A Simple Murder

by Linda Castillo

  “Good morning!” A white-haired gentleman with a precise goatee is standing at the counter behind an old-fashioned cash register. Wearing a double-breasted suit, a pair of square bifocals, and a bow tie, he looks more like a college professor than a shoe salesman.

  I show him my ID and identify myself.

  “Bart Wentworth.” He sticks out his hand and we shake. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Agent Tomasetti and I are wondering if you can help us identify the image of a sole.”

  He looks intrigued by the idea. “I’ve been in the shoe business since I was fourteen years old. If I can’t identify it, no one can. What do you have?”

  Pulling out my phone, I show him the image.

  “Hmmm. Interesting.” He tilts his head back and looks at it through his bifocals. “Exquisitely made shoe.”

  “A woman’s?” I ask.

  “Correct.”

  “Size?”

  “If that tape measure next to it is correct … size eight. B width probably.”

  “Any idea where it came from?”

  The old man’s eyes sparkle. “I’d venture to say it came off that shelf right over there.”

  Tomasetti and I exchange looks as Wentworth saunters to a shelf, kneels, and pulls out a shoebox. He brings it to us, sets it on the counter, and removes the lid with the flair of a chef revealing his greatest creation. “It’s a summer clog. Wood sole. Leather upper. It was a big hit last year. Pricey, but the workmanship and beauty make it worth every penny.”

  “Do you have the names of people who purchased this shoe?” Tomasetti asks.

  Wentworth nods, but his face is grim, as if in sharing the information he would somehow betray his customers. “Is it important?”

  I tell him about the attack on Alma Fisher. “She’s in a coma and we’re trying to find the person responsible.”

  He makes a sound of distress. “In that case, let me take a look at my records.”

  It’s not a speedy process since Wentworth’s sales records are on paper and in a steel file cabinet in the rear office. Tomasetti and I pass the time perusing the merchandise. He picks up a sequined platform pump, turns to me, and raises his brows. “You’d look great in these.”

  Grinning, I shake my head. “What is it with you and women’s shoes?”

  “I’m a foot guy. What can I say?”

  A few minutes later the curtain behind the counter parts and Wentworth comes through holding a short stack of sales receipts. “Here we go.”

  Sequined pumps forgotten, we cross to the counter.

  “I’ve sold nine pair since last summer.” Wentworth sets the papers on the counter. “Names should be on the merchant copy of the receipt.”

  I page through the receipts. Some of the names are familiar. The mayor’s wife. Jodie, my second-shift dispatcher. Three are from out of state.

  “That leaves us with four names.” Pulling out his phone, Tomasetti takes a photo of the receipts. I jot them down in my notebook.

  When I’m finished, I extend my hand to Wentworth. “Thank you for getting the information for us so quickly.”

  “I hope the injured young lady is going to be all right.”

  * * *

  By the time Tomasetti drops me at the station, my lack of sleep is starting to make itself known. Waving to Lois, my first-shift dispatcher, I grab a cup of coffee, go directly to my office, and dive into the list. It doesn’t take long for me to call each of the four individuals—and strike out. All of the women have indisputable alibis for last night. No one borrowed the shoes in question. And none of the women donated them to charity.

  “So how the hell did those footwear imprints get in the barn?” I mutter.

  Realizing the footwear angle may be a dead end, I call the BCI lab only to learn there are no viable fingerprints on the two-by-four. The hair and blood samples have already gone to the lab for DNA testing, but I know both are probably from the victim.

  My only hope is that a second interview with Aden Keim and Irene Miller will reveal some new bit of information. I’ll also need to broaden my interview pool by including other individuals who were at the party and close personal friends of Fisher and Keim. I remind myself that most cases are solved simply because someone can’t keep their mouth shut. Hopefully, someone will talk.

  I decide to pay Keim another visit. Back in the Explorer, I call his cell and identify myself. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  “Any change?”

