A Dark Path #2
The main house of the Sugar Maple Cabins is a picture-perfect two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and half a dozen cedar window boxes.
Farther back is a horse barn with attached pens and a pasture where a herd of sheep graze.
Nearer the road, a big bank barn hulks over a garden the size of an Olympic pool.
“Nice-looking farm.” Tomasetti parks in the gravel area in front of the house and we get out.
“I remember that barn,” I say as we start toward the house, where a sign informs visitors that they’ve reached THE OFFICE.
A bell jingles cheerfully as we go through the door. The office is small with maple-wood floors, a ragtag sofa draped with an afghan, and a vintage desk upon which a cat sits, eyeing us with suspicion. A cast-iron stove in the corner throws off a generous amount of welcome heat.
A tiny older woman wearing a gauzy white kapp, navy dress, and traditional halsduch, or apron, sits at the desk, fingers pecking at a typewriter. She looks up as we enter and beams a smile at us. “Well, hello there! You must be the newlyweds! Kate and John. Welcome to Sugar Maple Cabins!”
The sound of her voice conjures a flicker of memory and in that instant, I know I’ve met her before.
“Mrs. Nisley?” I stride to her, my hand outstretched.
“I’ve been known to answer to that.”
“I’m Kate Burkholder.”
“Well, now, there’s a nice Amish name for you.” She cocks her head as she takes my hand, looking at me a little more closely. “Used to have a Burkholder around here. Alva, I believe.”
“He was my datt’s cousin,” I tell her.
“Well, I’ll be. Always liked Alva. Could count on him to help us clear the lane when we got the big snows. Had two of the biggest Clydesdales I’ve ever seen. He passed a while back, didn’t he?”
“It’s been about twenty-five years now.”
“Time gets away from us, doesn’t it?” She makes a wistful sound. “You must have been just a kid back then. I’ve got a knack for remembering faces; I thought you looked familiar.”
“I was twelve.”
She hefts a hearty laugh. “And now here you are, married and on your honeymoon. My goodness, how nice is that? Honey, you call me Lovina, you hear? My goodness, we’re practically family.”
“Kate speaks highly of Sugar Maple.” Tomasetti moves in, his hand extended. “We’ve been wanting to drive up, but never had the time.”
“Well, we’re certainly glad to have you,” the woman says. “Used to be a diner and a couple of cute shops in town. Things are a little quieter these days.”
“Are you talking to yourself again, woman?” comes a deep male voice from the back.
I look past her to see an Amish man come through the doorway behind her.
He’s the size of a bear and wearing typical Amish garb: black jacket, flat-brimmed hat, dark trousers, and a white shirt.
He’s carrying an armful of firewood and nearly drops it at the sight of us. “Oh! Didn’t realize we had company.”
“You drop that wood on the floor and you’ll find a broom in your hands,” Lovina says.
“Better in my hands than on my backside.” The man winks at us. “Forgot we had customers coming today.”
Giving him a playful poke, she pulls out an old-fashioned motel register and sets it on the counter. “Just need you to sign in here and you’re all set.”
While Tomasetti fills out the form, the Amish man carries the firewood to the stove. “I was out checking the sheep when you pulled up,” he says as he stacks it in the rack. Approaching us, he sticks out his hand. “Enos Nisley at your service.”
We exchange handshakes. He joins his wife behind the counter. I don’t miss the way his fingertips graze her arm as he sidles past her. Or the way her mouth curves at his touch.
“Last time I was here, there were a lot of Amish in the area,” I say. “We couldn’t help but notice the vacant storefronts in town. And the abandoned farms.”
Lovina shakes her head. “A lot of the Amish have moved away in the last five or six years. Developers buying up the land.”
“Paying a pretty penny for it, too,” Enos puts in.
The Amish woman nods. “Youngsters are moving over to Kish Valley. A lot of work over there. Lumber, you know. Farmers are all about upstate New York where the land is cheap and the taxes are low.”
“Too cold up there if you ask me,” Enos mutters.
“We’re the last holdouts,” Lovina tells us. “Those developers are hungry for land. A lot of English, city folks, you know, like to vacation up here by the lake.”
“Can’t see selling at our age,” Enos grumbles. “This land has been in the family for a hundred and fifty years. Passed down by my dawdi and his dawdi before that.” Grandfather.
Lovina gives him an elbow. “Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth.”
The statement brings a round of chuckles.
“My goodness, I miss all our good Amish neighbors,” she says. “We don’t even have worship in the area anymore.”
