Shunning Sarah

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Shunning Sarah Page 9

by Julie Kramer


  “Sounds like the Walmartization of the Amish to me,” I said.

  I was distracted briefly from our conversation by a truck trying to merge in front of me to make a last-minute exit. Just then Sheriff Eide made some remark about also being busy with a family lost in the corn maze.

  “What about corn mazes?” I asked.

  “Some out-of-towners became confused in the maze last night. They ended up calling 9-1-1,” the sheriff said.

  Mazes can be traced back to Greek mythology, when Theseus fought the Minotaur in the Labyrinth. Hedge mazes can also be found in the history of Belgium, England, and France. Recently, cornstalk mazes had become a popular autumn activity in rural Minnesota. There was one not far from Harmony.

  “Someone called the police?” This needed clarification. “Because they were lost in a corn maze?”

  I remembered being lost in a cornfield once when I was young, having to tough it out and walk till the corn turned to soybeans and I could see the farm silos. Of course, that was before the age of cell phones and 911.

  “The couple had a baby along and it got dark and they got scared,” the sheriff said. “So we had to send a K-9 unit over. Turns out, they were only twenty-five feet from the exit.”

  That wasn’t a half-bad news story. Except the corn maze was outside the Channel 3 viewing area. But then I had an idea. “Where was this family from?” I asked.

  “Edina,” he replied.

  Excellent demographics. An affluent Twin Cities suburb. The kind of narrative people would watch and chat about with their coworkers the next day. Viewers liked stories about stupid rich people. Bryce might buy the corn-maze pitch and forget about the Amish debacle.

  And it worked. After yelling at me loads, he sent me off to land an interview with the directionally challenged urban family. If they were good talkers, the story would merit a trip south for scenes of the actual maze. The dark corners. The dead ends. And an interview with the rescue team.

  My penalty was that I had to shoot the video myself.

  Bryce’s office door was shut when I went to double-check that he wasn’t expecting a live shot. Times like this I missed Noreen’s glass walls, when her business was our business. I was nervous about interrupting him. Just as I had decided to march over and knock, his door opened.

  Nicole, the new reporter, came out and something about her face made me reluctant to enter. So I left the newsroom to hit the road behind the wheel, figuring Bryce could always call me.

  Once again, I promised myself I’d invite Nicole out for a drink after work and officially congratulate her on joining the Channel 3 news team.

  Since I was traveling solo, I stopped by my house to pick up Husky for company. He curled his tail around his nose in the backseat and I left him there in the thick of a dog nap. He reminded me of Malik, asleep while I drove.

  I taped an interview with the lost maze mother, complete with cute shots of her newborn baby Barlow in his luxury nursery. She was feeling a little silly about the whole corn-maze episode, but was a good sport about being on TV.

  “Maybe I did overreact,” she said, “and maybe someday we’ll look back on this bit of family history and laugh. But suddenly it was dark and I started worrying about the baby.”

  She planted a kiss on his forehead. “I guess the corn panicked me.”

  City slicker talk.

  I texted the assignment desk: we have the mom.

  • • •

  Maze of Mystery had long been a popular local tourist attraction near Harmony. The kind of entertainment three generations could enjoy together on a pleasant autumn outing. Visitors were greeted by displays of antique tractors, pumpkins, and scarecrows holding scythes that looked too sharp to be mere props. They reminded me of the horror film Children of the Corn.

  If Garnett had been with me, he would certainly have recited, “I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with C.”

  I would have answered, “Corn.” But instead of cluttering my mind with movie trivia, I needed to reap a story. So I went to work.

  The owner had never dealt with a lost-customer situation in all his years operating the corn maze. “I always thought the whole point was to get lost.” The only other time the cops had been called was when an elderly man had a heart attack inside the maze and needed to be transported to the hospital.

