Harmless as Doves: An Amish-Country Mystery

by P. L. Gaus

  Jeremiah nodded. “She still has trouble with the letters V and W. Her cheek droops a little. And she drags her leg when she’s tired.”

  Cal tasted his coffee and asked, “How are the kids?”

  “Fine,” Jeremiah said evenly. “Excited about the trip.”

  Cal laughed. “I’d like to have a picture of that. You know—a picture of all you Amish, down at Disney.”

  Blank stares came from the two Amish men.

  Covering the silence, Cal assured them, “I wouldn’t try to take your pictures.”

  Jeremiah nodded and laughed. Eyes dancing, Isaac said, “We’re just givin’ you the business, Cal.”

  A peaceful, silent moment passed as the men rocked on the front porch, and then Jeremiah said, “Vesta’s father could smell money through an iron door.”

  Slow to catch his thoughts up to that remark, Cal asked, “You know about him?”

  Jeremiah nodded. “He’s been trying to get one of his daughters married into our district.”

  Cal sipped his coffee and let another moment pass silently, knowing to let the men speak of Crist and Vesta when they were ready. They spoke of the weather, the crops, and the RV trip to Disney, and then, casting his gaze out over a distant field of corn, Jeremiah remarked, “Crist Burkholder was gonna be a big problem for Jacob Miller.”

  Cal waited a beat, sipped some more coffee, and then carefully asked, “Because he wanted Vesta to marry Glenn Spiegle, instead of Crist Burkholder?”

  Both Isaac and Jeremiah nodded.

  “OK,” Cal asked, “but what did Glenn Spiegle have that Vesta’s father would have been so interested in?”

  After a silence, Jeremiah answered, “Money, Cal. A lot of money, even by your English standards.”

  * * *

  “She’s still impaired, Cal,” Caroline complained sadly.

  They were in Cal’s battered truck, driving back to Millersburg in a thunderstorm that was producing sleet, the pulse of the ice on the old metal roof sounding like a thousand wooden mallets pounding loose stone.

  “She drags her left foot, Cal,” Caroline added over the rattle of the storm. “And her cheek is still sunken.”

  “I know,” Cal said. “I should have prepared you better.”

  Agitated, Caroline turned on her seat to face Cal and said, “A doctor told her that it’s dangerous for her to have children, but the bishop won’t let her use birth control.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me, Cal. She wants me to help her get birth control. She says Vesta wants it, too, but they can’t tell anyone. The church doesn’t permit it.”

  “Amish don’t use birth control, Caroline. You know that.”

  “But this is Sara, Cal. She’s had strokes, and she shouldn’t have any more kids.”

  Cal slowed at the junction with Route 83 and waited in the mounting storm for a buggy to clear the intersection. The sleet turned to rain, and Cal made the turn, with dark clouds pressing close to the road and the rain coming down so hard that it produced a spray on the pavement in front of his truck. Choosing his words carefully, Cal drove slowly through the rain and said, “Did you know that Isaac leaves money for artificial insemination in a secret place, behind a post in his barn?”

  “What?” Caroline asked over the pounding of the rain.

  “I’m trying to tell you something about birth control,” Cal said as he steered through standing water. “With the Amish, Caroline. Isaac has to pay secretly for artificial insemination.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  They passed through a brief clearing and then through another burst of cold rain.

  “For the cows, Caroline. They’re not allowed to use artificial insemination for the cows.”

  “What has that got to do with Vesta?”

  “It goes against nature,” Cal said, “so it’s not allowed. But they need it to sustain their herds. So at a prearranged time, all of Isaac’s family manages to be away from home, and they put the “candidate” in one of the milking stalls in the barn. Then the man comes to do his work. If he’s sure nobody’s home, he goes into the barn, does his thing, and takes his fee from the hiding place behind the post. It gives Isaac plausible deniability, and the bishop never has to know about it. Or at least he never has a reason to ask about it. And if he doesn’t ask, they can all pretend that he doesn’t know about it.”

