“Have you seen Abigail Kline?” I ask.
His eyes flick toward the house. “Don’t look over there,” I say. “Look at me. Have you seen her?”
His Adam’s apple bobs twice. “She took the buggy.”
“How long ago?”
“Less than an hour, I think. She asked me to harness the horse, so I did.”
“Where did she go?”
His eyes slide toward the house, looking for someone to save him from having to deal with me. I move so that I’m blocking his view. “Answer me,” I say. “Where did she go?”
“She didn’t say.”
I walk away without thanking him. I reach for my shoulder mike as I start toward the Crown Vic and hail Deputy Fowler. “Abigail Kline took the buggy and left. I’m going to look for her. You and T.J. okay here without me for a few minutes?”
“We’ll be fine.”
Frustration pushes a sigh from me. I’d wanted to be here while the search warrant was being executed, if only to answer questions and ward off any conflicts with the Kline family and the Amish as a whole. But with Abigail unaccounted for and the warrant in the hands of the Coshocton County Sheriff’s Department, I feel my time would best be spent looking for her.
I spot Levi Kline standing at the base of the porch steps, watching me, and I walk over to him. “She took one of the buggies and left,” I inform him.
“Are you sure?” For the first time he looks concerned. “I can’t see her taking the buggy on her own at a time like this. I would have taken her wherever she wanted to go. Any of us would have. All she had to do was ask.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Does she have a best friend? Her parents? The bishop?”
“If she was troubled or sad, she may have gone to see the bishop. Or maybe she went to Grossdaddi’s farm.” His brows knit. “Chief Burkholder, she should not be alone.”
“What was her frame of mind last time you saw her?” I ask.
He considers my question for a long moment. “She was … in a dark place. Crying a lot. Shaken inside.”
The last thing I want to do is needlessly worry her family. Chances are, the situation is exactly as he theorized; Abigail needed some time alone or sought her parents or the bishop for counsel. But I’ve been a cop long enough to know that when people commit a crime as heinous as murdering their spouse, sometimes the next life they take is their own.
I’m trying to come up with a delicate way to ask him if his mother could be suicidal, but he beats me to the punch. “You think she’s a danger to herself?” he asks.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
The color drains from his face, and he takes a step back from me. “I’m going to look for her.”
I consider asking him not to, but I change my mind. At this point, the more people we have looking for Abigail Kline, the better.
CHAPTER 26
As I pull out of the lane of the Kline farm, it occurs to me that if Abigail left an hour ago, she hasn’t gone too far. Most Amish use Standardbred horses for their buggies because that particular breed is prized for its fast, working trot. Even so, they travel only eight to ten miles an hour. It’s not an unduly long distance for me to cover relatively quickly in a patrol car.
Bishop Troyer and his wife live southwest of Painters Mill, about ten miles from the Kline farm. If Abigail went to see him, she’s still en route. I should be able to catch her before she arrives.
I take a right out of the Kline farm and head south on County Road 19 toward a secondary road that will take me to Highway 83. I drive slowly, keeping an eye out for telltale signs of the buggy—horse manure—and the side roads, in case she pulled over or opted for a shortcut. I pass an Amish wagon full of hay, but there’s no sign of Abigail’s windowless buggy. I cruise past Bishop Troyer’s farm, but she’s not there, so I loop around and take a less-used road south, back toward the Kline farm. It’s possible that in order to avoid traffic, she took the county road.
I reach the Kline farm, pull onto the gravel at the mouth of the lane, and hail T.J. on the radio. “Any sign of Abigail Kline?”
“Her son walked the property, but she’s not here, Chief.”
“Damn it.” I sigh. “You guys find anything else inside?”
“Folly found more of those greens in their refrigerator,” he tells me, referring to the kerosene-powered refrigerator.
“Bag it and seal it,” I tell him. “Get it to the lab. Make sure you guys follow chain of custody.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m going to head northwest to see if she went to her parents’ farm.”
“Ten-four.”
Racking the mike, I back from the driveway and start in the opposite direction, going northeast on County Road 19. I’ve gone less than a mile, when I spot a pile of manure in the center of the northeast-bound lane. I have no way of knowing if it belongs to Abigail’s buggy horse or if she even traveled in this direction. But this particular county road doesn’t have much traffic. More importantly, Reuben and Naomi Kaufman’s farm is only a few miles ahead, so I keep going.
Just past Beck’s Mills, I hit County Road 119 and then make a left on County Road 600. A mile in, I come upon the Kaufman farm. There’s no buggy in sight, but I pull in anyway and hail T.J. as I park adjacent to the barn. “I’m ten-twenty-three the Kaufman farm,” I tell him. “No sign of Abigail’s buggy, but I’m going to talk to them.”
I rack the mike and get out. The farm appears deserted. A breeze has kicked up, rustling the leaves overhead as I start toward the front door. I knock and wait. I’ve just begun to pace, when Naomi Kaufman opens the door. “Chief Burkholder?”
