it? But who would do such a thing?”
The bishop shook his head. “A mother who’s lost her way.”
His wife’s eyes attached to the baby. “Oh, poor little thing.” She held out her arms, and he slipped the child into them. Though they were old, they remembered how to handle a baby. He wondered how many times over the years they’d passed a crying infant back and forth as a young couple building their family.
“It’s cute as a button,” his wife purred. “Look at that little nose.”
“Do you think it’s Amisch ?” the old man asked.
“The deppich ”—the quilt—“is Amisch .”
He looked toward the door. “I wonder how long it was out there in the cold.”
His wife made a sound, as if the thought distressed her. “I bet it’s hungry.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t have a baby bottle in the house. But I do have some goat’s milk in the refrigerator.”
“Goat’s milk?”
“Easier on the stomach,” his wife told him. “I can use my finger and get a few drops in its belly.”
Looking down at the child in her arms, she trilled. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Want you a little something to eat?
The bishop stared at the tiny, wriggling infant and, despite the worry weighing him down, he smiled. “Don’t fret, Little One,” he said. “It’s all part of God’s plan.”
He caught his wife’s gaze. “The English police will want to know about this,” he said.
“Es waarken maulvoll gat,” she replied. There’s nothing good about that. “Ich bag nix dagege.” But I don’t object.
He nodded. “So be it.”
Cradling the child against her, his wife turned and started toward the kitchen.
* * *
A middle-of-the-night phone call is never a good thing when you’re the chief of police, even in a small town like Painters Mill, Ohio. The chirp of my cell phone yanks me from a deep sleep. One eye open, I grapple for it on the table next to my bed. “Burkholder,” my voice rasps.
“Chief, sorry to wake you.”
It’s my graveyard shift dispatcher, Mona. She sounds worried.
“No problem.” I push myself to a sitting position and shove the hair from my eyes. The clock on the nightstand tells me it’s not yet five A . M . “What’s up?”
“I just took a call from the Amish bishop,” she tells me. “He says he found a baby on his doorstep about twenty minutes ago.”
“A baby ?” I’m out of bed and reaching for my bra draped over the chair, yanking a fresh uniform shirt from the closet.
“Yup. A newborn.”
“Any sign of the mother?”
“Just the baby.”
“Is it hurt? Or injured?”
“He didn’t think so.”
I consider that for a moment. “Call Holmes County Children’s Services, will you? They’ve got an emergency number for after hours. Tell them to meet me out there ASAP. And let the ER folks at Pomerene Hospital know we’re on our way.”
“Got it.”
“And call Bishop Troyer back. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
I end the call, my dispatcher’s words tumbling uneasily in my brain. A newborn .
“Kate?”
I look toward the bed to see John Tomasetti flip on the light. For an instant we squint at each other. “I caught the tail end of the conversation.” He throws back the covers and steps into trousers. “What’s up?”
I tell him about Mona’s call.
“Abandoned?” he asks.
“Apparently.” I feel the grimace overtake my face. “I’ve got to get out to the bishop’s farm. If it’s a newborn, it may need medical attention.”
“You want some company?”
“You mean officially?”
“Or unofficially. Whatever works.”
Usually, when dealing with the Amish, I prefer to do it alone. They’re more likely to speak freely to me than to my counterparts, mainly because of my Amish roots and the simple fact that I’m fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch. But there’s nothing usual about this call and I think it might be best to bring a partner along. Especially since John
The bishop shook his head. “A mother who’s lost her way.”
His wife’s eyes attached to the baby. “Oh, poor little thing.” She held out her arms, and he slipped the child into them. Though they were old, they remembered how to handle a baby. He wondered how many times over the years they’d passed a crying infant back and forth as a young couple building their family.
“It’s cute as a button,” his wife purred. “Look at that little nose.”
“Do you think it’s Amisch ?” the old man asked.
“The deppich ”—the quilt—“is Amisch .”
He looked toward the door. “I wonder how long it was out there in the cold.”
His wife made a sound, as if the thought distressed her. “I bet it’s hungry.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t have a baby bottle in the house. But I do have some goat’s milk in the refrigerator.”
“Goat’s milk?”
“Easier on the stomach,” his wife told him. “I can use my finger and get a few drops in its belly.”
Looking down at the child in her arms, she trilled. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Want you a little something to eat?
The bishop stared at the tiny, wriggling infant and, despite the worry weighing him down, he smiled. “Don’t fret, Little One,” he said. “It’s all part of God’s plan.”
He caught his wife’s gaze. “The English police will want to know about this,” he said.
“Es waarken maulvoll gat,” she replied. There’s nothing good about that. “Ich bag nix dagege.” But I don’t object.
He nodded. “So be it.”
Cradling the child against her, his wife turned and started toward the kitchen.
* * *
A middle-of-the-night phone call is never a good thing when you’re the chief of police, even in a small town like Painters Mill, Ohio. The chirp of my cell phone yanks me from a deep sleep. One eye open, I grapple for it on the table next to my bed. “Burkholder,” my voice rasps.
“Chief, sorry to wake you.”
It’s my graveyard shift dispatcher, Mona. She sounds worried.
“No problem.” I push myself to a sitting position and shove the hair from my eyes. The clock on the nightstand tells me it’s not yet five A . M . “What’s up?”
“I just took a call from the Amish bishop,” she tells me. “He says he found a baby on his doorstep about twenty minutes ago.”
“A baby ?” I’m out of bed and reaching for my bra draped over the chair, yanking a fresh uniform shirt from the closet.
“Yup. A newborn.”
“Any sign of the mother?”
“Just the baby.”
“Is it hurt? Or injured?”
“He didn’t think so.”
I consider that for a moment. “Call Holmes County Children’s Services, will you? They’ve got an emergency number for after hours. Tell them to meet me out there ASAP. And let the ER folks at Pomerene Hospital know we’re on our way.”
“Got it.”
“And call Bishop Troyer back. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
I end the call, my dispatcher’s words tumbling uneasily in my brain. A newborn .
“Kate?”
I look toward the bed to see John Tomasetti flip on the light. For an instant we squint at each other. “I caught the tail end of the conversation.” He throws back the covers and steps into trousers. “What’s up?”
I tell him about Mona’s call.
“Abandoned?” he asks.
“Apparently.” I feel the grimace overtake my face. “I’ve got to get out to the bishop’s farm. If it’s a newborn, it may need medical attention.”
“You want some company?”
“You mean officially?”
“Or unofficially. Whatever works.”
Usually, when dealing with the Amish, I prefer to do it alone. They’re more likely to speak freely to me than to my counterparts, mainly because of my Amish roots and the simple fact that I’m fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch. But there’s nothing usual about this call and I think it might be best to bring a partner along. Especially since John
Similar Books
