Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(71)

I’m thinking about Elsie Helmuth and the fateful trip that took her to Painters Mill seven years ago when a woman wearing snug jeans and a fuzzy purple sweater hustles up to the booth. “Evening, folks,” she says in a tough voice. “Can I get you something to drink?”

She’s tall and thin, with a face that had once been pretty. She’s a fast mover, a woman used to getting things done quickly and being on her feet for hours at a time. I’m betting she’s waitress, bartender, and manager and she’s probably run this place for quite some time.

“I’ll have a Killian’s Irish Red,” Tomasetti tells her.

“Same.” Before she can turn away, I ask, “Can you tell us where we can find Patty Lou?”

She spins, her gaze alternating between curiosity and caution. “You guys cops or what?”

Good eye, I think as I lay down my badge. “We’re looking for Elmer Moyer.”

She looks at my badge a moment too long, not reading, but getting her response in order. “What makes you think I know where he is?”

“You’re a friend of his.”

“Was. Past tense.” Her eyes scan the room, the bar, the booth. Checking on her customers. Making sure they have everything they need. Tips are important to her.

“He left, so I guess we’re not friends anymore,” she tells me.

I’m aware of Tomasetti settling against the seat back, letting me know this is my show. “When was that?” I ask.

“Little over two weeks ago.” She narrows eyes swathed with makeup that doesn’t quite conceal the shadows beneath them or the crow’s-feet at the corners. “What’d he do?”

“We’re just trying to find him.”

“Uh-huh. Right. And I’m here because I like the benefits. Give me a break.”

“How long were you friends?” I ask.

“Ten years, on and off.” She rethinks her answer. “Mostly on toward the end.”

“Can you tell us why he left?” I ask.

“Hell if I know. One minute he’s Mr. Let’s-Get-Married and the next he’s just fucking gone.” Her tough veneer cracks and for a split second I catch a glimpse of the woman beneath, the one who’d once been happy and hopeful for a future with a man she loved. “If you figure it out, let me know, will you? I’ll be back with your beers.” She turns and goes back to the bar.

“Sounds like she wasn’t expecting Mr. Perfect to skip town,” Tomasetti says.

I look at him. “What do you think?”

“I think I want to find Elmer Moyers.”

“Suspect? Witness? Victim?”

“All of the above, but I’m leaning toward witness.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Sounds like he flew the coop right about the time Noah Schwartz was killed.”

The waitress returns to our booth, sets two beers in front of us, and slaps down a couple of menus. “Turkey and gravy is the special,” she says as she pulls out her order pad. “Chicken fried steak is better.”

“I understand Elmer did some driving for the Amish,” I say.

She lowers the pad. “Yeah, they hired him sometimes. You know, for long trips. He wasn’t exactly raking in the cash, but they paid him well.”

“Did he work anywhere else?” Tomasetti asks.

“Worked over to the hardware store for a while. But he was on disability. Hurt his back when he was working construction. Couldn’t lift much over ten pounds.”

“Where did he live?”

“Little furnished apartment above the furniture store. Landlord has already rented the place.”

“Did he ever make a trip to Painters Mill?” I ask.

“Not that I know of.”

“Did he ever take a trip with Bishop Schwartz?”

Something flickers in her eyes. Some memory she hasn’t thought of in a long time. “I think he did. Like, a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Years?” Curiosity glimmers in her eyes. “Why are you guys asking all these questions about Elmer?”

“Did anyone else go with them on that trip?” I ask.

“Look, I don’t know anything about it. I just remember him mentioning he was going to be driving the bishop somewhere. It was a long drive and the old man paid cash.”

“Did anything unusual happen during that trip?” I ask.

“He didn’t say.” She swipes at a tuft of hair that’s fallen onto her forehead. “Y’all have me pretty curious, though.”

“Can you sit a moment?” I slide over to give her room.

She throws a glance toward the door that leads to the kitchen. “Can’t. Owner usually pops in about this time of day.”

Tomasetti sets three twenty-dollar bills on the table.

“I reckon I can spare a five-minute break.” Reaching for the bills, she stuffs them into her jeans pocket and lowers herself into the booth. “What’s this all about? Is Elmer all right?”

I give her the basics of the case in Painters Mill, not relaying any information that isn’t already available to the public. “We think Elmer may have driven Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman to Painters Mill.”

Her mouth opens. I see something click into place in her eyes. For the first time since we arrived, she gives me her undivided attention. “Sadie Stutzman,” she whispers. “My God, that old lady who was murdered the other night?”