“Ya, I can do that,” she conceded. “Let me speak to my dat. It’s his house and he will be the one to say the detective can have this meeting and where it can be done.”
He frowned. “I thought the house was your mother’s domain. Didn’t you tell me that most Amish wives rule the home?”
Rachel shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Ordinarily, you’re right. My mother would have the final say. But there are elders here, a bishop or two, and I don’t know how many preachers.” She sighed. “There is an image to maintain. Most Englishers believe that ours is a male-dominated society.”
“And that’s not true?”
“Well, it is, and it isn’t. In most of the families I know, the wives control the checkbook. Men usually make the big decisions such as where to live and when to buy or sell land, but the rest is either a joint decision with their wives or weighted in favor of her opinion.” She shrugged. “Other than with my Uncle Aaron. He likes to think he’s in charge.”
“But the women can’t be bishops or preachers or . . . what’s the other position that’s important in the Amish church?”
“Deacon. They are the enforcers. Nothing like the mob, but they keep order. If anyone breaks the ordnung, it’s the deacon who would be the first to speak to the person who’s committed the transgression.” She gave him a quick smile. “Back to what you were asking about women’s roles, you also have to remember that the women have an equal vote in church business, and they have most of the raising of the children. Amish society is pretty equal as far as men and women go.”
Evan had lived in Stone Mill all his life. They’d been engaged for several years, and he’d known lots of Amish personally. If he didn’t understand, how would this Detective Sharpe, an outsider, hope to?
“I think you’ve lost me. I still don’t know why you don’t ask your mother if there’s somewhere the detective can speak to the Fisher family.”
Rachel moved a few steps to the left to get out of the path of the raw wind and the scattering of sleet that was now wetting the floor of the open porch. “Because if I go to my mother for permission, then it will look to others as if she rules the house.”
“Which she pretty much does.”
“As I said, it’s complicated. If I go to Mam, Dat will lose face. I think that’s the best way to put it. She would go along with any of his decisions. And it will look as though he’s in charge. A proper, Old Testament family.”
Evan held his hands out to her, palms out. “Whatever. Please just make the arrangements. Detective Sharpe is ten minutes out. Either we have something set up when he gets here, or he’ll ask the family to come down to the troop.”
She clasped her hands together, shivering. “Fine. But it’s cold out here. Come inside and wait while I hunt up Dat. I’m sure he can arrange something.”
Exactly ten minutes later, Rachel’s father showed Detective Sharpe and Trooper Lucy Mars into the front parlor that minutes before had held the elders and church leaders. The mourners still crowded the hall, the living room, and the smaller parlor and kitchen, but they’d been gingerly ushered out of the main parlor. Seated in the chamber were a red-eyed Mary Rose and her mother; both her brothers remained standing, behind the women. Rachel and Evan waited near the fireplace.
Detective Sharpe, who Rachel hadn’t yet met, was a stocky bulldog of a man in a navy-blue suit, carrying a small notebook. Sharpe’s graying hair was neatly trimmed in military style, and he had brown eyes, a high forehead, and a strong nose that showed the effects of at least one break. With an air of self-confidence, he strode, back rigid, to a settee across from the Amish, and sat down. Trooper Lucy Mars, whom Rachel knew well, took a position just inside the closed door.
For a few long seconds, the two opposing camps, the Englisher authority figures and the distinctly anti-authority Amish, stared at each other. Mary Rose’s mother slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and handed her a handkerchief. Mary Rose cradled her sleeping baby and blew her nose. Lemuel, a thin, undersized boy with wispy blond hair, bad acne, and gray eyes, looked frightened. His brother, Moses, assumed the blank, emotionless expression that often puzzled Englishers or made them assume the Amish person wasn’t particularly bright.
Moses’s shaggy hair was several shades darker than his brother’s, and he was of medium height with gangly limbs. His face was long with eyes much the same color as his brother’s and sister’s, but there was something unsettling about Moses’s flat gaze.
Quickly, Rachel made the introductions, then explained in Deitsch, “Detective Sharpe has something to tell you.” She looked from Alma to Mary Rose. “And . . . and he may have questions for you concerning Daniel’s death.” She repeated what she’d said, this time in English, so the police knew what she was telling the Studer family.
“Sorry for this intrusion on the day of Mr. Fisher’s funeral,” Sharpe delivered in a raspy smoker’s voice. He was overloud in the quiet room and Rachel had to make an effort not to flinch. He reminded her of a drill sergeant addressing new recruits. Not that Rachel had ever been to boot camp, but she had seen movies and TV.
Mary Rose sat up straighter and clutched her sleeping baby. Her mother, a hollow-cheeked woman with a small chin, gray hair, and glasses, closed her eyes and then opened them and fixed her gaze on the floor. Lemuel gripped the back of his mother’s chair.
“It’s my duty to provide you with unpleasant and disturbing news,” Sharpe continued. “I’m sorry to inform you that Daniel Fisher did not meet his death as was first assumed.
