Plain Confession Page 2

  For such a small woman, her voice carried easily above the murmurs, and Rachel involuntarily winced. This didn’t seem the time or place to be talking about her impending wedding. “We are,” she answered quietly.

  “What? I can’t hear you! Shh, I’m trying to hear Rachel,” Mary said to the two nearest matrons, who were talking about the new widow’s eldest brother.

  Rachel knew who they were discussing because she’d heard Arlene Troyer say, “. . . It was Daniel that got him that good job at the mill.”

  “Come over here, Rachel.” Mary motioned with her makeshift fan. “I want to talk to you. Hear all the details.”

  Rachel offered a quick smile. “Sorry, fetching for my mother,” she called back, and then to her aunt, she said, “Excuse me. Mam wants me to take these drinks into the parlor.”

  “Rachel?” the old woman called after her. “Where are you going?”

  Rachel plunged into a divide in the black bonnets and wiggled her way through to the narrow hallway without losing her glasses of cider and lemonade. She’d have to go back for the tissues.

  Aunt Hannah followed close on her heels with the baby on her hip. “Why don’t you want to talk about your wedding? Are you having second thoughts? Because if you are, there’s no shame in it.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I’m not having second thoughts. I just didn’t want to talk about it today. I feel so bad for Mary Rose. Talking about my wedding seems almost . . . well, almost like boasting about my blessings.”

  Rachel’s niece stared at her with large round eyes. She was a pretty child; Rachel didn’t know if she’d look like her mother or her father. Babies, at least young ones, always looked alike to her. She liked babies well enough, but she was wary of them, especially when they cried. This one was vigorously sucking on her pink pacifier and didn’t show any signs of bursting into tears.

  Aunt Hannah shook her head. “Honestly, girl, you do get the strangest notions. Is it a pity about Daniel? Of course it is. A sweet boy, always good to the older people. Never missed worship. But people die. That’s life. People, even good people, die. Women become brides and they become widows. And some, like Mary Aaron . . . well, we don’t know how that will end, do we?”

  Rachel’s throat tightened. Mary Aaron had been at the grave site, not in Amish dress as her mother wanted, but wearing one of Rachel’s outfits, gray pants and jacket with a white blouse. And a pair of her heels. Rachel didn’t want to get into that hive of bees with her aunt, so she ignored the comment about her cousin.

  “Life goes on,” Aunt Hannah continued. “And you shouldn’t feel bad because a new part of yours is opening. There’s enough sadness and grief in this world without feeling guilty about being happy. And you are a good person. You deserve to be happy. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Rachel nodded. Aunt Hannah was a dear, but always full of advice. And Rachel wasn’t sure that she wanted to get into a discussion of life here in the midst of the funeral gathering. Instead, she said, “I love you, Aunt Hannah. You’re the one with the good heart.” And, balancing the tray, she leaned over and kissed her plump cheek.

  “I hope I do have a good heart,” Aunt Hannah answered. “Now, I’m going to see about finding a fresh diaper for this little one and you see that our bishop gets his lemonade. He always takes lemonade.”

  Rachel moved on, gave her father a glass of cider, asked Beck Beiler if she could take her dirty plate, and made an appropriate comment to Mary Rose’s mother, Alma Studer. She found the widow with the bishop and one of the deacons in the parlor and passed out all her glasses. A squeal of childish voices and a pounding of feet came from the stairs to the second floor, and Rachel excused herself and started to go up the steps to see if anyone was watching over the kids. Everyone expected children to be children, but running inside and making too much noise at an after-funeral dinner was outside the bounds of proper behavior.

  The front door opened behind her, and a gust of cold wind whipped against Rachel’s legs and arms and down the back of her neck. She turned to see her fiancé, Evan Parks, just inside the doorway. He was wearing his trooper’s uniform and looked as out of place among the Plain folk as a penguin in a flock of robins. “Evan,” she called to him.

  He looked up, saw her, and did a double take.

