After the Storm (17 page)

“I’m looking for Rachel Zimmerman,” I say.

“You’ve found her.” Her stride falters as she takes in my uniform. “You must be Chief Burkholder.”

I cross to her and extend my hand. “Sorry to disturb your planting.”

“Oh, I needed a break, anyway.”

I look around. “This is a lovely bed-and-breakfast.”

“Thank you. We love it here. My husband and I both have a passion for historical homes. When it came up on the market we couldn’t resist. We’ve been running the place for almost five years now. And, of course, it’s a bonus that the winery is so close. The tourists love it.” She tilts her head, looking at me more closely. “My parents called me with the news.”

“The identification won’t be official until DNA comes back, but we think it’s Leroy. I’m sorry.”

“My poor brother. He was such a good kid. But kind of a lost soul, you know?” Putting her hands on her hips, she sighs. “I guess the good news is we know where he is now. He’s no longer lost. At least now we can give him a decent burial.”

“I know it was a long time ago, Rachel, but I was wondering if you could answer a few questions. I’m trying to piece together his final days and figure out what happened to him.”

Her eyes sharpen on mine. They’re an interesting shade of green and made up prettily with eye makeup. “Are you saying his death wasn’t an accident?”

“The coroner hasn’t ruled on cause or manner of death yet. In fact, we may never know for certain.”

“If it was an accident, you wouldn’t be here, though, would you?”

I don’t respond.

We spend twenty minutes going through the same questions I posed to his parents and his former best friend, but Rachel is unable to offer much in the way of new information.

“Do you know if he was seeing anyone?” I ask. “Did he have a girlfriend?”

Her eyes brighten. “I wouldn’t have thought of it if you hadn’t asked, but I
do
remember him seeing a girl. In fact, I walked up on them smooching in the woods across the street from our house, you know, before the grocery store was built. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, him or her or me.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t know. Leroy got all flustered and angry and just sort of shooed me away. But let me tell you, for a nine-year-old girl, I got an eyeful.” Her thoughts seem to turn inward and she smiles. “I’d never seen two people kiss like that before. And I’d never seen my brother look at anyone the way he looked at that girl.”

“What way is that?”

She pulls herself back to the present and nods her head. “Like they were in love. Big time.”

“You have no idea who she was?”

“If it’s any help, she was Amish.”

It’s the last thing I expected her to say, and my curiosity surges. “Are you sure?”

“Not positive, but pretty sure. We’re Mennonite, you know. Mom and Dad left the Swartzentruber Amish when they were young. Right after they were married, I think. Mom still dressed plainly back when I was a kid. In an Old Order Mennonite kind of way.” She smiles. “But I remember looking at that girl’s dress and
kapp
and thinking how different it was than my mom’s. So, yes, she was Amish.”

*   *   *

I’m at my desk, looking down at the list of hog farmers my dispatchers collected. Orange marker in hand, I’m highlighting the names I know are Amish. Seven o’clock has come and gone. The clock on the wall taunts me with every tick of the second hand. I want to believe I haven’t left for home because I’m busy with this case. Because I’m only halfway through the list and I want to finish before I pack it in.

I’m lying to myself. Again. Surprise.

Tomasetti hasn’t called, but I didn’t expect him to. He’s home, waiting for me, trying to give me my space and wondering where the hell I am.

Way to go, Kate.

Finally, at just before 9:00
P.M.
, I pack my laptop into its case and head for the farm. Twenty-five minutes later I walk through the door. The television is on in the living room. I see the table set with two plates, a bottle of cabernet sitting untouched in the center, and guilt takes a swipe at me with big sharp claws. For not being here when I said I would, for being a coward. For not having the guts to face this head-on.

I make it through the kitchen and into the bedroom. I’m sitting on the bed, unbuckling my equipment belt, when Tomasetti comes to the door. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me a little too closely, trying to figure out why I can’t meet his gaze.

When I can stand the silence no longer, I put my elbows on my knees and look down at my boots. “I’m pregnant,” I tell him.

