“There’s no child on this property,” the sheriff says as we approach. “We searched the house, the land. There’s nothing there. I’ve got deputies canvassing, talking to neighbors, and no one has seen either Detweiler in the vicinity. No one recalls seeing a light-colored truck in the area.”
“We’ve run both of them through the system,” Tomasetti adds. “No warrants. No criminal record.”
Pallant makes a sound of frustration. “We tried locating known associates, but we haven’t had any luck. None of the Amish have phones.” He sighs. “Part of the problem is these Old Order Amish stay off the grid. No electricity. No phone. No driver’s license.”
“Did you get anything from Irene Detweiler?” I ask.
“We talked to her at length,” he tells me. “She doesn’t know anything about a missing child. And she doesn’t know where her son and daughter-in-law are. I guess they had some kind of falling-out with the Amish, got them excommunicated or something.”
The sheriff tips his hat and water runs off the brim. “Look, we’ve done our due diligence and there’s nothing to be had. We’re going to call it a day.”
“Do you mind if I speak with her?” I ask.
“Look, I’m sorry this didn’t pan out for you, Chief Burkholder. I’m sorry we didn’t find the girl.” He jabs a thumb at the house and lowers his voice. “I know you two want to find that kid; believe me, we do too. But you can’t get blood from a turnip.”
“There’s a familial connection,” I tell him. “I’d like to ask her about it.”
Neither of us moves. The sheriff holds his ground, his expression steely and set.
“With Chief Burkholder’s roots being Amish,” Tomasetti says, “she may have some insights into the culture, into this family in particular, that might help jog this woman’s memory or open some doors.”
The sheriff sighs. “Well, hell, we’re here. You do what you need to do.” He looks at his watch. “We’re going to take off. All I ask is that you not overstep.”
“Of course,” I say.
Tomasetti and I watch them pull away, and then we go back to the house. He knocks on the door. Irene Detweiler peers out at us. “I thought you were finished,” she says.
“Just a couple of quick questions,” I say in Deitsch.
Looking put out, she opens the door and ushers us inside. At some point, she’s lit another lantern, and the living area glows with golden light.
The woman shuffles to the sofa, lowers herself onto it, and picks up some knitting project—two needles and a ball of yarn. Tomasetti holds his ground near the door. I sit in the chair next to the sofa and spend a few minutes trying to build rapport, gauge her receptivity to my being formerly Amish, hoping it will somehow garner me an added level of trust.
I take her through some of the questions that have already been asked, hoping for more detailed answers or something she’d forgotten to mention before. She remains consistent, giving me nothing.
“Did Rosanna have any children?” I ask.
“The Lord never blessed them with little ones. She was ime familye weg once or twice, but … no babies.” She gives a shrug. “She never spoke of it, but I know it was hard on her. You know how important children are to the Amish. To tell you the truth, I never felt close enough to her to ask. Lord knows the men don’t talk about such things. The women used to gossip about poor Rosanna and her not having any little ones. Some said worse.”
“Worse like what?”
“Cruel nonsense mostly. Gossipmongers saying she wasn’t fit to be a mother.” The Amish woman clucks in disgust. “It must have hurt her something awful.”
“Why would they say such a thing?” I ask.
“Rosanna was a quiet thing. Serious, you know. Different. She didn’t laugh much. Didn’t get close to people like most of us do. Some of the Amish thought that was odd. I suppose I did, too.”
“Why were they put under the bann?”
“Vernon bought a truck.” She makes a sound of disapproval. “I didn’t have them over anymore after that. You know how it is. I couldn’t take meals with them. No one would do business with them. I urged them to mend their ways. To honor their baptismal promises.”
“Do you know what kind of truck it was? Color?”
“Never saw it. I wouldn’t let him bring it on the property.”
I nod, thinking about a woman without children, isolated from her family, and how both of those things could affect someone who is part of a community in which children are so highly valued.
“Did you know Mary Yoder?” I ask.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“What about Marlene Byler?”