  Rachel glanced down at her dress and realized what had startled him. “I’ll explain later. Are you off work already?” she asked, unable to look away or fail to see how handsome he was. He always looked taller and broader in the shoulders in his uniform with his hat and knee-high boots and the huge handgun in its holster.

  He shook his head. “Can I speak to you?” He was wearing his official expression, and Rachel wasn’t certain if it was because of the occasion or that something was wrong. “Outside,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the door.

  “All right.” She’d seen Evan at the cemetery, but he’d been on traffic duty and they hadn’t had a chance to speak. She’d thought he wouldn’t be off for a few hours, but they were planning on seeing each other later. If he was here, there must be a serious reason.

  “There’s a problem,” he said, when they were alone on the porch.

  She hugged herself for warmth; the temperature was quickly dropping. She wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed again tonight. “Okay.”

  “It’s Daniel Fisher.” A wrinkle appeared on his forehead and he folded his arms over his chest in that way he stood when he had something unpleasant to deliver.

  Rachel shivered in the raw wind. “What’s the problem?”

  “We just got the preliminary report from the medical examiner. His death wasn’t an accident. It looks as if he was murdered.”

  Chapter 2

  “Murdered?” Rachel glanced around to see if anyone was near enough to overhear them. But that was foolish. What would anyone be doing on the front porch? Everyone else was coming and going through the kitchen. The front door was only used to carry out the dead or to welcome a bride. Well, she reconsidered, it was used by teenagers wanting to slip in or out of the house unnoticed. And for state troopers bringing bad news.

  She stared at Evan. “Are you serious?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” Evan’s normally pleasant face with its square chin and dimple was grim.

  He took his job seriously, so seriously that he’d given up his position as a detective with the Pennsylvania State Police to be a trooper again. Evan liked helping people and he felt that he was of more use on the road, performing the mundane work of a policeman, than sitting at a desk.

  Some, including his friend and fellow officer Lucy Mars, considered what he’d done to be career suicide, but Rachel hadn’t. She realized that it was important to Evan that he serve where he felt most needed and the most comfortable. He’d been a good detective, but his heart wasn’t in it, and she’d seen more of the old Evan since he’d returned to the work he loved. She knew a little something about making choices that didn’t seem completely rational, and she’d decided long ago that peace of mind meant more than a higher income or more prestige.

  “I need you to help me speak to the family,” Evan said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Actually, Detective Sharpe will be providing the information. He’s the one who took over my old position, but he’s from Philadelphia. He hasn’t had any experience with the Amish community—knows nothing about them. Sharpe asked for me to be there when he speaks with the immediate family, and I want you as well. Will you help me?”

  Rachel grimaced. Since she’d returned to Stone Mill, she’d often found herself acting as a go-between when the Englisher police needed to communicate with the Amish. The Plain community was a closed one to the modern society. Keep apart from the world was the motto they lived by. They didn’t like or trust Englishers. And they didn’t like Englisher police in particular. Amish who didn’t want to cooperate with law enforcement or with state or national officials could suddenly lose their ability to speak or comprehend English. A vi
olent confrontation with authority in the old country two hundred years before had taught them caution and suspicion. They didn’t always trust her because she’d left the order, but at least she understood their ways.

  “Please, Rachel. This will go easier if you’ll help us out,” he urged.

  “What can I do?” She looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Just be there in the room. These people trust you. The family will know we mean them no harm if you’re there to reassure them.”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll do what I can,” she promised. “But why does the medical examiner think Daniel’s death wasn’t an accident? It’s not unheard of. A hunter drops his gun or catches the trigger on a branch and shoots himself. Remember John Knepp up the valley? His rifle went off when he was crawling under a fence. One blast, and it was over. Why not Daniel? What makes them think he was murdered?”

  He glanced over her head, one hand on his wide leather gun belt. “I can’t discuss details, but they’re sure someone else killed him.”

