wrong?” she asks in an accent that tells me she speaks more Deitsch than English. “Has something happened?”
Pallant has his official ID at the ready. “Are you Rosanna Detweiler?”
“I’m Irene Detweiler.” The woman’s eyes flick from him to Tomasetti to me and back to the sheriff. “What’s this about?”
He identifies himself. “We’re looking for Vernon and Rosanna Detweiler. Are either of them here?”
“No.”
“Do they live here, ma’am?”
“No. This is my home.”
“Are you related to the Detweilers?”
“Vern’s my son. Rosanna is my daughter-in-law.” Rheumy blue eyes skate from Tomasetti to the sheriff to me and for the first time she looks alarmed. “Has something happened to them?”
Tomasetti and the sheriff exchange a look. “When’s the last time you saw them?” Pallant asks.
“I haven’t seen my son or his wife for several years. Not since the bishop put them under the bann. Said they were backsliders,” she tells him, using the Amish term for someone who doesn’t follow the rules set forth by the Ordnung. “I always hoped they’d change their ways, but they didn’t and they never came back.”
“Do you know where your son is living now?” I ask.
“Like I said, I haven’t seen him in years.” Her brows furrow. “Did they do something wrong?”
This isn’t what I expected. “Your husband’s name was Vernon?” I ask.
“Yes.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that the property deed might be in her husband’s name, not her son’s. A rookie mistake. I kick myself for not anticipating it, for not checking.
Stepping back from the door, Pallant frowns at us and lowers his voice. “Someone get their information wrong here?”
“She could be covering for them,” Tomasetti says in a hushed tone.
Pallant holds his gaze for a moment, then goes back to the door and passes the warrant to the Amish woman. “I’ve got a warrant to search your house and your farm, ma’am. I suggest you read it carefully.”
“A warrant? But…” She takes the paper, and looks down at it as if it’s covered with some lethal virus. “What on earth are you looking for?”
“Everything you need to know is in the warrant.” Opening the door wider, the sheriff pushes past her.
She steps aside, incredulity flashing in her eyes. “Has my son done something wrong?”
The sheriff ignores her question, his eyes already skimming the darkened room. “Is there anyone else here at the farm this morning, ma’am? Family member? Farmhand?”
“It’s just me.”
I follow the sheriff into the house. Tomasetti comes in behind me.
“Are there any firearms in the house or on the property?” Pallant asks, his voice amicable.
“Just that old muzzle-loader that belonged to my husband.”
The three of us exchange looks.
“Where is it?” I ask.
“The mudroom.” The Amish woman starts toward it.
The sheriff reaches out and touches her arm, stopping her. “I’ll get it, ma’am. Why don’t you just have a seat and relax?” He starts toward the kitchen and the back of the house.
My eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. We’re standing in a living room with battered hardwood floors. Dark blinds hang at the windows. In the flickering light of a single lantern, I see a quilt wall covering above a ragtag sofa. A coffee table. An oval braided rug covers the floor. The house smells of kerosene, coffee, and toast.
I see Tomasetti, taking in the details, looking past me into the kitchen. There are stairs to our right. A darkened stairwell that goes to a second level.
Visibly upset, the Amish woman unrolls the warrant and blinks at it as if it’s written in a language she doesn’t understand.
The sheriff returns to the living room. He’s wrapped the long gun in what looks like a dish towel. “We’ll tag it and start a return sheet,” he says to no one in particular.
“You can’t just walk into someone’s home and take things.” Irene Detweiler walks to the center of the room and faces the three of us. “What on earth do you want?”
“Everything you need to know is in that warrant, ma’am,” the sheriff tells her. “Why don’t you take a seat on the sofa over there and read it?”
She holds her ground, hands on her hips, glaring at him.
“That’s not a request, ma’am.”
He stares at her until she acquiesces; then he speaks into his lapel mike. “Warrant has been executed.” He gives the go-ahead for the deputies at the back of the property to enter through the rear gate.
Pallant looks at me. “Chief Burkholder?”
I look at the woman, address her in Deitsch. “Mrs. Detweiler, we’re looking for a missing child. A seven-year-old little girl.