Shamed

by Linda Castillo

  I go to the living room and look around. It’s too dark to see much and I’m reminded that, like most Amish, Sadie didn’t use electricity. I cross to the window that looks out onto the front porch and open the drapes. Dust motes fly in the crepuscular light that pours in.

  I hear Tomasetti moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets and drawers. “There’s a little pantry to your right,” I call out to him.

  “Kinda hate to disturb the mouse chowing down in the box of cereal.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’re looking for clues, Tomasetti, not mice. I’ll take the bedrooms.”

  I smile when he doesn’t respond, and I glance left toward the hall where I found Sadie’s body. It’s a narrow, dark space. A rust-colored stain the size of a dinner plate mars the beaten-down carpet. Blood, I realize. A hole the size of a coaster has been cut out of the carpet, probably by the crime scene technician to send a sample to the lab for testing.

  “I set out the garbage.”

  I startle at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice, turn to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at me. “Thank you,” I say.

  He looks past me at the stain and the cutout in the carpet, doesn’t say what he’s thinking. “Any idea what we’re looking for?”

  I can tell by his expression he doesn’t believe we’re going to find anything of value. He’s going through the motions for my benefit. If I wanted to be honest about it, I don’t think we’re going to find anything either. Nothing’s ever that easy. The house has already been searched by Scioto County deputies as well as BCI. Even so, they probably weren’t looking for the same sort of thing that I’m interested in today.

  “No,” I confess, but I’m thinking. “Most Amish correspond with letters. Any kind of writing. A diary. If we’re lucky, she kept some kind of record of the babies she’d delivered over the years.”

  “I’ll take the kitchen.” He retreats in that direction. “With the mouse. Let’s make it quick.”

  I go to the first bedroom, push open the door. The room is about ten feet square, darkened, the curtains drawn. There’s a twin-size bed covered with a ratty blanket. A closet. A pair of sneakers tossed into a corner. A desk with a single lantern, its globe black with soot. I look around, check under the bed, beneath the mattress, but there’s nothing there.

  I’m more interested in Sadie’s bedroom, where she likely kept personal items, so I move on to the next room. I know immediately this is where she slept. Where she hoped and dreamed and lived out her last days.

  I cross to the window, spread the drapes, try not to inhale dust. There’s a full-size bed with an iron headboard. A night table contains a lantern set atop a doily, a small book titled Prayers for Difficult Times, and a votive candle that’s burned down to nothing. A faceless Amish doll sits in a rocking chair in the corner along with a black winter bonnet. Across the room a narrow chest is piled high with newspapers. The drawers are open. A sock hangs out of the top drawer. I wonder if the mess was left behind by Sadie or law enforcement—or someone else.

  I kneel next to the nightstand. The candle smells of sandalwood. I open the top drawer, find a Beverly Lewis paperback novel, a tube of lip balm, a package of saltine crackers, a half-eaten chocolate bar. Evidently Sadie Stutzman was a reader and a snacker.

  The next drawer is filled with books and newspapers in seemingly no order. I see an ancient-looking German Martin Luther Bible, a tattered copy of Ausbund, which is a songbook used during worship, and dozens of newspapers and clippings from The Budget, The Connection, and The Diary out of Lancaster County. All are Amish publications. Some of the newspapers are folded and intact; some have had pages torn out, stories or advertisements that have been cut out.

  I page through the newspapers first, checking the dates—which go as far back as last summer. I find nothing of interest.

  “Come on, Sadie,” I whisper.

  The final drawer contains a stack of handwritten recipes that have been paper-clipped together. Lydia’s Date Pudding. Pickled Asparagus. Rachel’s Chow Chow. Mommie’s No Bake Cookies. I page through all of it and find a frayed manila folder at the bottom of the drawer. I flip it open, glance inside. Dozens of newspaper clippings stare back at me. Most are missing the date; there’s no indication of which publications they came from. I leaf through them. Obituaries. Births. Accidents. Church happenings.

