In Dog We Trust (Golden Retriever Mysteries)

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “We’re looking at lots of different angles,” Rick said.

  Suddenly Jeremy was full of information. “I thought it was strange, this goofy Amish kid who suddenly wants to know all about high finance,” he said. “Man, I should have suspected something.” The more he talked, the more he remembered about Menno’s questions. “At one point I asked him why he wasn’t asking his professor all this stuff—or at least asking where to look the stuff up.”

  “And what did he say?” I asked.

  “That it was more like a research project for the professor,” he said. “You know, come to think of it, that’s weird. If it was an econ professor, wouldn’t the professor have known all that stuff already?”

  “You never know what some professors know,” I said.

  It seemed like we’d learned all we could from Jeremy, and we were just getting ready to go, when he said, “Hey, I remember something else.”

  “What’s that?” Rick asked.

  “We were watching this TV program in the lounge at Birthday House one day, like way back in the fall, I think.”

  “You and Menno?”

  “And Melissa, and a bunch of other kids. You know, it was late and there wasn’t anything else on, and nobody wanted to get up and change the channel anyway.”

  “What kind of program?” I asked.

  “One of those news programs, you know? 60 Minutes or some shit. They did this whole investigation into identity theft. I just remember it because Melissa was really into it—to her, it was like putting on a disguise, like the way she wore those dorky clothes over her tattoos, like nobody should know who was underneath.”

  “You ever talk about it with her afterward?” Rick asked.

  Jeremy shook his head. “I only just remembered it now, because I’ve been, like, racking my brain for anything I ever did or said with her or Menno.”

  Rick and I stood up, and Mrs. Eisenberg followed. She glared at Jeremy, and he stood up, too. “Thank you very much for your time,” Rick said, to both Jeremy and his mother. “It’s been very helpful to us to get more of a sense of whose these two students were.”

  “You can email me if you have any more questions,” Jeremy said. “Yorker_dude@hotmail.com.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I said.

  “Hey, Professor, what are you teaching in the fall? I totally want to sign up for you again.”

  “Not sure,” I said. “Check the registration system toward the end of the summer.”

  We were in the elevator going down when Rick said, in a fake Valley Girl accent, “I totally want to sign up for you again, Professor. You’re the bomb.”

  “What can I say? I have an impact on impressionable young minds.”

  Fortunately the elevator opened and I was spared Rick’s response.

  Chapter 33 – Suspects

  While we waited at Penn Station for our train back to Trenton, Rick called Tony Rinaldi to tell him what we’d learned, and I paced around the waiting room, worrying about all the work I had to do.

  It was clear that I’d be pulling another all-nighter, if I had any hope of getting the work finished on time. Forget about early delivery, which I’d been hoping for; I’d thought it would be a good way to impress the new client. Now I just wanted to keep the account.

  Pacing wasn’t doing me any good, so I picked up a copy of the Village Voice. I was scanning the classifieds when one of the ads jumped out at me:

  “You: girl in black raincoat, DVD of Mr. and Mrs. Smith at Blockbuster on 47th Street. Me: blue polo shirt and jeans. We both agreed Brad Pitt is hot. You probably thought I’m gay, but I’m not. Call me.”

  A woman across from me was on her cell phone. “I want the wedding without the husband,” she said. “I want to wear the dress and have a party all about me.”

  If only I’d been able to convince Mary to do the same thing, how my life would have been different.

  “Our train is still a half hour away,” Rick said when he’d finished his call. “You want to grab some fast food?” When we’d gotten our trays and picked a table that was almost clean, he said, “I think we’re closing in. But I need to know more about all these players. Do you think you could do some of your online magic?”

  I was surprised that Rick would ask me to do something that was so opposed to the conditions of my parole, and the surprise must have been evident on my face.

  “Nothing illegal,” he said. “And I’ll square anything you need with Santos. I just don’t have the time, or the computer savvy, to do what you can do.”