  The labyrinth wasn’t open for guests for a couple more hours. Some liked to wander during broad daylight, all the better to see the corn; others preferred the drama of darkness. He agreed to take me and Husky on a tour through the twists and turns, even though dogs weren’t technically allowed. He pointed out posted maps along the way that appeared clear enough for most folks to find their way out.

  “The maze is old-fashioned family fun,” he said. “Even Amish families come by to meander through.”

  He also showed me a covert shortcut that employees used to escape when they were in a hurry. Husky and I made our way from start to finish, where I framed an acceptable standup, eight-foot-tall cornfields on either side of me.

  I fingered the stalks. They were extremely dry tinder because of a lack of rain during the end of the growing season. Peeling back the husks on one ear revealed hard, ripe kernels.

  “No smoking allowed,” the owner teased.

  All the corn would be harvested after Halloween and fed to their cattle.

  I missed having Malik along as photographer because he’d be able to use special stick equipment he kept in the back of the van to shoot a challenging overhead point of view shot of the maze. Not as good as a helicopter aerial, but certainly better than what I’d accomplished.

  ((RILEY STANDUP))

  MOST VISITORS SEEM TO FIND

  THEIR WAY OUT OF THE MAZE

  FROM START TO FINISH IN ABOUT

  AN HOUR. NONE HAVE EVER

  REPORTED BEING LOST BEFORE.

  When I stopped at the Fillmore County Law Enforcement Office for the 911 call, Sheriff Eide was out, but I heard a news bonanza in the form of an agitated woman’s voice on the tape.

  ((911 AUDIO))

  HELP! WE’RE LOST IN THE CORN.

  WE CAN’T FIND THE END.

  The dispatcher—more accustomed to dispatching paramedics and fire crews—seemed taken aback by the nature of the call and asked the woman to confirm her location.

  ((911 AUDIO))

  WE DON’T KNOW WHERE WE

  ARE. DON’T YOU GET IT? WE’RE

  SOMEWHERE IN THE CORN MAZE

  AND CAN’T GET OUT. OUR BABY IS

  SO LITTLE! PLEASE SEND HELP!

  “You’re lost in Maze of Mystery?” the dispatcher asked. Everybody in the area apparently knew of that place. “I’ll stay on the line with you until help arrives.”

  For the next eight minutes I heard a reassuring radio voice say that assistance was near, amid baby cries, heavy breathing, and the rustling noise of cornstalks in the wind. The audio cut out when barking from a K-9 team seemed to signal rescue was under way.

  I had enough sound for a hilarious story, so I was satisfied.

  Husky expressed more interest in the dog on the 911 tape than previously during our corn-maze visit, but seemed disappointed that the other mutt remained in hiding. I thought about how lonely he must be living with me; then I thought about how lonely I was living with him.

  “Too bad neither of us can meet the right man or dog.” I scratched his ears and he settled for that affection. But I craved more than dog approval.

  While I toyed with the idea of what to say if I phoned Garnett and if he answered, my cell buzzed. I thought karma was on the line, until I realized the area code was from southern Minnesota, not Washington, DC.

  “Hello, this is Riley Spartz.” No voice on the other end. “Can I help you?” I persisted.

  “I hope so,” a woman’s voice finally said. “I’d like to discuss the murder of the Amish woman. Can we try again?”

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  The caller was Josh’s mom.


  CHAPTER 28

  When Michelle Kueppers heard we were both in the same county, she urged me to stop by her place before Josh got home from school. That detour didn’t give me much time to swing by Everything Amish, but I could tell something had changed since my last visit with her, so this became top priority.

  Husky and Bowser did a playful dance in the farmyard, during which Husky wisely recognized the other dog’s dominance. Bowser seemed to remember me as nondangerous, and at least didn’t growl at my heels as I walked to the porch.

  Michelle invited me inside this time, and apologized for the last time. I complimented her on her house, decorated in an upscale Norman Rockwell style.

  “Let’s talk about why I’m here,” I said, curious how our balance of power had shifted since her son was pulled from the sinkhole.

