Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(16)

“I dunno.” His brows go together, as if he’s struggling to remember. “A couple months maybe.”

“When’s the last time you saw Mary Yoder?”

“The old lady?” He looks at his datt, then back at me. “I don’t remember. A few months?”

“When did you last see Elsie Helmuth?”

“The little retarded kid?”

I grit my teeth. “The seven-year-old little girl,” I say.

The elder Graber steps in. “Why are you asking my son these things?”

I don’t look away from Big Eddie. “Answer the question.”

For the first time he looks upset, a combination of confusion and frustration. A drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face, just in front of his ear. I think about his temper; I think about the missing little girl, and I push harder. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Eddie?”

The boy’s face reddens. “I … I don’t lie!”

“Why are you sweating?” I ask.

“My son has no reason to lie to you or anyone else,” Edward says. “He’s a good boy.”

“Was he here all day?” I ask the elder Graber.

“Just like he said.”

I look at the boy. “Would you mind taking off your gloves?”

“Huh? My gloves?” But he’s already tugging at the fingertip of his glove, pulling it off.

“Show me your hands,” I say. “Both sides.”

He does as he’s told. His hands are large and strong, with dirty, chewed-off nails and a plethora of calluses. A two-inch-long half-moon-shaped slice mars the heel of his hand.

Next to me, Glock shifts.

“How’d you cut yourself?” I ask.

Eddie lets his hand drop, shoves it into his pocket. “I caught it on barbed wire.”

“Weren’t you wearing your gloves?” I ask.

“I took them off,” he mumbles.

“When did you do it?”

“This morning.”

“Looks like you might need stitches,” Glock says. “Any reason you didn’t get it taken care of?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” The boy casts an uneasy look at his father. “Why is she looking at my hands, Datt? What did I do?”

“Chief Burkholder, my son … he’s engshtlich.” Upset. “I saw him cut his hand. He was handling a big coil of wire and it slipped. He’s telling the truth.”

I turn my attention to the boy. He stares back, sputtering now. His hands clenched into fists. Temper, I think, so I press on.

“You get along with the Helmuths?” I ask him.

“I like them just fine.”

I look at the elder man. “Do you mind if we take a quick look in the house, Mr. Graber?” I do not have the right to search the home of any individual without a search warrant issued by a judge. But if he gives me permission, I can have a look free and clear. Better yet, anything I find can be used to build a case against him.

“I don’t understand,” Edward says. “What are you looking for?”

“There was an incident at the Schattenbaum place this afternoon, Mr. Graber. Mary Yoder was killed. Elsie Helmuth is missing. As you can imagine, everyone is extremely concerned. I need to take a look in your house. Just to eliminate you and your son from the equation. Are you okay with that?”

A hard silence falls, thick and echoing. Edward Graber stares at me as if the news has rendered him speechless. His mouth opens, lips trembling, but he doesn’t make a sound.

Standing next to him, the younger man begins to shake. He’s clutching the gloves, slapping them against his thigh as if he wants to hit something. I think about his temper. His lack of self-control.

“You think my son did that?” Edward asks, his voice shaking.

“I think I’d like to get back out there and look for that little girl.” I look from father to son and back to the elder man. “It would be a big help if I could just have a look-see in your house and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Go ahead,” Graber says. “But I don’t like these questions.”

“Neither do I.”

I send Glock to the barn. I head toward the house. I hear father and son behind me, but I don’t wait for them. I go through the back door, enter a narrow porch that’s been enclosed and is being used as a mudroom. Boots lined up on the floor to my right. I pick up a rubber boot, check it for blood, check the tread. The size, which is thirteen. I look at the coats hung on wood dowels. Dry and clean. No blood.

The kitchen is a mess, but it’s the kind of mess that’s the result of two men living in close quarters without a woman. I tug open a couple of drawers. The only knives I see are cheap steak knives. I go to the living room. No sign of anything out of place. No footprints. Nothing that looks as if it would belong to a little girl.

There’s a single bedroom at the rear of the house. Large. A full-size bed. Faded Amish quilt. No closet. I look under the bed. Nothing. I check the bathroom. It’s filthy, but again, it’s normal wear and tear. I check the hamper. No bloody clothes or towels. I make eye contact with Edward and then take the steps to the second level.

There are two bedrooms upstairs. The first has a twin-size bed. A ratty blanket. A horse saddle on the floor. Another pair of boots. No closet. Nothing under the bed. The second room is littered with boxes. A woman’s dress hangs from a dowel on the wall. A kapp, strings hanging down. Mrs. Graber’s things, I think, and I take the steps back to the first level.