The elderly woman holds the door open about a foot, looking at me through the opening. Her expression tells me she’s surprised to see me. I look past her into the kitchen, where a dozen or so green tomatoes glisten with water on a cutting board. “Is Abigail here?”
“Abby?” The woman’s brows knit. “She’s at home. I’m making food to take out there now. Why?”
“She’s not at home, Mrs. Kaufman. Are you certain she’s not here?”
Opening the door wider, she steps onto the porch. “You checked the farm? With Levi? I can’t imagine her leaving at a time like this.”
“I just left her house. Abigail took the buggy and left. I thought maybe she came here to talk to you.”
“How odd.” She gives me a perplexed look. “Abby’s not one to leave and not tell anyone. She doesn’t care much for driving the buggy, either, especially with all the traffic.”
“Do you have any idea where she might’ve gone?”
“My goodness, no.” Her brows knit, and then she gives me a nod. “Why are you looking for her, Chief Burkholder?”
Several thoughts enter my mind simultaneously. First, that she hasn’t asked about her daughter’s well-being. Secondly, that she should have already been at her daughter’s farm. And last, that she’s a decent liar for an Amish woman. “Do you mind if I come inside?” I ask.
“What? You don’t believe me? You want to see for yourself that she’s not here?”
“Maybe your husband has seen her.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but he has his physical therapy today in Wooster. For his legs, you know.” She cocks her head. “What do you want with Abigail, anyway? Has she done something wrong?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Kaufman. But I need to find her and make sure she’s all right.”
Her expression becomes concerned. “You think something’s happened to her?”
“I don’t know. Can I come inside?”
Sighing, she opens the door. “Come on.”
I brush past her and go into the living room and look around, but there’s no sign of Abigail or anyone else. The house smells of coffee and fried bacon, with the slight aroma of vinegar.
“You can look all you want, but there’s no one here.”
Something nags at me as I check the three upstairs bedrooms and the bathroom, as if I’ve missed something. I stop in the hall, trying to call forth the niggling sensation stuck in the corner of my brain, but nothing materializes. I go back to the bedrooms and check each closet. I look under the beds. I even check the linen closet, but there’s no one there.
Naomi is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. “I don’t know what you hoped to find up there,” she snaps. “Aside from all the laundry that needs doing.”
“Is it possible she’s on the property somewhere?” I reach the base of the stairs. “Maybe she needed some alone time?”
“If she came to our home,” Naomi says, “she’d come inside like a normal person.”
I give her only half an ear as I head toward the small bathroom off the living area. The shower curtain is closed, so I shove it aside. The tub is empty. The sense that I’ve overlooked something important jabs at me. Where is Abigail? What have I missed?
I stop in the living room. Naomi is in the kitchen, standing at the stove. I watch as she removes the lid on the Dutch oven. The aromas of bacon and cider vinegar and the green, mustardy scent of dandelion greens taunts my olfactory nerves. The dish has a distinctive aroma.…
I stride into the kitchen, look down at the pot. “What’s in that pot?”
Naomi looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Greens, for goodness sake. I can’t see how that’s any business of yours.”
I take the lid from her. “Where did you get these greens?”
“Abigail brought them over a few days ago. I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Has anyone eaten any of this food? Tasted it?”
“What? I might’ve sampled a green or two.”
“Mrs. Kaufman, I have reason to suspect this food is contaminated.”
“Contaminated? What are you talking—”
“Poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” She cackles. “That’s just pure horsefeathers.”
Nudging her aside, I turn off the stove and slide the Dutch oven off the hot burner. The greens smell good with bacon and cider vinegar. They were a summer staple at my house when I was a kid. Jacob and Sarah and I spent many an afternoon gathering dandelion greens with our mamm. But I suspect there’s pokeweed mixed in with these. Pokeweed that was not properly prepared. But why would Abigail want to hurt her parents?
“Mrs. Kaufman, I believe Abigail added pokeweed to these greens. You know that if pokeweed isn’t prepared properly, it’s toxic.”
“That’s just crazy talk, Kate Burkholder. She wouldn’t do that to us or anyone else. Everyone knows you got to cook the pokeweed three times.…” But she doesn’t look quite so sure of herself now, and I know that for the first time she’s considering the possibility that I’m right.
My cell phone vibrates. Annoyed by the interruption, I snatch it up and check the display. I’m surprised to see STARK CO SHER. I make eye contact with Kaufman. “Hold on a sec.” Turning away from her, I answer with my usual, “Burkholder.”
“This is Detective Tom White with the Stark County Sheriff’s Department. I wanted to let you know we got a line on Nick Kester.”
My interest surges. “You have him in custody?”
“No, but we’re pretty sure we know where he is. Three women on horseback in Whitacre Park near Waynesburg reported seeing a couple matching the descriptions of Paula and Nick Kester, camping in a remote area near some equestrian trails. One of the women recognized him from a photo in the newspaper. I’m dispatching deputies now. Since your department is involved, I wanted to give you a heads-up before the shit hits the fan.”
“I appreciate that, Detective. Do you need assistance?”