The knitting needles go still. “She’s the woman who killed herself all those years ago. Jumped off the bridge.”
“Did you know her?”
“I know the name is all. Lots of people around here remember that name. What she did … such an awful thing.”
Her eyes don’t meet mine. She stares at her knitting, realizing she’s dropped a stitch.
“Marlene Byler and Mary Yoder were sisters,” I tell her.
The woman stares at me, her mouth working. I see the wheels of her mind spinning and I get the impression she’s struggling with some internal dilemma.
“Mrs. Detweiler, a little girl’s life is at stake,” I say quietly. “She’s seven years old. Amisch. If you know something that might help me find her, I need to hear it.”
For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the hiss of the lantern, the patter of rain against the window, the splat of water against the sidewalk as it overflows the guttering outside.
“I never got to know my daughter-in-law well.” The woman tightens her mouth, looks down at her knitting, picks at the yarn. “Chief Burkholder, Rosanna told me a strange story once. You have to understand, she was … a peculiar girl. Always saying odd things no one really understood or knew how to react to. You never knew if it was true or make-believe.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me that Marlene Byler was her mamm.”
My pulse jumps at the possibility of yet another familial connection. “So Marlene Byler had more than one child?”
“Oh no. You misunderstand. Marlene only had one child.”
I stare at her, my mind scrambling to make sense of what I’ve just been told. “Are you telling me Rosanna is the baby that went off the bridge with Marlene?”
“I’m telling you that’s what Rosanna said. I don’t know if it’s true. Lord knows she told her share of tall tales.”
“Did she tell you how she survived the fall?” I ask. “Did she say who raised her?”
“Her grandmother.”
I pull the spiral pad from my pocket. “Do you have a name?”
“Rosanna only mentioned her once or twice in all the years I knew her.” Closing her eyes, she presses her fingers to her temples. “Ruby something. I remember because it’s kind of an unusual name for an Amish woman.” She massages her temples. “Mullet.” Her eyes open. “Ruby Mullet.”
Behind me, I hear Tomasetti move. “Does she live in the area?” he asks.
“Last I heard she owned a farm down south, on the other side of the river. Eads Hollow, I think.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Tomasetti and I are back in the Explorer. “If she’s right about Rosanna being Marlene Byler’s daughter, then Mary Yoder was her aunt,” I say.
“There’s your connection. Might be why the bishop chose the Helmuths. To keep the child with family.”
“What does it mean in terms of the case?” I ask.
“It means we have one more place to look for that girl.” Tomasetti puts the Explorer in gear and starts down the lane. “I don’t have to tell you we’re going to be a couple of light-years out of our jurisdiction.”
“I’m aware.” I type Eads Hollow into my phone. “We’re twenty minutes away.”
He sighs as he makes the turn onto the highway.<
br />
I call Dispatch. “Lois, can you pull up the tax roll for Boyd County, Kentucky, and do a property search for Ruby Mullet?” I spell the last name. “I’m looking for an address.”
“Sure.”
Keys clack on the other end. Lois makes a few noises, including a “crap” and “dang it,” and then she tells me, “It looks like Ruby Mullet owns a thirty-acre tract in Eads Hollow.” She rattles off an address.
I enter it into my GPS. “Any news on David Troyer?”
“No change, Chief. Last time I checked he’s still in a coma, but holding his own.”
“Let me know if anything changes.” I end the call and recite the address to Tomasetti.
“Get the Boyd County Sheriff’s Department on the line,” he says.
I’m already dialing the number. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get connected with the chief deputy, who agrees to have a deputy meet us at the Mullet address.
CHAPTER 27
One hundred and seventeen hours missing
We cross the Ohio River at the Twelfth Street Bridge and enter Kentucky. From there, Tomasetti takes us south on US 23 through the verdant foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. A few miles before Catlettsburg, the GPS instructs him to make a right on Route 168 and head west. I’m thinking about the things I’ve learned about Rosanna Detweiler and all the dark possibilities they present. My conversation with her mother-in-law hovers in the backwaters of my mind.
