On the third page, incoming and outgoing texts are listed in order by date. The BCI technician transferred the actual text into a separate cell, so I’m able to read them. Again, there are several to his daughter. Dinner @ 7:00 PM Sun. Damn good game! Thanks for all the help. Will call U when I get home. Meet for lunch noonish? At the bottom of the page, the final text Dale Michaels sent snags my attention. Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome. I look at the date column and see that it was sent on March 8 at 12:45 A.M. to Blue Branson.
Who did Dale Michaels meet with that night and why? What does Blue Branson know about it? And why, if he’d received news of Dale’s murder, didn’t he come forward?
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter.
Grabbing my keys off the desk, I start toward the door.
* * *
The Crossroads Church is located on an acre or so of what had once been farmland, four miles outside of Painters Mill. Bounded on three sides by plowed fields, the clapboard structure reminds me of the Amish school where I received my early education. I’ve heard that Blue Branson built the place with his own hands and paid for the materials out of his own pocket. Rumor has it, he worked like a man possessed—going without sleep for days at a time—until the church was complete. Word around town is he’s a good public speaker and gives a rousing sermon twice on Sunday and once every Wednesday evening.
I’ve met Blue a handful of times over the years, mostly at LaDonna’s Diner, where I stop in for coffee some mornings or dinner if I’m working nights. Usually we exchange a nod or smile, or maybe we comment on the weather as we pass. Until now, that’s been the extent of my contact with the self-made preacher. I have a feeling I’m about to get to know him a lot better.
I park in a gravel lot that’s demarked with railroad ties. There are two other vehicles in the lot: a pickup truck that looks as if it won’t be running much longer and a vintage Mustang, which I recognize as Blue’s. I get out and start toward the front door. A huge cross constructed of railroad ties stands sentinel in the front yard. In the flower bed at the base, I see the pointy green tips of irises peeking out through a layer of mulch.
Double wooden doors open to a large room with a cathedral ceiling and exposed beams that have been painted white. Mullioned windows usher in a meager amount of natural light. Pews line either side of a wide aisle. Ahead is a raised stage with a podium at its center bearing an inscription: WE DON’T CARE WHERE YOU’VE BEEN; WE JUST CARE ABOUT WHERE YOU’RE GOING. There’s no mike, but then I’ve heard Blue doesn’t need one. To the right of the stage, a door stands open. I hear voices from inside and head that way.
I find Blue and another man seated at a rectangular table. Blue’s looking down at some type of register that’s open in front of him. Dozens of corrugated boxes line the wall to my left, and I see that each is packed with foodstuffs: canned goods, cereal, sugar, flour, packaged pasta, Sam’s Club–size jars of peanut butter and coffee.
I tap on the jamb. “Looks like you two are conspiring to feed everyone in the county.”
The men look up. I see surprise on their faces when they notice my uniform.
“A lot of hungry families out there, Chief Burkholder.” Taking his time, Blue hefts his substantial frame from the chair. He’s got a commanding presence and seems to fill up all the space in a room. He stands somewhere around six-four and probably weighs in at about 250. His thick gray hair is combed straight back from an interesting face with a broad forehead and high cheekbones. Deep grooves on either side of his mouth add yet another layer of character to an already compelling persona. His goatee is black and trimmed with razor precision. He’s wearing his trademark clothes: Black sport jacket. Crisp white shirt that’s open at the collar to reveal a large silver cross on a chain. Dark slacks and oxfords polished to a high sheen.
“It’s our aim to feed them until they can feed themselves.” He extends his hand to me and we shake. “Welcome to Crossroads.”
His grip is firm, but not excessively so, and his eyes are level on mine. “I hear you do good work here at the church,” I tell him.
“We do our best.”
I nod at the man sitting at the table and then address Blue. “Can I speak with you in private?”
“There are a dozen or so pews out there could use some more breaking in.” He looks at the man he’s with. “Box up the rest of the canned goods, and I’ll help you load them.”
Blue ushers me through the door, and we walk into the main room of the church, our shoes echoing against the high ceilings and unadorned walls.
“I understand you built this place yourself,” I tell him.
“Never picked up a hammer until I got the calling. Once I did, I couldn’t put it down. Didn’t have much capital, but we made do. A few volunteers lent a hand.…” He shrugs, as if the feat is inconsequential. “Spreading the word of God doesn’t require anything fancy. With your being Amish, I’m sure you probably already know that.”
“I do.”
He motions toward the first pew, and I slide onto the hard surface. “I need to talk to you about Dale Michaels.”
His gaze sharpens on mine as he lowers himself to the bench next to me. His eyes are steel gray beneath heavy brows. He’s got a kindly, grandfather’s face, one that’s full of adventure stories and love for his grandchildren. But there’s something darker behind those eyes, too. Scars, I think, left by a harsh past.
“I heard.” He hangs his head, and his body seems to sag for a moment. “He was a good man. Any idea who did it?”
“Not yet,” I tell him. “How well did you know him?”