  “But maybe it was still an accident, even if Daniel didn’t do it himself. There are always hunters in the woods during hunting season. Someone might have accidentally shot him and never known it.” Of course, there had been cases of the Amish murdering, but not like this. The Amish were a peaceful people; besides, everyone had liked Daniel Fisher. Who could have possibly had a big enough problem with him to shoot and kill him?

  Evan’s features softened. “It would be best you heard this from Detective Sharpe. I, he,” Evan corrected, “needs the immediate family. Just Mrs. Mary Rose Fisher, the mother-in-law. . . what’s her name?”

  “Alma. Alma Studer.”

  “Mrs. Studer, and Mrs. Fisher’s two brothers, Moses . . .” Evan paused. “He’s what, early twenties?”

  “Twenty-four. At least that’s what I heard someone say at the funeral,” Rachel confirmed.

  “And . . . Lemuel, isn’t it?”

  “Ya, Lemuel is the younger. But he’s a child,” she reasoned. “Thirteen . . . fourteen at the most. Is it necessary to include him? This has to be so confusing for him. Amish kids aren’t like the English. Lemuel’s probably never seen television, and he certainly hasn’t seen any violent movies or any cartoon superheroes. My people shelter their children from violence.”

  Evan shook his head. “Detective Sharpe was clear. He needs to speak to everyone who lives in the household.”

  “I don’t understand, then. Moses doesn’t live at home. He has a job at the mill, and he lives there. Apparently, he’s doing so well that the miller is considering apprenticing him. My aunt said that Daniel got the job for him.”

  Evan considered what she’d told him. “Maybe I misspoke. Maybe Detective Sharpe didn’t say anyone who actually lives in the home.” He exhaled. “Moses needs to be there.”

  “Does it have to be today?” Rachel pressed her hand to her forehead, fearing she had a headache coming on. Her migraines were coming on more frequently and she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t think she was stressed, planning the wedding, but maybe she was. Something like this happening in the community was certainly stressful. “Mary Rose just buried her husband, Evan. Surely you could give her a day or two?”

  “Rachel, this wasn’t my idea, and it’s not my case. I’m only trying to make things easier for everyone concerned.” A static sound came over the radio attached to his uniform. A voice. He ignored it. “And the sooner the investigation starts, the sooner we’ll find out who killed Daniel. Maybe it was someone he knew, maybe not. But if it was a random murder, then others are at risk.” The radio came on again. He tapped it and it went silent. “This isn’t my call or yours. There are procedures, and Detective Sharpe is the one who decides when and where to start. Either he can speak to the family here and now, or he could insist they all come down to the troop. I thought that having you here, it would be easier on the family. Translate for them if they’re not following. Is it possible for you to find a private spot for him to talk to them?”

  “Ya, I can do that,” she conceded. “Let me speak to my dat. It’s his house and he will be the one to say the detective can have this meeting and where it can be done.”

  He frowned. “I thought the house was your mother’s domain. Didn’t you tell me that most Amish wives rule the home?”

  Rachel shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Ordinarily, you’re right. My mother would have the final say. But there are elders here, a bishop or two, and I don’t know how many preachers.” She sighed. “There is an image to maintain. Most Englishers believe that ours is a male-dominated society.”

  “And that’s not true?”

  “Well, it is, and it isn’t. In most of the families I know, the wives control the checkbook. Men usually make the big decisions such as where to live and when to buy or sell land, but the rest is either a joint decision with their wives or weighted in favor of her opinion.” She shrugged. “Other than with my Uncle Aaron. He likes to think he’s in charge.”

  “But the women can’t be bishops or preachers or . . . what’s the other position that’s important in the Amish church?”

  “Deacon. They are the enforcers. Nothing like the mob, but they keep order. If anyone breaks the ordnung, it’s the deacon who would be the first to speak to the person who’s committed the transgression.” She gave him a quick smile. “Back to what you were asking about women’s roles, you also have to remember that the women have an equal vote in church business, and they have most of the raising of the children. Amish society is pretty equal as far as men and women go.”