  “No.”

  “Stay put, I’m on my way.”

  He hangs up on me.

  I call Bart Wentworth as I head north toward Millersburg. He answers with a cheerful “The Bootery, how can I help you?”

  “Mr. Wentworth, it’s Kate Burkholder.”

  “Was the information I gave you helpful?”

  “Actually, I sort of struck out.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Is there any other way someone might have possession of those shoes? Are they sold by another merchant? Maybe you donated a pair to charity? Or gave them away?”

  “No, ma’am. The only people who have—” He cuts off the words. “Oh, boy. Wait a minute. I just remembered. I sold a pair to one of my employees last spring. All employees get a twenty-five percent discount, so the receipts aren’t filed in the same place as the others.”

  “Who’s the employee?”

  “Judy McNulty. Nice lady. She was with me for years.”

  My heart sinks at his use of past tense. “Was?”

  “She retired last month. She and her husband moved to Florida.”

  “Do you have contact info for her?”

  “Of course.” Papers rustle on the other end of the line, and then he recites an out-of-state number. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Chief Burkholder.”

  “Me, too.”

  After thanking Mr. Wentworth, I pull over in the parking lot of Quality Implement, the local farm store, and make the call.

  Judy McNulty answers on the first ring with an enthusiastic, “This is Judy!”

  Quickly, I identify myself and get right to the point, giving her the fundamentals of the case. “I understand you purchased a pair of those shoes from The Bootery.”

  “Well, just between us,” she lowers her voice, “the damn things were so uncomfortable I took them down to the thrift store with a bunch of stuff, right before Harry and I moved.”

  My heart takes another dive as the odds of my locating the new owner shrinks even more. “Which thrift store?”

  “That little shop on the corner, down from the Butterhorn Bakery.”

  Muttering a thank-you, I pull out of the parking lot and head back toward town.

  If a thrift store is capable of achieving panache, Junky Delights has mastered the technique. The display windows are an imaginative mix of tarnished brass, dusty crystal, and antique hats, all of which somehow manage to make past fashion and decorating faux pas seem chic.

  The bell on the door clinks gleefully when I enter. The aromas of potpourri, dust, and cinnamon greet me as I stroll to the counter, where a woman with purple hair is ringing up a sale for a twenty-something cradling the ugliest lamp I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “Be with you in just a sec,” the clerk says to me with a wink.

  “My mom’s going to love this,” the customer says to both of us, beaming.

  With the lamp safely wrapped in brown paper, the customer makes her exit.

  “What can I help you find?” the clerk asks.

  I have my badge at the ready. “Some information, if you have it.” I tell her about the shoes, describing them as best I can.

  Her eyes light up as I describe the shoes. “I remember them! They were clogs. Kind of 1970s retro.” She sighs. “They were leather with wood soles and had those cool rivets along the side. I’d had my eye on them for a week.”

  “You sold them?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A couple weeks ago.
”

  “Can you look up the customer’s name for me?”

  “We don’t keep their names on a list or anything, but I remember her just fine. I mean, she’s freaking Amish, and I’m like, why does an Amish chick need—”

  “What’s her name?” I cut in, my interest jumping hard.

  “Irene Miller. Let me tell you, seeing those clogs go out the door was a dark day for me, and the luckiest day of this girl’s life. I mean, those shoes were epic.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I’m standing on the front porch of the Miller home. Irene’s mother, Susie Miller, opens the door and looks at me expectantly. I wonder if she knows why I’ve come back.

  “Is Irene here?” I ask.

  “You already talked to her.”

  “I need to talk to her again.”

  Suspicious of me now, she steps back and reluctantly motions me inside. Turning her head, she calls out. “Irene, du havva Englischer bsuch ghadde!” You have a non-Amish visitor.

  She keeps her eyes on me. Not only is she wary, I realize, but anxious. Has her daughter told her something she didn’t tell me last time I was here?

