“So we can say Daniel wasn’t murdered for gain.”
George winked at her. “My thoughts exactly. Not for gain. So what’s left? Passion? I do hear that that neighbor boy is very attentive to the young widow. I suspect that he’d set his heart on her a long time before Daniel came along and married her. Rosh could have killed Daniel to get rid of him and give him a chance with the girl.”
“Possibly,” she agreed. “And people sometimes kill to protect someone else.”
“Someone or something,” George said.
The sound of Sophie’s barking echoed through the house. “Here comes trouble,” George said. “But you haven’t quite gotten to the heart of this mess yet. Have you thought much about the deceased? Why would somebody hate him enough to kill him?”
“Most of the Amish have nothing but good to say about Daniel. He was a faithful member of the church, a hard worker, a blessing to his wife’s family.”
“And you believe that?” George asked shrewdly.
“Not everybody said that, but enough to put the community opinion squarely in Daniel’s corner. Daniel was, at least in public, exactly the type of man the church community praises. And Moses, unfortunately . . .”
“Isn’t,” George finished. “Moses is different, which makes him a good scapegoat.”
“And he confessed to the crime. The authorities . . . most people in the community don’t believe anyone would confess if they weren’t guilty.”
“Which we both know is a lot of hooey.”
Ell came to the open doorway. “Rachel, would you like some tea? Coffee?”
“Did you feed Sophie her lunch?” George asked. “It’s about that time.” He glanced at Rachel. “And bring Rachel some of that pumpkin coffee you tried to tempt me with yesterday. She loves it.”
Ell nodded and disappeared into the hall.
“That girl makes the best coffee,” George told Rachel. “She’s the only one in the house that can use that fancy coffeemaker.”
Rachel folded her arms across her chest. “So, out with it, George. What do you know about Daniel Fisher that I don’t know?”
“About time you asked.” He pointed to the green leather-backed notebook on the desk. “In there. I don’t sleep much at night, so I have a lot of time to look up stuff on the Internet. Not to mention that I pride myself on knowing more about every person in this county than their own mothers.”
“Tell me,” she said, reaching for the notebook.
“The short version or the long version?” Then he pressed a hand against his hip and gritted his teeth. “Short would probably be better for us both. Daniel Fisher moved here two years ago from an isolated community in Wisconsin. He came alone and quickly ingratiated himself into the valley. Mary Rose Fisher is his third wife.”
“His third? But—”
George cut her off. “Now listen. Once the pain gets serious, I don’t think so well. Here are the facts. Daniel Fisher was married at age twenty to Susan Gingerich, a Canadian citizen. Daniel moved to Ontario with his wife. Eleven months into the marriage, Susan suffered a fall and died from complications of childbirth. Daniel returned to his father’s home, where he married Jane Stoltzfus the following year.”
“Don’t tell me that Jane died as well?”
George shook his head. “Divorce.”
“Divorce? The Amish don’t divorce,” Rachel protested. “That can’t be right.”
“I think our Daniel proved to be a less-than-satisfactory husband. Claiming spousal abuse, Jane filed for an order of protection from the police six months after they were married. Three months later, she filed for divorce. There’s a photo of her on the web showing her in a hospital bed. Someone had beaten her badly. It made the local news, but Jane later dropped the charges. Either she left the Amish after her divorce or moved to another part of the country. But we know where Daniel went.”
“So it looks as though he might have been abusive to his spouses,” Rachel said. “But how could he have moved here without anyone learning about his past? Usually, there’s communication between your old bishop and your new.”
“According to the news article, Daniel Fisher’s father was the bishop of his local church.” George shrugged. “I suppose they’d want to hush the whole thing up.”
“Or Daniel confessed to beating his wife and said he was sorry. If he was convincing, the church community would have to forgive him,” Rachel said. “It’s part of the faith, and the crime would be as though it never happened.”
“It’s all I could find out,” George admitted. “And it doesn’t prove he was physically abusive to the Studer girl.” He pressed the green notebook she had given him back into her hand. “It’s all in here so you can double-check what I told you.”
“Nothing you told me proves he beat Mary Rose or his other wives,” Rachel said, thinking out loud. “But if Daniel was abusive, it would have given someone a good enough reason to kill him.” She met George’s gaze. “And I think I know who I need to talk to again.”
Chapter 15
The midwife was just loading a large black suitcase into the back door of a gray-top buggy when Rachel pulled into her yard.
“Salome,” Rachel called as she jumped out of the Jeep. “Could I talk to you for just a moment?”
The midwife was dressed in her customary black dress and stockings, but wore a black wool scarf instead of a bonnet or kapp. Her oversized coat was blue denim without buttons and lined with sheepskin. She shook her head. “I have to go,” she answered in Deitsch. “Irma Coblentz’s husband just came to tell me that she needs me. She’s in her third trimester and is having contractions. I’m sorry you came all the way out here, but I don’t have time to dally.”
Rachel knew Irma from the farmers’ market. She was a large woman with a large family. Irma didn’t belong to Rachel’s parents’ church community, but her farm wasn’t far away. “This will only take a moment,” she pressed
