by Jane Jensen
It was the most information any of the Amish had given me without repeated prompting. We’d reached the creek, and I stopped there and looked at him.
“That’s . . . useful. But I’d probably need to take a course in animal husbandry before I’d remember half of it.”
“I guess I shoulda just said, ‘It all depends.’” He got a wry little quirk in the corner of his mouth and a sparkle in his eyes even as they avoided mine and looked out over the creek. Holy shit. I was beginning to figure out Ezra Beiler’s sense of humor, and it was drier than sandpaper in the desert. I liked it.
“What about your neighbor’s animals? They’re mostly dairy cows, right?”
He shrugged. “I seen ’em down here.” He nodded his head toward the chicken wire strung up between his farm and the Millers’. “But can’t say I’ve put much thought into it. Got work enough of my own without worrying about their animals, ’less I see ’em in the road or someplace they’re not supposed to be. They get loose in my garden, I’d be real interested in that.”
I turned away to hide my smile. “Okay. Do you ever see any hunters or fisherman using the creek?”
“I hear gunshots more than I see ’em, but they’re down here for sure.”
“It doesn’t bother the Amish when hunters trespass on your land?”
“Well, sometimes it’s Amish who hunt here. It’s allowed, you know, though most Amish farmers don’t have the time. But English people do it too. There’s a sort of honor system. Hunters keep the deer from getting to be a problem—deer and farmin’ don’t get along real well. And if they bring somethin’ down on your land, usually they’ll leave a piece of it at the door. We had a man leave us a forelimb of venison a few times a year when I was a boy.”
“I see. So the fact that you have that chicken wire strung up across the creek doesn’t stop the hunters?”
“Depends on whether or not they can swim,” he said in that ultra serious tone I was beginning to associate with having my leg tugged ever so skillfully. I refrained from rolling my eyes.
“In truth, hunters stay on that far side, beyond the fence.” He pointed to the far bank where the woods rose up toward the road and the chicken wire ended up forming a somewhat lazy and lower barrier between the trees. “If they shoot somethin’ inside the fence line, they’ll sure as heck climb over to get it. Or come ’round from the farms if they have to.”
That made sense. Hunters didn’t have to be in the water to shoot—or to become experts on the lay of the land and the way the animals moved on it. “Right. Do you know anyone who regularly hunts or fishes around here?”
“I’d recognize faces. Can’t say as I know their names.”
“Fair enough.” If we ever had a suspect in hand, being recognized by the locals would help. “But doesn’t the chicken wire keep out the deer too?”
“Nah. They jump it easy.”
“Then why don’t the horses? Or the mules?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he commented with an ironic look. He rubbed his chin. “I suppose a horse could jump it if it was in a passion about it, like if there was a mare in heat on t’other side. But they come down here to drink, and the good grass is behind ’em. They don’t particularly care for chicken wire or woods anyhow.” He shrugged. “It works. That’s good enough for me.”
“Okay.”
I looked around for a few minutes. Ezra didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the space with chatter; he just waited. By then it was getting so dark, I couldn’t see anyway. We made our way back up the bank, and I slipped in some mud. Ezra grabbed my elbow and pushed me straight up the bank. Damn, he was strong. My heart beat a little faster all the way back to the farmhouse.
“You look cold. You’re welcome to come in for coffee,” he said as we went through the gate to the driveway.
I hesitated. I really didn’t have anything else I needed to ask Ezra, but I was chilled, and I was pleased that he’d asked me in. It felt . . . good to be with him. He was solid and warm and he made me nervous and a little itchy down deep inside. I knew what that itch was, and knew it was best avoided. Ezra was not for me. Even if we weren’t from different worlds, even if I was ready to see a man again, he was involved in this case and that was a line you didn’t cross. But it had been a long time since I’d felt anything like this, this hot spark of life. It felt lovely, and I was inclined to indulge it—silently and with absolutely no plan of ever acting on it, of course. For his part, Ezra seemed sincere about wanting me to come in. Maybe he was lonely. Or maybe he was fishing for info. Damn my paranoid cop brain.
“I wouldn’t mind having your sister take a look at that photograph,” I said.
It was a good enough excuse for us both.
—
Martha was in the kitchen at the stove when we entered. The piquant smell of ham filled the room and made my stomach rumble.
“Hullo,” Martha said, turning to stare at me with big round eyes.
“Hi, Martha. How are you?” I asked with a smile.
“Gut.” She stared some more. She made me uneasy, I had to admit. I wasn’t sure if I was just a freak show to her—being a female cop, being English—or if she disliked me. Or maybe she was just socially inept.
“Ham loaf?” Ezra went to the oven and peeked inside, opening up the door a crack and letting more of that incredible smell out.
“Ja. And beans and cornbread.”
“Would it please you to eat with us?” he asked, turning to me. He looked a little nervous.
“Uh . . .” I was taken by surprise. Lord, I’d kill for a hot, home-cooked meal, especially one that smelled like that, but I knew I should refuse. I checked my watch. I’d probably work until at least ten tonight. I had to get back to the station and see what Grady had found out from his rounds. And there were a number of things I wanted to check based on what we’d learned about Jessica Travis.
