An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(90)
“The Amish turned out in force,” Tomasetti murmurs.
A tremor of nerves moves through me at the sight of dozens of black buggies lined up in neat rows in the paddock Jacob opened up for parking. It’s the same paddock our parents used when worship was held here at the farm when I was a kid. Several vehicles are parked in the gravel area near the house. I see Glock’s cruiser. Doc Coblentz’s Escalade. A Holmes County Sheriff’s Department SUV. Three more vehicles belonging to my dispatchers. The sight of Mona’s Ford Escape conjures a heartfelt smile.
“I suspect this may be one of the most unconventional weddings most of them have ever attended,” I say.
“I’m sure they expect nothing less,” Tomasetti says.
Though some of the Amish may sing a hymn or two, there will be no sermon this morning. The ceremony will be delivered by a Mennonite minister and will last only a few minutes. Lunch and the socializing that follows, however, will likely last several hours, which explains the presence of the two young hostlers. They’re Amish boys of about twelve or thirteen who are charged with unharnessing the buggy horses, putting them into one of the lower paddocks, and supplying them with hay and water.
As we make the final turn, I realize the farm where I grew up has been transformed. Dozens of tables and chairs have been set up in the side yard—picnic tables, worktables, card tables, and chairs of every size and variety. Vaguely, I recall telling my sister I wanted to have the reception outside, weather permitting, and she came through—Amish-style. A woman in a blue dress sets vases of celery on the tables. Another is carrying a tray of pies to what looks like a dessert table. Two more women are setting up a beverage station—a cooler for water, plastic glasses, coffee, and pitchers of iced tea. It’s a spectacle of organized chaos and once again I’m reminded of my mamm’s words.
A marriage may be made in heaven, but man is responsible for the wedding.
I was absent for most of the preparations. Tied up with the Karn and Rossberger cases, and not for the first time the enormity of the effort that went into all of this hits home. The meaning of that takes my breath away and I struggle to find my voice. “This is undoubtedly one of the most hands-off weddings in the history of womankind,” I hear myself say.
“You were a little busy with a couple of homicides,” Tomasetti mutters.
We haven’t talked much about the cases. Yesterday, Wayne Graber was officially charged with the murder of Aden Karn, felonious assault for the attack against me, and the attempted murder of a police officer. Mandi Yoder came through and agreed to be interviewed by Sheriff Rasmussen. Thanks to her bombshell testimony, Vernon Fisher now faces a slew of new charges. Four of the other men who spent time at the now-infamous gas station were arrested.
I spent an hour or so with Emily and her mother. I told them what I could about Karn. I can only hope the truth, however painful, will help with the healing process. I don’t believe the girl will ever come forward with her own story, but the door is open if she changes her mind.
“Looks like we’re in for one hell of a party.” Tomasetti’s voice pulls me from my reverie.
The barn door stands open wide. Inside, I see rows of benches and chairs, men and women milling about, making sure everything is in just the right place. I can’t help but think of the Amish girl I’d been, sitting on one of those very same benches, feeling like an outsider and utterly certain love would never come my way. The quiver of emotion that follows is so profound, I set my hand against my chest if only to still my heart.
“The Amish know how to put on a wedding,” I manage.
Tomasetti parks next to a red PT Cruiser and arches a brow.
“Pastor Tom,” I tell him.
“Feels like I should have met him by now,” he says.
“I think we’re just going to wing it.”
“Good thing that’s our specialty.”
I see him staring at something in the near distance and follow his gaze. An earthquake of emotion trembles through me at the sight of Bishop Troyer. Using his walker, the old man hobbles toward the barn.
“I’ll be damned,” Tomasetti murmurs. “Looks like the old guy made it, after all.”
I almost can’t believe my eyes, and I have to blink back tears. “I hope he knows how much that means to us.”
“Maybe we’ll get the chance to tell him.” He shuts down the engine. “You ready?”
I’m aware of my pulse running too fast. Heat on the back of my neck. My palms are wet and I resist the urge to wipe them on the skirt of my dress.
Smiling, he takes my hand, raises the other, and wipes a tear off my cheek with his thumb. “If I didn’t know better, Chief Burkholder, I’d say you’re nervous.”
“‘Terrified nervous wreck’ might be a little more accurate.”
“Says the woman who faced down a crazy guy with a crossbow.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“Am I nervous?” Taking his time, he leans toward the rearview mirror to straighten his tie. “The only thing I’m nervous about is this tie. Do you think it’s right with this shirt?”
The laugh that pours out of me eases the nerves. “Definitely right for an almost-Amish wedding,” I say.
“In that case.” He lifts my hand and brushes a kiss across my knuckles. “You know we’ve got this, right?”