“Did the man touch Mrs. Borntrager?”
“I don’t think so, but it was pretty dark. Mrs. Borntrager was all upset.”
“How do you know?”
“She was crying.”
By and large, Amish children’s lives are more sheltered than their English counterparts. They’re not exposed to movies or pop culture. There’s no sex education or social media or Internet. Most of the things kids learn come from within their own family circle. As they enter their teen years and make friends outside of their family, they begin to see other perspectives and, perhaps, learn things their parents may not want them to learn.
I suspect Sarah’s witnessing an argument between two adults in the dead of night was discomfiting. “Did you see anything else unusual?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head. “That’s it.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me, Sarah.”
She looks at her mother. “Is Mrs. Borntrager in trouble?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “Chief Burkholder is just investigating that terrible buggy accident.”
“Oh.” The girl nods solemnly. “I miss seeing Sam and Norah. I used to wave to them. They were sweet.”
Martha licks her thumb and uses it to clean a smudge of dirt from her daughter’s chin. “Now you just forget all about Mrs. Borntrager, you hear? It’s time for the midday meal. Go make sure your brothers and sisters washed their hands. I’ll be inside in a few minutes.”
Snatching up the puppy, the girl hightails it toward the house.
I snag Martha’s gaze. “Do you have any idea who Sarah saw that night?”
“No.”
I try something open ended. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
She waits so long before answering that I think she’s not going to respond. Then she bends and picks up the trousers and pins them to the clothesline. “I think the men like looking at Mattie Borntrager a little too much. Even Amish men. But that’s men for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Katie. You know how it was with her when she was a girl. Well, it hasn’t changed all that much.”
I think about the rivalry between Martha and Mattie and the fact that, in the end, Paul Borntrager chose Mattie. I know it’s cynical, but I can’t help but wonder if that’s what this is about, at least in part. Back when we were teens, Martha tolerated me and my antics. But she had no tolerance for Mattie. I wonder if her indictment of Mattie is the result of some long-standing jealousy that’s festered into something ugly over the years. I wonder if this woman has an axe to grind.
“You mean with her being pretty?” I ask.
“Pretty. And she knows it, too, doesn’t she?” She huffs, a sound of disgust that broadcasts something stronger than dislike for Mattie. “All I’m saying is that her being married in the eyes of God didn’t change the way men look at her.”
“And that’s Mattie’s fault somehow?” The question comes out sounding defensive, so I reel in the part of me that wants to defend her.
“That’s not for me to say now, is it?”
“Are you talking about a particular man?”
“Take your pick. They all look at her with their tongues hanging out like a bunch of panting dogs. Fall all over themselves helping her when she doesn’t need any help.” The Amish woman grimaces as if she’s bitten into the bitter pith of a lemon. “But then she’s got that way about her.”
“What way is that?”
She looks at me as if I’m dense. “One look from her and she’s got them eating out of her hand, pecking like a bunch of chickens, that’s what way.”
“Are you saying this is something Mattie does on purpose, Martha?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Do you think Mattie and Paul were having marital problems?”
“Look, Katie, none of us is perfect. But when Sarah told me what she’d seen, I wasn’t surprised.”
“Was Paul aware of any of this?”
“The man was blind to it. Mattie could do no wrong in his eyes.” She shakes her head, and for the first time I see pity in her expression. “She uses those children, too. For attention, you know. Always putting other people out to save herself some trouble, if you ask me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to think or feel about any of what’s been said. The weight of the words that have passed between us settle onto my shoulders like a boulder.
“You were always partial to her, though, weren’t you?” Martha’s lips curl, but her smile is cruel. “I’ve said my piece, Katie Burkholder. You do with it what you will and God will take care of the rest.”
I hand her my card. “If you think of anything else, will you get in touch with me?”
She refuses the card and glances toward the house. “You’d best go. I’ve got children to feed.”
She leaves me standing next to her empty laundry basket with the wet clothes flapping in the breeze and the turmoil of my thoughts.
CHAPTER 20
In the course of an investigation, a cop receives all kinds of information. A fair amount of that information is based on fact. Some is based on lies or half-truths that have been put forth to further someone’s agenda. A large percentage of information is pure bullshit. It’s my job to sort through it and separate fact from fiction, even if I don’t like the direction it’s taking me.
There’s no doubt in my mind that young Sarah Schlabach was telling the truth about seeing a man and a woman that night on the road in front of her house. Martha might have an axe to grind when it comes to Mattie, but I don’t think she’d ask her eight-year-old daughter to fabricate a story to further some fifteen-year-old grudge. I didn’t get the sense that the girl was lying.
Who was Mattie arguing with and why? More importantly, why didn’t she mention it to me? As with any witness, the possibility exists that Sarah misinterpreted what she saw. Could the man have been Paul Borntrager? Had Mattie and her husband had a spat and decided to take it outside so they wouldn’t wake the children? Or is there another possibility I’m not seeing?
