Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (26 page)

“I know you called the tip line,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t look at me as she pins an apron to the line. “My husband wouldn’t approve of such a thing. My getting involved in someone else’s affairs.”

“All information that comes in is confidential,” I tell her.

“As if you can be trusted, Katie Burkholder.” Her laugh grinds from her throat like a sludged-up engine on a cold morning. “I don’t partake in idle gossip about my neighbors.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Martha didn’t have a problem blathering about Mattie or me when we were teenagers. Not only was she a gossipmonger, but half of what she passed along came from her own imagination. For an instant I’m tempted to remind her of that. Instead, I move closer to her and lower my voice. “If there was an argument or confrontation between Mattie Borntrager and someone else, I need to know about it.”

She turns her attention back to her laundry, snapping open a work shirt, pinning it to the line, biting down on another clothespin.

“The buggy accident that killed Paul wasn’t an accident,” I tell her.

The Amish woman’s hands go still on the trousers she’s holding. “I don’t want to get involved.”

“You already are.”

Sighing, she looks down at the trousers and lets them drop into the basket, as if what she’s about to tell me requires all of her concentration. “I called,” she admits.

“Thank you.”

“I know it was God’s will, but my heart is broken about what happened to Paul and those precious children. If someone did this thing…”

“Someone did,” I say. “If you know something, you need to tell me about it.”

The woman stares at me, assessing me, trying to decide if I’m worthy of whatever information she’s safeguarding. I hold her gaze, willing her to open up.

In Pennsylvania Dutch, she orders the youngsters to the house to wash their hands. When the girl with the puppy rises to go with the others, Martha stops her. “Sarah, put that puppy down and come here.”

Reluctantly, the girl sets the puppy on the grass and starts toward us. Big hazel eyes go from her
mamm
to me and back to her
mamm.
The puppy continues to bite at the hem of her dress, but she doesn’t seem to notice now. She’s looking at us as if she’s done something wrong. I want to reassure her, but I defer to her mother and wait.

When the younger children are out of earshot, Martha turns her attention to the girl. “Sarah, do you remember when Sally had that bay colt?”

“
Ja.
I got to stay up past my bedtime to help
datt.
”

The woman smiles. “That colt is almost as much trouble as that puppy of yours.”

“
Datt
says he’s going to be a good trotter.” The girl looks down at the puppy growling and tugging at the hem of her dress and giggles.

Martha glances toward the house, watching the children, and addresses me. “Sarah and I have discussed gossip and we know it’s wrong to speak badly of our neighbors, don’t we, Sarah?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m going to ask you to make an exception, Sarah, and tell Chief Burkholder what you saw that night you went out to the pasture to get Sally and bring her in.”

The girl looks down at her bare feet, drags her toes through grass and dandelions. “
Datt
sent me to the pasture with the halter to get Sally while he put straw in her stall. He knew she was going to have her colt and it was time to bring her in.”

Sarah looks nervous about retelling the story to me, an outsider, so I do my best to put her at ease. “What did you name your colt?”

“Jim.”

“How old is he?”

“Six months now.”

I nod. “So this happened six months ago?”

The girl nods. “When I walked into the pasture, Sally was grazing by the road, where the grass is thick and there’s lots of clover. I walked over to her and when I was putting the halter on her, I saw Mattie Borntrager standing on the road, talking to a stranger.”

“Was the stranger a man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Did you recognize him?”

Sarah shakes her head.

“Was it Mr. Borntrager maybe?” I ask.

“No. He was a lot taller than Mr. Borntrager.”

“Was he Amish or English?”

“Amish, I think. He was wearing a hat. And he had a beard.”

If the man was Amish, the beard indicates he was married. “Do you remember what time it was?” I ask.

“I don’t know. The middle of the night, I think.” The girl looks at her mother.

“The horse began her labor at about two
A.M.
,” Martha tells me.

I turn my attention back to Sarah. “What were they doing on the road?”

“Arguing, I think.”

“Their voices were raised?”

“Well, just the man. He sounded all mad and mean.”

“Do you know what they were arguing about?”

“I’m not supposed to listen to grown-up talk, so I just put the halter on Sally and took her to the barn.”

“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.