  “Seems hypocritical to me,” Caroline snapped.

  Noting her tone, Cal said, “If they’re going to have birth control—Sara and Vesta—someone’s going to have to help them do it secretly.”

  Fighting her emotions, Caroline rode beside Cal and tried to suppress her anxiety by listening to the rumbling of the thunder overhead and to the splashing of Cal’s truck tires as he drove through the standing water on the pavement.

  Cal’s phone rang, and as he steered, he checked the display and answered it, saying, “Hi, Rachel.”

  He listened, said, “OK,” switched off, and said to Caroline, “Can you come over to the house? I need to stop at home.”

  Caroline shook her head. “Just take me home, Cal.”

  “You’re upset about Sara?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. Things seem to make me angry, anymore.”

  “You going to be OK?”

  “Yes,” Caroline answered halfheartedly. “Really, Cal, you should just take me home.”

  Cal drove into town past the Walmart and said, “Is this more of your recent anxiety?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably just Sara and Vesta. You know, not being able to use birth control.”

  “Because, if it’s more of that anxiety,” Cal continued, “then maybe we should talk.”

  Caroline didn’t answer right away. They made the turn at the courthouse square, and Caroline said, “It’s just ignorance, Cal. With the Amish. It makes me angry. Lots of things seem to make me angry, anymore.”

  “This isn’t like you,” Cal said. “Have you talked with Mike? About feeling this anger, again?”

  “This isn’t about Eddie, Cal,” Caroline said. “It’s just Sara and Vesta. And Vesta’s father. And Crist Burkholder in jail, because her father wouldn’t let her marry him. All of it, I guess. And now, Sara needs help with something that ought to be easy.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is? You had that angry spell, after you killed Eddie.”

  “Please, just take me home, Cal.”

  “You should come over to my house,” Cal offered again.

  “Doesn’t Rachel need you? Didn’t she just call?”

  “Yes, but I think you could use the company.”

  “Please, Cal. This isn’t about Eddie Hunt-Myers.”

  Cal made the turn onto the college heights and pulled into the Brandens’ cul-de-sac. When Caroline got out, she wouldn’t turn to him to say good-bye. But, in the corner of her eye, Cal saw the tears starting to form.

  18

  Thursday, October 8

  11:30 A.M.

  RACHEL RAMSAYER was not a particularly small dwarf, but she was still nowhere near average in height. When she was seated at her computer, her feet touched the floor only because Cal had made adjustments to the legs and casters on her chair. And he had built the custom office furniture in her study, with a computer console set lower to the floor than average. So when he pulled his taller chair up to her monitor, she had to adjust its angle so they both could see it.

  “Here it is,” she said, and clicked open her Google Earth program. Then with several clicks of her mouse, she drew down her focus successively closer to the stretch of beach in Bradenton where Billy Winters’s truck transponder had been located the day before.

  Once Cal had a chance to study the scene, Rachel said, “I had the Bradenton Beach police on the phone, Dad. All the excitement’s over, but that’s where Billy’s truck is. I mean, it’s still there, and it shouldn’t be.”

  “Your tracker—transponder—says it’s still there?”

>   “Yes. The police station is two blocks away. I’ve been talking with a local cop, and he says they’ve got the truck roped off with crime scene tape, and they’re going through it right now.”

  Cal asked, “Do we know where Billy is?”

  “No, and the police don’t know, either.”

  “And they’re wondering why his truck is still there?” Cal asked, tapping the screen.

  “More than that, Dad. They’ve been on this scene since about eleven o’clock last night.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone reported an incident.”

  “What is that, exactly?”

  “An ‘incident’ is all they said.”

  “But the truck is still there, Rachel.”

  “Right, Dad. They’ve had the crime scene people out there all night.”

  “Why? Is Billy hurt?”

  “Don’t know, Dad, but there’s blood on the inside panel of the driver’s-side door. And the door was left hanging open, like there was a fight, and Billy ran off.”