  I knew that if I told Rick I didn’t have the time, that I had to focus on my new client, he’d back off. But I’d been pushing to be involved in the case for so long I couldn’t back out. I’d just have to fit everything in. “What do you need?”

  “Right now we have at least three people who could be pulling the strings here. We know all three have some connection to the kids—Menno’s father, the music professor Melissa’s close to, the professor in your department who knows Menno. It could be someone else we know nothing about—but right now we need to focus on these three. Which one of them has the motive here—which one needs money, or has some criminal background?”

  “I can put some research together for you.”

  “Only legal,” he repeated. “No hacking. Nothing I can’t tell Santos about.”

  “Strictly legal,” I said, though in my mind I was crossing my fingers behind my back. Whoever killed Menno and Melissa hadn’t been confined by legality, and though Rick had to be there was no reason I had to be, too. I had Caroline’s laptop and the neighbor’s network, and as long as I was careful there was no way I was going to get caught again.

  Oops. There was that hubris. I’d thought I wouldn’t get caught when I hacked into the credit bureau databases to adjust Mary’s credit rating. I was a master, of course. There was no way anybody would catch me.

  See where that attitude got me? Why didn’t I seem able to learn from my mistakes? I spent the train ride working on my client manual, trying not to think about the hacking I had ahead of me, but my fingers itched every time the bad grammar in the manual stopped me and my brain immediately switched tracks.

  It was early afternoon when I got home, and I walked Rochester and petted him and told him what a good boy he was. I was tired, and the bumpy train ride to and from New York had made my ribs ache. I got into bed, propped my head behind a couple of pillows, and put Caroline’s laptop on a cushioned board in front of me. I turned on my own laptop and left it in sleep mode next to me in case I needed it.

  I didn’t think Menno had been doing an independent study project for some economics professor, but I wanted to be sure. I logged onto Eastern’s website and did a quick search. I remembered that there were rules about independent study projects, and buried deep in the bowels of the site I found that you had to be at least a junior before you’d be allowed to undertake such a project. I switched to my own laptop and shot off a quick email to Rick and Tony, copying the relevant portions of the document.

  Back on Caroline’s computer, I started looking for information, beginning with “Strings” Livorno, Melissa’s favorite music professor. I was able to substantiate my memory of the incident involving his cousin, but the professor himself never came up in any criminal connection. Just lots of scholarly articles on the Baroque era in music. Strings had been pretty busy writing and publishing; did he also have a sideline in procuring guns and fake IDs for students?

  I looked up his picture on the Eastern website. He looked as I remembered, though a lot older. A thin face, with a pointy chin, accentuated by a neatly-trimmed goatee. The earring in his left ear was a more recent addition, but he looked more like an elderly academic than a Mafia kingpin—or even accessory.

  Strings was close to retirement. He probably knew all about IRAs and 401Ks and retirement accounts. He could have counseled Melissa and Menno on exactly what to do with all the money they pulled out of Edith’s various accounts.

  I ch
ecked the Bucks County property records and found that he owned a small home in Leighville. A little more snooping discovered that he hadn’t exactly planned well for his retirement; he’d be getting a college pension that was barely enough to buy canned tuna fish, and he still owed nearly $50,000 on his mortgage. He had a checking account at Quaker State Bank with a few grand in it, and a pair of $10,000 CDs at the same bank.

  A professor looking at retirement without the assets to support himself. An Italian guy (and I knew from growing up around Italians how much they valued family) with Mafia connections. If Melissa mentioned her boyfriend’s part-time job, and Edith’s sloppy record-keeping, could he have been directing the two of them?

  I emailed Rick about Strings Livorno from my laptop. Then I moved on to Floyd Zook. After digging through a lot of irrelevant results, I found his name on a blog by Rebecca Stoltzfus, an Amish woman who had been shunned, as Floyd had been. She was developing a network of other Amish who had been shunned.

