Kansas Troubles (11 page)

She gave me a crooked, appeasing smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I think it’s rather funny actually. Gabe’s always been too macho for his own good. It won’t hurt him to be brought down a peg or two.”

“This is not a political statement I’m making,” I protested, irritated now. “I just don’t want to change my name.”

She wisely dropped the subject and stepped up to the bakery counter.

The woman behind the glass case was as round and soft-looking as the fat dinner rolls she was packing eight to a bag. While she wrapped up Becky’s order, they discussed Tyler’s death in low tones. I sat at a small plastic table drinking a cup of fresh coffee and eating a hot, just-iced caramel roll. The Pennsylvania Dutch heritage of the owners was apparent in the selection of baked goods in the sparkling clean display cases—flaky gooseberry turnovers, dill bread, huge apple butter cookies, strawberry-rhubarb pie, cherry angel rounds, lemon crunch coffee cake. Unable to resist, I bought a loaf of pilgrim bread and some oatmeal-coconut cookies to take back to Gabe and Kathryn.

Inside the Cherokee, the early afternoon sun had turned the air as hot and steamy as a sauna. We packed our baked goods into a cooler Becky had brought along, and drove through the tree-shaded streets onto a small country road, passing acres of bare wheat fields and four or five neat white houses with deep front porches and wildly colorful flower gardens. At the beginning of Hannah’s long dirt driveway stood a hand-painted sign: “Eggs, tomatoes, fresh cream, milk—No Sunday sales.” Driving toward the farm, Becky had to brake quickly twice to avoid the flocks of chickens skittering across our path. Hannah’s house, like the others we’d seen, was a two-story white wood structure with four rectangular windows upstairs and three windows and a new screen door below. The well-scrubbed front porch held only three Shaker-style chairs. The flower garden in front of the house exploded with ruby-red pansies, lavender zinnias, and enormous sunflowers. The pine and cottonwood trees shading the driveway were full of scolding blue jays and a small gray bird whose call sounded like a cat mewing. Two little girls burst out of the house, screaming Becky’s name. Wisps of hair the color and texture of dandelion fluff escaped from the sides of their miniature white caps. Above us, the blue jays screeched in unison.

“Are Paige and Whitney with you?” the smaller of the two girls asked. She looked about six and wore a plain blue short-sleeve dress that swung around legs as plump and smooth as summer zucchinis. Her sister, wearing a similar dress, was older by a year or so. She hopped up and down on one tanned bare foot. In her serious gray eyes and delicate nose, I could see her aunt’s face as it must have looked twenty years ago.

“No, honey, I’m sorry,” Becky said. “They’re with their daddy today. They had a swimming lesson they couldn’t miss.”

“Oh.” The girls’ faces wrinkled in disappointment. The screen door opened again, and their mother walked out. I inhaled sharply when I saw her. The one thing Becky forgot to tell me was that Hannah and Tyler were identical twins.

Becky glanced at me, taking my surprised look to heart. “Oh, my, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”

I nodded mutely.

“Twins are genetically very common among the Amish. I’m so used to it that it didn’t even occur to me to mention it.”

“Becky, I’m so glad you came.” Hannah held out a hand. She wore a simple, dark brown dress closed at the neck with straight pins, and a full white apron over it. Her golden blond hair was pulled back in a bun and tucked into a fitted white cap identical to her daughters’. Her face—Tyler’s face—was free of any makeup, making her appear younger than her twenty-seven years.

“Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry.” Becky’s eyes filled with tears. She took Hannah’s hand, and they looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Behind them, the girls shuffled their bare feet and played with the loose strands of hair feathering their faces. A small red hen broke the emotional moment by jumping up on the porch and pecking at the clean wood.

Hannah stepped away from Becky and briskly clapped her hands. “Ruthie, Emma, I told you to round up those chickens and put them in their pen. Get along with you and do it now.” Her voice was firm but loving.

“Can we show Becky the new chickies?” the younger girl asked, scurrying across the porch to catch the protesting hen and tuck it under her arm.

“Later, Emma. We have grown-up things to discuss right now.” Hannah turned back to us. “Please come and eat with me.”

