Another swallow followed by a nod.
“How serious was the relationship?”
“We liked each other just fine.”
“Who broke up with whom?” I ask.
“I quit him. I mean, Gideon was nice, but when I met Aden…” She sighs as if remembering. “I just knew he was the one. Mamm and Datt liked him better, too. They thought Gideon was too old for me.”
“Was Gideon upset when you broke up with him?”
“Well, he wasn’t very happy. More hurt than angry.” Her brows knit. “I think he understood.”
“Was there a period of time when you were seeing both boys at the same time?”
Color infuses her face, confirming what I’ve already been told. “I tried not to do that, but Aden was so … good to me. And Gideon … just kept coming back…”
“Were there any problems between Aden and Gideon?”
She looks down at the tabletop. “Gideon might’ve been a little jealous. I mean, at first. But he’s that way. Strong, you know. Like his dawdi.” Grandfather.
“Were there any fights or arguments between Gideon and Aden?” I ask. “Anything like that?”
“Not that I know of.”
Glancing down at my notebook, I change gears. “Emily, last time I was here, we talked about Aden and Vernon Fisher.”
“Ja.”
“Is there a reason why you didn’t mention they were friends?”
Her shoulders tense. It’s a minute reaction, but I’m seeking those small tells and I don’t miss it. “They weren’t that close,” she mutters.
“But they were friends?” I ask.
“I guess. They hung out together sometimes. Over at that trashy old gas station.”
“Did they get along?”
“They got on okay.”
“Did you spend time with them?”
This time she winces. An emotion I can’t read flashes across her expression. The patch of acne seems to glow red against her pale skin. Curiosity flickers in my chest. Something there, a little voice whispers.
“I went over there a time or two,” she says. “I mean, with Aden.”
I pause, wait for her to look at me, but she doesn’t. “Did you get along with Vernon?”
She raises her eyes to mine and for the first time the dull sheen is gone, replaced with the sharp edge of another emotion I can’t decipher. “I never liked him much,” she tells me.
“Why not?”
“He’s … a leshtah-diah.” Beast that blasphemes.
It’s an archaic Deitsch term that basically describes a person who speaks ill of God or, I’m assuming in the way Emily is using it, is an evil person.
“How so?” I ask.
Her brows knit and she seems to consider. “All of those guys who hang out over there. Always drinking and laughing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. They’re rough and crude. And Vernon, it’s like he makes fun of you behind your back. It was always better when Aden came here, where it was quiet and we could talk.” As if remembering, she bows her head, tears tracing a path down her cheeks.
“Did Aden know you didn’t like Vernon?”
“I never really said,” she mutters.
Something there …
“I understand Vernon had a crush on you. Is that true?”
“Never heard such a thing.”
“Did he ever make a pass at you?” I ask. “Or behave improperly?”
She raises her eyes to mine, color climbing up her neck and into her cheeks. A thin sheen of sweat slicks her upper lip and forehead. It’s not overly warm, and I don’t know if the sweat is from discomfort or stress or if she’s simply not feeling well.
“Never.”
“Did any of the other men ever behave improperly with you?”
She starts to shake her head, but stops as if thinking better of it. “I heard the whispers. They called me names. Behind my back, you know. But I could see the mean in their eyes.”
“How did Aden feel about that?” I ask.
She looks away. “I’m sure he didn’t like it much.”
“He didn’t say?”
“We never talked about it.” She shrugs. “Maybe he didn’t notice.”
Something there …
I keep fishing. “Were any of the men at the gas station ever hostile to Aden?” I ask. “Did they tease him? About his relationship with you?”
“If any of them had done anything improper, Aden would have stood up to them,” she says emphatically. “He was brave that way. Would have stood up for me.”
“Did he ever have to do that?” I’m not exactly sure where I’m taking this. But I want her to keep talking, so I can get a handle on the relationship dynamics. Between her and Aden—but especially with Vernon Fisher and the other players.
“No.” But her expression is a study of mixed messages. “All those men. Such a crude bunch. Playing with that gross doll. The fake woman, you know. Talking about it as if it was a real girl. I didn’t like it.”
I study her face, her expression, try to read between the lines. “How did Aden feel about all of that?”
“He didn’t like their antics one bit. He was good that way. Good to me. He was always good, you see. Always.”
“Why didn’t you tell him you didn’t like being there?”
Emily stands abruptly, then looks around as if she hadn’t intended to and isn’t sure what to do next. “I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore,” she whispers.
I stand, too. “I appreciate your opening up to me.”
Before I even finish the sentence, she turns away and runs to the house.
CHAPTER 13
There is an incongruity inherent in being a cop and being formerly Amish. Those two worlds are incompatible and clash in a fundamental and profound way. One repels the other and there is no reconciliation. There’s no fitting them together no matter how hard you try to pound the pieces into place.
The divergence of those two worlds is a beast that tracks me as I pull into the long gravel lane of my brother’s farm. With a homicide investigation spooling and a killer on the loose, the last thing I want to deal with—despite its importance—is my wedding. For weeks, Tomasetti and I have waffled between having our wedding at our own farm and having it on my brother’s farm, the place where I grew up. Today, we’re meeting with Jacob and my sister-in-law, Irene, to make the final decision.
The bad news is, I’m an hour late. I’m frazzled because I’ve been running full bore since five A.M. and there simply aren’t enough hours in the day. My brother and Tomasetti have only met a handful of times. While their interaction wasn’t contentious, it was tense and kept me on edge. Both men have strong personalities, deep-seated convictions, and no qualms about speaking their minds. The notion of them spending an entire hour together without my being there to referee fills me with a low-grade anxiety.
I barely notice the apple orchard as I zip up the lane or the golden spires of pampas grass as I slide to a stop beside an old manure spreader. Tomasetti’s Tahoe is nowhere in sight. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved that he’s already gone. Then I’m out the door, and I’m jogging to the house when I hear my someone call out my name.