Page 4 of The Hidden One

The woman turns to me, motions toward the horse. “That horse shit all over the place! Right in my parking spot!” She jabs a finger down at her sandal-clad feet. “Look at that! All over my shoe! That’s against the law.”

I glance down at the shoe in question and try not to wince. She must have kicked the pile of manure, which ended up between her toes, and got beneath her artfully pedicured toenails.

“I just bought these shoes.” Mouth taut, she shakes her head. “It’s disgusting. Don’t you people require them Amish to clean up after themselves? Why don’t they use bags or whatever to catch the shit! I mean, think of the diseases!”

The Ohio Revised Code does not require manure bags for horse-drawn vehicles. Some townships and villages with an Amish population have enacted ordinances. Painters Mill is not one of them. Because this woman is visibly upset, I opt not to point any of that out to her and take a more diplomatic route.

“Look, I’ve got a couple bottles of water and paper towels in my trunk,” I say calmly. “Let’s walk over to my vehicle, and we’ll rinse those shoes off for you.” I look around, take in the blocked traffic. “If you’d pull your vehicle back into that parking spot.” I offer her a smile. “Coffee’s on me this morning.”

She doesn’t return the smile. “A bottle of water? Are you kidding me? I’ve got a luncheon to get to. I can’t go smelling like crap.” She stabs a shaking finger at Abner Nisley. “You. Hose it off! Right now!”

Abner catches my gaze and shrugs. “See is weenich ad.” She’s a little off in the head.

The woman looks at him as if he’s hurled a slur in her direction and she’s thinking about slugging him. A motorist in the line of cars that have piled up behind the RAV4 lays on the horn. That’s my cue to end this before it escalates.

I look at the woman. “Pull your car into that parking spot while we sort this out. Now. You’re blocking traffic.”

“Chief Burkholder! Katie!”

I turn at the sound of the familiar voice to see the owner of the flower shop next door striding toward us. Beatrice Graeff is a downtown Painters Mill fixture—all ninety-two pounds of her. White-haired and petite, she’s dressed to the nines this morning in a Dior pantsuit and her trademark cloche hat. The crowd parts for her as she approaches and I notice the hand broom and dustpan in her hands.

“I’ve been picking up after those horses all summer,” she says to no one in particular. “Let me tell you, it’s pure gold. I got a composter out back and a boatload of tea roses just waiting for another dose of nitrogen.”

The three of us fall silent when the tiny woman reaches us. She thrusts the dustpan and broom to Abner. “If you don’t mind, young man, my knees aren’t as flexible as they used to be.”

Nodding, the Amish man kneels and sweeps the manure into the dustpan. Beatrice produces a plastic bag. “Dump it in. I’ll take it all.” She glances down at the woman’s shoes and her brows furrow. “Honey, you might want to take those to the cobbler down the street. Mr. Shook’ll get those cleaned up for you pronto.”

It takes ten minutes for the buggy and car to disperse and the traffic to start moving along Main Street. I’m standing on the sidewalk outside Mocha Joe’s, sipping a cup of dark roast when my cell erupts. I glance down to see DISPATCH on the display and pick up.

“Did you get that stinky situation taken care of, Chief?” Margaret asks, a snicker in her voice. “I heard that lady really stepped in it.”

I smile. “Disaster averted.”

“I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, but there are three gentlemen here to see you. Apparently, they’ve traveled all the way from Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania? Any idea what they want?”

“They wouldn’t say, Chief. Just that it’s important and they’d prefer not to wait until Monday.” She lowers her voice. “They seem kind of serious about something.”

I sigh, thinking about the birdhouse, and decide to pick it up later this afternoon. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

I toss the empty to-go cup into the trash and head toward the Explorer.

The Painters Mill Police Department is housed in a one-hundred-year-old building dressed in red brick and sandstone. It lacks the character inherent in most of the town’s historic structures. It’s drafty in the winter, sweltering in the summer, and fraught with an array of inexplicable sounds and smells, most of which are not pleasant. Despite its shortcomings, it’s my home away from home, and when I walk through the door, I don’t see the cracks in the plaster, the battered dark molding, the outdated furniture, or the century of wear on the floor. Instead, I absorb a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature, but with the percept that I’m surrounded by people I admire and respect.

I enter reception to find my off-hours dispatcher, Margaret, sitting at her station, headset clamped over her head, fingers flying over a keyboard that’s so well-used the letters are worn off. To my right, three Amish men—elders by the looks of them—sit on the sofa, looking out of place and uncomfortable.

“Guder mariye,” I say to them. Good morning.

The three men get to their feet, each of them showing some level of stiff knees and achy joints. Judging by the varying degrees of silver hair and stooped postures, I guess all of them to be in their seventies or older. They wear full salt-and-pepper beards and are clad mostly in black. Felt, flat-brimmed hats. White shirts. Black jackets and trousers. Nondescript dark shoes. Their expressions are as somber as their clothes.

The tallest of the group steps forward, his eyes meeting mine. “My name is Nelson Yoder. I’m the bishop over in Belleville, Pennsylvania.”

I take his hand and we shake. “Lancaster County?” I ask, wondering why these men would travel so far to talk to me without so much as a call.

“The Kish Valley,” he tells me.

My knowledge of the Kish Valley is limited to a vague perception that it’s somewhere in central Pennsylvania and home to a small but diverse group of Amish. My expression must reflect as much, because the short man with bright blue eyes and fifty pounds of extra weight wrapped around his middle ducks his head and extends his hand. “That’s the Kishacoquillas Valley,” he says in a gravelly voice. “In the central part of the state. I’m Nathan Kempf, the deacon.”