involved in the illegal adoption of an infant, who’s to say some enraged parent or relative didn’t take it upon himself to mete out a little retribution?
Crooked Creek is a tiny village with a population of 623, according to the sign at the corporation limit. The hamlet is nestled in an old-growth forest along the banks of the Ohio River. Set against the backdrop of the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains to the south and east, it’s a picturesque setting. But there’s poverty, too. On the outskirts of town a smattering of abandoned industrial-type buildings demark what was probably once a bustling manufacturing hub.
The small downtown area is lined with historic buildings, some of which date back to the mid-1800s. As I make the turn onto River Road and idle down the brick-paved street, it becomes even more apparent that hard times have fallen upon this pretty little town. At least half of the once-grand buildings are vacant. Several of the display windows are boarded up with plywood; others are broken, the interiors left open to the elements. There’s a sandwich shop called The Fat Catfish that looks open. Dooley’s Hardware advertises red-hot deals on potting soil, select hand tools, and Adirondack chairs. Lochte General Store has Folgers coffee and women’s housecoats on sale. I see a sign for a pharmacy, but as I drive past I realize it, too, has closed. At the end of town, a sign with an arrow urges motorists to make the turn for Deer Corn and Beer.
I leave the downtown area, drive past a post office and a gas station, and I head east on the Ohio River Scenic Byway. Even in light of the economic downturn, this part of the state is beautiful. Light rain falls from a glowering sky as I drive past massive maple, oak, and black walnut trees. I pass several quaint farms, some of which are Amish. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of the river, a shimmering, muddy blur through the trees.
As I travel east, the houses become sparse. Many are little more than shacks. Mobile homes sit like rusty tin boxes. I can’t help but wonder what this place was like at the height of its manufacturing heyday.
A few miles east of Crooked Creek proper, the voice of my GPS tells me to turn left on Stephen Road. Another mile and the name on the mailbox tells me I’ve reached my destination.
The Fisher farm is set on lush bottomland with a pasture to the east and a cut cornfield on the west side. Farther in, the lane wends through a wooded area. At the top of a rise it veers toward a two-story brick house that’s been painted white. Green shutters. A galvanized-steel roof from which a tall chimney juts. There’s a bank barn twenty yards from the house. A dozen or so head of Black Angus cattle graze in a pasture. There’s a manure spreader heaped with its namesake parked in front of the barn.
I cruise around to the rear of the house, park, and take a pea-gravel walkway bracketed by landscape timbers to the front. I’ve just stepped onto the porch when the door swings open. I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman of about forty. She’s holding a broom in one hand, a dustpan in the other. White apron and kapp. Cheap black sneakers.
She startles upon spotting me and drops the dustpan, which clatters to the floor. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I pick up the dustpan and hand it to her. “I’m looking for Adam Fisher.”
“That’s my husband.” She glances at my badge as if she’s not quite sure she believes me. “What’s this all about?”
“I’m working on—”
“Was der schinner is kshicht?” What in the world is going on?
I look past her to see a tall, thin Amish man approach. He’s wearing typical garb: blue work shirt, dark gray trousers with suspenders, a navy jacket, and a flat-brimmed hat.
I introduce myself. “I’m working on a case in Painters Mill that involves an Amish family with connections to Crooked Creek.” I recap, sticking to generalities, watching him carefully for a reaction. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to get in touch with Bishop Schwartz’s widow?”
“That would be Lizzie. Put the house up for sale just last week.”
“Do you have an address?”
“The old one.” He recites a Crooked Creek address. “Not sure where she moved to.”
I pull out my notebook and write it down. I direct my next question to