hadn’t entirely shed his youthful, rebellious ways.
This wasn’t news to Hannah.
Sheriff Maxwell stood and faced her. The setting sun behind him cast his face in shadows. Tension hung heavy in the air. “There’s no easy way to say this.” The shaky quality of his voice made icy dread pool in her stomach.
“Tell me.” She wrapped her fingers around the arms of the chair and squeezed.
“Before your sister ended up in the silo, she was already dead.”
* * *
Miss Wittmer slumped in the wood rocker. Spencer’s first instinct was to reach out, grab her, but she clutched the arms of the chair and stiffened her back, as if determined to be strong, regardless of the devastating news. The color draining from her face told a different story.
She drew in a deep breath. “I...I don’t understand.” The Amish woman rose and stood next to him. A thin strand of brown hair poked out from underneath her bonnet. She turned to face him, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Are you telling me my sister was murdered?” Her tone was shaky, brittle.
“I’m afraid so.” Spencer let his hand hover near her elbow, ready to grab her if she should faint. She stood absolutely still, and he thought he heard Miss Wittmer’s gasp above the incessant chirping of the crickets. As a cop originally from the inner city, he still hadn’t gotten used to the racket nature created.
She shook her head briskly, as if trying to shake away the image, or perhaps his words. “My sister was murdered.” It was no longer a question.
This time there was no mistaking her gasp. Spencer clutched her elbow. She crumbled to her knees, her thin frame swallowed in a pool of black material. She bowed her head. Spencer had seen loud grief—the wail of a mother who had lost her child in a drive-by shooting. He had never seen such a quiet, heartbreaking display. He didn’t know how to react, and he didn’t know which was worse.
Spencer crouched next to the woman and held her arm. “Let me help you up. I can get you some water. A cold washcloth. Something.”
“Who did this?” Her words came out, barely a whisper.
“We’re investigating.”
The woman brushed his hand away and grabbed the railing and pulled herself to her feet, a mix of embarrassment and anger lacing her tone. “Ruthie told me she was afraid.”
Spencer’s pulse ratcheted up a notch.
Miss Wittmer yanked off her bonnet. The moon rising above the trees lit on the golden strands of her dark hair. If she weren’t an Amish woman, he would have thought she had highlighted her hair. She smoothed a hand over the few loose strands that had sprung free from the bun at the nape of her neck.
She sat, resigned. “She told me she feared too many things were changing.” She leaned back and wrapped her fingers around the arms of the chair. “My sister and I hadn’t seen each other for over a decade, then about five months ago, she called me. She wanted to see me.”
Spencer rubbed his jaw. “I guess it’s my turn to be confused. She called you?”
Miss Wittmer looked up at him, a battle waging behind her watchful eyes. “John had a phone installed in the barn.” She shrugged. “Claimed he needed it for work.”
“And you have a phone, too?”
“I’m not Amish.”
Spencer bit back a comment.
“I left Apple Creek and the Amish community eleven years ago.” Miss Wittmer dragged her lower lip through her teeth. “It—” she lifted her palms “—this life wasn’t for me. Once I left, my father refused to allow me to visit.”
“You were shunned.” Spencer had been sheriff of Apple Creek for only a year, but he was slowly learning the ways of the Amish.
She shook her head. “I was never baptized, so technically, there was no reason to shun me. But my father was a controlling man. He was part of the reason I left. I felt suffocated. And I suppose there was always the fear that if I came back home for a visit and talked about my wonderful, worldly life, who’s to say my sister wouldn’t want to leave with me.” Heavy shadows masked her expression, but Spencer thought he detected an eye roll when she referred to herself as worldly.
“The clothes.” He gestured to her long gown, her apron, the bonnet in her hand.
“It’s easier this way. I wanted to make sure I respected both my sister and my mother.” She grabbed a fistful of material by her thigh and fluttered her skirt. “This is my sister’s.” Her words came out droll, sad, lifeless as if to say, “She won’t be needing it anymore.”
A thought nagged at Spencer, and he didn’t know how to broach it. He decided to be direct. “If you were estranged from your family, why did they contact you when your sister died?”
A mirthless laugh escaped her lips. “My mother, who wouldn’t dare use the phone herself, sent word through a neighbor. I’m her only surviving child. My father’s gone. Now my sister’s gone.” She sighed heavily. “And someone needs to take care of the children...until John returns.” The tone of the last three words convinced him she understood John was unlikely to care for his children when and if he did return.
“No other family can care for the children?”
“John’s family is busy searching for their son and brother. They believe he ran off in grief after finding Ruthie in the silo. Perhaps blaming himself. His new job has taken him away from the farm.” She rocked slowly in the chair. “My mother is not as strong as she used to be. She’d never be able to manage two young girls.” She stopped rocking. “I’m worried about my mem. The news Ruthie was murdered will devastate her all over again.”
“I’ll do my best to find whoever did this.” He studied Miss Wittmer’s face to see if she had the same suspicions he had. “Why was Ruthie worried things were changing?”
“Ruth embraced the Amish way. When we were kids, she spoke of raising her family here. She was doing that. She had two beautiful daughters. By all outward appearances, she had what any humble Amish girl could want.”
“What about her husband? Was her husband a good guy?” John Lapp had come under his radar once or twice, which definitely wasn’t a good thing.
“I didn’t know John. He returned to Apple Creek shortly before I left. He was one of a group of young men who had left the area to work on a ranch out West. A handful of them returned and embraced the Amish way and were baptized and married.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It was the talk of the community. The families considered themselves blessed because their wayward sons had returned.”
“The prodigal sons.” Spencer referred to the parable he remembered from his childhood days in Sunday school. Before he realized God didn’t bless all His children, especially poor ones born into bad neighborhoods where guns and hanging out on street corners crowded out God and Sunday church services.
“Something like that.” Miss Wittmer seemed unimpressed. “But no one killed a calf in celebration of their return. Everyone went about their business. If you haven’t noticed, we