  Evan had lived in Stone Mill all his life. They’d been engaged for several years, and he’d known lots of Amish personally. If he didn’t understand, how would this Detective Sharpe, an outsider, hope to?

  “I think you’ve lost me. I still don’t know why you don’t ask your mother if there’s somewhere the detective can speak to the Fisher family.”

  Rachel moved a few steps to the left to get out of the path of the raw wind and the scattering of sleet that was now wetting the floor of the open porch. “Because if I go to my mother for permission, then it will look to others as if she rules the house.”

  “Which she pretty much does.”

  “As I said, it’s complicated. If I go to Mam, Dat will lose face. I think that’s the best way to put it. She would go along with any of his decisions. And it will look as though he’s in charge. A proper, Old Testament family.”

  Evan held his hands out to her, palms out. “Whatever. Please just make the arrangements. Detective Sharpe is ten minutes out. Either we have something set up when he gets here, or he’ll ask the family to come down to the troop.”

  She clasped her hands together, shivering. “Fine. But it’s cold out here. Come inside and wait while I hunt up Dat. I’m sure he can arrange something.”

  Exactly ten minutes later, Rachel’s father showed Detective Sharpe and Trooper Lucy Mars into the front parlor that minutes before had held the elders and church leaders. The mourners still crowded the hall, the living room, and the smaller parlor and kitchen, but they’d been gingerly ushered out of the main parlor. Seated in the chamber were a red-eyed Mary Rose and her mother; both her brothers remained standing, behind the women. Rachel and Evan waited near the fireplace.

  Detective Sharpe, who Rachel hadn’t yet met, was a stocky bulldog of a man in a navy-blue suit, carrying a small notebook. Sharpe’s graying hair was neatly trimmed in military style, and he had brown eyes, a high forehead, and a strong nose that showed the effects of at least one break. With an air of self-confidence, he strode, back rigid, to a settee across from the Amish, and sat down. Trooper Lucy Mars, whom Rachel knew well, took a position just inside the closed door.

  For a few long seconds, the two opposing camps, the Englisher authority figures and the distinctly anti-authority Amish, stared at each other. Mary Rose’s mother slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and handed her a handkerchief. Mary Rose cradl
ed her sleeping baby and blew her nose. Lemuel, a thin, undersized boy with wispy blond hair, bad acne, and gray eyes, looked frightened. His brother, Moses, assumed the blank, emotionless expression that often puzzled Englishers or made them assume the Amish person wasn’t particularly bright.

  Moses’s shaggy hair was several shades darker than his brother’s, and he was of medium height with gangly limbs. His face was long with eyes much the same color as his brother’s and sister’s, but there was something unsettling about Moses’s flat gaze.

  Quickly, Rachel made the introductions, then explained in Deitsch, “Detective Sharpe has something to tell you.” She looked from Alma to Mary Rose. “And . . . and he may have questions for you concerning Daniel’s death.” She repeated what she’d said, this time in English, so the police knew what she was telling the Studer family.

  “Sorry for this intrusion on the day of Mr. Fisher’s funeral,” Sharpe delivered in a raspy smoker’s voice. He was overloud in the quiet room and Rachel had to make an effort not to flinch. He reminded her of a drill sergeant addressing new recruits. Not that Rachel had ever been to boot camp, but she had seen movies and TV.

  Mary Rose sat up straighter and clutched her sleeping baby. Her mother, a hollow-cheeked woman with a small chin, gray hair, and glasses, closed her eyes and then opened them and fixed her gaze on the floor. Lemuel gripped the back of his mother’s chair.

  “It’s my duty to provide you with unpleasant and disturbing news,” Sharpe continued. “I’m sorry to inform you that Daniel Fisher did not meet his death as was first assumed. He didn’t die accidentally by his own hand, as you were first told. Someone shot him. We believe he was murdered.”

  Rachel repeated what he said in Deitsch, but didn’t repeat it in English because now she was just translating directly.

  Sharpe studied the family and then looked to Evan. “Do they understand English?” he asked. “Is it necessary for Ms. Mast to translate?”