  “I want you to find who really killed Sarah Yoder,” she said.

  “I want nothing more. Same with the police, I’m sure. Why? Do you have any information?”

  “I believe the police are settling for a quick and easy suspect.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. “Do they think Josh did this?”

  “No, his father.”

  Her husband, Brian, was overseas in the armed forces. She even showed me a picture of him in uniform displayed on a superb walnut end table next to a small American flag. He was a good-looking man, but then again, a military uniform can make almost any man appear attractive.

  “If he’s serving abroad, why are the cops even looking at him? Seems like that would be a sufficient alibi.”

  She picked up some dried flowers from the table and started arranging them in a brick-colored vase. She fidgeted with the stems and that made her seem even more nervous about my question.

  “He shipped out about five days before her body was found,” she said.

  I did the math. According to the medical examiner report, he was still here when she was killed. But numerous others also had opportunity. There had to be more to Brian Kueppers to interest the cops.

  “Other than that, why are they looking at him?” I asked.

  Location, location, location. Sheriff Eide apparently thought only area farmers would know about the sinkhole. He’d ordered them all interviewed in case they saw something or did something.

  As authorities took Michelle down the investigative play-by-play of who was where when, she had unwittingly confirmed Brian was unaccounted for during what they apparently believed was the critical time of Sarah’s death. In fact, he’d been gone for nearly four hours. Out driving is what he’d told her the night they’d argued.

  Even that wasn’t nearly enough evidence to suspect him, I thought. There had to be more.

  “I checked you out, Ms. Spartz, and you know what it’s like to be wrongly accused.”

  She had checked me out. I had briefly been charged with murder once. But I wasn’t convinced of Brian Kueppers’s innocence. He might be plenty guilty of killing Sarah Yoder. And apparently, military police had conducted an inquiry with him wherever he was in the Middle East at the request of Fillmore County law enforcement. He’d given them the same “out driving” alibi.

  “It seems to me this isn’t enough for the law to get excited over.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “They must know something else about your husband. The question is, do you know what it is?”

  She crushed a brown flower in her palm and rubbed the dust between her fingers. I was reminded of Father Mountain delivering that traditional Ash Wednesday line about being dust and returning to dust.

  Michelle wiped her hands on her jeans and looked up at me. “A couple times a few years back, he scared me.”

  That was something. “Did he hurt you?” That was something else.

  “Not badly. But I was frightened.”

  “Did you ever call the authorities for help?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  That meant they had paperwork on her husband. “That’s why they’re interested in him.”

  “But he changed. He got help. I know that sounds feeble, but we have a strong marriage even six thousand miles apart.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but let her argument pass unchallenged by changing the subject. “How’s Josh doing?”

  “He’s good. Proud of his role in helping to identify Sarah. Now that she has a name, he doesn’t seem afraid anymore.”

  “He did important work,” I said. “I’m glad he’s coping.”

  At the mention of Josh, she glanced at the clock in the kitchen. I realized she wanted me to leave before the school bus brought her son home.

  “Let’s stay in touch,” I suggested, and she readily agreed. “Do you and your husband ever do webcam conversations?”

  She said they’d had one frantic cybertalk after Josh fell in the pit, and were hoping for less urgent ones.

  “I might like to chat with him myself,” I said.

  I didn’t press the issue, just planted the idea of a face-to-face encounter with this possible suspect. But first, I’d want to see what the sheriff might cough up about Brian Kueppers. Because I sensed there had to be something else that Michelle either didn’t know or wasn’t telling.

  CHAPTER 29

  The highway route back to the Twin Cities took me through the other end of Harmony, where I passed a large warehouse building with an enormous banner that read Everything Amish: Furniture Quilts Crafts.

  I drove around the store and noticed a truck backed up against a loading dock. The cab was empty and the cargo had been unloaded.