It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud, and they shock me all the way to my core. This is the kind of thing that happens to other women. Women who have normal lives and normal jobs and live with husbands who’ve never taken the law into their own hands. Women who don’t carry a gun and have never killed anyone.

The silence is deafening. I can’t look at him. I’m terrified of what I’ll see. Of what he’ll see in my own eyes. There’s no way I can protect myself or prepare for what he might say. Even after knowing him for over four years now, I haven’t a clue how he’ll react.

“How far along?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Six or seven weeks. I have to go to the doctor.”

“Okay, so you haven’t been to the doctor yet?” He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding the optimism in his voice. The hope that I’m wrong and all of this is a false alarm that we’ll laugh about later. It pisses me off.

“I took a pregnancy test,” I snap. “Last night. It was positive.”

Another silence that goes on too long and then Tomasetti says, “I guess that explains why you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m just trying to absorb all of this.”

I raise my head and look at him, trying to decipher his frame of mind, discern any sarcasm or dark humor. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he gives me nothing. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“How did it happen? I thought you were taking the pill?”

“I am.” That I’d fail to do that one small, simple thing, more than anything, makes me feel like an idiot. “There were a couple of times when I missed a dose. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? How could you not know?”

“I was busy with work. I pulled a couple of all-nighters.” Misery presses down on me. I feel like crying. But I’m angry, too. Angry because he’s not making this any easier.

“I take it you’re not pleased,” I say, after a moment.

“I’m not sure how I feel. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Neither was I.”

He’s still standing at the door, his hands on the jamb on either side of him, looking at me as if I’ve betrayed him.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I tell him.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

He leaves his place at the door. Instead of sitting beside me, he reaches down and takes my hand, pulls me to my feet. Hot tears sting my eyes when his arms go around me.

“I screwed up,” I whisper.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Tomasetti, I’m scared.”

He kisses my temple, runs his hand down the back of my head. “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “We’ll figure it out.”

CHAPTER 13

Every couple of weeks I hold a roll-call type meeting with my officers. The department is small—only four full-time officers, including myself—and most days only one of us is on duty at any given time. Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is my auxiliary officer. He’s a decade or so past retirement age and usually puts in about ten hours a week, most often working the school crosswalk. I communicate with my officers via e-mail as well as cell and radio, and we keep each other up-to-date on the goings-on in Painters Mill and Holmes County. But as chief, I feel face time is vital, especially for a small department whose members don’t always see each other, for everyone to sit down and talk and maybe even do a little cutting up.

Tomasetti and I didn’t get much settled last night. We didn’t make any decisions or discuss the future or what this means in terms of our relationship. Still, I’m feeling more at ease this morning, and I realize the simple act of telling him the truth lifted a weight from my shoulders. I no longer have to deal with it alone.

I’m standing at the podium in our ragtag meeting room. Most of the reports I’ve heard this morning are about tornado damage and cleanup. We had a couple of instances of after-hours looting, mostly to businesses that sustained damage, and a couple of reports of fraudsters posing as home-repair companies trying to bilk the people whose homes were damaged by the storm.

I end the meeting with an update on the investigation into the remains found at the barn.

“Holy shit,” Skid mutters. “Death by hogs.”

“That’s something out of a horror novel,” T.J. adds.

The statement is followed by enthusiastic nodding of heads.

“Are we looking at foul play?” Glock asks.

“Even if the actual death was an accident—a fall into the pen, for example—an unknown individual may have made an effort to hide the body.” I look at Skid. “Nolt worked for a while at that big hog operation down in Coshocton County.”

“There you go,” Glock says.

“Hewitt Hog Producers,” Pickles puts in.

I nod at them and return my attention to Skid. “I want you to get me the name and contact info of everyone who worked there in the two-month period leading up to Nolt’s disappearance. Check for criminal records and warrants, too.”

“You got it.”

“So if Nolt somehow ended up in the pen with those hogs,” Glock says, “how did his body end up buried beneath that old barn?”