Then again, I did have to eat sometime. Right?
“If you, uh, really don’t mind. I haven’t had a chance to stop today. Thank you.”
“I’ll put coffee on too.”
He went to the cupboard and got out some cups. As he did, he looked over at me and met my eyes. He held them, hand paused on the cupboard door. Then he smiled. It was a deliberate smile, a tentative outreach of a smile, warm and personal and a bit timid, like he wasn’t sure how it would be received.
It was received like manna from heaven, like the first drops of rain after a killing drought. Something hot and joyful rushed through me like a scouring tide.
Dear God. I smiled back and made myself look away.
—
The conversation was stilted over dinner because Martha sort of lurked in a way that made me self-conscious. I asked about their childhood and learned they’d both grown up in the area, of course. Their parents’ farm was only two miles away. There were ten children in their family. Martha was the third and Ezra the fifth. I talked a little about New York but neither of them seemed to be able to relate to it. A lot of the meal was spent in silence. The food was hearty and tasty and just what I needed. I wished I had someone to cook for me like that at home. I rarely made the effort. Even when I had time, it seemed pointless to make a meal for one.
I made a successful bid not to stare at Ezra. In fact, it seemed like the two of us looked everywhere but at each other. Dessert was pound cake with berry syrup and fresh whipped cream—meaning an extra hour at the police gym this week. Totally worth it. Just as we finished, I got a text from Grady. It gave me an excuse to eat and run.
Ezra walked me to the front door and bid me good night. He stood silhouetted in the doorway as I walked to the road. Backlit like that, his body was long and rangy. He stood leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded on his chest and one boot hooked up on his other calf like some Clint Eastwood poster. Damn it. The girls I’d once hung out with in the cit
y would be spontaneously birthing kittens over this guy.
“Come back again,” he said wryly as I stumbled my way to the car.
“I’d like that,” I stupidly replied. My tongue felt like it had swollen to three times its size, and I mumbled. Ahlahtha. Idiot.
Holy cow, I mused as I drove down Grimlace Lane. I had no freaking idea what this thing with Ezra was. No clue. Or rather, I knew exactly what it was, only it couldn’t be that. I had to be wrong.
CHAPTER 6
What She Hid
We caught up with Charlie Bender, LeeAnn Travis’s ex-boyfriend, the next morning. He worked at the John Deere store near Mount Joy. The bright green of his button-down uniform shirt looked honest and reliable. Charlie’s face, less so. He carried an extra eighty pounds and his face was weathered past his fifty years—by cigarettes, probably. There was a wary set to his eyes. He wasn’t thrilled to be called off the showroom floor for a quiet conversation outside, especially in the cold gloom of an overcast winter’s day.
“Jessica Travis? Yeah, I know her. So?”
“You were seeing her for a time?” I asked casually.
“Me?” He reacted with a huff of surprise. “Jessica? Nah! I dated her mother. For ’bout a year, I guess. Ain’t seen either of them in months.”
Grady chewed his cinnamon gum, staring flatly at Charlie. The man shifted uneasily. I kept on my mild face.
“She’s a pretty girl, Jessica,” I said.
Charlie shrugged. “Yeah.”
“A flirt, am I right?”
His eyes narrowed nervously. “What’s this about?”
“Where were you last Tuesday, Mr. Bender? Say from ten A.M. to four P.M.?” Grady asked in a not-friendly voice.
Charlie looked taken aback. “Right here. Why? I work Tuesday through Saturday. Ain’t been sick in months.”
“Lunch too?” I asked.
“I eat in the lunchroom right inside. Only take half an hour so I can go home early.”
I nodded, hiding my disappointment. “Can your boss verify that?”
“Hell yeah! Anyone in there can. Say, what’s this about?”
I looked at Grady. He took the ball. “Jessica Travis was murdered.”
“No shit?” Charlie looked genuinely shocked by the news, and a little nervous.
“What can you tell us about Jessica? Anything at all would help us out.” I shifted gears. We’d certainly check his alibi, but it would be pretty stupid to lie about it when it was so easy to verify. And if Charlie Bender was at John Deere all day, he didn’t kill Jessica Travis.
“I dunno. I was dating her mother, like I said. Jess was wild. Saw her with lots of men.”
“Oh yeah?” Grady looked interested.
“Yeah. I saw her driving around town, always in a different car with a different guy. Sometimes with another couple in the back. Maybe one of those guys did it.”
“You recognize any of those guys? The other couple?” I asked.
Charlie shrugged as if to say “Why should I?”
Grady and I both waited, staring at him blankly.
“Pretty sure she was hookin’,” he continued bitterly. His lip curled. “But she was still too good for me.”
Damn. The thought of Charlie drooling over Jessica made me want to lock him up and call it good. But unfortunately, I was pretty sure he hadn’t killed her.
I forced a disinterested smile. “You ever give her a lift? Get a chance to chat with her?”
“Nah. Well . . . whaddya mean? When I was dating LeeAnn, I dropped Jess off at the farmers’ market in Paradise sometimes. She worked there over the summer.”