“Well, you never know how these things are going to go down. If Kester’s armed—and we’re assuming he is—I figure we can use all the officers we can get. I’m going to give Wayne County a call, too.”
“I’ll dispatch one of my officers now.”
I release the call and speed-dial Glock. He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”
“Stark County Sheriff’s Department thinks they have Kester,” I tell him.
“Shit. Stark County?”
“They received a tip from some horseback riders. A woman recognized Kester from a newspaper photo. They’re camping in a remote area up in Whitacre Park near Waynesburg.”
“You want me to head over that way?”
I lower my voice. “Glock, I’d go with you, but I’m tied up here at the Kaufman farm.”
“You find Abigail Kline?” he asks.
“No, but I think she’s somewhere on the property.” I pause. “I think she may have tried to poison her parents.”
“Shit. You need an ambulance out there?”
“No one’s hurt. But I’m going to take a look around. If she’s here, I’ll get on the radio. But I’m probably going to be tied up for an hour or so.”
“Roger that, Chief. I’ll keep you posted on Kester.”
“Be careful,” I say, but he’s already disconnected.
I clip the phone to my belt. Naomi has gone into the kitchen. I find her at the sink, washing dishes and stacking them on a strainer. “Mrs. Kaufman, I’m going to need to take that pot with me.”
“Do what you must, Chief Burkholder. But I think it’s just silly to think Abby would put poke in there on purpose. If it’s in there at all, it was an accident.”
“I hope you’re right.” But I know she’s not. I find two mismatched pot holders in a drawer, grab the hot Dutch oven, take it through the living room, and elbow my way through the front door.
Naomi trails me as far as the porch. “You’re wrong about Abby.”
Ignoring her, I go down the steps, pop the trunk of the Crown Vic, and set the pot inside. That’s when I notice the buggy wheel marks in the moist ground next to the gravel. I kneel for a closer look. I’m no tracker, but the marks look recent.
Naomi stands on the porch, watching me, her arms crossed in front of her. “Mrs. Kaufman, how does Mr. Kaufman get to the clinic?”
“That Yoder Toter from Dundee picks him up and drives him up to Wooster,” she says.
“Has there been a buggy here today?”
“She drives a van.”
I look around. There are plenty of places to hide on this large farm. There are cornfields, impenetrable woods, and two huge barns.
“Mrs. Kaufman, I’d like to take a look around. Is that all right with you?”
“Let me put on my muckers.” The Amish woman turns and goes back inside.
I don’t wait for her. Ever present in the periphery of my thoughts is the knowledge that when someone reaches the low of murdering family members, sometimes suicide is the next step. A sense of urgency pushes me into a jog. I cross the gravel to the barn and slide the big door open several feet. Shadows play hide-and-seek in the murky light. I get the impression of a large area with a dirt floor and a low ceiling strung with cobwebs. The smells of old wood, rotting hay, and damp earth tickle my nose. I look down, seeking buggy wheel marks, but there are none.
“Abigail Kaufman!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD! I need to talk to you!”
I listen, but the only reply is the moan of the wind. I venture more deeply into the shadows. To my right are the bony ribs of a hay rack that’s pitted with rust. A child’s Radio Flyer wagon that’s missing both front wheels lies on its s
ide. To my left, half a dozen bags of feed are stacked against the wall. On the rear wall ahead, three grimy windows, some with broken or missing panes, stare blankly at me like dead eyes. I go to the nearest one and squint through the cobwebs and grunge. The pasture beyond is hilly and lush with a wet-weather creek where cottonwoods and elms jut fifty feet into the air.
Turning away from the window, I go to the wooden steps and take them to the loft. It’s a small mow with a dozen or so bales of hay stacked haphazardly. Some of the bundling strings have broken open, spilling loose hay onto the floor.
“Abigail Kaufman!” I call out.
But I know she’s not here.
Disappointment presses into me as I take the steps back down to the first level. I’ve just reached the ground, when Naomi comes through the sliding door. “I told you she’s not here,” she says, looking triumphant.
Ignoring her, I walk past her and leave the barn through the sliding door. I break into a jog and go around the side of the barn, where I’d seen a gate earlier. The area is overgrown with weeds as high as my chest. I’m about to turn away, when I notice some of the weeds are laid over. The thought of ticks and other unsavory insects crosses my mind as I wade in. Some of the stems are broken and bent. Renewed interest flares when I discern the wheel marks of a buggy in the damp earth. They go through the gate and into the rear pasture. But why would she take the buggy back there?
Naomi Kaufman calls out my name. I glance around the side of the barn to see the elderly woman slowly making her way down the incline toward me.
“Are there any other structures on the property?” I ask.
She stops a few feet away. She’s breathing hard. Sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip. “Only thing standing is that tumbling down old barn where we used to butcher years ago. I don’t even know if the thing is standing anymore, especially after that storm.”
I almost can’t believe my ears. In the back of my mind, I recall Sally Burris’s words: That old bank barn in the back. I’d assumed she meant the second barn within sight of the house. But she hadn’t; she’d meant a third structure set farther back on the property.…
After the Storm Page 28