home. Part of her wondered why she cared. “Do you have news regarding my brother-in-law?”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.” His even tone gave nothing away. “But I do have something important to discuss.”
Hannah listened for any sounds from the bedrooms. It was quiet save for the chirping of the crickets floating in through the open windows on the warm summer evening. Hannah hoped Emma had finally drifted to sleep. Hannah stepped onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind her. “Let’s talk out here.”
Hannah sat on one of the rockers, fearing her legs wouldn’t hold her upright. She was still struggling to get over the news that her sister had died. Her twenty-seven-year-old sister.
Sheriff Maxwell walked the length of the porch slowly then turned around and stopped in front of her. He leaned back on the porch railing. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, but his hesitation made her feel suspicious, like when a man wandered into her bank with sunglasses and a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes. “Please sit, Officer Maxwell. You’re driving me crazy and if you don’t sit, I’m going to lose it.”
The sheriff angled his head and studied her for a minute. She knew the look. Something wasn’t adding up in his head. She had seen it many times, mainly in Buffalo. It was the double take of a bank patron when the word yah slipped from her lips. Or the pestering of her coworkers who couldn’t understand why she didn’t join them for happy hour. Or her roommates, who playfully mocked her unassuming wardrobe.
Now her English vocabulary was invading her Amish ruse.
The sheriff lowered himself into the chair next to hers and ran his hand along the smooth wood of the arm. “You seem different than the other Amish women I’ve met.”
And there it was.
Hannah flattened her hand against her prayer covering and forced a smile. “Is my bonnet on crooked?” After burying her sister and suffering withering looks from her former Amish neighbors and so-called friends, she was in no mood to be scrutinized by the sheriff, too.
The setting sun reflected in his brown eyes, and his brows shifted, as if he were adjusting his line of thinking. Regret at her snippy comment teased her insides, but not enough to apologize.
“I didn’t mean to pry.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I have some difficult news.”
Hannah hiked her chin and tried to ignore her racing heart. “At this point, I’m numb to bad news.”
“You’ve had a rough time of it.” Sheriff Maxwell’s Adam’s apple moved in his throat, and his hesitation made her panic swell, forcing all the air from her lungs. She wasn’t as numb as she claimed to be. He shifted toward the edge of the rocker and looked like he wanted to reach out and take her hand, but thought better of it.
Hannah sent up a silent prayer.
Dear Lord, please be merciful and let me handle whatever it is this man has come here to say.
“Yesterday, I drove out to Bishop Lapp’s farm.”
“John’s father.” The elder Lapp had to be escorted by the arm into the barn for his daughter-in-law’s funeral. His stooped posture radiated his grief. The bishop had only a few terse words for Hannah. It didn’t come as a surprise, considering the bishop’s loss and Hannah’s non-grata status in the community.
“The bishop’s other son, Lester, dismissed me without hearing what I had to say.” The sheriff stared toward his vehicle parked on the side of the road; its presence no doubt had the neighbors’ tongues wagging. Wireless technology had nothing on the old-fashioned rumor mill in Apple Creek.
“Bishop Lapp must be having a difficult time.” Hannah said the first polite thing that popped into her head. She had no firsthand knowledge on how he was doing. Since Hannah had never been baptized, she wasn’t officially shunned, but the bishop was determined to freeze her out all the same.
“I understand, but I need to talk to him about his son, John.”
“I’ll be of no help there.”
“It’s important you know where the investigation is headed, especially since you’re staying in John Lapp’s house.”
A hot flush swept over her body. “This was my family’s home before John moved in with my sister.”
“I understand.” Spencer sounded contrite, but determined.
She tugged on the folds of her skirt to allow the fresh evening air to cool her shins and bare feet. “You’re investigating my sister’s accident?”
“Yes. It’s customary for the medical examiner to be called out after a death like this. Law enforcement needs to make sure there was no foul play involved.”
Apprehension prickled Hannah’s scalp. She winced and scratched her hair through the fabric of the cap. Her tight bun was giving her a headache. “My sister’s death was an accident. A tragic farming accident.” That’s what everyone had repeated over and over as they paid their final respects and then again when they delivered casserole dishes with wordy instructions on how to warm them up.
Such a shame. A tragic farming accident. And those poor girls, to lose their mother...
They’d shake their covered heads then bustle into the kitchen and make tsking sounds at her nieces, who sat cross-legged on the floor, stacking blocks.
What was left unsaid, but blatantly obvious in their Amish faces, was that if John had been a better husband, Ruthie wouldn’t have been left with the brunt of the chores while her husband fraternized and schemed. What exactly he had been scheming, Hannah’s mother wouldn’t tell her.
Apparently, John Lapp 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