  I did a quick search on Rebecca and discovered that she lived in Lumberville, just inland, and on a whim I called to ask if she knew Floyd Zook personally.

  “Why are you asking?”

  I explained that I taught his son at Eastern, and after reading Menno’s paper, I was interested in the practice of shunning. “Is there anything you can tell me about Floyd and his family?”

  “I don’t know you,” she said. “You’re just a voice on the telephone.”

  “I live in Stewart’s Crossing,” I said. “I’m not far from you. Could I come over, and we’d talk face to face?”

  “I don’t want to get Floyd in trouble.”

  “I’m not a cop or anything.”

  “But you’re an English,” she said. “You wouldn’t understand.” She hung up.

  Growing up in Pennsylvania, I knew a little about the Amish, including the fact that they called non-Amish people “the English.” But I didn’t know enough, and I wanted to know more. I sat there staring at the slide show of pictures on Rebecca’s website, and one popped up showing her and a beautiful golden retriever.

  I looked over at Rochester. “What do you think, boy? You think maybe you can get this woman to talk to me?”

  It was just after four. I could make it up to Lumberville in a half hour or so, and if Rebecca wouldn’t talk to me, at least Rochester would get a nice ride.

  Rebecca Stoltzfus lived in a single-story farmhouse just outside Lumberville. She had a barn and a couple of acres of what looked like corn and wheat. When I pulled up in her driveway, a female golden retriever came running up to the car, which made Rochester very happy.

  “You’re the English I spoke to on the phone, aren’t you?” She stood in the doorway, watching as Rochester bounded out of the car toward the female, who rolled over on her back so that my dog could sniff her private parts.

  Rebecca stepped down into the driveway. She was wearing a cotton print blouse, blue jeans and sneakers, with her graying hair pulled back into a bun. “He’s a pretty boy,” she said, grudgingly.

  “His name is Rochester.”

  “She’s Bethesda.” We watched the dogs romp together for a moment, and finally Rebecca said, “I don’t know what I can tell you. But you’d might as well sit down, as long as you came all this way.”

  We sat at a picnic table next to the house as the dogs ran and played in the yard. “I’m not comfortable talking about Amish practices with English,” she said. “You people think we’re all religious fanatics, dressing funny and driving buggies.”

  “I’d like to understand more,” I said. “But some of your practices, like shunning, seem pretty harsh, very old-fashioned.”

  “We believe in adult baptism, as you might know,” she said, her hands clasped on the table before her. “You voluntarily commit yourself to a life of obedience to God and the church. Belonging is important and shunning is meant to be redemptive. It is not an attempt to harm or ruin the individual and in most cases it does bring that member back into the fellowship again.”

  “Though not in Floyd’s case,” I said. “Menno wrote a paper about the effect of the shunning on him and his brothers and sisters, and I was very moved by it.”

  “Though they agree on the big points, each Amish community has its own practices. The group Floyd and his family belonged to is notorious for very strict shunning. Normally, the worst that happens is that Floyd wouldn’t be able to eat with his family, for example. But a few generations ago, this sect had some problems, and they tightened up.”

  She sighed, and looked over toward where the dogs were playing. “Floyd was forbidden from having contact with his family. He couldn’t see his kids, give his wife money, or help out with the chores around the farm.” She shrugged. “I’m lucky. Though I left my community, I can still see my daughters, and my grandchildren. It’s not the same as living among them, but that’s a sacrifice I had to make.”

  I didn’t see how anything that tore apart a family could be a good practice, but I wasn’t about to start judging. I had my own issues, after all. “What can you tell me about what Floyd did to merit shunning? I understood he stole some cows from one of his neighbors?”

  “I don’t know,” Rebecca said, pursing her lips. “I don’t believe in gossip, so I have never investigated exactly what happened to Floyd. I am more concerned with helping those who have been shunned make the transition to the English world.” Rochester and Bethesda came running toward us, and he tried to jump up into Rebecca’s lap. She pushed him down, but she smiled, and then Bethesda took off toward a field planted with new corn, with Rochester in hot pursuit.

