Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(72)

I nod. “Bishop Schwartz is dead, too,” I tell her. “Killed in a hit-and-run accident.”

She falls silent, sets her elbows on the table, looks down at her hands, then back at me. “What does that have to do with Elmer?”

“Do you remember what day Elmer left town?” I ask.

“The twentieth of October.”

The day after Noah Schwartz was killed.

“How was Elmer acting before he left?” I ask.

Her eyes sweep from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “He was fine. I mean, I was working double shifts. I was busy, stressed. But he seemed … the same as always.” Even as she makes the statement, I hear the hesitation in her voice.

Tomasetti steps in. “Patty Lou, did he seem upset or worried about anything in the days and weeks before he left?”

“Or scared?” I add.

Patty Lou doesn’t answer right away. I see the wheels of thought spinning. She’s thinking, remembering. Despite her tough-as-nails exterior, she’s not very good at keeping her thoughts and emotions hidden from view.

After a moment, she blinks and looks down at her hands. “I figured there was another woman. I mean, we were getting along great. I wasn’t expecting him to just pick up and freaking leave me.”

“Did he—” I start to speak, but she cuts me off.

“Look, he was … weird the last couple of days.” She heaves a defeated sigh. “Elmer was a talker. Man, he could carry on a conversation all by himself for days. Except for when he was worried and then he just kind of clammed up.”

“Any idea what he was worried about?” Tomasetti presses.

She looks away, checks her customers, the door leading to the kitchen. Shoring up, I think. Then turns her attention back to us. “I thought he was going to pop the question. I figured he was nervous. Big step and all. After he left, I thought…” She shrugs thin shoulders. “I figured he was preoccupied because he’d been planning his big disappearing act.”

She chokes out a laugh that holds not a smidgen of humor. “I figured he had another woman in another town. Dumped me and all his bills in one fell swoop.”

“Any idea where he went or how to get in touch with him?” I ask.

“His phone is disconnected.” Tears fill her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’m pathetic. I tried to call him.” She slides from the booth and gets to her feet, swipes at her face with the backs of her hands. “Jesus. Look at me. I gotta get back to work. You guys know what you want to eat?”



* * *



We’re nearly to the motel when the call comes in from Dispatch. I know even before answering that the news isn’t good. I have a sixth sense when it comes to the many faces of disaster and I find myself bracing.

“Hey, Chief,” comes Mona’s voice. “Any luck down there?”

I hear gloom tucked behind her sanguinity, just out of sight, concealed from most, but not me. I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me so I address her question, keep my eyes on the road, as I tell her about Elmer Moyer.

“We’re not sure if he’s part of this, a witness, or a possible victim, but we’re going to take a hard look at him,” I tell her.

A too long pause then, “Chief, I thought you should know … Bishop Troyer lapsed into a coma a little while ago. The doc is giving him a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the night.”

I close my eyes briefly, grip the wheel a little harder. Remind myself I’m no longer Amish. That Bishop Troyer is as old as the hills and he’s lived a long, good life. None of it helps.

“How’s Freda holding up?” I ask.

“T.J. swung by their place earlier. He said the Amish are holding vigil at the hospital. Her family is there, too.”

She clears her throat. More comfortable cursing some dipshit who’s run a traffic light than being the bearer of bad news she knows will affect me on a personal level.

I keep my mind on the business at hand. “Skid still out at the Helmuth place?”

“Glock relieved him so he could grab some sleep and dinner, but he’ll be back out there at midnight when he comes on.”

“Tell him thanks, will you?”

“Sure.”

“You, too, Mona.”

I lean forward, punch off the button, slant a look at Tomasetti, and I’m profoundly relieved the cab is dark and he can’t see my face.

“I don’t think the bishop is going to make it,” I whisper, and I rap my palm against the steering wheel.

“I’m pretty sure you told me once he’s too damn mean to die.”

I choke out a laugh. “Whatever punishments he doled out, I probably earned it.”

“You’ve had a complicated relationship.”

“And then some, for a lot of years.”

It will sadden me in a profound way if Bishop Troyer dies, especially if his death is caused by an act of violence. While the Amish are certain he will be going to a better place to rejoin loved ones and be with God, I’m not quite so certain. At times like this, the loss of that kind of faith is hollow and cold.

“He’s been tough on you,” Tomasetti points out.

“I was what the Amish call ‘disobedient’ and never the apple of his eye. When I was a teenager I thought I hated him.”