Free Breaking Silence by Linda Castillo Page A

years now. “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”
    She pours from an ancient-looking enamel pot and carries the cup to me. “The younger children are in their room, sleeping,” she says. “They have had a very trying day.”
    I pick up the cup and sip. “What about Mose?”
    “Wait.” She disappears into the living room. A moment later, Bishop Troyer appears. He’s a short man with bowed legs, a round belly, and thick gray hair that’s blunt-cut above heavy brows. A salt-and-pepper beard hangs from his chin, reaching nearly to the waistband of his trousers. He’s looked much the same since I was a child: old, but never seeming to age further.
    He doesn’t look happy to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”
    “I need to speak with the children,” I say without preamble. “It’s important.”
    He sighs as he crosses to the table and takes the chair across from me. “Katie, the children are grieving. They have been through much already this day.”
    “Solomon Slabaugh may have been murdered.”
    “ Murdered? ” The bishop recoils as if I’d splashed hot coffee in his face. “Solly? But I thought he fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”
    I tell him about the head trauma. “I need to talk to the kids, Bishop Troyer. Right now.”
    The old man looks uncertain as he rises, as if he doesn’t know what to make of this new information I’ve just thrown at him. “The three youngsters are in their rooms, sleeping. Mose is outside in the workshop with the men.”
    “Gather the younger kids for me.” I take a reluctant last sip of coffee, then rise. “I’ll speak to Mose first.”
    The bishop bows his head slightly, then disappears into the living room.
    Leaving my coffee and the warmth of the kitchen, I go back outside. The wind penetrates my parka as I make my way down the sidewalk. Midway to the barn, I turn left toward a newish steel building, noticing for the first time the dull glow of lantern light in the windows. The sky is even darker now, the gray clouds to the west approaching like some vast army. There’s no snow yet, but I can smell it—that cold, thick scent that tells me we’re about to get dumped on.
    I open the steel door of the workshop and find a single lantern burning atop a workbench. The air smells of kerosene and freshly sawed wood. Two Amish men sporting insulated coveralls and full beards stand in the circle of golden light, talking to Mose. The three males eye me with unconcealed suspicion as I approach.
    “Hello,” I say, but my focus is on Mose. Even in the poor lighting, he looks pale and troubled and unbearably sad.
    Looking away, he mumbles something I don’t quite hear.
    I nod a greeting at the two men. I’ve met them both at some point, but I don’t recall their names. “Bishop Troyer said I’d find you here,” I say to Mose. “I need to ask you a few questions about what happened this morning.”
    The boy glances at the other two men, as if hoping they’ll intervene and send me packing. Of course, neither man does. Looking at Mose, I realize that the reality of everything he and his siblings face in the coming days and weeks and months is starting to hit home. He’s apprehensive, sad, maybe a little scared.
    “I know this is a tough time for you and your sister and brothers,” I begin, trying to put him at ease. “But I need to go over some things with you that we didn’t cover this morning.”
    He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Okay.”
    I want to speak with him away from the men. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I know the Amish are as bad about spreading gossip as the English.
    The workshop isn’t large. Looking around, I see a dozen or so unfinished cabinet doors stacked neatly against the wall, and it strikes me that Solomon Slabaugh was also a cabinetmaker.
    “Did your datt make these cabinets?” I ask.
    Mose ventures closer to me, eyeing the cabinets. “ Ja. ”
    “He was very good.”
    “He liked to work with his