“Do they know what kind of gun killed him?”
Rachel shook her head slowly. “If they do know what it was, they aren’t saying. Evan said ballistics can be slow to come back. Especially now that there’s been a confession.”
“Then how did they know he was murdered and it wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m going to see what Evan can find out. If he’ll try to find out. In the meantime, we should talk to as many Amish hunters as we can.”
“And the family,” Mary Aaron said.
Rachel walked back to the board and tapped the heading that read FAMILY. “Absolutely. We’re going to start right here.”
* * *
Fourteen-year-old Lemuel met Rachel and Mary Aaron in the barnyard outside the Studer farmhouse. He was carrying a large box of empty quart canning jars. “My mother and sister are in the kitchen,” he said. “I guess it’s one of them you came to see.”
They followed him into the house. Alma was standing at the stove stirring what smelled like a large kettle of applesauce while Mary Rose washed jars at the sink. “Come in,” Alma called. “Mary Rose, pour Rachel and Mary Aaron some coffee.” She glanced at her youngest son. “Are there more out there?”
“Another two cases. And I know there are more empties in the attic,” he said. Lemuel set the box of jars on the table. “Want me to bring ’em in?”
Alma nodded. “We’ll need at least another dozen, maybe more.” She was wearing a white apron that had seen better days, and a navy scarf that covered most of her hair. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, still stirring. “This batch is nearly ready, and if I don’t watch it close, it will burn.”
Mary Rose poured two cups of coffee and carried them to the table. “Milk and sugar?” she asked shyly. She looked tired, but unlike the last time Rachel had seen her, she didn’t appear to have been crying.
Rachel smiled. “Please.”
As Mary Rose placed the creamer-and-sugar set on the table, Rachel noticed a bruise on the young woman’s wrist.
“You okay?” Rachel asked, indicating the mark.
“Clumsy,” Mary Rose said, pushing down her rolled sleeve.
“Those jars ready yet?” Alma called to her daughter. “Nearly ready for them.”
“Coming,” Mary Rose told her, returning to the sink.
Rachel glanced around the kitchen as she added milk and sugar to her cup. The space was smaller than her mother’s and badly in need of painting. A single multipaned window over the sink let light into the room. It was one of the old-fashioned, swing-open, wooden-framed windows that you rarely saw anymore. There was a wide wooden windowsill, but no pots of live herbs as her mam’s kitchen had. It was a stark room, speaking of poverty and hard use.
Rachel shrugged off the impression. Maybe she was reading more into the austere room than she should. The bubbling applesauce, the fresh coffee, and Alma’s smile of welcome belied the sense of heavy sorrow. The kitchen was certainly clean enough. She didn’t spy a single spiderweb or smudge of dirt on the walls or ceiling, and the round wooden table with its soft patina and worn surface was spotless enough to meet her mother’s standards. Housecleaning was never one of her own strengths, but Rachel could appreciate the hours of work it would take to maintain a kitchen without electricity or modern aids for canning, ironing, cooking, and washing clothes.
A baby’s wail came from the interior of the house. Mary Rose glanced at her mother, as if for permission to go to her child.
Alma nodded impatiently. “Ya, go on. Our guests won’t mind. She’s probably thrown her lamb out of the crib again.”
With a relieved expression, Mary Rose hurried from the room.
“She’s a good mother,” Alma said hastily. “Needs to trust her own instincts more. Worries over that babe like a cat with one kitten.” The older woman used hot mitts to push the kettle to the back of the stove and turned off the flame. Wiping her hands on her apron, she picked up another cup off the counter and joined them at the table. “How’s my Moses? Is he all right?” She pulled out a chair and settled her weight into it. “We’ve been praying for him.”
Alma’s eyes were heavy-lidded behind her glasses. Dark circles under her eyes made her look seventy, although by the ages of her children she must be a decade younger, Rachel thought.
“He’s not come to harm in that English jail, has he?” Alma asked.
“No,” Rachel answered. “I haven’t spoken with Moses today. There are rules about phone calls. But my . . . Evan, the man I’m going to marry, he called a friend and checked on him. He’s well, your Moses, at least as well as he can be under the circumstances.”
Alma set her cup heavily on the table. “He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t. I don’t know why he’d say he did, but I know my son.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “He can’t even cut the heads off our chickens. I do it, or sometimes Lemuel. Neither Moses nor Mary Rose have the belly for it.” She rubbed at her jaw absently, making Rachel wonder if she had a toothache.
Mary Aaron sipped her coffee in silence. Alma’s daughter came back into the room and stood by the doorway, hands behind her back like a child. She appeared younger than her years and at a loss for words or maybe just lost, Rachel thought. And who could blame her? Widowed in such a brutal way and left with a baby girl to care for alone.
“I’ve called several attorneys,” Rachel said, patting Alma’s arthritis-twisted hand reassuringly. “I should have someone to represent Moses by tomorrow. Your son