Her house was as neat and plain inside as out. Hand-woven rugs softened our steps on the shiny hardwood floors. The long windows had white gossamer curtains pulled to the side, letting the slight breeze blow through a living room that with its simple sofa and straight-backed chairs appeared almost empty, so accustomed was I to the abundance of furniture in the average American home. A natural pine rocker sat next to the front window; a delicate spindle-legged table next to it held a twig basket full of fabric scraps and a frayed leather Bible. On the pale walls there was only a pegged rack, a handmade shelf displaying a curved mantel clock, and a shiny calendar showing a clear mountain lake reflecting a snow-capped mountain. Carrying the food we brought, we followed Hannah into the kitchen, where dishes covered with embroidered tea towels or aluminum foil crowded the countertops.

“There’s plenty,” she said, pulling plates from a cherry-wood hutch that dominated a corner of the kitchen. In the hutch, colorful crystal glassware and fancy teacups fought for space on shelves edged with an eyelet lace border. “Try some of Lavina Yoder’s corn pie.”

She filled our plates with the sweet-smelling pie, a helping of chow-chow that reminded me of my aunt Garnet’s pickled spring vegetables, slices of ham crusted with a brown sugar glaze, and thick pieces of homemade white bread spread with cool, salty butter. While eating, we talked about quilting and Hannah’s flower garden, how bad the tomato worms were this year and how hot it was. She asked me if I was enjoying Kansas and told me she’d always been curious about California. She blushed when she confessed that Disneyland, as worldly as it was, was someplace she’d always wanted to see. Finally the conversation turned to Tyler. Becky asked Hannah if the police had talked with her yet.

Before answering, Hannah cut each of us a slice of a four-layer coconut cake. She sat down and stared at her plate. “Yes, but I didn’t have anything to tell them. You know I haven’t seen her in over a year. I don’t know what her life was like except for what you have told me.” She picked up her fork, then laid it back down. A shininess appeared in her gray eyes.

Becky touched her friend’s hand. “They’ll find whoever did this.”

Hannah pushed her cake away, and put a hand to her temple tentatively. “I know, Becky. In my heart I know that God allowed this to happen for a reason and that justice will be done, if not now, then in eternity.” Becky and I finished our cake silently. Hannah picked at hers, then abruptly stood up, straightened her back, and walked over to the sink. With sharp, quick strokes, she scraped what remained of her cake into a large aluminum pan.

The back door flew open, and Ruthie and Emma tumbled into the kitchen. “Mama, can Becky come see the chickies now?”

Her face grew tender with affection. “Yes, if she wants.”

“I most certainly do,” Becky said, grabbing each girl’s hand. “Hannah, Benni would love to see your quilts. Would you mind showing them to her?”

“If she likes,” Hannah said.

She took me into an airy bedroom upstairs and opened a blue-painted highboy. Silently I named the patterns as she laid them across the narrow bed—Sawtooth Diamond, Sunshine and Shadow, Double Nine-Patch, Tree of Life, Fence Row, Wild Goose Chase, Grandmother’s Flower Garden. All traditional Amish patterns using no printed fabric, their brilliantly colored symmetry and complex quilting exemplified the reasons that these quilts were so prized by collectors and lovers of folk art. Each seemed more impressive than the last, and finally I ceased exclaiming over them and just enjoyed their beauty. The last one she pulled out was a traditional Star of Bethlehem, that arresting pattern of hundreds of tiny diamond-shaped pieces, in this case ranging in color from bright purple to sky-blue to Turkey-red to the dark green of a summer pine. Only one thing marred its adherence to Amish tradition. The final diamond on each tip of the eight-pointed star was made with a dark green material with the tiniest print of flowers. A small cry of defiance in a stifling world of conformity.

“This is the only quilt I have left of Ruth’s,” Hannah said sadly, smoothing it as if it were a beloved child’s unruly hair. “It was a birthday gift. She took all the others with her when she left, and sold them. I’m just thankful Becky bought some and that I have this one left.”

“It’s incredible,” I said, studying the intricate stitching. I looked up at Hannah. A faint sheen of perspiration gave her face a rosy glow. Her brow furrowed. “This must be very hard for you.”

“Yes,” she said, the troubled expression on her face deepening. “Becky’s brother . . .” she began, then cleared her throat delicately. “Your husband. He’s a police officer, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said, mystified. “Why?”

She looked down and started folding up the quilts quickly. I helped her silently, sensing that she’d finish her thought when she was ready. She carefully laid Ruth’s quilt on top of the others in the chest, giving it a sorrowful look before closing the doors. Then she turned to me, her neat, pointed jaw set determinedly. For a moment, with that look of stubborn resolve, the similarity between her and Tyler was eerie.

