two generations.
Tomasetti parks in the gravel lot, where two draft horses are hitched to a wagon loaded with cabinetry.
“Looks like they’re about to make a delivery,” I say.
“Damn nice cabinets.” Tomasetti shuts down the engine.
The joinery is housed in a nondescript gray building with small windows and a tin roof. We exit the Tahoe and start toward the entrance, which is a plain white door with no window or welcome sign. The absence of a sign, combined with the lack of customer accommodations, tells me they probably don’t sell directly to the public, but to area builders and furniture stores.
The odors of freshly cut wood, propane, and diesel fuel greet us when we walk in. The shop is large, with high ceilings and two Plexiglas panels for added light. Several propane lights dangle from steel rafters. An Amish man wearing a light blue work shirt and dark trousers with suspenders taps a chisel against what looks like a headboard. A second Amish man, this one with a salt-and-pepper beard, his hands gnarled with arthritis, operates an ancient treadle lathe with his foot. Somewhere in the back, a generator rumbles.
For several seconds, we stand there, taking it all in. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. My
“May I help you?”
The softly spoken words drag me from my musings. I look up and see an Amish man wearing a light green shirt, dark trousers, and a dark hat approach. I guess him to be about forty-five years old. His full beard tells me he’s married. The bulge at his belt indicates that his wife keeps him well fed.
I extend my hand to him, and Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves. “We’re looking for Eli Fisher.”
“I am Eli.”
“We’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter,” Tomasetti begins.
“Bonnie?” Hope leaps into his eyes, and I realize he thinks we’re here with news. “You have some news of her?”
Quickly, I shake my head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fisher. We just want to get some information from you.”
“I have already talked to the police.”
“These are just a few follow-up questions,” Tomasetti replies easily.
Suspicion hardens Fisher’s eyes. He knows this is no chance visit. “It has been two months. What questions do you have now that you did not have before?”
There’s a thread of steel in his voice. He’s frightened for his daughter and frustrated with the police. He stares at us with direct, intelligent eyes, and I wonder how he was treated by local law enforcement in the agonizing days following her disappearance. I don’t believe the sheriff’s office had treated him callously, but I know that sometimes cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
I notice the other man looking our way and lower my voice. “Is there a place we can speak in private?”
He looks from Tomasetti to me as if trying to decide whether he should throw us out or let us rip his world to shreds one last time. He’s wondering if we’re there to help him find his daughter, or if we’re just two more in a long line of bureaucrats.
After a moment, he nods. “There is an office in the back.”
He takes us through the shop, past wood shelves filled with intricately carved bread boxes and dollhouses with tiny shutters and a chimney fashioned from cut stones. The workmanship is exquisite, and I find myself wanting to run my fingers over the wood to explore every detail.
“You have many beautiful things.” I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
He gives me a sharp look over his shoulder. “You speak the language well. How did you come to know it?”
“I was born Amish,” I tell him. “Did you make the bread boxes yourself?”
“God bestowed upon me the gift of carving. My
Eli pauses outside a door and lowers his voice. “My wife works here in the office. We have spoken to the police many times. It never gets any easier for her.”
“We’ll do our best not to upset her,” Tomasetti tells him.
Nodding once, the Amish man opens the door.
The office is small and cluttered, with a single window that looks out over a cherry tree. A plump Amish woman of about forty sits behind a wooden desk, clutching a number 2 pencil as she transfers numbers from a form onto a columnar pad, her concentration intent. When the door clicks shut, she looks up and smiles briefly. I know it the instant she recognizes us as cops. Her hand stills. The smile freezes on her lips.
Her gaze goes to her husband and she slowly rises. “Is it Bonnie?” she asks hopefully.
Eli shakes his head. “They have questions for us.”
The woman seems to sink into herself. The hope that had lit her eyes just seconds before goes dark.
“I’m Kate Burkholder.” I cross to her, extend my hand. “We’re sorry to bother you on such a busy day.”
“I’m Suzy.” She returns the shake, but her hand is clammy and limp, as if the life has been drained from her.
“You have a very nice workshop,” I tell her. “And some lovely things.”
“The Lord has blessed us with much work.”
I note the Rolodex on her desk and the wooden antique card files behind her. “I see you have a state-of-the- art computer system.”
I’m speaking ironically, of course. While some of the younger Amish might sneak a cell phone and partake in texting or listen to music, the adults who have been baptized do not utilize any kind of electronic gadgetry.
The woman offers a weak smile. “It contains the names and addresses of every wholesale customer we’ve had since Eli’s grandfather sold his first bread box seventy-six years ago.”
Suzy lowers her eyes to the desktop, sets her hand over her mouth, and closes her eyes tightly. “We pray every day for her safe return,” she whispers.
To my right, Eli rounds the desk and comes up behind his wife, sets his hand on her shoulder. “What is it you want to know?” he asks us.
Tomasetti and I read the file before driving over. We know the particulars of the case: when Bonnie went missing, where she was last seen, who searched for her, whom she was last seen with, who was questioned. The local PD interviewed her friends and family. What we’re looking for today are any details that, for what ever reason, either weren’t included in the reports or that her parents failed to mention.
“In the weeks and days before Bonnie disappeared, what was her frame of mind?” I ask.
If my line of questioning surprises him, Eli doesn’t show it. “She was fine,” he tells me. “The same as always.”
I look at Suzy. “Was she troubled by anything? Was she having problems with any of her friends?”
The woman meets my gaze, shakes her head. “She is a happy girl. Looking forward to helping teach the little ones in the fall.”
“Does she have a beau?”
Suzy’s eyes skid right and she picks up her pencil. “She does not have time for a beau. She stays busy with teaching the children.”
It is then that I realize Eli Fisher is either a better liar than his wife or is oblivious to the fact that his daughter was involved with someone. “What about arguments? Did either of you have words with her?”
Eli shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”
I don’t take my eyes off of Suzy. Beside me, Tomasetti hangs back, gives me the floor. “Is that true, Mrs. Fisher?” I ask gently.
“Of course.” But the Amish woman’s breaths quicken. Her grip on the pencil tightens so much, her knuckles turn white.
Eli runs his hand lightly over her shoulder before letting it fall to his side. “Why are you asking these things?”
