Joe Neely owns one of the newest businesses in town, a nice little upscale coffeehouse called Mocha Joe’s, a place I’ve ventured too many times to count.
“A fight?” I ask.
“Not yet, but he says there are a bunch of people in the street, arguing. Parking slots are blocked and someone is refusing to move.”
Painters Mill is a tourist town; gridlock on a Saturday morning is a serious offense. “I’m just down the street,” I tell her. “I’ll take it.”
“Roger that.”
Even as I rack the mike, I spot the disturbance ahead. Flipping on my overhead lights, I pass the vehicle directly in front of me, but traffic is at a standstill. I park where I am and start toward the crowd. The first vehicle I see is the Amish buggy. The harnessed Standardbred gelding looks uneasy being in the center of the throng. In the buggy, a woman wearing a gray dress and organdy kapp sits in the passenger seat, clutching a squirming toddler. I’m familiar with most of the buggies in the area and I recognize this one as belonging to Abner Nisley and his wife, Mary Jo. They’re Swartzentruber and the parents of nine children. For years, Abner eschewed the use of a slow-moving-vehicle sign, which is illegal according to Ohio Revised Code. I’ve pulled him over half a dozen times. When my warnings didn’t work, I issued a couple of tickets, the cost of which finally convinced him to add the signage to the back of his buggy, too ornate or not.
Parked at a cockeyed angle in front of the buggy is a silver Toyota RAV4. Ohio plates. A woman in blue jeans and a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves has her cell phone pressed to her ear. She’s shouting into her cell, gesturing angrily, glaring at the Amish man standing next to her. Several passersby are taking videos with their phones, probably hoping to post the next viral hit on social media.
I tilt my head to speak into my shoulder mike, but of course it’s not there. I’m out of uniform because it’s my day off. Sighing, I pull out my badge and make my way toward the kerfuffle.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I glance right to see Joe Neely trot toward me. I slow down, but I don’t stop. “What’s going on?” I ask him.
Wearing his usual coffee-spattered apron and Mocha Joe’s cap, Neely keeps pace with me. He’s usually an unshakable guy, keeps his cool even during the morning rush when caffeine-deprived customers are lined up at the door like zombies. This morning, he’s breathing hard, his shirt wet beneath his armpits, and a bead of sweat on his upper lip.
“Buggy horse took a crap in the street,” he tells me. “Lady in the RAV stepped in it.”
“Bet that didn’t go over very well,” I mutter as I squeeze between two teenage boys who’ve stopped to see what all the excitement is about.
Joe’s mouth twitches. “She’s pissed, Chief. Went over to confront him. Just about tore my head off when I told her to move her car.”
“Anyone get hit?” I ask.
“Not yet, but I sure wouldn’t want to be that Amish dude.”
“Let me see if I can calm things down.” I leave Joe and make my way through the crowd.
I spot Abner Nisley first. The Amish man is standing in the street, leg cocked, his eyes fastened to the asphalt. He’s wearing his usual straw hat and dark trousers, work shirt, and suspenders. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his trousers. The woman in the white blouse and blue jeans is standing a foot away from him, shouting something I can’t yet hear. Judging from her frothing-at-the-mouth expression, it isn’t very nice.
She’s about thirty years old with blond hair, blue eyes, and cheeks infused with color.
I reach the edge of the crowd and approach her. “Ma’am?” I hold up my badge. “I’m with the Painters Mill PD. What’s the problem this morning?”
The woman turns to me, motions toward the horse. “That horse shit all over the place! Right in my parking spot!” She jabs a finger down at her sandal-clad feet. “Look at that! All over my shoe! That’s against the law.”
I glance down at the shoe in question and try not to wince. She must have kicked the pile of manure, which ended up between her toes, and got beneath her artfully pedicured toenails.
“I just bought these shoes.” Mouth taut, she shakes her head. “It’s disgusting. Don’t you people require them Amish to clean up after themselves? Why don’t they use bags or whatever to catch the shit! I mean, think of the diseases!”
The Ohio Revised Code does not require manure bags for horse-drawn vehicles. Some townships and villages with an Amish population have enacted ordinances. Painters Mill is not one of them. Because this woman is visibly upset, I opt not to point any of that out to her and take a more diplomatic route.
“Look, I’ve got a couple bottles of water and paper towels in my trunk,” I say calmly. “Let’s walk over to my vehicle, and we’ll rinse those shoes off for you.” I look around, take in the blocked traffic. “If you’d pull your vehicle back into that parking spot.” I offer her a smile. “Coffee’s on me this morning.”
She doesn’t return the smile. “A bottle of water? Are you kidding me? I’ve got a luncheon to get to. I can’t go smelling like crap.” She stabs a shaking finger at Abner Nisley. “You. Hose it off! Right now!”
Abner catches my gaze and shrugs. “See is weenich ad.” She’s a little off in the head.
The woman looks at him as if he’s hurled a slur in her direction and she’s thinking about slugging him. A motorist in the line of cars that have piled up behind the RAV4 lays on the horn. That’s my cue to end this before it escalates.
I look at the woman. “Pull your car into that parking spot while we sort this out. Now. You’re blocking traffic.”
“Chief Burkholder! Katie!”
I turn at the sound of the familiar voice to see the owner of the flower shop next door striding toward us. Beatrice Graeff is a downtown Painters Mill fixture—all ninety-two pounds of her. White-haired and petite, she’s dressed to the nines this morning in a Dior pantsuit and her trademark cloche hat. The crowd parts for her as she approaches and I notice the hand broom and dustpan in her hands.
“I’ve been picking up after those horses all summer,” she says to no one in particular. “Let me tell you, it’s pure gold. I got a composter out back and a boatload of tea roses just waiting for another dose of nitrogen.”
The three of us fall silent when the tiny woman reaches us. She thrusts the dustpan and broom to Abner. “If you don’t mind, young man, my knees aren’t as flexible as they used to be.”
Nodding, the Amish man kneels and sweeps the manure into the dustpan. Beatrice produces a plastic bag. “Dump it in. I’ll take it all.” She glances down at the woman’s shoes and her brows furrow. “Honey, you might want to take those to the cobbler down the street. Mr. Shook’ll get those cleaned up for you pronto.”
* * *
It takes ten minutes for the buggy and car to disperse and the traffic to start moving along Main Street. I’m standing on the sidewalk outside Mocha Joe’s, sipping a cup of dark roast when my cell erupts. I glance down to see DISPATCH on the display and pick up.
“Did you get that stinky situation taken care of, Chief?” Margaret asks, a snicker in her voice. “I heard that lady really stepped in it.”