Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(26)

She’s looking at me as if I’m some vermin that’s wandered onto her porch from the barn. She’s got a crease on her cheek and I suspect I woke her.

“This won’t wait,” I tell her. “You heard what happened to Mary Yoder?”

“Of course I heard.” A shadow of anguish darkens her expression. “Gottlos.” Ungodly. “You’re here for the bishop?”

“Actually, I’m here to speak with you.”

Her eyes narrow behind wire-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. “I reckon you ought to come in then.”

The Troyer home is a hundred-year-old farmhouse that’s typically Amish. Wood plank floors. A big kitchen with Formica countertops, a gas stove, and a propane refrigerator. The aromas of meat roasted earlier in the day, cardamom, and cinnamon lace the air. I take one of six chairs at a rectangular table covered with a red-checkered cloth. A lantern flickers in the center. Salt and pepper shakers in the shape of cats.

“Have you found the girl?” Freda Troyer asks as she shuffles to the stove, where a lone mug sits next to an ancient-looking teapot.

“No.”

“Poor, sweet child.” Making a sound of distress, she pulls out a second mug. “Would you like tea?”

“I can’t stay.” I watch her pour, anxious to get what I need and get back out there. “I understand you and Mary Yoder were friends.”

“I’ve known Mary for years. She was a good friend. A good woman. Mother. Grandmother.”

She carries her mug to the table and pulls out a chair. She lowers herself into it like a woman who feels every one of the eight decades she’s been on this earth. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm her?” I ask. “Did she have any enemies? Any trouble in her life?”

She shakes her head. “Lord, no. Mary Yoder lived her life the way an Amish woman ought to, full of kindness and faith. She was humble and submitted to God.”

“Did she ever mention having any problems with anyone?” I ask. “Any money disputes? Family issues? Disagreements with neighbors?”

“No.”

“What about her husband?”

“Benjamin?” She looks at me as if she’s surprised I’m aware of his existence. “He’s been gone for years.”

“What about Ivan and Miriam?”

“They’re a good Amish family, Chief Burkholder. Not the kind of people who invite trouble into their lives.”

“Any problems with the children?” I ask. “Elsie?”

“They’re so young and well behaved. And that little Elsie is just the sweetest thing. That poor, precious child.” Shaking her head, she looks down at her hands, folds them. “An Englischer did this?”

“I believe he may be Amish.”

“Hard to believe. Maulgrischt.” Pretend Christian. She closes her eyes as if the words cause her physical pain. “I’ve been praying for them.” She raises rheumy blue eyes to mine and for an instant, I see the pain, the burden of the things she hides behind a tetchy veneer, and for the first time I feel as if I’ve caught a glimpse of the real woman.

“Even him,” she whispers. “Da schlecht mann.” The bad man.

“If you think of anything, will you let me know?”

“Of course I will.”

“I’ll see myself out.” I’m midway to the door, everything that’s been said running through my head, a fast-moving stream of troubled waters. I stop in the doorway and turn to her. “Mrs. Troyer?”

She raises her head, her eyes finding mine.

“When I was at the Helmuth place earlier, one of the children told me Bishop Troyer was there the day Elsie was born. Is that true?”

She dismisses the statement with a wave. “Those little ones are confused and missing their sister is all.”

I wait, thinking she’s going to say more. Instead, she raises her mug and takes a sip of tea.



* * *



Under normal circumstances, it would be far too late for me to be rousing citizens from bed to question them about their association with Mary Yoder or the Helmuth family. With a little girl missing—ostensibly in the hands of a killer—I don’t have a choice.

I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Threadgill Creek Road. “Any luck with those impressions?” I ask.

“We got decent plaster on both the footwear and the tire tread,” he replies. “Footwear has a waffle-type sole. Probably a men’s work boot. Size thirteen.”

“Big guy.” In my mind’s eye, I see Big Eddie standing next to his father. “Same size as Eddie Graber.”

I tell him about the size-thirteen boot I saw in the mudroom of the Graber home. “Edward gave me permission to look around, which I did.” I tell him about the fresh cut on Big Eddie’s hand. “I don’t like him for this but he has a history with the Helmuths. I want a warrant.”

“I can have one within the hour. We’ll confiscate the boots and pick him up.” He pauses. “Where are you?”

“I’m talking with Mary Yoder’s known associates.”

“At midnight?”

“So sue me.” Rain begins to patter the windshield, so I flip on my wipers. “What about you?”