“I’m not sure just yet,” I say honestly. “If I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”
CHAPTER 14
Fifty hours missing
The scene of the accident is four miles from Sadie Stutzman’s house, about midway to the address Harleson gave me for the bishop’s wife. Chances are, the deputy’s assessment of the incident is correct—a tragic hit-and-run—and Sadie Stutzman, with her strange earthen project and nonsensical ranting, is in the early stages of dementia. I remind myself of all of those things as I roll up to the intersection of Burkes Lane and Hayport Road and park on the gravel shoulder.
Rain pours down from a bruised sky as I take in the scene. It’s mostly rural, with a few small, generously spaced homes. There’s a guardrail along Burkes. Evidently, the bishop was southbound on Hayport and the unknown driver failed to stop and plowed into the buggy. It’s an unfortunate reality anytime you put horse-drawn buggies on the same road with motorized vehicles. Add alcohol or excessive speed—and the absence of proper signage on the buggy—and a cataclysmic outcome is almost guaranteed.
I flick on my emergency lights. I’m already soaked to the skin, so I don’t bother with my slicker as I get out of the Explorer. Too much time has elapsed for anything of interest to be left behind. Still, it’s usually helpful to see an accident scene in person, to get a feel for it, a better perspective.
The area is wooded. The homes are on good-size lots—an acre or two—and most are relatively private from their neighbors. If someone were planning something nefarious and didn’t want to be seen, this would be a good place to do it.
My cell chirps as I’m sliding behind the wheel. I try not to groan when I glance at the display. I don’t quite succeed. “Hi, Auggie.”
“Kate, I’m glad I caught you. Look, I just took a call from Councilwoman Fourman and she’s shitting bricks. Someone told her you went out of town. Is that true?”
Auggie Brock is the mayor of Painters Mill. He’s a good mayor and a nice man—most of the time. He’s well liked, a born politician, and an ally when it’s convenient to his agenda. This afternoon, I have a feeling my being here is going to be a huge inconvenience.
I tell him where I am, wondering who the stool pigeon is. “I’m following up on a lead, Auggie. You know I wouldn’t have left at a time like this if it wasn’t important.” I roll my eyes as I speak, because I know he’s not going to buy it.
“Well, has anything panned out?” he asks, exasperation ringing in his voice.
“I’m working on it.”
“Kate, you’re in the midst of a murder investigation, for God’s sake. A little girl is missing. People are freaking out. They’re scared. I’ve taken a dozen calls just today from citizens wanting to know what’s happening and what we’re doing about it. Some parents didn’t send their kids to school today. Tourists are canceling their reservations at the B and Bs. That’s how bad it is. I don’t see how your traipsing down there to some river town is going to help solve this case up here.”
I’m not exactly traipsing, but I refrain from pointing that out. Instead, I lay out the scenario as explained to me by Miriam Helmuth. “Auggie, most abductions are committed by family members. I believe Elsie Helmuth has family here in Crooked Creek, and I think they may have been involved not only with the kidnapping, but the murder of Mary Yoder. None of this is for public consumption.”
“What the hell am I supposed to tell Janine?”
Several choice words float through my brain, but I behave myself. “Tell her I’m following up on a lead. Let her know Agent Tomasetti is handling the task force, and I should be back inside of twenty-four hours.”
He sighs, appeased, but barely. “I’ll cover for you as best I can, Kate, but I suggest you return with something to show for your time.”
“I’ll do my—”
He hangs up on me.
* * *
The house where Bishop Schwartz had once lived is vacant, with a for-sale sign in the front yard. I call the Realtor’s number, and after being put on hold twice, I get the address for the widow, Lizzie Schwartz.
It’s a scenic drive that takes me over a covered wooden bridge, past picturesque farms and forest, to a narrow patch of asphalt that ushers me to the doorstep of the Lake Vesuvius Recreational Area. The mailbox is well marked, so I make the turn onto a nicely maintained lane. The residence is a sunny yellow farmhouse with a bold red door and a wraparound porch jammed with potted plants and a wood swing.
I park in the gravel pullover at the side of the house. Two huge black dogs, tongues lolling despite the chill, bound up to me and begin to bark. Their tails are wagging and they look like they’re enjoying the rain, so I take a chance and get out. Luckily, the dogs are friendly, and they accompany me onto the porch.
I knock and take a moment to scratch one of the dogs behind a floppy ear. The door opens and I find myself looking at a pretty Mennonite woman. She’s wearing a pink print dress that falls to just below her knees, with a white apron and a high-end pair of sneakers. I guess her to be about forty years of age. She’s got freckles, bright red hair pulled into a ponytail, and eyes the color of a mossy pond. She’s not a classic beauty, but she’s attractive. Even though her clothes are rumpled, her hands stained with something that looks like paint, she’s comfortable in her skin.
She looks from me to the dogs and grins, revealing crooked teeth that somehow add to the allure of her face. “You lost?”
“I hope not.” I show her my badge. “I’m looking for Lizzie Schwartz.”
“I’m Rachel, her daughter.” Her smile falls just a little. “Is this about the buggy accident?”
“In part,” I say honestly.