  I’m about to close the drawer and move on when I spot the brown envelope in the back. I reach for it. My heart stutters when I see the familiar crinkled white notebook papers inside.

  “Good girl,” I whisper.

  Pinching the corner of the papers, I pull out two notes and carefully unfold them.

  It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.

  I go to the second note.

  If a thief is caught breaking in at night and is struck a fatal blow, the defender is not guilty of bloodshed …

  Though I still don’t have a name or suspect, for the first time, I can definitively tie the murder and abduction in Painters Mill to at least one murder in Crooked Creek.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ninety-one hours missing

  After leaving the Stutzman place—the manila folder and a boatload of newspapers, tear sheets, and cutouts in hand—we head north toward Wheelersburg. As we make the turn onto Hansgen Morgan Road, I tell Tomasetti about my conversation with Freda Troyer. “The night they brought the baby to Painters Mill, they used a driver. Freda remembers seeing a van parked in her driveway.”

  His eyes latch on to mine. “Does she have a name to go along with the van?”

  “She didn’t see the driver, but some of the Amish drivers, fondly referred to as ‘Yoder Toters,’ are hired out on a regular basis and are well known by the Amish community. The bishop is usually well connected. I’m betting we can get a name.”

  “You thinking this driver overheard something?”

  “Or he might be able to give us a name we don’t already have.”

  We park in the same spot as last time I was here. I notice the barn door standing open, so we forgo a trip to the house and head that way. We find Chupp mucking stalls, a wheelbarrow full of wood shavings and manure in the aisle.

  “You’re back,” he says by way of greeting, and his eyes slide to Tomasetti. “With a friend.”

  Tomasetti introduces himself and extends his hand.

  “Any luck finding that missing girl?” the bishop asks.

  I shake my head. “Did you have a chance to ask around to see if anyone is aware of what may have happened with the newborn seven years ago?”

  Sobering, the bishop sets the pitchfork on the ground and leans. “I spoke with several people, Chief Burkholder. Reliable people who’ve lived in Crooked Creek all their lives. No one knows of an infant. If Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman were involved in such a thing, they did not speak of it.”

  Disappointment takes a swipe at me, but I block it and move on to my next question. “I think Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman may have hired a driver the night they traveled to Painters Mill. Do you know of someone who was driving for the Amish about that time?”

  The bishop’s eyes widen slightly. “Elmer Moyer has been driving the Amish around for as long as I can remember. He’s a nice fellow. A Mennonite. A real talker, if you know what I mean. I’ve hired him a few times myself.” Chupp looks from me to Tomasetti and back at me, his expression grave. “Chief Burkholder, I heard just last week that Elmer Moyer left town.”

  My heart does a weird patter against my ribs. “Do you know where he went or why he left?”

  He shakes his head. “Word around town is that Elmer had some debt.” He lowers his voice. “A tab at the feed store. A bunch of credit cards. It was common knowledge he was having money problems.”

  “How long ago did he leave?” I ask.

  “Recently.” He shrugs. “A couple of weeks maybe.”

  “Do you have any i
dea how to get in touch with him?”

  The bishop shakes his head. “Cell phone is disconnected. Several people I know have tried to contact him when they needed a ride. Elmer hasn’t returned a single call.”

  “Sounds like he doesn’t want to be found.” Tugging his cell from his pocket, Tomasetti thumbs something it. “Let me see if he’s in the system.”

  “Does Moyer have family in the area?” I ask the bishop. “Friends? Someone who was close to him?”

  “I don’t believe so. Not in Crooked Creek, anyway. He courted the waitress down to the diner for a while. Patty Lou. But I don’t think they ever married. She still works there. Little place on Buckeye Street downtown called Foley’s.”

  The bishop’s eyebrows furrow as if he’s troubled by the things we’ve discussed. “You don’t think something bad has happened to Elmer, do you?”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.