  Irene skulks into the living room, stops upon spotting me, and looks at her mamm. “Ich du nett vella shvetza mitt es.” I don’t want to talk to her.

  “You don’t have a choice,” I say firmly. “We can do it here or I can come back with a warrant and take you to the police station. It’s your choice. Do you understand?”

  For the first time, the girl looks alarmed. She goes to her mother to stand beside her. Both women stare at me as if I’m the boogeyman and I’ve found my way into their home.

  “Irene,” I begin, “I need for you to tell me the truth about what happened last night when Alma was attacked, and I need for you to do it right now.”

  “But…” She chokes out the word as if it’s a sharp bone stuck in her throat. “I already told you.”

  “You told me a story. This time, I need the truth.”

  She looks at her mamm for backup. When her mother says nothing, the girl turns her attention back to me. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I know you went into the barn. I have proof. Why did you lie about that?”

  She weighs her options, a panicked mouse trying to find its way out of a maze.

  All the while, Susie Miller stares at her daughter as if realizing for the first time her daughter may not have told the truth. “You must tell the truth,” she whispers in Deitsh. “Even if it’s a painful thing.”

  The girl moves away from her mamm, looks left and right as if seeking a place to run. But there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and she knows it. After a full minute, she raises her hands as if to fend me off, her hands shaking uncontrollably. “I didn’t mean to hurt her!” she cries.

  The girl’s mother gasps and sets her hand against her chest. “Irene?”

  “Tell me what happened,” I say to the girl.

  Irene breaks into tears.

  Casting a horrified look at me, Susie goes to her daughter and guides her to the sofa, sits her down. “I think you’d better start talking,” she says in Deitsh.

  The girl looks at me, misery in her eyes, tears streaming. “I followed Alma to the barn, only I went in through the back. It was dark, but she had one of those little flashlights so it was easy for me to see her. She was just walking around. Waiting for him. I was on the other side of the stall; she didn’t see me, didn’t know I was there. There was a broken board right there, leaning against the wall. I don’t remember picking it up. But then it was in my hand. I knew I had to stop her. Stop them. That’s all I wanted to do. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  Lowering her head, she puts her face in her hands and sobs.

  Her mother makes eye contact with me, her expression stricken. For a moment, I think she’s going to be sick. Instead, she puts her arm around her daughter and rubs her back gently.

  “You hit Alma with the board?” I ask gently.

  Choking back sobs, the Amish girl curls more closely into her mother and nods. “I only meant to do it once. But she wouldn’t fall down. I was afraid she’d see me. I didn’t want her to know. I got scared, so I hit her again.”

  Her mother lets out an anguished sob. “Oh, my daughter,” she whispers. “Not Alma. You wouldn’t…”

  I ignore her. “Why did you do it?” I ask.

  “Because she always gets the boy.” Irene raises her head, cheeks and lips wet and shimmering with tears and snot. But there’s anger in her eyes now, too. Anger—and jealousy. “It should have been me. I’m the one who introduced them, after all. Aden had eyes for me. I could see it. But Alma didn’t care. She stole him, took him away, without so much as a single thought or regret. He should have been mine. But, no. He forgot all about Irene, the ugly one.”

  Her mother presses her hand against her mouth, but not before a sound of shock and grief escapes her. “You’re not ugly, my girl.”

  I give them a moment and then address Irene. “You thought if Alma was out of the way, Aden would come back to you?”

  The girl looks down at her hands, tangled and sweaty on her lap. “I don’t know what I thought,” she says. “I must have just gone a little crazy.”

  Sighing, I pull the cuffs from a compartment on my belt. “Irene Miller, you are under arrest for assault. Turn around and give me your wrists.”

  * * *

  The solving of some crimes isn’t always as simple or satisfying as one might imagine. While it’s always a good thing to uncover the truth and get a dangerous individual off the street, too often the pain that’s been caused lingers and the thing that’s been done is irrevocable.

