Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(27)

“I’m still at the Schattenbaum place. CSU is about to wrap it up.”

I hear voices in the background, telling me the place is still bustling, that he’s busy, and I miss him. “I’ll do my best to make it home tonight.”

“Me, too.”

I start to say something else, but he hangs up. Smiling, I drop my cell back into my pocket.



* * *



Martha Hershberger lives in a mobile home a few miles from the Helmuth place. As I pull into the driveway, I don’t see any lights on inside. I hesitate, but I hear that incessant tick of the clock that’s taken up residence in my brain since Elsie Helmuth disappeared, and I shut down the engine. Grabbing my Maglite, I throw open the door and hightail it to the covered wood porch.

Rain and wind lash me as I go up the steps. I’ve just knocked when I feel something brush against my ankle. Startled, I shift the beam of my flashlight, see a couple of cats come out of a small doghouse.

I’m in the process of shooing them back inside when the door to the mobile home opens.

“What are you doing to my cats?” comes a coarse voice in Deitsch.

I rise, brush cat fur from my hands onto my trousers, and pluck my badge from my pocket. “Martha Hershberger?”

She eyes me up and down. “What is it?”

Holding the badge so she can see it in the beam of my flashlight, I introduce myself. “I’m the police chief of Painters Mill. I need to—”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

I guess Martha Hershberger to be in her mid-to-late seventies. She’s wearing a floor-length flannel sleeping gown with white socks. A blue scarf covers her hair, a silver mane that reaches the midpoint of her back.

Her question tells me she probably doesn’t know about Mary Yoder or Elsie Helmuth. “I need to talk to you about Mary Yoder.”

She cocks her head and for the first time she looks worried. “Has something happened to Mary?”

“She was killed earlier today,” I tell her.

“What? Mary? Killed?” Pressing her hand to her mouth, she staggers back. “Oh my goodness. Mary.”

The interior of the trailer is dark, so I shine my beam inside, at the very least to keep her from tripping over the cat that’s found its way in. The woman stares at me, looking aghast.

“May I come in?” I ask. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course.” She motions me in, grappling for her composure. “What happened to Mary?” Bending, she turns on a lamp. “Someone hit her buggy? People and their cars,” she spits. “Always in a hurry.” She shakes her head. “Poor Mary.”

Dim light illuminates a small, cluttered room that smells of nail polish and last night’s TV dinner. That’s when it strikes me she’s either left the Amish way or she’s not big on all those rules.…

“She was murdered,” I reply, watching her.

The only thing that comes back at me is complete and utter shock. “Murdered? Oh dear Lord. Mary? Who would—I just can’t believe it.”

“You were close?” I ask.

She raises her gaze to mine. “I knew her most of my life. She was one of the few who stuck with me after I became Mennonite. I thought the world of her. Loved her like a sister. Oh, poor dear Mary.” The grief etched into her every feature intensifies. “How is her family coping?”

I tell her about the missing girl.

“Oh, that just makes me sick. Sick to my bones. Such a sweet child. Who does something like that?”

Neither of us has the answer, so we fall silent. For the span of a few heartbeats the only sound comes from the rain pounding the roof. The tink! of water dripping into a pan somewhere down the hall.

After a moment, she seems to shake off the shock that’s held her frozen, and she motions toward the kitchen. “You want some coffee?”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

I trail her to a tiny, jumbled kitchen. Off-white Formica counters. Flowered curtains. Harvest-gold refrigerator and stove. Every square inch of the countertop surface is strewn with miscellaneous kitchen items. I see bags of cookies and chips. Cookbooks. Coffee cans. Canning jars.

“Sorry about all the junk.” She opens a can of Folgers with hands that aren’t quite steady and scoops grounds into a stovetop percolator. She’s distracted, still trying to come to terms with the loss of her friend.

There’s a collage of photos on the wall. Martha Hershberger with four teenage girls. Mennonite, judging from the style of their head coverings. Granddaughters. Heads thrown back in laughter. Happier times. The sight of the photo makes me think about familial connections. The power of those connections. The lengths to which people will go to protect their own.

I wait while she clears the surface of a small bistro table for two and we sit. The coffee is weak, but it’s hot and I’m desperate for caffeine, so I drink.

Over the next ten minutes, I go over the same questions I covered with Freda Troyer. Martha Hershberger answers them in much the same way. Everyone loved Mary. She had no enemies. No problems with her family or anyone else.

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“I’ve known the Helmuths for years. Back when I was still Amish, we were in the same church district.” Her laugh is a sad sound. “I was a midwife, you know, delivered their babies.”