Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(48)

“They shamed her to death. That’s why she jumped. They shamed her. Shamed her.” Repeating the words like a mantra, she begins to dig, frantically. “Like mother, like daughter. One and the same—both were bad eggs.” Jamming the shovel into the dirt, tossing it into the wheelbarrow. Again and again.

When I can stand it no longer, I go to her, try to take the shovel, but she won’t release it. “Why did they take the baby?” I ask.

The woman tightens her mouth, doesn’t look at me.

“Who are the parents?” I wait a beat. When she says nothing, I add a resounding “Please, all I need is a name.”

She raises a shaking hand and wipes rain from her face, slings it to the ground. “You speak the devil’s name too often and you’ll hear the flap of his wings. You’d be wise to remember that, Kate Burkholder.”

Throwing down the shovel, she turns away and starts toward the house.

For an instant, I consider going after her. Pressuring her until I get what I need. I’m not above bullying when I want something, when it’s important, even if she’s old and frail. This is different. I think the stroke must have affected her mental state. Might be better to try again in the morning.

My boots sink into mud as I walk back to the Explorer. The rain is coming down in sheets and I’m soaked to the skin. My coat’s wet. My hair. Rain pounds the hood. I sit there a moment, trying to get my head around what just transpired between me and the old Amish woman.

… it wadn’t no accident.

Is it possible the hit-and-run that killed Bishop Schwartz wasn’t some random, tragic accident? Did the sheriff’s department interview Sadie Stutzman? Did they listen to her claims? Or did they simply write her off as an eccentric old woman?

“Damn it,” I mutter as I pick up my phone.

The last thing any cop wants to be subjected to is some cop from an outside jurisdiction coming in and questioning the way they handled an investigation. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m about to do, so I take a moment to get my words in order before punching in the number.

I get put on hold twice and then Deputy Harleson comes on the line. “Hi, Chief Burkholder. What can I do for you?”

“I got plaster on some tire-tread impressions related to the case I’m working on, and I realized I forgot to ask if you were able to pick up any tread on the hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz. I thought it might be worth running a comp.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but we didn’t get any tread marks. There was heavy rain that night. Anything left behind by the driver got washed away.”

I make a sound of disappointment. “I was just talking with some of the local Amish. There are some individuals who believe the bishop’s death was not accidental.”

He chuckles. “Ah, you talked to the Stutzman widow over there on River Road.”

Busted. “Yes.”

“I should have warned you. She’s a nice lady and all, but she’s crazy as a loon. Half the stuff she says … you can’t believe it. Sorry I didn’t warn you.”

I’m still thinking about the hit-and-run and the Amish bishop whose life was cut short. “Can you tell me where the accident happened?”

“Intersection of Hayport Road and Burkes Lane. Driver blew the stop sign at a high rate of speed. Hit the buggy from behind.”

“What time did it happen?” I ask.

“Nine P.M. or so. Schwartz was one of them Amish that don’t use slow-moving-vehicle signs.”

“He was Old Order? Swartzentruber?”

“I’m not sure what the difference is to tell you the truth. But Schwartz had no lights or reflective signage on the buggy. It was dark. Perfect storm for a wreck.” He pauses. “Do you mind telling me what that hit-and-run has to do with your case up there in Painters Mill?”

“I’m not sure just yet,” I say honestly. “If I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”





CHAPTER 14


Fifty hours missing

The scene of the accident is four miles from Sadie Stutzman’s house, about midway to the address Harleson gave me for the bishop’s wife. Chances are, the deputy’s assessment of the incident is correct—a tragic hit-and-run—and Sadie Stutzman, with her strange earthen project and nonsensical ranting, is in the early stages of dementia. I remind myself of all of those things as I roll up to the intersection of Burkes Lane and Hayport Road and park on the gravel shoulder.

Rain pours down from a bruised sky as I take in the scene. It’s mostly rural, with a few small, generously spaced homes. There’s a guardrail along Burkes. Evidently, the bishop was southbound on Hayport and the unknown driver failed to stop and plowed into the buggy. It’s an unfortunate reality anytime you put horse-drawn buggies on the same road with motorized vehicles. Add alcohol or excessive speed—and the absence of proper signage on the buggy—and a cataclysmic outcome is almost guaranteed.

I flick on my emergency lights. I’m already soaked to the skin, so I don’t bother with my slicker as I get out of the Explorer. Too much time has elapsed for anything of interest to be left behind. Still, it’s usu ally helpful to see an accident scene in person, to get a feel for it, a better perspective.

The area is wooded. The homes are on good-size lots—an acre or two—and most are relatively private from their neighbors. If someone were planning something nefarious and didn’t want to be seen, this would be a good place to do it.