The women used to gossip about poor Rosanna and her not having any little ones.
Gossipmongers saying she wasn’t fit to be a mother.
It must have hurt her something awful.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t notice when Tomasetti nearly misses his turn. Cursing, he brakes hard, then backs up twenty feet or so to make the turn onto Johnson Fork Road. Another mile and he takes an unnamed dirt track. A half a mile in we reach our destination.
“Home sweet home,” he mutters as he parks the Explorer on the barely-there shoulder.
The property owned by Ruby Mullet has the look of a place that’s been abandoned for many years. A gray frame house sits fifty yards off the road, nestled in a thicket of trees and nearly hidden from view. There’s no sign of the Boyd County sheriff’s deputy’s cruiser.
We get out. It’s so quiet I can hear the breeze hissing through the high grass. The rattle of tree branches against the steel-shingled roof.
“Let’s see if Grandma can shed some light on the situation,” Tomasetti says.
My boots sink into mud as I walk to what was once a driveway. It’s little more than an impression in the weeds that cuts through the trees. It looks driven upon, but any tire tracks have long since been washed away.
“Keep your eyes open,” Tomasetti says as we start down the driveway.
There’s a dilapidated barn to my left. Farther back, a corn silo squats on the side of a hill. There’s a sorrel horse standing in a small pen behind the barn. Beyond, a dozen or so goats graze on grass that’s shorn to dirt.
“Someone lives here,” I say.
We reach the crumbling sidewalk and take it to the front porch. The wood planks creak beneath our feet, the wood warped. Dark curtains on the windows are closed.
I reach the door and knock. “Hello?” I call out. “Ruby Mullet?”
A diamond-shaped window is set into the door. Cupping my hands, I put my face to the glass and peer inside. I see a small living room, plainly decorated. A coffee table with a lantern in the center. An oval rag rug. A wicker basket loaded with dried flowers and fall gourds.
“Looks occupied,” Tomasetti says.
The crunch of tires on gravel alerts us to an approaching vehicle. I glance over my shoulder to see a Boyd County Sheriff’s Department vehicle roll up behind the Explorer.
We leave the porch and meet the deputy in the driveway. He’s about thirty years old, with the build of a heavyweight boxer, a bald pate, and eyes the color of a bruise. He’s wearing a crisp uniform with military-style boots and an expensive-looking pair of sport sunglasses. He’s chewing gum so vigorously I can hear his teeth chomp.
Introductions are made.
“I understand you’re looking for Ruby Mullet?” he says.
Tomasetti lays out the fundamentals of the case. “Do you know who lives here?” he asks.
The deputy shakes his head. “I’ve patrolled this area pretty regularly for almost a year now,” he tells us. “Used to see Amish people out here every so often. Place is off the beaten path, so I don’t get out this way much.”
“A couple?” I ask.
“Older lady.” He motions toward the house and we start that way. “Haven’t seen anyone in a while.”
We walk to the porch. I stand aside and the deputy knocks on the door. “Boyd County Sheriff’s Office!” he calls out. “Ruby Mullet?”
No one answers. We wait for about a minute, listening, but there’s no sound of footsteps. No voices. No sign that there’s anyone inside.
The deputy knocks with a little more vigor. “Sheriff’s department! Mrs. Mullet? Can you come to the door please?”
He leans closer, peers through the window. “No one’s home.”
“Can we do a welfare check?” Tomasetti says. “Make sure everyone’s okay?”
The deputy tilts his head and speaks into his lapel mike. “This is 392. I’m on scene 2292 Johnson Fork Road. No sign of the homeowner. I’m going to ten-thirty-four-C,” he says, using the code for a well-being check.
“Roger that,” comes a staticky female voice.
The three of us leave the porch and walk back to the driveway. “We can’t do much since this is just a welfare check,” the deputy tells us. “I’ll take a quick peek in the barn, see if there’s a buggy.”
