Page 61 of Rage

“That’s the thing about living in an old farmhouse,” I tell her. “You always need something.”

She rises, grunting with the effort, and brushes her hands on her dress. “Those were some nice ones. Made by good Amish hands. Hope you stained them and didn’t paint. How’s that husband of yours doing?”

“He sends his regards.”

“Uh-huh.” She gives me a thorough once-over. “Sarah Mullet up to Painters Creek told me you were ime familye weg.” The English translation of the phrase is “in the family way,” which is how the Amish say “pregnant” because most find the word too crude. “You don’t look that way to me.”

I clear my throat. “Sarah might be rushing things a little,” I tell her.

“Didn’t think so.” She huffs. “Not with you being police and all. Hope you keep in mind that time has a way of getting past us quicker than we’d like.”

I can tell by the excitement in her eyes that she’s going to ask me about the murders, so I pull the photo of Cassidy from my pocket. “I’m wondering if you know who this is.”

She drags her eyes away from me and focuses on the photo. Her brows pull together and then she frowns. “Haven’t seen the likes of that one in a while.”

“Who is she?”

She pauses dramatically. “Wilma Ann Borntrager. Last I heard she was on rumspringa and told her mamm she wouldn’t be getting baptized.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“I wouldn’t have the slightest clue. Who can keep up with a girl like that?” She presses her lips together. “Heard she was a bad egg.”

“How so?”

“Leaving the fold at eighteen? Is that bad enough for you?”

I wonder if Edna realizes I did the very same thing at the same age. “She’s eighteen years old?” I ask.

“That sounds about right. Born the same month as my youngest. July.”

“Are her parents around?” I ask. “Do you know where I can find them?”

She tsks. “Her datt was killed in a buggy wreck two years ago. It was hard on the family, as you can imagine. Miriam sold the farm and moved to town. Works down to the laundromat there on Second Street. Can’t miss it.”

Village Laundromat is like a hundred other laundromats I’ve driven by on the street and never spared a glance. It’s a clean business with ample parking in front, a pleasant storefront, and newish equipment. The smells of detergent and overdried cotton waft over me when I enter. Two ceiling fans circulate hot air. A row of colorful plastic chairs lines the front-facing window to my right. A young woman in denim shorts scrolls through her cell phone, oblivious to the world around her. The TV is tuned to a local news station. There are restrooms to my right. At the back, an Amish woman stands at a long folding table, one eye on the TV, the other on the clothes she’s folding.

I start toward her. “Mrs. Borntrager?”

She’s wearing a plain blue dress. Gauzy white kapp. Black oxford shoes. Upon hearing her name, she turns to me. I guess her to be in her mid-forties. Mouse-brown hair. Blue eyes. Hers is the face of a woman who works too many hours, spends too much time on her feet, and doesn’t have much hope that either of those things is going to change anytime soon.

“Guder nochmiddawk,” I say as I approach her. Good afternoon.

“Oh.” Her eyes widen as she takes in my uniform. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all, ma’am. I’d just like to ask you a few questions if you have a minute.”

“I don’t see why the police would want to speak to me.” She looks past me as if to make sure I don’t have a SWAT team in tow.

Nervous, I think, so I move to keep it casual and easy. “My goodness it’s a hot one today.” I blot my forehead with my sleeve. “Bet those dryers don’t help.”

“Got the dryers running first thing this morning, so I opened the door to let out the heat. I think I just let more in!” The weather talk seems to relax her a little and she laughs. “Never heard a policeman speak Deitsch before.”

“I was Amish,” I tell her. “A long time ago.”

She doesn’t have anything to say about my leaving the fold.

I pull out the photo of Wilma Ann Borntrager. “I’m looking for this young woman.”