The wind chimes hanging on the front door jingle merrily when I step into the shop. The aromas of cinnamon and hazelnut greet me, conjuring images of fresh-baked pastries and coffee. The space is long and narrow with plenty of natural light coming in through the storefront windows. The walls to my left and right are adorned with children’s clothing—plain dresses, boys’ shirts and trousers—hanging neatly on wooden hangers, the hand-printed price tags dangling and discreetly turned. Ahead and to my right are a dozen or more hinged wooden arms set into the wall. Each arm is draped with a quilt that’s been neatly folded so that its best qualities are displayed. I see traditional patterns—diamond and star and peace birds. Farther back, twin beds are set up. Each is covered with an heirloom-quality child’s quilt. Crib quilts and wall hangings are displayed on the wall above the beds.

At the rear, five Amish women sit at a long folding table that’s covered with fabric, tools of the trade, and, in the center, an antiquated sewing kit. The women are looking at me as if I’m a stray dog that’s wandered in. Their stares are not unfriendly, but I’m not met with smiles either, and I wonder if they know who I am.

“May I help you?”

I glance to my left to see a young Amish woman wearing a plain blue dress, a black apron, and an organdy kapp standing behind the counter. She’s slender with a milk-and-honey complexion and liquid green eyes fringed with thick lashes. On the counter next to her is a platter heaped with what looks like homemade oatmeal raisin cookies.

“Hi.” Returning her smile, I cross to her, pulling out my badge. “I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

“Oh. Hello.” She cocks her head. “You must be Sarah’s sister.”

“I am. Do you know her?”

“Sarah comes into the shop every so often for supplies. In fact, she was here just yesterday for thread and some fabric. She’s working on a wedding quilt for her neighbor.” She looks away, uncomfortable now because she’s aware that the other women are listening and she isn’t sure how friendly she should be, now that she knows who I am.

“Sie hot net der glaawe,” one of the woman says beneath her breath. She doesn’t keep the faith.

“Mer sot em sei Eegne net verlosse; Godd verlosst die Seine nicht,” whispers another. One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.

The young woman tightens her mouth and looks down at the cash register in front of her. Not speaking. Not meeting my gaze.

I lean close to her and lower my voice. “Wer laurt an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.” If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults.