Shamed

by Linda Castillo

  He tugged the handkerchief from his pocket and took a minute to wipe the tears and snot from his face and beard. By the time he reached the house, he’d caught his breath, regained some semblance of control. There was no glow of lantern light inside. They were already in bed. It didn’t matter. He went directly to the back door, knocked, and waited.

  Around him, the night was restless. The wind ebbed and flowed through the trees. A cow bawled from its pen. In the distance, a lone coyote yipped.

  Where are you, my sweet child? he thought, and he fought another hot rush of tears, the ache that went all the way to his bones.

  He’d just knocked a second time, with urgency, when lantern light flickered in the window. He heard the shuffle of shoes. The door swung open. Bishop Troyer stood there, gripping the walker he used these days, still wearing his sleep shirt. His ancient face was gaunt in the light from the lantern he held, his eyes sunken and owlish and knowing. He’d been the Amish bishop since Ivan was a boy. As the leader of the congregation, he wielded his position with uncompromising authority.

  Ivan didn’t bother with a greeting. “We must talk,” he said.

  “You are alone?” Bishop Troyer asked in his old man’s voice. “No one followed?”

  “I’m alone.”

  The old man looked past him as if to make sure. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Ivan Helmuth walked into the house. The two men went to the kitchen. The bishop set the lantern on the table and then lowered himself into the chair. Ivan reached into his pocket, fished out the letter. He knew it was only paper and pencil scratch, but it felt dirty in his hand. Evil. He didn’t even want to touch it.

  “You have news?” the bishop asked.

  Ivan unfolded the note, set it on the table, and slid it over to the old man.

  Anyone who steals must certainly make restitution, but if they have nothing, they must be sold to pay for their theft.

  Bishop Troyer took his time, seeming to read the note two or three times. Trying to make sense of it. But Ivan could tell by his expression he knew exactly what it was. What it meant.

  “Exodus,” the bishop said after a moment.

  Ivan nodded. “Yes.”

  “When did you get it?”

  “It was in the mailbox this morning.” Ivan looked at the note. “At first, I didn’t realize what it was. Some foolishness. But now…”

  “Did anyone else see it?” the bishop asked.

  “Miriam.”

  The old man stared at him, silent, his ancient eyes dark and troubled. “This is the work of the devil,” he said.

  “Ja.” Ivan rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “Someone knows. About that night.”

  “Unmeeklich!” Impossible! Urgency rang hard in the bishop’s voice. “No one has spoken of it. No one!”

  The old man clung to the old tenacity, but Ivan saw through the veneer, thick and callused as it was. The truth of that terrified him anew. “All these years.” He whispered the words, fighting tears. “I need the truth, Bishop. All of it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Seven hours missing

  I’m behind the wheel and midway down the lane of the Helmuth farm when a set of headlights blind me. An unidentified vehicle barrels toward me at a high rate of speed. Black van. Ohio plates. The driver doesn’t bother dimming bright headlights. Satellite dish on top. Media, I think. The driver makes no attempt to move over to let my vehicle by. When we’re head-to-head, I cut the wheel, blocking him, and flip on my emergency lights.

  Dust billows in the glare between our vehicles as I swing open the door. Grabbing my Maglite, I get out and approach the driver’s side. Before I reach it the driver starts to back away, but I raise my hand, ordering him to stop.

  It’s a news van, a network out of Columbus. I reach the driver’s side and the window slides down. I have my badge at the ready. “It’s a courtesy in this town to dim your brights when you approach an oncoming vehicle,” I say by way of greeting.

  “Sorry, Officer,” says the young man behind the wheel. He’s about thirty years old, with shoulder-length brown hair, a barely-there goatee, and a tattoo of a feather on his neck. He’s wearing a hoodie over a Hawaiian shirt and an expression that tells me he’s anything but sorry. Next to him, a young woman with platinum-blond hair and dark roots leans over to get a look at me. She’s wearing a green suit with a trench coat thrown over her lap.

  “Our producer sent us out here to cover the murder and kidnapping,” she says, irritated because I’m interfering with their mission.

  “This is private property. Unless you have permission from the homeowners, you need to back up and leave.” I motion toward the half dozen other media vehicles parked along the shoulder, wondering how they got through. “With the rest of the herd.”

  “Look, we’re just doing our jobs. I know you are, too.” The young man is trying to charm me. The antic isn’t sincere, which only serves to annoy me.

  I don’t cut him any slack. “Back up your vehicle. Now. Or I will cite you. Do you understand?”

  The woman leans forward and catches my gaze. “Any comment on the murder? Or the missing girl?”

  “There will be a press release tomorrow.” I point toward the mouth of the lane. “You’re in the way so back it up now.”

  “Fine!” The man throws up his hands. “Jeez.”

  Before he can get the window up, I hear the woman hiss, “Bitch.”

  I’m smiling when I get back in the Explorer.

  * * *

  It’s midnight when I pull into the gravel lane of the Troyer farm. Despite the hour, I’m not surprised to find the windows aglow with lantern light. The bishop may be getting up in years—last time I saw him he was using a walker—but neither age nor his purported arthritis has slowed him down. I pull up to the house, park next to the bishop’s buggy, and start toward the door.

  Gas hisses in the lamppost as I take the steps to the small porch. The door stands open, but the screen is closed, which is odd. I knock, wait a full minute, and tap the wood jamb with my key fob.

  “Bishop Troyer?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder!”

  Another minute passes and I finally hear the floor creak. In the semidarkness, I see a woman’s form approach. Freda Troyer shoves a lantern my way and glares at me through the screen. “En hand foll funn geduld is veaht may vi en bushel funn der grips,” she mutters in a crushed-gravel voice. A handful of patience is worth more than a bushel of brains.

  The bishop’s wife may be barely five feet tall and a scant hundred pounds, but the force of her persona adds both height and weight. She’s wearing a dark gray dress, a black apron, and a white kapp, all of it draped with an oversized cardigan she’s thrown over thin shoulders. Both she and the bishop are well into their eighties, but no one—Amish or English—treads on Freda Troyer without the risk of being dressed down—or swatted with the horse crop she’s rumored to keep on her kitchen counter.

  She’s looking at me as if I’m some vermin that’s wandered onto her porch from the barn. She’s got a crease on her cheek and I suspect I woke her.

  “This won’t wait,” I tell her. “You heard what happened to Mary Yoder?”

  “Of course I heard.” A shadow of anguish darkens her expression. “Gottlos.” Ungodly. “You’re here for the bishop?”

  “Actually, I’m here to speak with you.”

  Her eyes narrow behind wire-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. “I reckon you ought to come in then.”

  The Troyer home is a hundred-year-old farmhouse that’s typically Amish. Wood plank floors. A big kitchen with Formica countertops, a gas stove, and a propane refrigerator. The aromas of meat roasted earlier in the day, cardamom, and cinnamon lace the air. I take one of six chairs at a rectangular table covered with a red-checkered cloth. A lantern flickers in the center. Salt and pepper shakers in the shape of cats.

  “Have you found the girl?” Freda Troyer asks as she shuffles to the stove, where a lone m
ug sits next to an ancient-looking teapot.

  “No.”

  “Poor, sweet child.” Making a sound of distress, she pulls out a second mug. “Would you like tea?”

  “I can’t stay.” I watch her pour, anxious to get what I need and get back out there. “I understand you and Mary Yoder were friends.”

  “I’ve known Mary for years. She was a good friend. A good woman. Mother. Grandmother.”

  She carries her mug to the table and pulls out a chair. She lowers herself into it like a woman who feels every one of the eight decades she’s been on this earth. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm her?” I ask. “Did she have any enemies? Any trouble in her life?”

  She shakes her head. “Lord, no. Mary Yoder lived her life the way an Amish woman ought to, full of kindness and faith. She was humble and submitted to God.”

  “Did she ever mention having any problems with anyone?” I ask. “Any money disputes? Family issues? Disagreements with neighbors?”

  “No.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Benjamin?” She looks at me as if she’s surprised I’m aware of his existence. “He’s been gone for years.”

  “What about Ivan and Miriam?”

  “They’re a good Amish family, Chief Burkholder. Not the kind of people who invite trouble into their lives.”

  “Any problems with the children?” I ask. “Elsie?”

  “They’re so young and well behaved. And that little Elsie is just the sweetest thing. That poor, precious child.” Shaking her head, she looks down at her hands, folds them. “An Englischer did this?”

  “I believe he may be Amish.”

  “Hard to believe. Maulgrischt.” Pretend Christian. She closes her eyes as if the words cause her physical pain. “I’ve been praying for them.” She raises rheumy blue eyes to mine and for an instant, I see the pain, the burden of the things she hides behind a tetchy veneer, and for the first time I feel as if I’ve caught a glimpse of the real woman.

  “Even him,” she whispers. “Da schlecht mann.” The bad man.

  “If you think of anything, will you let me know?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “I’ll see myself out.” I’m midway to the door, everything that’s been said running through my head, a fast-moving stream of troubled waters. I stop in the doorway and turn to her. “Mrs. Troyer?”

  She raises her head, her eyes finding mine.

  “When I was at the Helmuth place earlier, one of the children told me Bishop Troyer was there the day Elsie was born. Is that true?”

  She dismisses the statement with a wave. “Those little ones are confused and missing their sister is all.”

  I wait, thinking she’s going to say more. Instead, she raises her mug and takes a sip of tea.

  * * *

  Under normal circumstances, it would be far too late for me to be rousing citizens from bed to question them about their association with Mary Yoder or the Helmuth family. With a little girl missing—ostensibly in the hands of a killer—I don’t have a choice.

  I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Threadgill Creek Road. “Any luck with those impressions?” I ask.

  “We got decent plaster on both the footwear and the tire tread,” he replies. “Footwear has a waffle-type sole. Probably a men’s work boot. Size thirteen.”

  “Big guy.” In my mind’s eye, I see Big Eddie standing next to his father. “Same size as Eddie Graber.”

  I tell him about the size-thirteen boot I saw in the mudroom of the Graber home. “Edward gave me permission to look around, which I did.” I tell him about the fresh cut on Big Eddie’s hand. “I don’t like him for this but he has a history with the Helmuths. I want a warrant.”

  “I can have one within the hour. We’ll confiscate the boots and pick him up.” He pauses. “Where are you?”

  “I’m talking with Mary Yoder’s known associates.”

  “At midnight?”

  “So sue me.” Rain begins to patter the windshield, so I flip on my wipers. “What about you?”

  “I’m still at the Schattenbaum place. CSU is about to wrap it up.”

  I hear voices in the background, telling me the place is still bustling, that he’s busy, and I miss him. “I’ll do my best to make it home tonight.”

  “Me, too.”

  I start to say something else, but he hangs up. Smiling, I drop my cell back into my pocket.

  * * *

  Martha Hershberger lives in a mobile home a few miles from the Helmuth place. As I pull into the driveway, I don’t see any lights on inside. I hesitate, but I hear that incessant tick of the clock that’s taken up residence in my brain since Elsie Helmuth disappeared, and I shut down the engine. Grabbing my Maglite, I throw open the door and hightail it to the covered wood porch.

  Rain and wind lash me as I go up the steps. I’ve just knocked when I feel something brush against my ankle. Startled, I shift the beam of my flashlight, see a couple of cats come out of a small doghouse.

  I’m in the process of shooing them back inside when the door to the mobile home opens.

  “What are you doing to my cats?” comes a coarse voice in Deitsch.

  I rise, brush cat fur from my hands onto my trousers, and pluck my badge from my pocket. “Martha Hershberger?”

  She eyes me up and down. “What is it?”

  Holding the badge so she can see it in the beam of my flashlight, I introduce myself. “I’m the police chief of Painters Mill. I need to—”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  I guess Martha Hershberger to be in her mid-to-late seventies. She’s wearing a floor-length flannel sleeping gown with white socks. A blue scarf covers her hair, a silver mane that reaches the midpoint of her back.

  Her question tells me she probably doesn’t know about Mary Yoder or Elsie Helmuth. “I need to talk to you about Mary Yoder.”

  She cocks her head and for the first time she looks worried. “Has something happened to Mary?”

  “She was killed earlier today,” I tell her.

  “What? Mary? Killed?” Pressing her hand to her mouth, she staggers back. “Oh my goodness. Mary.”

  The interior of the trailer is dark, so I shine my beam inside, at the very least to keep her from tripping over the cat that’s found its way in. The woman stares at me, looking aghast.

  “May I come in?” I ask. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Of course.” She motions me in, grappling for her composure. “What happened to Mary?” Bending, she turns on a lamp. “Someone hit her buggy? People and their cars,” she spits. “Always in a hurry.” She shakes her head. “Poor Mary.”

  Dim light illuminates a small, cluttered room that smells of nail polish and last night’s TV dinner. That’s when it strikes me she’s either left the Amish way or she’s not big on all those rules.…

  “She was murdered,” I reply, watching her.

  The only thing that comes back at me is complete and utter shock. “Murdered? Oh dear Lord. Mary? Who would—I just can’t believe it.”

  “You were close?” I ask.

  She raises her gaze to mine. “I knew her most of my life. She was one of the few who stuck with me after I became Mennonite. I thought the world of her. Loved her like a sister. Oh, poor dear Mary.” The grief etched into her every feature intensifies. “How is her family coping?”

  I tell her about the missing girl.

  “Oh, that just makes me sick. Sick to my bones. Such a sweet child. Who does something like that?”

  Neither of us has the answer, so we fall silent. For the span of a few heartbeats the only sound comes from the rain pounding the roof. The tink! of water dripping into a pan somewhere down the hall.

  After a moment, she seems to shake off the shock that’s held her frozen, and she motions toward the kitchen. “You want some coffee?”

  “That would be great.
Thanks.”

  I trail her to a tiny, jumbled kitchen. Off-white Formica counters. Flowered curtains. Harvest-gold refrigerator and stove. Every square inch of the countertop surface is strewn with miscellaneous kitchen items. I see bags of cookies and chips. Cookbooks. Coffee cans. Canning jars.

  “Sorry about all the junk.” She opens a can of Folgers with hands that aren’t quite steady and scoops grounds into a stovetop percolator. She’s distracted, still trying to come to terms with the loss of her friend.

  There’s a collage of photos on the wall. Martha Hershberger with four teenage girls. Mennonite, judging from the style of their head coverings. Granddaughters. Heads thrown back in laughter. Happier times. The sight of the photo makes me think about familial connections. The power of those connections. The lengths to which people will go to protect their own.

  I wait while she clears the surface of a small bistro table for two and we sit. The coffee is weak, but it’s hot and I’m desperate for caffeine, so I drink.

  Over the next ten minutes, I go over the same questions I covered with Freda Troyer. Martha Hershberger answers them in much the same way. Everyone loved Mary. She had no enemies. No problems with her family or anyone else.

  “How did you meet her?” I ask.

  “I’ve known the Helmuths for years. Back when I was still Amish, we were in the same church district.” Her laugh is a sad sound. “I was a midwife, you know, delivered their babies.”

  I sip coffee. “So you delivered Elsie.”

  The woman’s brows snap together. “Now that you mention it, I think she’s the only one I didn’t deliver.”

  An odd ping sounds inside my head. “You delivered all their children except for Elsie?”

  “Yes.”

  I nod, turning the information over in my brain. “Is there a reason why you didn’t deliver Elsie?”