Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(50)

“Didn’t know we had company.” The woman turns to us. She’s substantially built and clad completely in black, which will be her color of choice for the next months or even a year, since she’s in mourning.

“She’s a police, Mama. Here to talk to you about Datt.”

A shadow darkens her expression. “You caught the man who hit him?”

“No, ma’am.” I tell her about Mary Yoder and Elsie Helmuth. “I want to talk to you about something that happened a few years ago.”

A few minutes later the two of us are seated at the table, a cup of steaming cider in front of each of us.

“Noah was a good bishop,” she tells me. “A good man. Father. Husband.” She sips cider, swallows a little too hard.

“Did he ever travel to Painters Mill?” I ask.

“I believe he did, in fact.”

“How long ago?”

“Years, I think.”

“Did he know Sadie Stutzman?”

“Anyone who’s had a baby around here knows Sadie.” She looks at me over the rim of her cup.

It’s the longest run of straight answers I’ve received since I’ve been in Crooked Creek. “Did your husband transport a baby to Painters Mill?”

Her eyes flick away, then return to mine. “Maybe.”

“That’s an interesting answer.” I set down my cup. “Do you know the circumstances?”

“No.” She folds her hands in front of her. “But I probably know more than I should.” She gives me a sage look. “The little girl you were telling me about. The missing one. Do you believe they’re one and the same?”

“I think that’s a possibility.”

Bowing her head slightly, she rubs at her temples. “Oh good Lord.”

“Mrs. Schwartz, do you know who the parents are?”

“I do not,” she tells me. “But I overheard something I never forgot. I knew it would come back to haunt me. I just had this feeling … that it was wrong.”

“Your husband told you about it?”

“Not exactly.” Her smile is sad. “You know, it’s a momentous occasion for an Amish man to become Deiner. For most, it’s a burden. A weight they bear. But it’s also a calling and they serve with joy.” She purses her lips. “Noah took his position as bishop very seriously. He was a sensitive man. He felt things … deeply. Too deeply perhaps. But he was strong, too. He never talked to me about the things he dealt with. He never burdened me with knowledge of the things that troubled him.”

“How did you find out about the baby?”

This time, her smile contains something akin to shame. “I eavesdropped on a conversation that was none of my business. Between Sadie Stutzman and my husband. I’m not proud and it bothered me for years. What I heard kept me up nights.”

“Tell me about the conversation.”

Her mouth tightens. “Sadie Stutzman came to our door. It was late. The middle of the night. She was … crying and distraught. That was odd for her because that lady is tough as leather, coolheaded, and not prone to high emotion. She was a midwife, you know. To see her so upset … I assumed one of her young mothers had lost a baby. I was wrong.”

The Amish woman wraps her hands around her mug. “Noah went out to the porch and they spoke in low voices for a long time. I went to the kitchen and made coffee, but when I took the cups to them, I heard Sadie say something about taking a newborn from its mamm.”

“Did she mention a name?” I ask. “Do you have any idea who the parents are?”

The Amish woman shakes her head. “You have to understand, Chief Burkholder, I only caught bits and pieces of the exchange.” Anguish flashes in her eyes. “The thing that surprised me the most—aside from the whole conversation about taking a baby—was that Noah already knew about it. They’d discussed it before. He was the one who suggested Painters Mill. I think he knew someone or had someone in mind for that poor little baby.”

She closes her eyes. “God knows, I knew better than to stand there and listen, but I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t imagine what could have happened that would prompt Sadie to take an innocent newborn baby.”

“Did you have some sense as to why they did it?” I ask.

“All I can tell you, Chief Burkholder, is that there must have been a good reason. That, I know for certain.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs. “I couldn’t say. But I knew my husband and he was a good and decent God-loving man. This must have been … an urgent situation. If the baby wasn’t being fed or cared for. Something like that.”

“Did you ask your husband about it?”

“I did.” Shame flashes in her expression. “I told him I’d overheard part of the conversation.” She chokes out an awkward sound. “It’s the closest I ever came to lying to him.” Another flash of pain. “He wouldn’t speak of it. Said he didn’t want to burden me. He told me some things are better left unsaid.”

She raises her gaze to mine. “He went to Painters Mill the next day. Came home very late. I knew they’d done it. I never broached the subject again.”

We sit in the silence of the kitchen, the smells of cinnamon and cider lingering, the words that passed between us adding unpleasant weight to what should have been an enjoyable moment.