Free Shunning Sarah by Julie Kramer Page B

woman even recognized him yesterday while we were walking in downtown Minneapolis. “Aren’t you Malik Rahman? I saw you on TV.” He could hardly wait to get home and tell his wife. His real wife. Not his work spouse.
    Because Malik had much more experience behind the camera than I did, the stories he reported looked better on all visual levels from standup to cutaway to straight video. And a station producer was helping him write scripts. So while he was on his way up professionally, I was on my way down.

CHAPTER 21
    A sign on the outskirts of Harmony read Population 1,080.
    Make that 1,079, I thought.
    Malik was more interested in a yellow road sign with a black silhouette of a horse and buggy—a common warning of slow-moving Amish traffic. He dropped me off at the Village Square restaurant on Main Street so he could get the shot, and I could get acquainted with townsfolk. When covering small towns, I’d found that local diners often made good starting points. The red-and-white awning on this one seemed inviting.
    One slice of raspberry-peach pie later, and I had some leads scrawled on the back of a paper napkin. The waitress had already heard the news about Sarah’s body being identified.
    Yoder was a common Amish name, so she wasn’t sure exactly where the dead woman lived but gave me general directions to a couple of farms owned by Yoder families. The bishop was easier. Apparently everyone knew his place. She drew a quick map with a star, pointing out the window which direction to turn.
    “Everything’s fairly close with a car.” She suspected the word was out among the Amish about the murder because some plain customers often stopped at the restaurant for lunch. But today none occupied any of the booths, nor were any buggies parked on the side streets.
    I thanked her with a nice tip and business card in case sheheard anything else. Malik was waiting in the van and disappointed I had not brought him any pie.
    “This was a line-of-duty pie,” I said. “I ate it too fast to enjoy.”
    I assured him there’d be plenty of chances to sample local cuisine when we bought food from the Amish as a means of gaining access and making friends. “Cashew crunch, here we come.”
    We drove through some lingering fog on gravel roads to reach the first Yoder farm and found a sturdy two-story white house of modest design. I told Malik to leave the camera inside the vehicle until we got an all clear from the inhabitants. A young man wearing suspenders walked toward us from the barn.
    “I grew up on a farm the next county over and I’m looking for the family of Sarah Yoder,” I said. “Did she live here?”
    He seemed friendly enough until I identified my employer, then he headed for the house without looking back. We turned the van around, drove out onto the road, and Malik shot some general cover of the farm in case it ended up being Sarah’s home.
    “Maybe we can get the bishop on our side.” I figured if the group’s religious leader approved of me, others might cooperate.
    At our next stop, I explained to an elderly bearded man standing by a woodpile that I was looking for Abram Stoltzfus.
    “I am he,” he said.
    I handed him my card and said that I understood Sarah Yoder was a member of his church. “I’m hoping to learn a little about Sarah so she’s not just a murder statistic. Publicizing this case might even help find her killer.”
    “What is this work you do?” He seemed puzzled that I sought word of Sarah.
    “My name is Riley Spartz. I’m a television reporter from up in the Twin Cities.”
    “I cannot help you.”
    I tried to get him to reconsider, but he refused to look at me or speak further and went inside his house. We got the samecool reception at the next Yoder residence. A thin woman in a bonnet answered the door, but she too brushed me off hastily when I mentioned Sarah’s name—like they were reverting to a prepared script.
    We stopped at another homestead that posted a sign