  Cal pushed back and stood up to pace the room. “What else do you know?”

  Rachel turned her chair toward Cal. “Police are interviewing the witness who reported the incident. They had to track him down with phone records, because he wouldn’t give his name when he called 911.”

  “So, somebody saw something. That’s good.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know who that is, yet. And I don’t know what he’s telling the police down there.”

  Stopping in the center of the room, Cal asked, “Does Darba Winters know anything about this?”

  “I don’t know, but I called Evelyn Carson this morning, as soon as I got off the phone with Bradenton Beach.”

  “Did she go out to Darba’s place?”

  “I think so.”

  “OK, do you have any other way to find out about Billy?”

  “No. I’d have to hack the police computers.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Of course I could. Question is, would you really want me to do that?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Good call, Dad.”

  “Do you still have a phone contact?”

  “Sure, but anybody can call down there, Dad. There’s only a few cops in the unit at Bradenton Beach.”

  “OK, what do we know so far? Let’s go through it.”

  “The truck’s been there all night. Right where Billy parked it, yesterday.”

  “But, we don’t really know that Billy is the one who parked it there,” Cal argued.

  “OK, it’s right where Billy usually parks it.”

  “What else?”

  “Police are there, investigating.”

  “What else?”

  “Somebody was hurt. There’s blood. Not much, but there definitely is blood.”

  Cal headed out of the room slowly. Thinking. Frowning.

  “Where you going, Dad?”

  Absently, Cal answered, “Out to see Evelyn Carson.”

  “At Darba Winters’s place?”

  Cal turned back. “Right.”

  “You want me to stay on this?”

  “You don’t have to go to work?”

  “I can work from home today.”

  “OK, then can you let me know what the police find?”

  “Sure.”

  “And what happens to that truck?”

  “That’d be my responsibility, anyway. To keep track of the truck.”

  “But the police, too, right? You’ll check with the police, about Billy?”

  “Yes, but that’s my truck down there. So, I called Bruce Robertson, and he called Bradenton Beach to tell them I’d be following the case for Kline’s Cheese. And he asked for cooperation, keeping him informed, too.”

  “Wait,” Cal said and thought. “Does Robertson know that Billy’s missing?”

  “We don’t really know that Billy is actually missing, Dad.”

  “Right, but there’s blood in his truck.”

  “Doesn’t mean that Billy is missing. Not yet, anyway. That could be anybody’s blood.”

  “But, blood is not good.”

  “No.”

  “OK, then I’m still going out to Darba’s place.”

  “You should go see Bruce, first.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants to talk to you about Crist Burkholder.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Aside from the fact that he killed someone?”

  Cal grimaced. “Apart from the fact that a pacifist Amish lad killed someone with his fists, do you know what Robertson wants?”

  “No, but he said Missy Taggert has finished her autopsy. And he wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “OK. Robertson first, then Darba.”

  “Right, Dad. But the sheriff was gonna have his first computer lesson here at six o’clock. And now, I’m thinking that I probably should wave him off.”

  19

  Thursday, October 8

  1:00 P.M.

  CAL ATE lunch at the McDonald’s south of town and drove up to the courthouse square, turning into narrow Court Street behind the jail. A clergy pass would normally let him park anywhere he wanted at the jail, but Cal had never bothered to request one. As it was, every deputy in Holmes County knew his battered gray carpenter’s truck, and when he pulled to the curb, he knew with reasonable certainty that he’d never get a ticket, despite the several “Sheriff’s Vehicles Only” signs that were bolted to the brick walls. Aside from the sheriff and his deputies, Professor Michael Branden was the only other person in Holmes County who was afforded that same rare privilege to park behind the jail.

  Inside, Cal walked down the old paneled hallway past the deputy’s ready room to Robertson’s office on the left, and before he pushed through the door, he gave a wave to Ellie Troyer-Niell, who was working one of the radio consoles at her desk at the end of the hall. She waved him a go-ahead, and Cal knocked and entered.

