I follow her into the house and through a small mudroom. The kitchen is uncomfortably warm and smells of cinnamon. The windows are open, the curtains billowing, but the breeze isn’t enough to dispel the heat. A young Amish woman stands at the counter next to the sink, rolling dough with a wooden pin, her hands covered with flour. She’s a scant five feet tall with a pretty face, a porcelain complexion, and full lips the color of a peach. She’s wearing a wine-colored dress with an apron. Intent on the dough in front of her. Perspiration beaded on her cheeks. I can tell by the amount of flour on the counter that she’s a messy baker.
“Something smells good,” I say by way of greeting.
Her smile reveals dimpled cheeks. “A little too good if you ask me.”
She glances at us over her shoulder. The smile falters as she takes in my uniform. Her eyes go to her mother, then back at me. “Mamm?”
Blond hair is tucked messily into a gauzy kapp, a single strand sticking out the side. She’s got bright blue eyes. Freckles on her nose. Cheeks that still have the roundness of youth. The kind of mouth a model would pay thousands for.
“This is Kate Burkholder,” her mother says. “She’s the police up to Painters Mill.”
“Police?” Dough forgotten, the girl picks up a raggedy kitchen towel and wipes her hands. “What happened? Why are the police here?” She looks at her mamm. “Why is she looking at me that way?” she asks in Deitsch.
“She’s got some bad news, honey,” her mom tells her.
“Bad news?” The girl chokes out a laugh, but the sound is an uneasy mix of annoyance and fear. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Aden was killed this morning,” the woman tells her. “Had some kind of accident on his way to work.”
“Killed? Aden?” Another sound escapes her, disbelief with an argument on deck. “No. That’s just not true. He’s at work. I’m going to see him later.”
Clara tightens her mouth, looks down at the floor. “God took him, baby,” she whispers. “He’s gone home.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I tell her.
The girl gives me a look of derision before turning away. Snatching up the rolling pin, she goes back to work on the dough. But her entire body is shaking now. She rolls with so much force that the dough sticks to the pin and tears. She ignores it, keeps rolling, putting too much muscle into it.
I look at Clara.
Clara goes to her daughter. “Let’s just put that crust away for now.” Gently, she usurps the rolling pin. “You sit yourself down. I’ll get us some tea. Chief Burkholder needs to ask you some questions.”
“He’s not dead!” The girl spins, points at me, a wildness in her eyes. A burst of anger in her voice. All of it laced with the desperation of a trapped, injured animal. A mind that simply cannot absorb the news. “She made it up!”
She tries to take the rolling pin from her mother. I don’t know if she wants to continue with the pie crust or if she plans to hit me with it. The two women grapple with the pin and the thing falls to the floor.
“Sitz dich anne,” the older woman says firmly. Sit yourself there.
Emily looks at her, gives herself a visible mental shake, then walks over to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair, and sinks into it. Without speaking or looking at me, she folds her arms on the table, lowers her head, and begins to sob.
“I don’t believe it,” she cries. “Someone’s mixed up is all.”
I hold my place at the doorway until Clara pours the tea. Making eye contact with me, she sets a plastic glass in front of her daughter. “You just sip this and get yourself settled down.”
After a moment, the girl straightens, tears streaming, and picks up the glass. “What happened to him?” she asks, finally turning her attention to me.
I take the chair across from her, debating how much to reveal. The last thing any cop wants to do in the course of an investigation, particularly a homicide, is relay unconfirmed information. I don’t know the official manner or cause of death. I’m not certain what type of weapon was used. Even so, the more specific my questions, the more likely the answers I receive will be helpful.
“All I can tell you is that a motorist found him this morning out on Hansbarger Road,” I tell her. “Evidently, that’s the route he takes to work. Nothing is confirmed at this point and we’re still basically trying to figure out what happened.”
“He was hit by a car?” Clara asks.
I look from Emily to her mother. “Preliminarily, it looks as if Aden may have been shot with some kind of projectile. I don’t know what kind of weapon was used—”
“Shot?” The girl sets down the glass so abruptly some of the tea sloshes over the side. “Are you saying someone … shot him? With a gun?” Tears streaming, she tosses a helpless look at her mother. “I don’t understand how that could happen. Why would someone do that?”
“Was it an accident?” Clara asks.
“I don’t think this was an accident,” I tell them.
“Mein Gott.” My God. The girl’s face screws up. “I can’t bear to think of it.”
“I know this is difficult,” I say. “But I have a few questions—”
“I can’t … Aden. Aden.” The girl puts her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking. Struggling for control that simply won’t manifest. “If I could only talk to him.”
Knowing she’s holding on to her composure by a thread and I may not have much time, I press on. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
She doesn’t respond for so long that I think I’m going to have to repeat the question, when she finally lowers her hands. “Saturday.” Her expression softens. “He drove all the way down here in his buggy. Helped Datt put a new roof on the chicken house and stayed for supper.”
“Did he seem all right?” I ask. “Was there anything bothering him?”
“He was fine. Same as always.”
“Has he had any disagreements or arguments with anyone recently?” I ask.
The girl blinks back tears and shakes her head. “Aden never argues with anyone. He’ll agree with you just to keep the peace. He was kind that way.”
The older woman removes a tissue from her pocket and hands it to her daughter. “What about the business with that old truck?”
My police antenna cranks up.
“Oh.” Emily takes the tissue, uses it to wipe her eyes. “I almost forgot. Such a stupid thing.”
“What truck?” I ask.
“Aden and Wayne bought this beat-up truck.”
“Wayne Graber,” Clara puts in.
The roommate, I recall.
Emily nods. “They bought it from an Englischer in Millersburg,” she tells me. “Aden and Wayne are good with mechanical stuff; they can fix anything. So, they figured they could make repairs and sell it. Make some money, you know. They went to work on it, like guys do. Got the thing all fancy-looking and sold it for two thousand dollars to Vernon Fisher.” Her brows knit. “But after Vernon had it for a few weeks, the truck stopped running. Vern got mad and stopped paying. So Wayne and Aden went over to his house in the middle of the night and repossessed it.”