“I have something I must show you,” she said.

HANNAH AND I walked across the backyard to the paint-peeled barn, the strong, tangy odor of pigs surrounding us. The clouds had moved south, and through the shimmering heat of the clear afternoon air we could hear Becky’s teasing voice in the distance and the high, excited squeals of Hannah’s daughters. Inside the cool barn, she led me to a small room in the back. Tack of all sizes hung on the rough walls. Wood shavings decorated the floor around four straight-backed wooden chairs. Two men were in the room; both had the traditional untrimmed beard and bare upper lip of the Old Order Amish male. One had pale thinning hair, ice-blue eyes and a penny-sized mole on his left cheek. He sat behind a scarred desk cleaning a bridle worn dark brown from use. The buttery-sweet smell of saddle soap filled the room. The other man, leaning against the wall across from him, was about six feet tall, with dark eyes, a weathered complexion, and long legs. They stopped talking when we entered.

“This is my husband, Eli,” Hannah said, pointing to the blue-eyed man cleaning tack. “And our friend, John Stoltzfus. This is Becky’s sister-in-law, Benni. The one who’s married to the policeman. I’m giving it to her.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

Eli frowned at me, then slowly dipped his head in acknowledgment. The other man, John, stared at me silently. Hannah opened the top drawer of an old wood cabinet and pulled out a legal-sized envelope. She gestured at me to follow her back outside.

In the backyard, under the cool shade of a massive walnut tree, she handed me the envelope. “Please excuse my husband’s unfriendliness,” she said. “Since the police came to question us this morning, he and John have not been in the best of moods.”

“Why would it bother John?”

She looked surprised, then flushed with emotion. “Becky has not told you about John?”

“No,” I said carefully. “I guess she didn’t.”

“John and Ruth are married. When she left, he was very upset. It has been hard for him.”

Married? I thought. Tyler is—was—married? I was speechless for a moment. “What—” I started, not certain what I wanted to ask. “How—”

“We do not believe in divorce,” Hannah said quietly. “For us, marriage is until death.”

“So what is he supposed to do?” I realized after I said it that it wasn’t a problem for him now. “I mean, before—What did he do?”

“Lived his life according to the Scriptures, prayed for her return. The bishop told him he must look upon it as a test of faith.”

“But no remarriage. No children.” I knew enough about the Amish to understand how that would be the ultimate sacrifice, the supreme test of faith.

“No. No children.”

I looked into her sad eyes, and the unspoken truth hung between us heavy as pollen in the air. Now he could remarry and have a family within the bounds of the community. Had anyone told the police that Tyler was married? Was he the Amish man who argued with Tyler on the porch last night? And could a man raised Amish actually kill someone?

I contemplated the envelope she’d handed me. It had been opened and resealed with Scotch tape. “What is this?”

“Ruth’s bank book,” she said. “I looked, though perhaps I shouldn’t have. There’s a lot of money in it.”

Taking that as a cue, I opened the envelope. The account, on deposit in a downtown branch of the First Bank of Wichita, was opened on January twelfth of this year with a starting balance of ten thousand dollars. It showed a balance of $6258.67 as of last Friday, when five hundred dollars had been withdrawn. Five withdrawals had been made during the last six months. I guessed Tyler had been using this money to supplement her unpredictable earnings as a singer.

“Why do you have this?” I asked, slipping the bank book back in the envelope. “I thought you and Ty—Ruth didn’t communicate. Oh, I forgot. Becky.” Had Becky failed to tell the police about this money, as she’d failed to tell them about Tyler’s husband? I wondered what else she knew that she hadn’t told.

“Oh, no,” Hannah said, shaking her head in protest. “Becky doesn’t know about this. For some reason, Ruth did not confide in her about this money. A couple of days ago Ruth came out and gave the bank book to Fannie Fisher, the woman who owns the fabric store in town. She is an old school friend of ours. Ruth told Fannie to give it to me if anything should happen to her, that she wanted the money to be mine and Eli’s. She told her to tell me to sign her name and draw the money out. But I can’t do that. I don’t know where Ruth got this kind of money. She had nothing when she left, and I know she didn’t make that much singing . . . ” Hannah’s voice trailed off. Above us, in the thick foliage of the tree, a squirrel chattered at a crow holding something red and raw in its beak. “It’s as if she knew she was in danger. Doesn’t it seem so? Oh, how I wish she’d never left us.”