Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(32)

CHAPTER 9


Seventeen hours missing

On the drive to the Helmuth farm, I pass several men on horseback, Amish men and boys who’ve saddled their buggy horses to search the ditches and culverts and wooded areas near the Schattenbaum place. Men clad in camouflage jackets ride ATVs through open fields and the floodplain that parallels Painters Creek, searching rugged terrain not easily accessed by vehicle or on foot. All of these volunteers have likely been at it since first light. Despite the cold block of dread that’s taken up residence in my gut, it warms me to see that the community—Amish and English alike—has come out in force to find a missing little girl.

I’ve just pulled into the Helmuth lane when my cell erupts. I glance at the display: HOLMES CNTY CORONER.

I take a breath and brace. “Hi, Doc.”

“I’m about to start the autopsy on Mary Yoder.”

“Anything preliminary you can tell me?”

“The forensic pathologist took nail scrapings. Collected hair. Took swabs. We sent everything to the BCI lab. With regard to her injuries and resulting death, the only thing I can tell you at this time is that she was stabbed twenty-two times. Probably with a large knife. She sustained many defensive wounds.”

“She fought back.”

“As much as she could.”

“Cause and manner of death?”

“I suspect she died from blood loss. That’s not official yet.” He sighs. “There’s no doubt it’s a homicide. I’ll be able to answer those questions definitively once I get her on the table.”

“I’d like to be there.” I look toward the back door of the house, where three Amish women carrying grocery bags stare in my direction. “Can you give me half an hour?”

“She’s not going anywhere.”



* * *



The Amish women on the back porch don’t speak to me as I ascend the steps; they move silently aside as I enter the house. I find Miriam Helmuth sitting at the kitchen table, head bowed, hands clasped. Silently praying.

Another Amish woman stands at the sink with her back to us, washing dishes. I stand just inside the doorway for a full minute, waiting for Miriam to finish her prayer, getting my words in order. When she finally raises her head, her eyes jump with anticipation.

“You bring news of Elsie?” she asks in a voice that’s gone hoarse.

I’m loath to crush her hope, but as is usually the case, I don’t have a choice. “No news,” I say.

She presses a tattered tissue to her nose and looks down at the tabletop. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Miriam.” I go to the table, lower myself to the chair next to her. “I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

She stares at me for the span of several seconds. Then her face screws up. “I just want her back,” she whispers. “Safe and sound. That’s all.”

I give her a moment, and then I ask, “Do you have a birth certificate for Elsie?”

She stiffens, raises her gaze to mine. “Why would you ask such a thing when a child is missing? Some silly piece of paper isn’t going to help you find her, is it?”

“It’s part of the process.” The words aren’t exactly true. But I don’t want her to become suspicious of me or my questions at this juncture.

Too late, a little voice whispers.

“I don’t have a birth certificate for Elsie,” she tells me. “We were going to file the paperwork. You know, the home birth document for the government. But … we just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Where she was born?” I ask.

Her eyes meet mine, misery boiling in their depths. But there’s something else there, too. A tangle of uncertainty, fear, and resentment. “Here. At the house.”

“You used a midwife?”

“I would have.” She looks down at her hands again. “Elsie came fast. There was no time. Mamm was here. She helped me through.”

“Which midwife were you going to use?”

“The one I used with the other children. Martha Hershberger.”

“Did you get prenatal care with Elsie?”

“These questions are not going to help you find my girl.” Impatience flares in her voice.

“Mrs. Helmuth.” I say her name firmly, but gently. “I’m not the enemy here. Please. I want to bring her home, too. If there’s something you haven’t told me—”

“I’ve told you everything.”

I give her a moment to calm down before moving on to my next question. “How well do you know your aunt? Mary’s sister, Marlene?”

The woman stares at me as if I’ve asked her about the weather or some recipe that has nothing whatsoever to do with the crisis at hand. “Aunt Marlene passed away years ago. I don’t see what she has to do with any of this.”

“Why don’t you let me decide what’s relevant and what’s not?” I say firmly.

She seems to sink more deeply into the chair, looks down at her hands in her lap. “I met Marlene once or twice when I was a girl. She was … a delicate thing. Didn’t come around much.”

“Delicate?” I ask. “You mean physically?”