  Robertson was standing at one of the west-facing windows of his office, back turned to the room, watching traffic roll by on Clay Street, just south of its busy intersection with Jackson. Once in the room, Cal could see the Civil War monument through the windows to the north, and against the wall to the right of Robertson’s door, he found Missy Taggert, standing beside the credenza, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  Missy’s curly brown hair was pinned up in back, and she was dressed in her medical examiner’s green scrubs and a pair of soft white shoes. Cal nodded, Missy said, “Hi, Cal,” and they both took seats at the front edge of Robertson’s big cherry desk. When the sheriff turned from the window, he asked Cal, “You get my message?”

  “Rachel said you have some questions.”

  Robertson nodded and stepped behind his desk to drop his bulk into his swivel chair.

  While the sheriff pulled himself up to his desk, Missy said, “I’ve finished my autopsy, Cal.”

  Cal nodded and looked to Robertson. The sheriff hesitated and then brought forward his chief complaint.

  “Cal,” he said, “this confession doesn’t square with the autopsy.”

  Missy said, “Spiegle was beaten so severely, Cal, that five bones in his face were crushed.”

  Robertson asked, “You ever know an Amish kid to go off on someone like that?”

  “It’s hard for me to believe that any of them would do that,” Cal said.

  “They’re farmhands, Cal. They’d be strong enough.”

  “Strength is one thing,” Cal said. “But they’re pacifists. At least they’re supposed to be.”

  “Then we’ve got one who isn’t,” Robertson said, and pushed back from his desk. “Tell him, Missy.”

  Matter-of-factly, Missy said, “Spiegle’s face was battered and almost unrecognizable. But first, he fell and hit his head on the concrete pad inside that barn. It was the subsequent beating that killed him. He blew out an aneurysm, which he probably already had—they can be genetic in origin, so he may have had it all his life—and that
resulted in a subdural hematoma. He would have died in minutes.”

  “Crist told me that he hit him only once,” Cal said.

  Robertson scoffed, “Then either he’s lying, or he doesn’t remember. Either way, it’s manslaughter.”

  Missy nodded agreement over her coffee cup. “If Burkholder beat him up after he fell—like my autopsy shows—then he killed him. It’s really quite simple, Cal.”

  “But isn’t it likely that any beating at all would have killed him?” Cal asked.

  “Can’t say,” Missy said. “But this wasn’t just any beating, Cal. This was merciless.”

  Cal thought about Crist Burkholder holding that much rage in a fistfight and wondered why Glenn Spiegle wouldn’t have defended himself. Maybe the first blow had incapacitated him. He wondered also why Crist Burkholder was so intent on confessing.

  Robertson said, “The problem we have now is that Burkholder’s hands are not bruised. They aren’t even scratched. It doesn’t look like he beat up anyone.”

  Cal looked to Missy and then back to the sheriff. “Are you saying that you think he’s innocent?”

  “I do,” Missy said. “I think he hit him once, and ran off, like he says.”

  Cal looked to Robertson. The sheriff nodded and said, “I don’t really want to charge him.”

  Cal lifted his palms. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “His confession,” Robertson said. “He’s not retracting his confession.”

  “What does Linda Hart say?” Cal asked.

  “She won’t let us talk to him anymore,” Robertson said.

  “Does she know that you don’t believe his confession?” Cal asked.

  Robertson held up a hand. “It’s only Missy who doesn’t believe it, Cal. I think he beat the man, and he just doesn’t remember it.”

  “But his hands aren’t damaged,” Cal argued.

  “So,” Robertson said, “he was wearing gloves.”

  “So, where are they?” Cal asked.

  Robertson rolled his eyes and stood up. “Come on, Cal. He disposed of them.”

  “OK,” Cal said. “But if he’s clever enough to hide a bloody pair of gloves, why does he insist on confessing?”