Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(10)

“Mr. and Mrs. Helmuth, you mentioned Mary and your two daughters went to the house to pick up walnuts. Has Mary ever had any problems there? Any strangers hanging around? Or signs of vandalism? Graffiti? Tire tracks? Anything unusual?”

Miriam shakes her head. “She never mentioned anything. I just can’t believe…” Looking as if she’s going to be sick, she presses her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord.”

Ivan nods. When his gaze meets mine, his expression is grim. “She had words with the Graber boy once. He lives over to Rockridge Road.”

“Big Eddie,” Miriam says in a small voice.

The mention of “Big Eddie” garners my attention. The Graber farm abuts the Helmuth property; they share the back fence. The family is Amish. Eddie is a teenager; I’ve seen him around town or walking along the road. He’s a troubled kid with a tragic story. A near drowning a decade ago left him with brain damage.

The one and only time I ever had reason to interact with him was an incident at the Butterhorn Bakery. According to owner Tom Skanks, Big Eddie bought six apple fritters, and proceeded to eat all of them before leaving the bakery. Some non-Amish teenagers made fun of Eddie and a fight broke out. By the time I got there, Eddie had two of the kids on the ground, and they were bloodied and bruised. It was a nasty scene with an ugly origin: the bullying of a mentally challenged teenage boy. No charges were pressed, but the incident put Eddie on my cop’s radar.

“What happened with Big Eddie?” I ask.

“We caught him spying on the girls when they were swimming down to the creek,” the Amish woman blurts. “He tried to get our oldest to … take off her underwear and go into the woods with him.” She looks away, shakes her head. “Asked her to ‘show him her thing.’”

“Did he touch her?” I ask.

The Amish woman shakes her head. “No.”

“Did you talk to Eddie’s father?”

Ivan raises his gaze to mine. “I told him about it. He said he’d keep an eye on him.”

“Anything since?” I ask.

“Last year. Eddie was walking by the old Schattenbaum place. Our boys were there, gathering walnuts. There was a fight. I found out later our boys threw some walnuts at Eddie while he was walking by.” The Amish man looks down, ashamed.

“We’re not proud of what our boys did,” Miriam says.

“Anyone get hurt?” I ask.

Ivan shakes his head.

“Elam had a black eye,” Miriam puts in.

“Figured he deserved it,” the Amish man mutters.

“How old were your boys at the time?” I ask.

“Elam was seven.”

Too young to get punched in the face by a teenager twice his age and three times his size—even if he did deserve it. “Is there bad blood between your family and Big Eddie?” I ask. “His family?”

“Lord, no.” Miriam shakes her head. “We see them every couple of weeks at worship. Eddie’s a sweet thing usually, but he’s got a temper, gets mean when he’s mad.”

Ivan looks down at his hands, grimaces. “We try to look the other way. But…”

“I’ll talk to them.” I pause. “Look, I know Annie has been through a lot. But I need to ask her some questions.”

The couple exchange another look. After a moment, Ivan tips his head at his wife.

Miriam rises. “I’ll fetch her.”

A few minutes later, the four of us are seated at the kitchen table. Annie is sitting in her mother’s lap. Miriam has her arms wrapped around her daughter, and she can’t seem to stop kissing the top of her head. The woman is doing her utmost to remain calm and maintain her composure, if only for the child’s sake, but she’s not quite managing.

Annie’s hands and face are clean, and she’s wearing a fresh dress. Miriam supplied me with the soiled one, which I tucked into a gallon freezer bag I keep in my vehicle. I’ll send it to the BCI lab to have the blood tested. Chances are it belongs to Mary Yoder, but you never know when you might get lucky. Oftentimes, an attacker with a knife will cut himself in the frenzy, which would supply us with DNA.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I begin.

The little girl’s eyes slide away from mine. Lifting her hand, she puts her thumb in her mouth and starts to suck. Miriam gently takes the child’s hand and lowers it. “Chief Katie has a few questions for you, my little peach.”

Again, I feel the minutes ticking by and I struggle for patience, with the need to be gentle, to not frighten this child who has already been so traumatized. All of those things are in direct conflict with my need for facts.

“My grossmuder used to call me little peach.” I tilt my head, and make eye contact with Annie. “Your cheeks kind of look like peaches.”

A ghost of a smile floats across the child’s expression.

“Makes me want to pinch them.”

This time, a full-blown grin.

I jump on it. “Can you tell me what happened when you and Elsie and your grossmammi were gathering walnuts?”

The little girl shakes her head, then turns, wraps her arms around her mother, buries her face against her mamm’s bosom. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

I try again. “Was there someone else there?”