Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(52)

“You talk to the midwife?”

I take him through my exchange with Sadie Stutzman. “She danced around most of my questions. Tomasetti, she suggested Bishop Schwartz’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Did you look at the police report?”

“I talked to the deputy who investigated the accident. They have no idea who was responsible and attributed it to a drunk driver.”

“Was the midwife able to make a case?”

“That’s the problem. She’s … eccentric. She’d suffered a stroke recently and the general consensus is that she may be in the early stages of dementia.”

“Is she completely diminished mentally?” he asks.

“Not so much that I felt I needed to discount everything she said. And I got the distinct impression she’s afraid.”

Tomasetti falls silent, digesting; then he asks, “What’s your gut telling you? Do you think it’s possible someone killed him because of what happened with the kid seven years ago?”

“I think the timing of it and the circumstances are suspect.”

“Why now?” he asks. “After so much time?”

“Maybe the parents or a parent or even a family member recently found out what happened and who was involved, and they decided to … take back what had been stolen from them.” I pause, thinking about the notes. “Look, I’m going to try the midwife one more time tomorrow before I leave, talk to the new bishop, then I’ll head back.”

After hanging up with Tomasetti, I go back to my search engine, using a multitude of criteria for a missing child five to ten years ago, but nothing comes back. I strike out with the law enforcement databases, too. No newspaper stories. I even spend some time floundering around some of the social media sites. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I go back to the file I brought with me, rereading every report, every interview transcript, every form, and my own personal notes. One name that keeps popping up is Marlene Byler, Mary Yoder’s sister. I think about familial connections. The rumors surrounding her death. Is there some nexus I’m not seeing? I flip the page, look at the crime scene photos, desperately seeking something—anything—I missed before, all to no avail.

By the time midnight rolls around, I can’t keep my eyes open. I shut my laptop cover, turn off the TV, and exhaustion drags me into a hard sleep.





CHAPTER 15


Sixty-four hours missing

The river moved with an uneasy restlessness. Wind whipped the surface into waves more befitting a lake. The brown current boiled with turbulence. The eddy near the bank formed a whirlpool, sucking leaves and debris into the depths. The family of muskrats that had been living in a push-up near shore had moved to the marsh across the road. Even the red-shouldered hawk that had nested in the birch tree had left for higher ground.

Something coming, she thought.

Sadie Stutzman stood on the back porch and watched the water slither past the muddy bank. Dawn teased the horizon above the treetops to the east. Snow pattered the brim of her winter bonnet and dampened the shoulders of her shawl, but she barely noticed the cold or wet.

She loved the river. The sight of it. The smells. She loved the land with its fickle ways and hidden threats. She’d been born here, raised in this very house. She’d been married in the old barn, which had been swept away by the river going on thirty years ago. She’d lost her husband here a decade ago. Somehow, she’d grown old. This morning, watching the water that was as cloudy and troubled as her own mind, she knew she would probably die here, too. Such were the joys and agonies of life.

Taking a final look at the river, she pushed open the door that took her into her small kitchen. In anticipation of the snow, she’d pulled the last of the mint from the little patch that grew along the side of the house. Tearing off a few leaves, she dropped them into a mug and poured hot water from the teapot she kept simmering on the stove. Mint tea always calmed her. This morning, with her mind in turmoil, she figured she might need two cups.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the English policewoman who’d come to her, asking questions, digging up things she had no business digging into. The woman had no idea what she was doing. If she wasn’t careful, Kate Burkholder was going to unearth something awful. Something dangerous. Dummkopp, she thought. Idiot. It was a harsh judgment; the woman was just doing her job. She had no way of knowing that the truth would only make things worse. That some questions were best left unasked.

The exchange haunted her throughout the night. If only she could hurl the memories into the water and let them be sucked into one of those eddies to be buried in the mud and darkness. Perhaps the stroke had been one of God’s tender mercies. In His eternal kindness and wisdom, He would erase the memory of that night, of what she’d done. What they’d done. He would ease her pain. Forgive her. Restore the peace she’d lost seven years ago.

Thanks to Kate Burkholder, it was all coming back.

Clutching the mug of tea, Sadie shuffled through the kitchen, down the hall, and entered her bedroom. She set the cup on the night table next to her bed, lit the lantern, and opened the drawer. The sight of the notes sent a shiver through her. She picked them up anyway and read.

It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.