  “He drove me to Cincinnati for a doctor’s appointment a couple of months ago. We stopped for lunch on the way back. I bought him a burger and a shake.” He shrugs. “Didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him.”

  When we’re back in the Explorer, Tomasetti says, “Elmer Moyer is not a missing person. He’s not in any of the databases. No warrants.”

  “Record?”

  “One conviction on misdemeanor drug charges two years ago. Possession of a controlled substance. Paid a fine. Did probation. No time served. Speeding ticket last summer.”

  “So he’s not Scarface,” I say. “I guess the question now is: Did he leave of his own accord? Or did someone do away with him?”

  Tomasetti takes it a step further. “Or is he somehow involved in the abduction?”

  I think about that a moment. “Moyer used to date the waitress down at the diner. You hungry?”

  “Frickin’ starved.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Ninety-five hours missing

  Foley’s is more bar than diner and has Hard Times written all over its redbrick facade. It’s nestled between a parking lot riddled with knee-high yellow grass and a vacant space that was once Uhlman’s Department Store. I park the Explorer in the lot next to a pickup truck the size of a tank and we head inside.

  The interior is a dimly lit, narrow space with booths to the right and, on the left, an ornate bar that’s probably as old as the building itself. The air smells of onions, week-old grease, and spilled beer—all of it infused with the redolence of decades-old cigarette smoke. Two men in brown duck coveralls sit at the bar, sipping beer, watching a TV tuned to cable news with the volume muted. A couple sits at a booth by the window. An old Crosby, Stills & Nash rocker blares from a jukebox in the corner. No one looks up when we walk in, so we make our way to the nearest booth and sit.

  I’m thinking about Elsie Helmuth and the fateful trip that took her to Painters Mill seven years ago when a woman wearing snug jeans and a fuzzy purple sweater hustles up to the booth. “Evening, folks,” she says in a tough voice. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  She’s tall and thin, with a face that had once been pretty. She’s a fast mover, a woman used to getting things done quickly and being on her feet for hours at a time. I’m betting she’s waitress, bartender, and manager and she’s probably run this place for quite some time.

  “I’ll have a Killian’s Irish Red,” Tomasetti tells her.

  “Same.” Before she can turn away, I ask, “Can you tell us where we can find Patty Lou?”

  She spins, her gaze alternating between curiosity and caution. “You guys cops or what?”

  Good eye, I think as I lay down my badge. “We’re looking for Elmer Moyer.”

  She looks at my badge a moment too long, not reading, but getting her response in order. “What makes you think I know where he is?”

  “You’re a friend of his.”

  “Was. Past tense.” Her eyes scan the room, the bar, the booth. Checking on her customers. Making sure they have everything they need. Tips are important to her.

  “He left, so I guess we’re not friends anymore,” she tells me.

  I’m aware of Tomasetti settling against the seat back, letting me know this is my show. “When was that?” I ask.

  “Little over two weeks ago.” She narrows eyes swathed with makeup that doesn’t quite conceal the shadows beneath them or the crow’s-feet at the corners. “What’d he do?”

  “We’re just trying to find him.”

  “Uh-huh. Right. And I’m here because I like the benefits. Give me a break.”

  “How long were you friends?” I ask.

  “Ten years, on and off.” She rethinks her answer. “Mostly on toward the end.”

  “Can you tell us why he left?” I ask.

  “Hell if I know. One minute he’s Mr. Let’s-Get-Married and the next he’s just fucking gone.” Her tough veneer cracks and for a split second I catch a glimpse of the woman beneath, the one who’d once been happy and hopeful for a future with a man she loved. “If you figure it out, let me know, will you? I’ll be back with your beers.” She turns and goes back to the bar.

  “Sounds like she wasn’t expecting Mr. Perfect to skip town,” Tomasetti says.

  I look at him. “What do you think?”

  “I think I want to find Elmer Moyers.”

  “Suspect? Witness? Victim?”

