. I guess them to be in their early teens. They’re not sure why an Englischer woman has flagged them down, but they’re curious. The boy nearest me eyes me from beneath the brim of his straw hat. “Kannschtr du Deitsch schwetze?” Can you talk Dutch?

“I used to be Amisch,” I tell him. When no one says anything, I jump into to my first question: “You guys live around here?”

Heads nod.

“Did any of you know Joseph or Naomi King?”

Another look is exchanged, this time fringed with uneasiness.

A tall blond boy with a bowl haircut and green eyes steps forward. “I knew ’em,” he says. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you ever see or hear any trouble out at their place?”

“Heard talk about it,” the blond boy says.

“What kind of talk?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, but a shorter, heavier boy chimes in. “That there was all kinds of hanky-panky going on out there.”

The boy beside him giggles. When he notices me looking at him, he sobers.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask.

The heavyset boy looks at me as if he wished he hadn’t mentioned it. “Never mind.”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’m not from around here. I’m closing a case and trying to … understand what happened.”

The heavyset boy backs away. “I gotta get home.” He turns away and starts walking. Two others join him. I call out, but they wave me off and keep moving.

I look at the two boys who remain. “What about you guys? You ever hear anything about the Kings?”

A skinny, sandy-haired boy with acne on his cheeks replies. “Maybe.”

“I’m Kate, by the way.” I stick out my hand and shake hands with both of them.

“I’m Roy,” says the sandy-haired boy. “This here’s Emery.” He squints at me. “Are you really a cop?”