Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(77)

Stepping back from the door, Pallant frowns at us and lowers his voice. “Someone get their information wrong here?”

“She could be covering for them,” Tomasetti says in a hushed tone.

Pallant holds his gaze for a moment, then goes back to the door and passes the warrant to the Amish woman. “I’ve got a warrant to search your house and your farm, ma’am. I suggest you read it carefully.”

“A warrant? But…” She takes the paper, and looks down at it as if it’s covered with some lethal virus. “What on earth are you looking for?”

“Everything you need to know is in the warrant.” Opening the door wider, the sheriff pushes past her.

She steps aside, incredulity flashing in her eyes. “Has my son done something wrong?”

The sheriff ignores her question, his eyes already skimming the darkened room. “Is there anyone else here at the farm this morning, ma’am? Family member? Farmhand?”

“It’s just me.”

I follow the sheriff into the house. Tomasetti comes in behind me.

“Are there any firearms in the house or on the property?” Pallant asks, his voice amicable.

“Just that old muzzle-loader that belonged to my husband.”

The three of us exchange looks.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“The mudroom.” The Amish woman starts toward it.

The sheriff reaches out and touches her arm, stopping her. “I’ll get it, ma’am. Why don’t you just have a seat and relax?” He starts toward the kitchen and the back of the house.

My eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. We’re standing in a living room with battered hardwood floors. Dark blinds hang at the windows. In the flickering light of a single lantern, I see a quilt wall covering above a ragtag sofa. A coffee table. An oval braided rug covers the floor. The house smells of kerosene, coffee, and toast.

I see Tomasetti, taking in the details, looking past me into the kitchen. There are stairs to our right. A darkened stairwell that goes to a second level.

Visibly upset, the Amish woman unrolls the warrant and blinks at it as if it’s written in a language she doesn’t understand.

The sheriff returns to the living room. He’s wrapped the long gun in what looks like a dish towel. “We’ll tag it and start a return sheet,” he says to no one in particular.

“You can’t just walk into someone’s home and take things.” Irene Detweiler walks to the center of the room and faces the three of us. “What on earth do you want?”

“Everything you need to know is in that warrant, ma’am,” the sheriff tells her. “Why don’t you take a seat on the sofa over there and read it?”

She holds her ground, hands on her hips, glaring at him.

“That’s not a request, ma’am.”

He stares at her until she acquiesces; then he speaks into his lapel mike. “Warrant has been executed.” He gives the go-ahead for the deputies at the back of the property to enter through the rear gate.

Pallant looks at me. “Chief Burkholder?”

I look at the woman, address her in Deitsch. “Mrs. Detweiler, we’re looking for a missing child. A seven-year-old little girl. Is it possible she’s somewhere here on the property?”

“A little girl?” She fingers the collar of her dress. “Lord no. There’s no child here.”

“Is it possible she’s with your son or daughter-in-law?”

“What on earth would they do with a child? Why would they even have a little girl?”

I translate for the sheriff.

“All right.” Pallant looks from me to Tomasetti. “I’ve got a female deputy on the way to look after Mrs. Detweiler while we search the place. If you’d like to go ahead and start, I’ll stay with her.”

“Sure thing.” Tomasetti turns and takes the stairs to the second level.

Doubt whispers in my ear as I start toward the kitchen. Is it possible I’m wrong about this? Not only is the property not owned by the Vernon Detweiler we’re looking for, but Irene Detweiler seems credible and genuinely confused by news of the missing girl. Is she telling the truth about her estrangement from them? Is her son living elsewhere? Are the dates coincidental?

The kitchen is a large room and the heart of the house. What looks like a picnic table is covered with a plain tablecloth. A lantern flickering in the center throws off a dim glow. There’s a sink to my right. Thin predawn light slants in through the window. A cast-iron skillet on the stove. A roll of paper towels. There’s no refrigerator. No pantry. Pulling my mini Maglite from my jacket pocket, I move on to the mudroom.

It’s a narrow, cluttered space. Hooks for coats on the wall. A door that leads outside. Through the window I see our vehicles and the deputy with his flashlight beyond. I run the beam of my flashlight along the hanging coats. A barn coat. A woman’s slicker. Three of the hooks are unused. There’s a pair of dirty, adult-size sneakers on the floor. Rubber muck boots. None are large enough to be a men’s size thirteen. I even check the floor for loose boards that might lead to a crawlspace. But there’s nothing there.

I walk back to the living room to find a female deputy standing next to the sofa where Irene Detweiler sits. She’s a big woman, tall and substantially muscled, with blue eyes, buzz-cut blond hair, and the tail end of a tattoo peeking out of the uniform cuff at her wrist.