  It’s been twenty-four hours since I arrested Irene Miller for the assault of Alma Fisher. She spent a few hours in the Painters Mill jail, but was later picked up by a female officer with the Ohio Department of Youth Services and taken to a juvenile facility in Tuscarawas County.

  Last I heard, Alma Fisher was still in a coma and Aden Keim hasn’t left her side—not even to shower. A small stir of guilt goes through me at the thought, and not for the first time I remind myself that my cop’s preconceived notions nearly got in the way this time.

  A knock on my office door draws me from me reverie. I look up to see Tomasetti enter, a bag from LaDonna’s Diner in one hand, a cardboard tote containing two biggie drinks in the other. “Mushroom and Swiss burger with a diet pop.”

  I watch as he sets the food and drinks on my desk and takes the chair across from me. “How did you know I needed cheering up?”

  “I’m a special agent with BCI,” he says as he takes the chair across from me. “I know these things.”

  I laugh.

  “Okay, Lois told me you skipped lunch. Still…”

  “And you just happened to be in the area.”

  “Actually, I took the afternoon off so I could drive the seventy miles from Richfield to Painters Mill and have lunch with you.”

  “Tomasetti, you’re such a romantic.”

  “That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”

  The aromas of burgers and fries fill my office as we unpack the food. We’ve just settled in to eat when movement at the door draws my attention. I look up to see Aden Keim knock on the jamb.

  “Chief Burkholder?”

  “Aden. Hi. Come in.” I rise, realizing I used his first name when I probably shouldn’t have.

  “Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” he says.

  “No problem,” I tell him. “I figured you’d be at the hospital.”

  He enters my office, extending his hand first to Tomasetti and then to me. “My mamm told me I needed to go home and take a shower.”

  “We’re glad you did,” Tomasetti says deadpan.

  It takes a moment for the Amish man to realize he’s joking and he barks out a laugh.

  “Any change in Alma’s condition?” I ask, bracing because I can’t discern if he’s here to deliver bad news.

  “She w
oke up a couple hours ago.” A grin spreads across his face. “Doc says she’s going to be okay. I wanted to tell you in person. And thank you for—” He struggles to find the right words. “For figuring out what happened.”

  I almost tell him I was just doing my job, but I think everyone in the room would know it’s a lie. No matter how hard a cop tries to achieve emotional distance from a case, too often they simply don’t succeed.

  “I’m so pleased, Aden. Thank you for letting me know. I’m glad this one had a happy ending.”

  The young man can’t seem to stop smiling. “She might get to go home tomorrow.” Glancing at Tomasetti, he tries to curb the smile, but doesn’t quite succeed. “Alma said yes, by the way. We’re going to be married as soon as we’re baptized.” He reaches out again and I take his hand. “Thank you, Chief Burkholder. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Looking sheepish, his eyes flicking from me to Tomasetti, he pulls away and backs toward the door. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital.” He dips his head. “Gott segen eich.” God bless you. And then he’s gone.

  “Young people in love.” Tomasetti shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “They’re lucky.”

  “Middle-aged people in love.” I match the smile with one of my own. “We’re lucky, too.”

  “It’s almost enough to make you forget about the cases that don’t have happy endings.”

  “It is,” I tell him. “It’s enough.”

  IN DARK COMPANY

  He was going to kill her.

  She ran as she’d never run before. Arms pumping. Sneakers pounding the earth. Breathing hard between clenched teeth. Terror. Darkness all around.

  She tore through cornstalks as tall as a man. Dry leaves slashed at her face like blades, stalks hitting her like clubs. At some point she’d lost a shoe. Rocks and clumps of earth and the gnarled roots of the corn punished her bare foot. No time to stop.

  She darted left, burst into the next row. Trying to lose him. She ran another fifty yards. Lungs burning. Heart slamming against her ribs. She stopped and listened. Struggled to hear over her own labored breaths.