“I’m sorry you lost your husband. Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I lower my gaze. When you’re Amish and childless, you’re somehow diminished. I work to shift the conversation away from me. The less people know, the less chance I have of getting caught in a lie. “I met Mary Gingerich at The Dutch Kitchen earlier.”

“Good thing she’s back at work.” She tuts. “She and Abe were pretty broken up after that business with the Esh girl.”

My cop’s antenna pricks up. “The girl who died?”

She tosses me a surprised look.

“I read about it in The Bridge,” I explain.

“News travels, especially when it’s bad.” She shakes her head. “It was an awful thing, made worse because she was so young. Mary and Abe were just beside themselves. Fannie and Samuel”—she shakes her head—“were inconsolable. Bishop Schrock spent that first terrible night with them.”

“I can’t imagine losing a child.”

“At first everyone thought Rachel had run away. But there were all sorts of rumors flying around.”

“Rumors?” I muster a puzzled look. “But it was an accident, right? She got lost in the woods and succumbed to the cold?”

“That’s what everyone says.” There are no customers in the shop, but she looks left and right just to make sure. “I think there was more to it.”

I lower my voice. “What do you mean?”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but Rachel Esh was a wild little thing. Pretty as a peach, but she didn’t care much for the rules, and spent a good bit of time breaking them. Wearing Englischer clothes and whatnot. She didn’t get along with her parents, so she moved in with Mary and Abe. Didn’t work out so well there, either, from what I’ve heard.”

“Rumspringa can be a confusing time for young people,” I say, staying neutral, trying to keep her talking. “A lot of temptation these days.”

“The sheriff’s department has been sniffing around and asking all sorts of questions. Word around town is, Rachel wasn’t out there by herself.”

I stare at her, trying not to look too interested, not sure I’m succeeding. “Who?”

“No one knows. I heard she had a boyfriend. She went to see him. Got lost on her way home and died.”

“How sad.” I press my hand to my chest. “The boy is English?”

Another look around. “Word is, he was older. And married.” She whispers the last word as if the walls themselves have ears. “No one knows for sure.”

“The police must be anxious to speak with him.”

“I wouldn’t know.” She shrugs. “Most of us don’t deal with the Englischers much. Bishop Schrock is strong on separation from the unbelieving world.”

I want to keep the conversation focused on the death of Rachel Esh, but I’m not sure how to do so without garnering suspicion, and the moment slips away.

The Amish woman doesn’t notice, and motions toward the window facing Main Street. “Before Eli Schrock became bishop, there were six or seven Amish shops. We have such an entrepreneurial spirit, you know. But the government came after us with all their taxes and regulations.” She huffs a laugh. “Can’t even put in a new front door without some kind of permit. The bishop defended us; he knows how to deal with them. But he lost. A week later, he held a meeting and told all the shopkeepers here in town that when their leases were up, they shouldn’t renew.”