  I parked near the front door, next to a fast-looking Chevy Camaro. The sports car caught my eye because it was the type of vehicle that my deceased husband would have loved to test drive. I ran my hand over the shiny black fender. The rest of the lot was ordinary. Several cars had out-of-state license plates and seemed to belong to tourists, shopping for a piece of Amish culture.

  Since the autumn day was cool, Husky waited in the car while I explored. The professional setup contrasted with the occasional handwritten signs along dirt roads professing to sell New Potatoes or Baskets. Those all cautioned Not on Sundays.

  What this sprawling enterprise lacked in country charm it made up for in selection. And hours. I noted it was open Sunday afternoons. And at the cash register, a modest sign indicated they took credit cards. A convenience not found on the Amish farms I visited.

  A young woman greeted us, but immediately retreated to a corner room when I mentioned I’d like to talk to someone about Sarah Yoder.

  I was admiring an oak dining-room table when a handsome man approached me. He wore designer jeans and a black turtleneck under a fashionable blazer. He looked good enough to be on air, or in GQ magazine. But something about him seemed different, perhaps his manner of speech or way of walking.

  “We deliver,” he said.

  I was tempted. If Malik had been along, he wouldn’t have left empty handed. After all, our station van has plenty of room in back. Usually during ratings months my cameraman saved his overtime money to buy a new household appliance for his wife. But lately, overtime was virtually nil. So were any real prospects of new furniture.

  “Maybe another time,” I answered. “The set is stunning, but space is an issue.”

  I was renting another furnished house in south Minneapolis and until I knew I was settled somewhere to stay, I didn’t want to acquire anything large or heavy.

  “Then maybe the quilts are calling you.” He walked me over to a full wall display of color and design hanging from rails across the ceiling.

  A vivid geometric one attracted my attention, but when I saw the prices, I warned myself not to become too attached. The cheapest was marked $750, the most expensive $1,195. Buying cashew crunch, potatoes, and pie in the line of duty was one thing. A quilt, at that price, was something else.

  “If the Amish are such simple folk,” I asked, “how come their goods are so pricey?”

  “Because Amish must make a living, too,” he replied. “And beca
use in this manufactured world of ours, finding something so beautiful that is truly made by hand is difficult. Each of these quilts is as unique as a fingerprint.”

  His answer seemed obvious and made me want one even more. Clearly he couldn’t charge those prices if customers weren’t paying up.

  “But you haven’t come here to talk about quilts, have you?” he said. “I understand you have questions about Sarah Yoder.” He introduced himself as Isaac Hochstetler, the owner of Everything Amish. “But you can call me Ike.”

  I handed him a business card that read Riley Spartz, news reporter, but assured him he could call me Riley.

  “Are you Amish, Ike?” Hardly seemed possible. His clothing far from plain. But he appeared to be running a thriving business selling Amish merchandise.

  “Once,” he said, “but we should talk about Sarah, not me.”

  Ike’s past sounded fascinating, and he might be a more interesting tutor than Father Mountain. But time was tight. Channel 3 would be expecting the corn-maze story soon.

  I told Ike that I understood he had contacted the police after seeing the artist sketch of the murdered woman and had identified her as Sarah Yoder.

  “How did you know her?” I asked.

  “She worked for me for a few days. And then she stopped showing up.” He walked over to a desk calendar and flipped the pages back. “This was her last shift.”

  The day was five days before her body was discovered in the pit.

  “What was Sarah’s last day at work like?” I asked.

  “I missed most of it.” He had to drive to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester midafternoon to visit a sick friend, so he left Sarah to close up the store. “All she had to do was shut the door and the place would lock. And she apparently did. Whatever trouble befell her, it happened after she left here.”

  “Seems sort of trusting to leave her in charge after only being on the job a matter of days,” I remarked. “You certainly have valuable inventory.”

  “She was Amish,” Ike said. “I didn’t worry.”

  “So you might have been the last person to see Sarah alive?”

 

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