  “What I do know is that when Floyd was shunned, his oldest sons were thirteen and fourteen, and he took them with him when he moved to Easton,” she said. “The two daughters and the youngest son, who was only six, stayed with their mother. Elizabeth had to sell the farm and move in with her brother’s family. Today she and the children work at a farm store her brother owns.”

  “Can Menno do anything to help?” I asked. “Can he send his mother money?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “By choosing to side with his father, he and his brother were shunned, too. They can’t visit their mother or their brother and sisters; they can’t send money, they can’t associate with anyone in the Amish community. Again, I need to remind you that’s just his particular group; it’s not the case with all the Amish.”

  What a choice, I thought. If my parents had had problems like Menno’s, which side would I have taken? Divorce alone is painful for a kid; to lose the rest of your family, your home, your community—your whole life—must have been incredibly difficult. I could see why Menno had an attitude.

  “I’m worried that Menno might have gotten himself involved in violent acts,” I said. “What do you think about that possibility?”

  Rebecca looked uncomfortable. Had I pushed her too far? Despite Floyd’s record, did she sympathize with him to some degree, based on her own shunning?

  “The Amish are committed to a lifestyle of peace and non-violence,” she said. She stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some chores to finish. Bethesda!”

  The female golden came running, Rochester right on her heels. I had to grab him by the collar and drag him back to the car. “Thank you for your help,” I said, as I manhandled the dog into the front seat.

  I didn’t know what else I could say. That I hoped she would find comfort in the English world? Instead, I just watched as she and the golden walked away from us, through the new fields.

  By the time we got home, it was already past dinner time. I fed Rochester and gave him a short walk, then returned to bed with the two laptops. I should have been working on the risk manager’s manual and forms, but I wanted to finish what I’d started that afternoon, looking into Floyd Zook’s background.

  I found property records online which indicated Floyd had deeded his ownership of the farm to an attorney in Lancaster for a dollar. The attorney transferred the ownership to Elizabeth the next day,
for the same sum. I figured that transaction kept Elizabeth from dealing directly with Floyd.

  A year later, Elizabeth had sold the farm, at what seemed like a low price, to Noah and Rachel Yoder. Since Yoder was Elizabeth’s maiden name, perhaps she had been bailed out of debt by a relative. Or someone in the community had taken advantage of her misfortune and secured some additional acreage.

  All of that was interesting, but all it did was verify what Menno had written in his essay. I wasn’t about to try hacking into any government databases to find out about Floyd’s criminal history; I took it for granted that Rick had the information correct. But I did find a couple of “police blotter” entries in various newspapers, in which I noted that Floyd had a number of criminal accomplices. I wrote all their names down and emailed them to Rick.

  It was clear to me that through his father, Menno had the connections to buy a gun or have a fake license made up for Melissa. But what if he hadn’t gone to his father? Where else could he have gone?

  I had to face the idea that my friend Jackie might be the puppet master as easily as Floyd or Strings. I didn’t want to delve into Jackie’s personal life; she was my friend. But she was as much a suspect as Floyd or Strings, so I had to.

  It was nearly eleven by then, and Rochester came out from under my bed and put his front paws on the bed. “OK, time for your last walk of the day,” I said. I folded up both laptops and tried to get out of bed.

  Tried, because it was damned hard. My back ached, and pain shot through my ribs when I bent my torso at all. But I managed to drag my carcass out of the bed, corral Rochester so I could get his leash on, and then take him for a short walk around the neighborhood. The exercise seemed to do me some good, too. But when we got back, I took a couple of pain pills and got back into bed, and the next thing I knew it was Friday morning.

  Chapter 34 – Jackie

  The night’s sleep did wonders for my pain, and I was feeling like a new man when I walked Rochester around River Bend. Well, maybe not new; marked down, perhaps, but not quite tossed into the trash yet.