“He came to services on occasion.” He chuckles. “Not often enough to suit me, but that’s the way it is sometimes.”
“How long have you known him?”
“We went to high school together. Never knew him well, but I do remember him.”
I purposefully delay asking him about the call and the text, giving him the chance to bring it up first. “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
“At church probably. A few weeks ago. Just to say hello. See how he was doing. That sort of thing.”
“How did he seem? Did he mention any problems he was having?” I ask. “Or any people he was having problems with?”
“He seemed fine. Upbeat. Warm, as always.”
I nod. “Do you know who his friends were?”
“He usually came to church alone. I’m not sure about his friends.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Blue?”
His eyes meet mine. I see something I can’t quite read in their depths, and I suspect he’s just realized I know about the call. “He called me a couple of days ago. Late. I thought that was a little odd.”
“What was the purpose of his call?”
His facial expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t look upset by the fact that he got caught withholding information from me. “Just to talk. I think maybe he was a little lonely. He’s divorced, you know. Children are grown. Not every parent adjusts to those things well.”
“Were you surprised to hear from him?”
He nods. “My first thought was that he was sick. Found out he had cancer or something. I asked him about it, but he assured me his health was fine.”
“Is there some reason why you didn’t bring this to my attention when you found out he’d been murdered?” I ask. “Or maybe when I first arrived?”
“Look, Chief Burkholder, I don’t have anything to hide. There wasn’t anything unusual or suspicious about the call. Dale just wanted someone to talk to.” He sighs again. “We welcome everyone at Crossroads. As you probably know, some members of my congregation have troubled pasts. Honestly, I didn’t want my church involved in this murder investigation.”
“Who was he meeting with that night?”
He stares at me a moment and then shrugs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I pull out my notes and read the text message to him. “‘Meet is on.
Will call 2 let you know outcome.’” I make eye contact with Blue. “Dale Michaels sent you that text shortly before he was murdered. In fact, you’re probably the last person he communicated with before he was killed. I need to know who he was meeting with and I need to know right now.”
“I wish I could help you, Chief. But I don’t even recall receiving that text.” He pulls out a sleek little smartphone and begins to scroll with his index finger. “To tell you the truth, I’m still learning how to use this thing.”
“Mr. Branson, I feel the need to remind you that it’s against the law to withhold information from the police in the course of a murder investigation.”
“I haven’t lied to anyone.” He turns the phone so I can see the screen. Sure enough, there’s a small icon for unread messages with a small 2 next to it. I watch as he thumbs a button and the text from Dale Michaels appears, along with the date and time.
Blue stares at it, grimacing. “As a pastor, it’s disturbing to know he needed me and I wasn’t there for him.”
“The content of that text makes it seem as if you had previous knowledge of the meeting,” I say.
“I can assure you, I didn’t.”
I wait, saying nothing, reestablishing eye contact, looking for a chink in his righteous armor.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention the call,” he says, “but as you must know by now, I’ve got a past, too, and I’m not exactly proud of it. I didn’t want it dredged up and I didn’t want to involve the church. You know how folks are around here. They like their gossip, and they’ve got long memories when it comes to that sort of thing. Some people in this town still look at me like I’m a criminal.”
He’s right about the gossip. Having been the subject of many a malicious conversation when I was an Amish teen and left the fold, I know how painful it can be. But I’m not sure I believe the slew of explanations he’s so diligently thrown out for me, and I don’t cut him any slack.
“Are you?” I ask. “A criminal?”
“I did my time. Paid my due to society. And by the grace of God, I turned my life around.”
It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t answer my question. Rising, I extend my hand. “Thanks for your time.”
He gets to his feet and we shake. “I’m a firm believer in that everyone gets their due, Chief Burkholder, even if they don’t get their day in court.”
“It’s my job to make sure they get that day in court.”
I feel his eyes burning into my back as I make my exit.
CHAPTER 9
Julia “Jules” Rutledge locked the gallery doors at 7 P.M. Usually at the end of the day, she liked to wind down with a glass of chardonnay in her small office at the rear. She should be feeling celebratory this evening, especially since she’d sold the most expensive painting of her career earlier in the day. It was an oil she’d aptly titled Nochmiddawks, the Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch word for “in the afternoon.” She’d completed it last summer and priced it well above market value. It was an Impressionistic style and depicted an Amish girl walking alongside a tree-shrouded dirt road, her feet bare, the strings of her kapp dangling down her back. It was one of the few paintings she’d done that she actually loved. One of the few in which she thought she’d captured the magical light of dusk. The softness of the summer air. The thin rise of dust in golden sunlight. And the heart of a girl whose life was straightforward and simple—two elements people seemed to long for these days. Jules certainly did.
The sale was a surprise since business was usually slow this time of year. Things didn’t pick up until summer, when tourists from all over the world flocked to Holmes County to ogle the buggies, savor the home-cooked food and locally made cheeses, and take in the beautiful countryside.