She looks at me thoughtfully. “After Dad was killed, my husband and I brought Mom here. We’ve got a big house. The kids are grown—only two for me, thank you very much. I don’t know if you saw it when you pulled in, but we’ve got that cute little dawdi haus out back.”
“Dawdi haus” is Deitsch for “grandfather’s house,” which is basically a cottage some Amish build next their home so their elderly parents can live nearby and they can care for them during their golden years.
I follow her through the living room and kitchen and out the back door. The dawdi haus cottage is more Victorian than Plain, but somehow exudes the best of both worlds. White board-and-batten siding, Galvalume shingles on a steeply pitched roof, wood shutters stained a dark walnut, and a tiny stone porch crowded with clay pots overflowing with sweet rosemary and fall mums.
“Mama?” Rachel doesn’t knock, but calls out as she enters.
“In the kitchen!” comes a spry female voice.
Rachel glances over at me and sniffs the air. “She’s making apple butter.”
We find Lizzie Schwartz at the counter, peeling apples, a dozen or so mason jars lined up on the counter, and a big pot sitting on the stovetop.
“Didn’t know we had company.” The woman turns to us. She’s substantially built and clad completely in black, which will be her color of choice for the next months or even a year, since she’s in mourning.
“She’s a police, Mama. Here to talk to you about Datt.”
A shadow darkens her expression. “You caught the man who hit him?”
“No, ma’am.” I tell her about Mary Yoder and Elsie Helmuth. “I want to talk to you about something that happened a few years ago.”
A few minutes later the two of us are seated at the table, a cup of steaming cider in front of each of us.
“Noah was a good bishop,” she tells me. “A good man. Father. Husband.” She sips cider, swallows a little too hard.
“Did he ever travel to Painters Mill?” I ask.
“I believe he did, in fact.”
“How long ago?”
“Years, I think.”
“Did he know Sadie Stutzman?”
“Anyone who’s had a baby around here knows Sadie.” She looks at me over the rim of her cup.
It’s the longest ru
n of straight answers I’ve received since I’ve been in Crooked Creek. “Did your husband transport a baby to Painters Mill?”
Her eyes flick away, then return to mine. “Maybe.”
“That’s an interesting answer.” I set down my cup. “Do you know the circumstances?”
“No.” She folds her hands in front of her. “But I probably know more than I should.” She gives me a sage look. “The little girl you were telling me about. The missing one. Do you believe they’re one and the same?”
“I think that’s a possibility.”
Bowing her head slightly, she rubs at her temples. “Oh good Lord.”
“Mrs. Schwartz, do you know who the parents are?”
“I do not,” she tells me. “But I overheard something I never forgot. I knew it would come back to haunt me. I just had this feeling … that it was wrong.”
“Your husband told you about it?”
“Not exactly.” Her smile is sad. “You know, it’s a momentous occasion for an Amish man to become Deiner. For most, it’s a burden. A weight they bear. But it’s also a calling and they serve with joy.” She purses her lips. “Noah took his position as bishop very seriously. He was a sensitive man. He felt things … deeply. Too deeply perhaps. But he was strong, too. He never talked to me about the things he dealt with. He never burdened me with knowledge of the things that troubled him.”
“How did you find out about the baby?”
This time, her smile contains something akin to shame. “I eavesdropped on a conversation that was none of my business. Between Sadie Stutzman and my husband. I’m not proud and it bothered me for years. What I heard kept me up nights.”
“Tell me about the conversation.”
Her mouth tightens. “Sadie Stutzman came to our door. It was late. The middle of the night. She was … crying and distraught. That was odd for her because that lady is tough as leather, coolheaded, and not prone to high emotion. She was a midwife, you know. To see her so upset … I assumed one of her young mothers had lost a baby. I was wrong.”
The Amish woman wraps her hands around her mug. “Noah went out to the porch and they spoke in low voices for a long time. I went to the kitchen and made coffee, but when I took the cups to them, I heard Sadie say something about taking a newborn from its mamm.”
“Did she mention a name?” I ask. “Do you have any idea who the parents are?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “You have to understand, Chief Burkholder, I only caught bits and pieces of the exchange.” Anguish flashes in her eyes. “The thing that surprised me the most—aside from the whole conversation about taking a baby—was that Noah already knew about it. They’d discussed it before. He was the one who suggested Painters Mill. I think he knew someone or had someone in mind for that poor little baby.”
She closes her eyes. “God knows, I knew better than to stand there and listen, but I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t imagine what could have happened that would prompt Sadie to take an innocent newborn baby.”
“Did you have some sense as to why they did it?” I ask.
“All I can tell you, Chief Burkholder, is that there must have been a good reason. That, I know for certain.”
“Like what?”
She shrugs. “I couldn’t say. But I knew my husband and he was a good and decent God-loving man. This must have been … an urgent situation. If the baby wasn’t being fed or cared for. Something like that.”
“Did you ask your husband about it?”
“I did.” Shame flashes in her expression. “I told him I’d overheard part of the conversation.” She chokes out an awkward sound. “It’s the closest I ever came to lying to him.” Another flash of pain. “He wouldn’t speak of it. Said he didn’t want to burden me. He told me some things are better left unsaid.”