One vital piece of the puzzle that’s been missing from the start of this case is motive. I’ve been leaning toward the possibility of a stalking situation. Mattie is, after all, a stunningly beautiful woman. The kind of beauty that draws attention, perhaps even unwanted attention. I know from experience that a high percentage of stalking victims know their stalker. Does Mattie know him? Did she confront him? Did they have words that night? Is it possible that she’s oblivious to the dangers and protecting him for the simple reason that he’s Amish? That she doesn’t want any of this to come to light to protect her own reputation?
When Mattie and I were teenagers, the boys were drawn to her with the mindless glee of children to chocolate. Several times, there had been more than one boy courting her at the same time. Petty jealousies and, once, a fight had erupted. Unlike Martha, I didn’t begrudge Mattie the attention. I was content to sit back and watch. Mattie had seemed oblivious to her charms. But even with my limited view of the world, there was a part of me that was cognizant of these things called jealousy and lust, and the lengths to which people would go to get what they want.
I’m sitting at my desk in my office, troubled and brooding, when my phone buzzes. Absently, I hit the speaker button. “What’s up, Lois?”
“Sheriff Redmon’s here to see you, Chief. You want me to send him in?”
The visit isn’t unexpected but my nerves jump anyway. “Sure. Thanks.”
I end the call, look down at my hands to see them shaking. “Goddammit.” I press them against my desktop, order myself to stay calm.
A moment later, Sheriff Arnold Redmon and the young deputy I spoke to at the grain elevator, Fowler Hodges, appear at the door. “Afternoon, Chief Burkholder,” the sheriff drawls.
“Sheriff Redmon.” Standing, I round my desk, a smile pasted to my face, and extend my hand to the sheriff.
/> He steps into my office and reciprocates the handshake, giving me a quick once-over. His grip is firm, his palm meaty and calloused. His eyes are the color of tarnished coins. He’s got a powerful presence and the kind of stare that goes right through you.
“I heard about that tussle you got into out at the Borntrager place,” he says, studying my face. “Hate to see bruises on any cop, but it always seems worse on a female.”
“We’ll get him.”
I turn my attention to the deputy, hoping my nervousness doesn’t show, and we shake. “Good to see you again, Folly.”
“You guys have any luck on that hit-skip?” he asks.
I give him the highlights of the investigation so far. “We’re basically looking at everyone at this point.”
By the time I turn my attention back to Redmon, I’ve decided how to handle this. “My sister tells me you identified those remains as Daniel Lapp,” I begin.
“ID isn’t official yet, but his brother, Benjamin, remembered him having a chipped front tooth, and sure enough we found a chipped tooth in that mess of bones. We think it’s him.”
“I always figured he left to get away from the Amish,” I tell him.
“He tell you that?”
“Just an assumption.”
“Benjamin told us Daniel helped your brother bale hay the day he disappeared. Your sister verified it. She told us Daniel was at your folks’ farm that day.” He holds my gaze, waits for me to elaborate.
“He was,” I say simply. “All this came up after he went missing. It’s in the file.”
“I know it was a long time ago, Chief Burkholder, but do you recall actually seeing him that day? Did you talk to him?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember seeing him. I was in the house most of the day. Daniel and Jacob were in the field, behind the barn.”
“He didn’t come in for a drink of water? Anything like that?”
“I don’t think so.” I smile. “The hose is usually good enough for Amish kids.”
Redmon watches me closely, hanging on to each syllable, as if he’s memorizing every detail so he can take them apart later. “Did Lapp’s parents talk to your parents when he didn’t come home?”
“It seems logical that they would have, but I don’t recall them visiting our farm,” I say. “If they did, my parents didn’t mention it to me.”
“Did Daniel help your brother bale on more than one occasion that summer?”
“It’s possible,” I tell him. “Amish kids are always looking for work. It was a long time ago and those memories kind of run together.”
“Were Jacob and Daniel friends?”
“More like friendly acquaintances.”
“So they didn’t hang out? Spend time together?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you mind my asking how old you were that summer?”
“I was fourteen.”
He grins as if imagining me at that age. “You probably had better things to do than pay attention to a bunch of sweaty boys.”
I smile, but it’s so forced I feel a tick in my lip.
“Benjamin Lapp thinks something happened to his brother that day,” Redmon tells me.
“Like what?”
“He thinks Daniel might’ve had some kind of accident while he was working in the field.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that.” I shrug, but my heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear my own voice. I wonder if Redmon can see the vein pulsing at my throat.
“You know how these things go,” the sheriff says. “Something happens to a loved one, they go missing or whatever, and the family starts looking for someone to blame. People’s imaginations get to running when someone disappears.”
“If anything had happened to Daniel that day, if he’d been hurt while working on our farm, I’m sure my datt would have taken him to the hospital.” I tilt my head, make eye contact with Redmon. “In case you’re wondering, the Amish have no problem utilizing doctors or the ER when necessary. There are no rules against that.”
“To tell you the truth, Chief, I wasn’t sure what the belief system was in that area,” he drawls. “Did you ever wonder what happened to Daniel? I mean, since he’d been at your parents’ farm that day and no one saw him again?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Everybody wondered.”
He waits, watching me.
