Page 58 of Outsider

Martha purses her lips. “I didn’t catch her name.”

“She’s an old friend.” I start toward the kitchen and back door. “I’ll get Adam.”

“Oh, Lord no,” Ruthie says. “It’s too cold out there, Chief Burkholder.”

“Probably time for Sammy to come in and warm up, anyway.” Martha’s reply comes at precisely the same time as Ruthie’s.

I notice the women eyeing the blanket I left folded on the sofa, stacked atop a single pillow. My cell phone on the coffee table. Oh boy.

“My police vehicle got stuck in the snow,” I tell them.

“Of course it did,” Martha says, but her earlier friendliness has cooled to just above freezing.

Lizzie tugs gently on the woman’s sleeve. “Witt du kaffi, Mrs. Stoltzfus?” Do you want coffee? “Gina taught me how to make it. She likes hers strong because it puts hair on her chest.”

The girl starts toward the kitchen, but Martha reaches out quickly and sets her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “That’s okay, Lizzie. We’ll be going now.” She offers the casserole to the girl. “Now all of you have a nice hinkelbottboi for sobbah.” Chicken potpie for supper.

“And shtengel boi for your sweet tooth!” Ruthie adds the comment with a cheerfulness that doesn’t quite mask her disappointment.

Hospitality and friendliness are keystones of the Amish social order. Good manners are instilled at a young age. Though I haven’t been Amish for a long time, old habits die hard. The last thing I want to do is send these women on their way after they’ve driven several miles in the cold and snow to deliver food. On the other hand, I know from experience that some of the Amish have a propensity for gossip. And I know that the longer they’re here, the more their curiosity about the attractive, dark-haired English woman will grow.

“I’ll let Adam and Sammy know you were here,” I tell them. “They’ll appreciate the food very much.”

“You do that.” Martha gives me a long, assessing look. “Hochmut,” she mutters.

It’s the Deitsh term for a prideful person. I know it all too well; more than one Amish person has used it while referring to me.

Ruthie doesn’t quite meet my gaze as she starts toward the door. I reach for the knob and open it for them. I want to say something that will explain my lack of manners, but there are no words that will make them understand and the opportunity is lost.

“Thank you for coming,” I say as they pass through the door.

The two women step onto the porch and cross to the steps without speaking.

I’m standing at the front door, watching them pull off the horse’s blanket and then climb into the sleigh, when Gina comes up behind me. We stand at the door and watch them pull away. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they don’t like you much,” she murmurs beneath her breath.

“That’s not it,” I tell her. “I was … rude.”

She shrugs, her expression puzzled. “You were nice to them.”

I slant her a look. “Even Amish life gets complicated sometimes, Gina.”

“Complicated with electricity, I can handle. Complicated in the damn dark? No thanks.”

CHAPTER 18

Ken Mercer was not in a good mood. Holmes County was normally a little over an hour’s drive from Columbus. Because of the hazardous road conditions and a slew of accidents they encountered along the way, the trip had taken nearly three hours, despite the deep-snow prowess of Bertrand’s Subaru Outback. The plows had deposited ten feet of snow on both sides of the highway, which had been narrowed to a single lane in places. With the wind cranking to thirty knots, snow continued to drift across the tops of the peaks, giving the road a bizarre, tunnel-like countenance. Weather aside, he was ready to put this unpleasant task behind him as quickly and discreetly as possible.

They arrived in Painters Mill proper with a band of snow that lent the town a quaint, storybook ambience. Most of the businesses along Main Street had opened despite the inclement weather. A bakery. A couple of tourist shops. Nice little coffeehouse. An old man wearing insulated coveralls operated a snowblower outside an old-fashioned barbershop.

“Fucking Mayberry,” Mercer said beneath his breath as they crept down the street.

“Yep.” Bertrand stared out the window, sour faced and sullen. “They took care of Tyson last night. Clean hit. Ambush.”

Mercer nodded, felt his mood darkening even more. “Hated to do that. He was young.”

“Couldn’t be helped. He was tight with Colorosa.” Bertrand growled. “Should’ve chosen his company a little more carefully.”

Mercer was relieved he hadn’t been involved. Two thugs had owed Bertrand a favor. He’d called in the marker, and they’d gotten it done without either of them having to get their hands bloody. It disgusted Mercer that a man’s life—a cop’s life—could be bought and sold so cheaply.