Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(70)

His eyes latch on to mine. “Does she have a name to go along with the van?”

“She didn’t see the driver, but some of the Amish drivers, fondly referred to as ‘Yoder Toters,’ are hired out on a regular basis and are well known by the Amish community. The bishop is usually well connected. I’m betting we can get a name.”

“You thinking this driver overheard something?”

“Or he might be able to give us a name we don’t already have.”

We park in the same spot as last time I was here. I notice the barn door standing open, so we forgo a trip to the house and head that way. We find Chupp mucking stalls, a wheelbarrow full of wood shavings and manure in the aisle.

“You’re back,” he says by way of greeting, and his eyes slide to Tomasetti. “With a friend.”

Tomasetti introduces himself and extends his hand.

“Any luck finding that missing girl?” the bishop asks.

I shake my head. “Did you have a chance to ask around to see if anyone is aware of what may have happened with the newborn seven years ago?”

Sobering, the bishop sets the pitchfork on the ground and leans. “I spoke with several people, Chief Burkholder. Reliable people who’ve lived in Crooked Creek all their lives. No one knows of an infant. If Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman were involved in such a thing, they did not speak of it.”

Disappointment takes a swipe at me, but I block it and move on to my next question. “I think Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman may have hired a driver the night they traveled to Painters Mill. Do you know of someone who was driving for the Amish about that time?”

The bishop’s eyes widen slightly. “Elmer Moyer has been driving the Amish around for as long as I can remember. He’s a nice fellow. A Mennonite. A real talker, if you know what I mean. I’ve hired him a few times myself.” Chupp looks from me to Tomasetti and back at me, his expression grave. “Chief Burkholder, I heard just last week that Elmer Moyer left town.”

My heart does a weird patter against my ribs. “Do you know where he went or why he left?”

He shakes his head. “Word around town is that Elmer had some debt.” He lowers his voice. “A tab at the feed store. A bunch of credit cards. It was common knowledge he was having money problems.”

“How long ago did he leave?” I ask.

“Recently.” He shrugs. “A couple of weeks maybe.”

“Do you have any idea how to get in touch with him?”

The bishop shakes his head. “Cell phone is disconnected. Several people I know have tried to contact him when they needed a ride. Elmer hasn’t returned a single call.”

“Sounds like he doesn’t want to be found.” Tugging his cell from his pocket, Tomasetti thumbs something it. “Let me see if he’s in the system.”

“Does Moyer have family in the area?” I ask the bishop. “Friends? Someone who was close to him?”

“I don’t believe so. Not in Crooked Creek, anyway. He courted the waitress down to the diner for a while. Patty Lou. But I don’t think they ever married. She still works there. Little place on Buckeye Street downtown called Foley’s.”

The bishop’s eyebrows furrow as if he’s troubled by the things we’ve discussed. “You don’t think something bad has happened to Elmer, do you?”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.

“He drove me to Cincinnati for a doctor’s appointment a couple of months ago. We stopped for lunch on the way back. I bought him a burger and a shake.” He shrugs. “Didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him.”

When we’re back in the Explorer, Tomasetti says, “Elmer Moyer is not a missing person. He’s not in any of the databases. No warrants.”

“Record?”

“One conviction on misdemeanor drug charges two years ago. Possession of a controlled substance. Paid a fine. Did probation. No time served. Speeding ticket last summer.”

“So he’s not Scarface,” I say. “I guess the question now is: Did he leave of his own accord? Or did someone do away with him?”

Tomasetti takes it a step further. “Or is he somehow involved in the abduction?”

I think about that a moment. “Moyer used to date the waitress down at the diner. You hungry?”

“Frickin’ starved.”





CHAPTER 23


Ninety-five hours missing

Foley’s is more bar than diner and has Hard Times written all over its redbrick facade. It’s nestled between a parking lot riddled with knee-high yellow grass and a vacant space that was once Uhlman’s Department Store. I park the Explorer in the lot next to a pickup truck the size of a tank and we head inside.

The interior is a dimly lit, narrow space with booths to the right and, on the left, an ornate bar that’s probably as old as the building itself. The air smells of onions, week-old grease, and spilled beer—all of it infused with the redolence of decades-old cigarette smoke. Two men in brown duck coveralls sit at the bar, sipping beer, watching a TV tuned to cable news with the volume muted. A couple sits at a booth by the window. An old Crosby, Stills & Nash rocker blares from a jukebox in the corner. No one looks up when we walk in, so we make our way to the nearest booth and sit.