Ten years in the making, The Raspberry Leaf Gallery was a dream come true. A dream for which she’d made sacrifices and worked like a madwoman to achieve. It was the place where she was the woman she’d always wanted to be. An artist and lover of beautiful things. The gallery had always been a safe place the past could never sully.
But the past had found her, like a monster capable of gaining entry by seeping under doors and through the cracks of the windowsills, like a vicious winter wind. She’d found the most recent note upon her return from lunch. It was taped on the alley door. A single word scrawled on a sheet of lined notebook paper in blue ink. Murderer.
The sight of it had shaken her so thoroughly, she’d nearly closed early and gone home. But Jules knew there was no running from this. No escape. Someone knew she’d been there that night; someone knew what they’d done. And she hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it.
How do you stop a ghost?
For the dozenth time, she thought about Dale, what had happened to him, the atrocity that was his death. And she knew that even locked away in a place where she’d always felt safe, she wasn’t. None of them were. She didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who to turn to or who to trust. She thought about calling the police, but knew that would raise too many questions. Questions she had absolutely no desire to answer.
On impulse, she picked up the landline and called the only person she could think of. “It’s Jules,” she said. “I received another note this afternoon. Here, at the gallery. I’m scared.”
A too-long silence on the other end. “You’re calling from the gallery?”
“Yes.”
“The police know about Dale’s phone calls to us.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I know that’s … dangerous at this point. I just … This is serious. For God’s sake, someone murdered him. I’m fucking scared.”
He sighed. “Do you want to meet? Same place?”
“I thought maybe we could talk. See if we can come up with … a plan or something.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “I don’t know what to do.”
“All right. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks. See you then.” Grabbing her bag off the credenza behind her desk, she took a final look at her gallery and left through the back door.
* * *
After leaving the Crossroads Church, I grab a large coffee and a BLT at LaDonna’s Diner and head to the station. It’s fully dark by the time I arrive, and the drizzle from earlier has turned into a steady downpour. I walk in to find my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, standing at the reception station with her hair mussed and my second-shift officer, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, standing a scant foot away from her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his uniform trousers. I can tell by the way they’re looking at me that I’m the last person they expected to walk in on them, and I think, Uh-oh.
“You two look busy,” I say by way of greeting.
Surprisingly, it’s Skid—who doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body—who blushes. Not because I walked in on them during a compromising moment, but because I’m his direct supervisor and I’m pretty sure I just caught them locking lips on the job.
“Hey, Chief.” Jodie tugs down her tunic and taps on the keyboard of her computer with a freshly painted nail, pretending to be embroiled in the screen in front of her. “You put in a long day.”
“Probably going to get longer,” I tell her. “Anything come back on those names?”
“Nothing on Julia Rutledge or Jerrold McCullough,” she tells me. “Running Blue Branson now.”
“Thanks.” I look at Skid, who glances away guiltily. “Call Pickles and tell him I need to see him ASAP, will you?”
“Happy to, Chief.”
I unlock my office and head directly to my desk. Despite the fact that I haven’t eaten all day, it’s not the BLT—or even the case—I’m thinking about as I unwrap the sandwich and pop the lid off the coffee. Usually Tomasetti and I touch base at least once during the day, no matter how busy we are, but he hasn’t called. Somehow I made it through the day without calling him, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m starting to worry.
I don’t let myself think about any of that as I pick up the phone
and dial.
He answers on the second ring. “I was wondering when you were going to call,” he begins.
“I was hoping you’d check in.”
“I was going to.”
Since I’m not sure I believe that, I don’t respond. “Are you home?”
“Not yet.” He doesn’t elaborate.
Because we’ve arrived at an impasse of sorts, I mentally shift gears and spend a few minutes giving him the rundown on the Michaels case. But I sense neither of us is fully focused on the business at hand. There’s another presence on the line with us, and it has nothing to do with my unsolved homicide.
“I’m probably going to be late,” I tell him.
“That’s okay,” he says easily. “I’m running behind here, too.”
“You’re still at the office?”
I wait a beat, but he doesn’t respond. I sigh, not sure if I’m annoyed with him because he’s being evasive—or myself for pressing him when I know he doesn’t want to be pressed. “Tomasetti, I’m trying to give you space.”
“You know I appreciate that, Kate. But no need to worry. I’m fine.”
“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Look, I don’t like it that Ferguson got off. I don’t like it that he’s out. That he got away with what he did. But I’m dealing with it. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“You’re not trying to tell me to stop worrying about you, are you?”
“Something like that.” But there’s a smile in his voice.
I pause, trying to get my words right, fumbling a bit. “Just so you know … Tomasetti, I’ve got your back. You can count on me. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
“I know. And I know you’re worried about me. But you’re going to have to trust me.”
The words echo for a beat too long before I say, “I’ll see you tonight.”
He hangs up without responding.
* * *
I’ve just booted up my computer when my most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, peeks his head into my office. “You wanted to see me?” he asks.