  “All of the above, but I’m leaning toward witness.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Sounds like he flew the coop right about the time Noah Schwartz was killed.”

  The waitress returns to our booth, sets two beers in front of us, and slaps down a couple of menus. “Turkey and gravy is the special,” she says as she pulls out her order pad. “Chicken fried steak is better.”

  “I understand Elmer did some driving for the Amish,” I say.

  She lowers the pad. “Yeah, they hired him sometimes. You know, for long trips. He wasn’t exactly raking in the cash, but they paid him well.”

  “Did he work anywhere else?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Worked over to the hardware store for a while. But he was on disability. Hurt his back when he was working construction. Couldn’t lift much over ten pounds.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “Little furnished apartment above the furniture store. Landlord has already rented the place.”

  “Did he ever make a trip to Painters Mill?” I ask.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did he ever take a trip with Bishop Schwartz?”

  Something flickers in her eyes. Some memory she hasn’t thought of in a long time. “I think he did. Like, a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “Years?” Curiosity glimmers in her eyes. “Why are you guys asking all these questions about Elmer?”

  “Did anyone else go with them on that trip?” I ask.

  “Look, I don’t know anything about it. I just remember him mentioning he was going to be driving the bishop somewhere. It was a long drive and the old man paid cash.”

  “Did anything unusual happen during that trip?” I ask.

  “He didn’t say.” She swipes at a tuft of hair that’s fallen onto her forehead. “Y’all have me pretty curious, though.”

  “Can you sit a moment?” I slide over to give her room.

  She throws a glance toward the door that leads to the kitchen. “Can’t. Owner usually pops in about this time of day.”

  Tomasetti sets three twenty-dollar bills on the table.

  “I reckon I can spare a five-minute break.” Reaching for the bills, she stuffs them into her jeans pocket and lowers herself into the booth. “What’s this all about? Is Elmer all right?”

  I give her the basics of the case in Painters Mill, not relaying any information that isn’t already available to the public. “We think Elmer may have driven Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman to Painters Mill.”

  Her mouth opens. I see something click into place in her eyes. For the first time since we arrived, she gives me her undivided attention. �
�Sadie Stutzman,” she whispers. “My God, that old lady who was murdered the other night?”

  I nod. “Bishop Schwartz is dead, too,” I tell her. “Killed in a hit-and-run accident.”

  She falls silent, sets her elbows on the table, looks down at her hands, then back at me. “What does that have to do with Elmer?”

  “Do you remember what day Elmer left town?” I ask.

  “The twentieth of October.”

  The day after Noah Schwartz was killed.

  “How was Elmer acting before he left?” I ask.

  Her eyes sweep from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “He was fine. I mean, I was working double shifts. I was busy, stressed. But he seemed … the same as always.” Even as she makes the statement, I hear the hesitation in her voice.

  Tomasetti steps in. “Patty Lou, did he seem upset or worried about anything in the days and weeks before he left?”

  “Or scared?” I add.

  Patty Lou doesn’t answer right away. I see the wheels of thought spinning. She’s thinking, remembering. Despite her tough-as-nails exterior, she’s not very good at keeping her thoughts and emotions hidden from view.

  After a moment, she blinks and looks down at her hands. “I figured there was another woman. I mean, we were getting along great. I wasn’t expecting him to just pick up and freaking leave me.”

  “Did he—” I start to speak, but she cuts me off.

  “Look, he was … weird the last couple of days.” She heaves a defeated sigh. “Elmer was a talker. Man, he could carry on a conversation all by himself for days. Except for when he was worried and then he just kind of clammed up.”

  “Any idea what he was worried about?” Tomasetti presses.

  She looks away, checks her customers, the door leading to the kitchen. Shoring up, I think. Then turns her attention back to us. “I thought he was going to pop the question. I figured he was nervous. Big step and all. After he left, I thought…” She shrugs thin shoulders. “I figured he was preoccupied because he’d been planning his big disappearing act.”