Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(81)

The women used to gossip about poor Rosanna and her not having any little ones.

Gossipmongers saying she wasn’t fit to be a mother.

It must have hurt her something awful.

I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t notice when Tomasetti nearly misses his turn. Cursing, he brakes hard, then backs up twenty feet or so to make the turn onto Johnson Fork Road. Another mile and he takes an unnamed dirt track. A half a mile in we reach our destination.

“Home sweet home,” he mutters as he parks the Explorer on the barely-there shoulder.

The property owned by Ruby Mullet has the look of a place that’s been abandoned for many years. A gray frame house sits fifty yards off the road, nestled in a thicket of trees and nearly hidden from view. There’s no sign of the Boyd County sheriff’s deputy’s cruiser.

We get out. It’s so quiet I can hear the breeze hissing through the high grass. The rattle of tree branches against the steel-shingled roof.

“Let’s see if Grandma can shed some light on the situation,” Tomasetti says.

My boots sink into mud as I walk to what was once a driveway. It’s little more than an impression in the weeds that cuts through the trees. It looks driven upon, but any tire tracks have long since been washed away.

“Keep your eyes open,” Tomasetti says as we start down the driveway.

There’s a dilapidated barn to my left. Farther back, a corn silo squats on the side of a hill. There’s a sorrel horse standing in a small pen behind the barn. Beyond, a dozen or so goats graze on grass that’s shorn to dirt.

“Someone lives here,” I say.

We reach the crumbling sidewalk and take it to the front porch. The wood planks creak beneath our feet, the wood warped. Dark curtains on the windows are closed.

I reach the door and knock. “Hello?” I call out. “Ruby Mullet?”

A diamond-shaped window is set into the door. Cupping my hands, I put my face to the glass and peer inside. I see a small living room, plainly decorated. A coffee table with a lantern in the center. An oval rag rug. A wicker basket loaded with dried flowers and fall gourds.

“Looks occupied,” Tomasetti says.

The crunch of tires on gravel alerts us to an approaching vehicle. I glance over my shoulder to see a Boyd County Sheriff’s Department vehicle roll up behind the Explorer.

We leave the porch and meet the deputy in the driveway. He’s about thirty years old, with the build of a heavyweight boxer, a bald pate, and eyes the color of a bruise. He’s wearing a crisp uniform with military-style boots and an expensive-looking pair of sport sunglasses. He’s chewing gum so vigorously I can hear his teeth chomp.

Introductions are made.

“I understand you’re looking for Ruby Mullet?” he says.

Tomasetti lays out the fundamentals of the case. “Do you know who lives here?” he asks.

The deputy shakes his head. “I’ve patrolled this area pretty regularly for almost a year now,” he tells us. “Used to see Amish people out here every so often. Place is off the beaten path, so I don’t get out this way much.”

“A couple?” I ask.

“Older lady.” He motions toward the house and we start that way. “Haven’t seen anyone in a while.”

We walk to the porch. I stand aside and the deputy knocks on the door. “Boyd County Sheriff’s Office!” he calls out. “Ruby Mullet?”

No one answers. We wait for about a minute, listening, but there’s no sound of footsteps. No voices. No sign that there’s anyone inside.

The deputy knocks with a little more vigor. “Sheriff’s department! Mrs. Mullet? Can you come to the door please?”

He leans closer, peers through the window. “No one’s home.”

“Can we do a welfare check?” Tomasetti says. “Make sure everyone’s okay?”

The deputy tilts his head and speaks into his lapel mike. “This is 392. I’m on scene 2292 Johnson Fork Road. No sign of the homeowner. I’m going to ten-thirty-four-C,” he says, using the code for a well-being check.

“Roger that,” comes a staticky female voice.

The three of us leave the porch and walk back to the driveway. “We can’t do much since this is just a welfare check,” the deputy tells us. “I’ll take a quick peek in the barn, see if there’s a buggy.”

I look at Tomasetti. “Maybe we ought to try the back door.”

He shrugs. “If she’s elderly, she may be hard of hearing.”

The deputy heads toward the barn. Tomasetti and I start toward the back of the house. The grass is knee high and looks as if it hasn’t been cut in months. There’s an old well with a steel hand pump. A massive maple tree trembles in the breeze, leaves catching and flying.

We climb the steps to the small concrete porch. There are no curtains on the window set into the back door. I peer through the glass into small room. There’s a wood bench against the wall. A rocking chair in the corner. A pair of boots. Farther, a doorway leads to what looks like a kitchen.

“Hello?” I call out loudly as I rap my knuckles against the glass. “Ruby Mullet? I’m a police officer. Is everything okay in there?”

We wait a couple of minutes, but no one comes.

I look at Tomasetti. He stares back, his expression reflecting the same uneasiness I feel climbing up the back of my neck.