“We’ve been going to that little Mennonite church down the road,” Enos adds. “Nice folks, but we’re Amish, you know, and it’s just not the same.”
Tomasetti finishes with the register and pushes it across the counter at her. “We passed by a structure that had burned. Was it one of your cabins?”
“Killdeer Cabin,” Enos tells us. “Hated to lose that one.”
“Most awful thing,” Lovina puts in. “One of our best cabins and it was a total loss.”
“Thank God there were no renters inside at the time,” her husband adds.
“How long ago did it happen?” I ask.
“Three weeks to the day,” Lovina replies.
“What was the cause?” Tomasetti asks.
The couple exchanges a look and I feel something uncomfortable slip between my shoulder blades. Next to me, Tomasetti goes still, noticing, too.
“Fire marshal said a stove burner was left on,” Lovina tells us.
“Nice family had just checked out that morning,” Enos adds. “Usually, Lovina cleans right away, but it was busy here at the farm that day. We raise Polypay sheep here on the farm, you know, and the lambs come in the fall.”
Lovina jumps in. “I figured I’d get in there bright and early the next morning. Cabin went up that night. We didn’t notice until it was fully engulfed. That fire lit up the whole sky, I tell you.”
“By the time the fire department arrived,” Enos says, “it was gone. Burned to the ground.”
“Was there an investigation?” Tomasetti asks.
“Oh, they investigated all right.” Lovina tightens her mouth. “If you can call it that.”
Enos frowns at her. “Now, Lovina…”
I look from husband to wife, feel a tinge of curiosity. “You don’t believe the stove was the cause?”
The couple exchanges another look, this one darker and unhappy.
Lovina answers. “I went into the cabin right after that family checked out. Just to make sure everything was in order and the doors were locked until I could get in there to clean the next morning. That burner was not left on.”
“We were busy that morning, liebling,” Enos says gently. Darling.
“I would have noticed,” his wife maintains.
Enos sets his hand on her shoulder. “Little thing like that is easy enough to miss.”
Lovina clucks her mouth in irritation even as she pats his hand. “I know my memory isn’t what it used to be, old man, but I checked that stove and the burner was not on.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Enos soothes. “It’s done and we’ll get along just fine with the four cabins we have left.”
“My goodness, just listen to us.” Lovina hefts a self-deprecating laugh. “You give these kids their key so they can get to their cabin and enjoy some of this nice weather before it turns.”
Looking relieved to be off the topic of the fire—and his wife’s memory—Enos plucks a key from a drawer and slides it over to Tomasetti.
“You’re in the Bluebird Cabin. Nice new roof on that one.
Make yourselves at home. We’ve got a business phone here at the office.
Number is on the card. You give a call if you need anything. ”
“And the fridge is stocked with a few staples,” Lovina adds. “I put some Amish cheese in there, too.”
“Plenty of firewood in the rack.” Enos sobers. “Might need it by morning. Big Jim down to the general store told me there’s a storm brewing. Probably won’t amount to much, but you might want to get out and enjoy the beach while you can.”
He’d known for some time that the old Amish couple were going to be a problem.
They were headstrong fools who didn’t know a good offer from a con.
Evidently, they had no idea who they were dealing with or what was at stake.
He’d been patient, after all. Charitable.
Kind, even. He’d worn kid gloves and played by the rules—their rules—and still they’d defied him.
In some ways, they’d disrespected him. Made him look incompetent to people whose opinions mattered.
The time had come for him to remedy the problem once and for all.
As far as he was concerned, most Amish were as dumb as the farm animals they raised.
This couple in particular were like sheep that had strayed from the safety of their pens.
Time to herd them back where they belonged.
Remind them that the wolf was in charge and if they didn’t fall in line, he would show his teeth.
Once they caught a glimpse of those canines, they’d buckle. Just like the others.
He hadn’t wanted to take the situation to the next level; things got messy when you crossed a certain line. But what were his alternatives? If the sheep refused to obey, the wolf got involved. It was the way things got done. He’d given them every opportunity, and they’d laughed in his face.
There was only one way to correct the problem. If someone got hurt in the process, then so be it. At this point, collateral damage was the least of his worries.
If the Great Lakes were siblings, Lake Erie would be the sullen child, the one that rarely spoke, didn’t play nicely with others, and grew aloof—and dangerous—as an adult.
The Bluebird Cabin is nestled in a copse of trees thirty yards from the lake. The front faces the road. The rear of the cabin, with its big deck and stone firepit, looks out over the water. I know immediately the deck is where we’ll be spending most of our time.