I look at Tomasetti. “Maybe we ought to try the back door.”
He shrugs. “If she’s elderly, she may be hard of hearing.”
The deputy heads toward the barn. Tomasetti and I start toward the back of the house. The grass is knee high and looks as if it hasn’t been cut in months. There’s an old well with a steel hand pump. A massive maple tree trembles in the breeze, leaves catching and flying.
We climb the steps to the small concrete porch. There are no curtains on the window set into the back door. I peer through the glass into small room. There’s a wood bench against the wall. A rocking chair in the corner. A pair of boots. Farther, a doorway leads to what looks like a kitchen.
“Hello?” I call out loudly as I rap my knuckles against the glass. “Ruby Mullet? I’m a police officer. Is everything okay in there?”
We wait a couple of minutes, but no one comes.
I look at Tomasetti. He stares back, his expression reflecting the same uneasiness I feel climbing up the back of my neck.
“So if you’re on the cops’ radar and trying to stay off the grid, where would you go?” he says.
“A relative,” I tell him. “Someone with a different last name. Not closely connected. Not easily tracked.”
“In the middle of fucking nowhere.” He sighs. “Kate, getting a warrant might be tricky. State line is going to complicate things, but I can get it done. Let me get on the horn, see what I can do.”
He’s already tugging his phone from his pocket as he walks down the steps.
I stand there a moment, looking out over the property. I’m thinking about walking the perimeter of the house when I notice the small fenced area twenty yards away. The picket fence was once white, but the elements have eroded the paint and turned the wood gray. The enclosure is about thirty feet square, with an arbor-type gate covered with winter-dead climbing roses.
I hear Tomasetti talking to someone on the cell as I start that way. I’m midway there when I realize it’s a family cemetery plot. They’re not uncommon in this part of the country. There are five markers—small wooden crosses—arranged in two neat rows. The hinge screeches with unnatural sound as I let myself in. I pass beneath the arbor, go to the first marker, and kneel. The cross is
covered with lichens and mold. A name and dates are burned into the wood. Reaching out, I brush the surface with my fingertips, and read aloud.
“Ruby Marie Mullet. Born May 22, 1938. Died February 2, 2019.”
The owner of the property. Rosanna Detweiler’s grandmother. If she’s been dead since February, who’s been living here?
I go to the next marker.
MARTIN ROY MULLET.
BORN APRIL 30, 1932.
DIED NOVEMBER 23, 2012.
The next marker gives me pause.
AMOS WAYNE DETWEILER.
BORN JULY 17, 2008.
DIED AUGUST 19, 2008.
An infant, I realize, and my conversation with Irene Detweiler floats through my mind.
The Lord never blessed them with little ones. She was ime familye weg once or twice, but … no babies.
Or were there?
I go to the next marker.
BONNIE ANN DETWEILER.
BORN OCTOBER 2, 2010.
DIED JANUARY 3, 2011.
The final marker slants at a severe angle. The grave has been disturbed, the earth freshly turned. Either this small grave has recently been dug or someone has done something unthinkable. Dread rises inside me when I look into the shallow hole. There’s nothing there—no casket or remains—just the wet, black soil of a pit that’s about three feet deep. I kneel next to the marker and read.
NETTIE MAE DETWEILER.
BORN MARCH 14, 2012.
DIED MARCH 14, 2012.
For the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the tinkle of rain against the treetops, the rumble of thunder in the distance, and the white noise of my brain as I ponder the possibilities.
“Warrant is in the works.”
I straighten, turn to see Tomasetti standing at the gate, just outside the cemetery. His eyes moving from me to the markers and back to me.
“I never understood why an Amish bishop, an Amish midwife, would remove a baby from its mother,” I say.
He comes through the gate, goes to the nearest marker, and reads.
“According to Irene Detweiler, the Amish community was suspicious of Rosanna. The women gossiped about her. Said she was unfit to be a mother.”
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