Interesting. “Yeah? You haven’t chatted with her since then? Anytime in the past year?”
He shook his head. “Ain’t been over there. Me and LeeAnn—it didn’t end so well.”
“Uh-huh. So you saw Jess driving around with these other guys, and you offered to pay up too, but she still wouldn’t put out for you. Is that accurate?” I kept my voice neutral.
He grew red with what looked like anger, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He wasn’t stupid.
“Was this before or after you and LeeAnn ended badly?” I pushed. “What age would Jessica have been then, Detective Grady?”
Grady never stopped staring at Charlie. “Well, she wasn’t yet eighteen when she died, so she would have been seventeen or sixteen then.”
“Sixteen,” I repeated with a curious lilt. Huh.
Charlie grew redder. “I never did nothin’ with Jess, not at any age or at any time. And I didn’t kill her neither. I ain’t even seen her in months, I swear.”
“I’m going to go talk to your boss, confirm what you said about Tuesday. Detective Grady here will see if you know anything else that could help us out.”
“Don’t—” he said as I started to walk away. I stopped and looked at him. His face crumpled. “Look, I didn’t do anything with or to Jessica Travis. Don’t get me in trouble, please. I really need this job.”
Damn if I didn’t believe him.
His alibi checked out.
—
When we got back to the police station after our interview with Charlie Bender, I’d only just gotten a cup of coffee and sat down when Grady stuck his head out of his office door. “Harris!”
I went in and closed the door behind me. He sat down and held a paper out to me with an inscrutable look. It was a missing persons report for a person named Katie Yoder. The person filing the report was . . . Jessica Travis.
“Holy shit.” I sank down in a chair trying to take in everything on the report at once.
“Filed last October. I did a routine check on Jessica Travis in our system overnight and that came up.”
“Anything else come up?”
“Nope. She had no record. Just that.”
I still wasn’t quite sure why Grady seemed to find the report so important. Okay, yeah, if Jessica’s friend disappeared in October, it was possible her murder in January was connected. But it could also be coincidence, if—
Then I saw the list of relatives: Father: Isaac Yoder. Mother: Hannah Yoder. A long, long list of siblings. Home address: Paradise, PA.
Katie Yoder was Amish.
—
Grady and I headed over to the Yoder farm right away. By the time we got there, it was eight o’clock at night. We interviewed Katie’s parents, Hannah and Isaac, in a tidy living room with plaid-and-oak furniture, white paint and a few religious pictures on the wall. The glow of two low-watt table lamps turned everything as yellow as an old-time daguerreotype.
Hannah Yoder was dark-haired and thin with delicate features. She wore an Amish white cap, a dark blue dress, and an apron that had clearly seen a long day. She wore simple wire spectacles that made her look far too young to have nine children. She was forty-one, she said. Good Lord. Isaac looked older, probably because of the brown-and-gray beard that sent ragged tendrils down to his breastbone. He was a handsome man behind all that hair, with a square jaw and classic nose, but his expression was grim. It wasn’t merely the solemn aspect Amish men often invoke. He didn’t seem pleased about our visit. Or maybe about me personally. It was hard to tell.
Hannah Yoder kept her eyes on the darning in her lap as her husband spoke.
“We told the officer who came last fall—Katie ain’t missin’. She left us to go her own way. We ain’t seen her since.”
“Yes, we have your statement in the report,” I agreed. “But I was hoping you’d tell me about it in your own words. When was the last time you saw Katie?”
“October. A Thursday, I think.”
Hannah, who was sewing something white in her lap with an air of utter calm, glanced up at her husband as if in confirmation.
“Ja, a Thursday,” he continued. “We seen her in the mornin’ and then she never come home
for supper.”
“And you weren’t worried?”
“We knew for some time Katie would leave. She was not content with the Amish way. ’Twas no surprise when it come about already.”
“She wasn’t content with the Amish way. How so? Mrs. Yoder?”
Hannah looked up at me briefly but didn’t answer. She looked at her husband, deferring to him.
He pressed his lips tight as if not wanting to answer. When he spoke, it was haltingly, and he spoke to Grady, even though I was the one asking the questions. I swallowed my irritation. “Katie . . . She was a mite too fair and took vanity in it. Cared more for boys than she ought. We struggled with it, spent a lot of time on our knees in prayer, but it done no good.”
“It was as if she had the devil in her,” Hannah said sadly. Her voice was so quiet, I barely heard her. Her eyes were still fixed on her work.
I gave Grady a puzzled look.
“The devil? What do you mean?”
Hannah looked up at me briefly but didn’t answer.
“She was . . . a temptation to men, from a young age.” Isaac’s voice was rough. “She had no shame.”
“And she goaded jealousy in others.” Hannah sighed.
“Our way is humility and righteousness. Katie struggled to follow the path no matter what we did. She could be deceitful, rebellious . . . An unrepentant sinner calls others to sin. It was a blessin’ when she finally went her own way. Naturally, if she were to truly have a change of heart, and find her way to God, we’d welcome her home.”
“With rejoicing,” Hannah added, but the regretful glance she gave her husband seemed to acknowledge this was unlikely to happen.
