Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(28)

I sip coffee. “So you delivered Elsie.”

The woman’s brows snap together. “Now that you mention it, I think she’s the only one I didn’t deliver.”

An odd ping sounds inside my head. “You delivered all their children except for Elsie?”

“Yes.”

I nod, turning the information over in my brain. “Is there a reason why you didn’t deliver Elsie?”

“Miriam told me the baby came quickly. There was no time.”

I finish the last of the coffee. “Did Mary Yoder have any other children?”

“She has a daughter in Indiana, I think.”

“What about sisters? Brothers? Extended family?”

“I do recall her mentioning a sister.” The Mennonite woman assumes a thoughtful countenance. “Younger, I think. They were close once, but had some sort of falling-out.”

I flip the page on my notebook, go to a fresh page. “Do you remember her name?”

“Mary hardly ever mentioned her.” She’s trying to remember. “Started with an M. Marsha. Marie. Marlene, I think.”

“Last name?”

Martha shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Did she live around here?”

“Down south somewhere. I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Mary didn’t talk about her much and I’m not one to pry.”

I nod, disappointed because I’d been hoping for more. For something. Most Amish have large, extended families. Evidently, that wasn’t the case with Mary Yoder.

I pluck my card from my pocket and slide it across the table to her. “If you think of anything else, will you get in touch with me?”

“Of course I will.”

I rise and she takes me through the living room. I open the door, look down to see one of the cats slip inside. I’m turning up the collar of my jacket when I think of one more question. “Mrs. Hershberger, do you know who delivered Elsie?”

“I’m not rightly sure.” The woman bends to pick up the cat, runs her hand over its head. “Miriam never said. They had so many children. I never thought to ask.”





CHAPTER 8


Fourteen hours missing

It’s seven A.M. by the time I make it home, the sun not yet above the treetops to the east. There’s nothing I’d like more than to fall into bed for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. But with Elsie Helmuth missing and a murderer on the loose, I’m going to have to settle for a shower and food. I park next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and head inside.

The house smells of coffee and toast when I walk into my big farmhouse kitchen. The air is warm, and for the first time the full weight of exhaustion presses down on me. A mug of coffee sits untouched next to a plate scattered with crumbs. Tomasetti’s laptop is open and humming. I hear the TV in the living room, tuned to cable news.

He appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, in sweatpants and an ancient Cleveland Division of Police T-shirt. He’s carrying a towel; his hair is wet.

“I guess that explains why you didn’t answer my call,” I say by way of greeting.

“They haven’t invented showerproof phones yet.”

I nod, trying to settle into a more domestic frame of mind, not succeeding. “Did your forensic guys come up with anything?”

“First things first.” He crosses to me, eyes on mine. I smell soap and aftershave as he puts his arms around me, presses a kiss to my mouth.

“You get any sleep?” he asks.

“I just need a shower.”

“Uh-huh.” He shifts me to arm’s length and tilts his head. “Got time for breakfast?”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Later, over scrambled eggs and toast, he updates me on everything he’s learned since we last spoke. “Sheriff Rasmussen picked up Eddie Graber around one A.M., talked to him for a few hours, and drove him home.” He shakes his head. “We’re running a comp on the boot tread, but Rasmussen doesn’t think he’s our guy.”

I nod. “Was the lab able to type the blood found in the yard of the Schattenbaum house?”

He grimaces and I know even before he speaks that the news isn’t good. “Same as the girls.”

I wince inwardly, knowing what that means: that the girl could have been stabbed or cut—or worse.

“We don’t have DNA back yet, but the lab matched the type. The kid had a tonsillectomy a couple years ago. She’s O-negative—”

“But it’s possible the blood belongs to the killer.”

“Maybe.” He says it for my benefit; he doesn’t believe it. “That’s not a common blood type. Look, we’re running DNA now, but the lab is backed up. It’s going to take a few days. I got some things shuffled around, put some other cases on the back burner, so we’ve got priority.”

“What about the footwear impressions?” I ask. “The size-thirteen work boots? Any unique marks on the sole? Leads on manufacturer or retailer?”

“We got tread, but not enough detail to pick up unique marks.”

I nod, disappointed, trying not to think about the girl, possibly in jured and bleeding, and I feel overwhelmed by all the things I don’t know and the sheer volume of things I need to do.