I don’t believe the sheriff suspects me or anyone in my family of wrongdoing. But he hasn’t ruled us out and he’s not above using law enforcement interview techniques to trip me up. In this case, it’s the give-someone-enough-rope-and-they’ll-hang-themselves tactic. I don’t bite. “Like I said, I always thought Daniel took the money he was paid that day and left.”
“Benjamin was adamant that Daniel wouldn’t do that. Said he was looking forward to getting baptized.”
I shrug. “No offense to Benjamin, but sometimes the family is the last to know. The Amish don’t want to believe there are others living among them who no longer want to be Amish.”
“I guess you got a point there.” He chuckles, a grandfatherly sound designed to disarm. I don’t buy it for a second. The sheriff is about as grandfatherly as Charles Manson. “So you think Daniel Lapp, an eighteen-year-old Amish kid, just up and left town without so much as a good-bye to his brother and parents?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
When neither man responds, I look from Redmon to Fowler and back to Redmon. “Do you have any idea how he got down in that pit?”
“We’re not sure,” Redmon tells me.
“Do you suspect foul play?”
“Coroner says someone shot him with a shotgun.”
I tamp down a quick rise of alarm. “So you got results on the autopsy?”
“Autopsy isn’t complete, it’s all preliminary at this point. Coroner didn’t have much to work with.” He makes a sound of distaste. “We’re talking bones and a few strands of rotted fabric, as you can imagine. While they were gathering samples for the lab, one of the technicians took a metal detector to the scene and found shotgun pellets in the soil. They’re pretty sure the pellets were inside Lapp’s body.”
“So we’re talking homicide.”
“Looks like.” He scratches his head. “I just can’t figure who’d want an Amish kid dead.”
The phone on my desk buzzes; the sound echoes in my ears as if I’m standing in a cave. I let it go to voicemail. “Wasn’t that grain elevator closed down back then?” I ask.
“Wilbur Seed Company closed down back in 1976,” Redmon tells me. “I checked.”
“Perfect place to hide a body,” Fowler adds.
Redmon’s gaze burns into mine. “Anyone in your family ever have any kind of dispute with Lapp? You know, over money or pay? Anything like that?”
I’ve lived this moment a thousand times in the last seventeen years. I’ve coached myself on how to respond right down to my body language and the tone of my voice. Now that the time is here and there are two cops looking at me as if I know more than I’m letting on, all the words I had so diligently rehearsed fly out the window, leaving me alone with my conscience and the lie I’ve been living with half of my life.
“Nothing that I know of,” I say. “My father was an honest man and fair with wages.” I put on a face of disappointment and look from man to man. “Whatever happened to Daniel Lapp didn’t happen at our farm.”
“Well, I appreciate your answering my questions, Chief, especially when you’re occupied with that nasty hit-skip.” Redmon pulls his card from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We had to do our due diligence. You know how it is.”
“No problem.” I set the card on my desk. “If I remember anything else, I’ll call you.”
I stand and watch the men shuffle to the door. Tension runs like hot wires up and down the back of my neck. At the doorway to the hall, the sheriff stops and turns. “Oh, one more thing, Chief, before I forget. Did your father own a shotgun?”
&
nbsp; I stare at him, aware that my knees are shaking, my hands are shaking, so I lower myself into my chair and press them against the desktop. “My father kept a twenty-two. For hunting.”
“Thanks.” He ducks his head slightly. “We’ll get out of your hair now.”
The men trundle out, leaving me with a knot in my gut, an old, familiar fear in my heart, and the disturbing suspicion that while this visit is over, the case remains open.
* * *
My encounter with Redmon leaves me restless and edgy. Despite my best efforts, I can’t get my focus back on the Borntrager case. I can’t stop thinking about the secrets and the questions and an investigation that could mean the end of my career.
I arrive at Mattie’s farm to find two buggies parked near the barn, the horses standing with their back legs cocked, their heads down. Two Amish men, one of whom is smoking a pipe, stand at the open barn door, talking. They stare at me as I get out of the Explorer. I raise my hand in greeting, but neither man reciprocates. I take the sidewalk to the back porch. I don’t bother knocking this time and go directly to the kitchen.
I find Mary Miller at the sink. She’s a tall, angular woman with skinny legs and feet that look too big for her body. I’ve known her since my days at school, where she taught for a while. She worked hard to make sure I knew my multiplication tables and smacked my hand with the ruler on more than one occasion to ensure she had my undivided attention. She’s married to the Amish man I saw near the barn when I arrived. They’re a nice couple, with eight children, and live on small farm south of Painters Mill.
“Is Mattie here?” I ask. “I need to speak with her.”
“She’s resting.” She turns her back to me and goes back to her dishwashing. “I see your manners haven’t improved with age.”
“Where is she?” I walk past her, half expecting her to snap the dish towel at my back.
The smells of mock turtle soup and lye soap follow me into the living room. I make my way to the stairs and take them two at a time to the top. Four doors stand open. The first is a bathroom with robin’s-egg-blue walls and a claw-foot tub. I’m midway to the second door when Mattie appears in the doorway ahead.