She raises her gaze to mine. “He went to Painters Mill the next day. Came home very late. I knew they’d done it. I never broached the subject again.”
We sit in the silence of the kitchen, the smells of cinnamon and cider lingering, the words that passed between us adding unpleasant weight to what should have been an enjoyable moment.
“Do you know if the baby was Amish or English?” I ask.
“I’d always assumed she was Plain.” Her brows furrow. “Why else would an Amish bishop be involved? An Amish midwife?”
“Did you ask Sadie Stutzman about it?”
“I put it out of my mind is what I did.” She shrugs. “Noah said the knowledge would be a heavy burden. That was enough.”
She raises her gaze to mine as if something new has occurred to her. “Chief Burkholder, do you think my husband’s death is somehow related to … what happened with that child? All those years ago?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
Tears glimmer in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “Why now? After all this time?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
Another cumbrous silence and then I ask, “Mrs. Schwartz, do you know of any women who were ime familye weg in the weeks before the conversation you overheard?” “In the family way” is the Amish term for “pregnant.” “Anyone you can think of?”
“I wondered, of course. Was she unmarried? Was she too young? Unable to care for a baby?” She gives another shake of her head. “I didn’t dwell.”
I think about everything that’s been said and what it could mean in terms of finding Elsie Helmuth. “Do you know Marlene Byler or Mary Byler?” I ask, using Mary’s maiden name.
“I didn’t know either of them, but I heard about what happened to Marlene. What she did all those years ago. Jumped off that big bridge up near Portsmouth. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard she took her infant daughter off that bridge with her.”
A rush of interest engulfs me. “A baby?”
“Less than a year old. The police never found the body so no one knows if it’s true.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much, really.” The woman shrugs. “She was Amish. Had some mental or emotional issues, I think. There were rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Hush-hush stuff. Boiled down to her not being able to follow the rules. The Amish put up with it for a long time; some tried to help her. But eventually the bishop excommunicated her.”
“Do you know why?”
She shakes her head. “She killed herself shortly afterward and people stopped talking about it.”
“Did your husband keep a journal or write things down while he was bishop? Anything like that?”
“Noah kept everything in his head.” She presses her hand to the left side of her chest. “Or here, more like. In his heart.”
“Who’s the new bishop?” I ask.
“They just nominated Melvin Chupp.”
“Do you know where he lives?” I ask.
“Near Wheelersburg, I think.”
I reach into my pocket and set my card on the table in front of her. “If you think of anything else or if something comes to mind that you forgot to tell me, will you let me know?”
“I will.” Giving me a sad smile, she reaches out and pats my hand. “You’ll do the same, Kate Burkholder?”
“Bet on it.”
* * *
I make the drive to Wheelersburg, but there’s no one home at the Chupp house so I head back to Crooked Creek. I find the one and only motel and pull into the lot. The Sleepy Time Motel is a mid-century modern dive. I suspect even back in 1960 the place was low-budget. The years haven’t been kind. A tangle of chain-link surrounds what was once a swimming pool. An earthquake-size crack splits the concrete where the drain had been. The restaurant in the space next to the office is boarded up with plywood, the single remaining plate-glass window hastily patched with duct tape. I’m desperate for a shower and a bed, so I park and check in.
The room is exactly what I thought it would be. There’s a swayback queen-size bed with a tattered headboard and spread. Bad wall art from
the 1970s. The bathroom fixtures are rusty, loose tiles on the floor, the grout stained with a couple of decades’ worth of mold. But the room is clean, and will do just fine for a shower and sleep.
I brave the shower and crawl into a lumpy bed that smells of scorched cotton and a mattress well past its prime. A mix of rain and sleet pounds the window like handfuls of pea gravel tossed against the glass. Outside, the temperature has dropped twenty degrees in the last hour. The room is cold despite the fact that I’ve cranked the heater up as far as it will go. I’ve got my wet jacket draped over the back of the desk chair to dry.
Pulling the spread up to my waist, I fire up my laptop. I run a few searches on Cohen syndrome, but there’s not much out there. The symptoms include a host of problems—developmental delay, intellectual disability, muscle weakness, eye problems. It’s a rare disorder, caused by a gene mutation, and slightly more prevalent among the Amish. Both parents have to have the gene, but usually don’t show signs of the disorder themselves.
If that holds true, it rules out my theory that the mother may have been physically or intellectually unable to care for her child due to Cohen syndrome.
It’s eleven P.M. when I call Tomasetti. I summarize my conversation with Lizzie Schwartz. “She overheard most of it. Bishop Schwartz and the midwife conspired to bring a newborn infant to Painters Mill.”
“You talk to the midwife?”
I take him through my exchange with Sadie Stutzman. “She danced around most of my questions. Tomasetti, she suggested Bishop Schwartz’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“Did you look at the police report?”
“I talked to the deputy who investigated the accident. They have no idea who was responsible and attributed it to a drunk driver.”
“Was the midwife able to make a case?”
“That’s the problem. She’s … eccentric. She’d suffered a stroke recently and the general consensus is that she may be in the early stages of dementia.”
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