“That’s a twenty-minute drive,” Skid adds.

“Maybe Nolt had some kind of disagreement with one of his coworkers,” T.J. says. “Maybe there was an argument or a fight and Nolt ended up in the pen. The coworker panicked. Dumped his body in the crawl space of the barn.”

“If it was an accident, why not call the cops?” Pickles asks.

Skid grins at the old man. “Not everyone’s as smart as you, Pickles.”

“Maybe he had a warrant,” Glock offers.

“Maybe the hog operation was breaking some law,” T.J. says. “Pollution or some EPA regulation.”

“We need to look at all of that.” I glance down at my notes. “Almost every witness I’ve spoken with about Leroy Nolt thought he was seeing a woman. Interestingly, he didn’t tell anyone her name or reveal her identity. Not to his family. Or his best friend. Or coworkers.”

Pickles shrugs thin shoulders. “First thing that comes to mind is that she was married.”

“Nolt’s sister, Rachel Zimmerman, saw him with an Amish girl a couple of weeks before he went missing,” I tell them. “Unfortunately, she can’t identify the girl. We need to ID her.” I pick up a photo of the ring Dr. Stevitch sent and hand it to Pickles. “The FA found this ring at the site. It looks like a woman’s engagement ring. We think the deceased had it on his person at the time of his death.”

Pickles tilts his head back and looks at the photo through his bifocals. “You know, there used to be a little jewelry store here in Painters Mill. Can’t recall the name, but they used to sell cheap jewelry. Closed years ago.”

My interest quickens. “How long ago?”

“Gosh, Chief, that place probably closed fifteen or twenty years ago. Only reason I remember is I bought Clarice a charm bracelet there once when she got pissed off at me.” He slaps the photo against his palm. “Daisy’s. That was the name.”

“See if you can run down the owner,” I tell him. “Show that photo and find out if they sold that ring. We need the name of the customer.”

Pickles’s chest puffs out a little. “I’m on it.”

“Chief, do you think this mystery woman was involved in his death?” T.J. asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s something we need to look at.”

“Can’t see a female moving a body,” Skid says.

“Or body parts,” Glock interjects.

“The whole hog thing doesn’t sound like the kind of crime a woman would commit,” Pickles adds.

“The Nolt family is Mennonite, aren’t they?” Glock asks.

I nod. “If the girl was Amish, maybe he felt he couldn’t tell anyone because her parents didn’t approve.”

“Or
his
parents.” From her place at the door, Mona adds, “Could be a source of conflict between the families.”

A thought pings at the base of my brain. Something I’ve seen or heard recently. Something to do with the Amish. I reach for the thought, but it slips away and then it’s gone. “T.J., I want you to talk to the people who live near the barn on Gellerman. See if any of them were living there thirty years ago. Maybe someone remembers seeing something.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I tell them about my conversation with the surgeon who repaired Nolt’s broken arm. “Hopefully, the serial numbers will be a match and we’ll have a positive ID.” I gather my notes, tuck them into the folder, and look out at my team. “Thanks for coming in, everyone.” I glance over my shoulder at Mona. “Thanks for staying late to be here.”

She grins and gives me a funky salute.

Folder in hand, I leave the meeting room and start toward my office. I stop at the coffee station, distracted, trying to recover the thought that left me, when I hear someone come through the front door. I glance over to see a short man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard approach the dispatch station. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a slightly tattered fedora. He’s familiar; I’ve seen him around town, but I have no idea who he is.

Lois stands and addresses him. “Can I help you?”

“Chief Burkholder?” he asks.

Her eyes slide toward me. She’s wondering if I’m available. I set down the cup I’ve just filled and approach him. “I’m Chief Burkholder,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

He shoves a large white envelope at me. The instant my hands close around it, he grins. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”

I look down at the envelope. It’s addressed to me with the return address of a law firm. Even before opening it, I know what it is. The parents of Lucy Kester have filed a wrongful death lawsuit against me and, possibly, the police department and the township of Painters Mill.