“Did you find anything of interest at Schwartz’s residence?” I ask.
“We got her laptop. A couple of boxes of paperwork. Some correspondence. We’re going through all of it now.” A thoughtful pause and then, “I did a cursory look through some of it. Interestingly, there were some letters from Amos Gingerich. Evidently, he wasn’t happy with the tell-all she published.”
“Did he threaten her?”
“Veiled. Talked a lot about martyrs.”
I recall my conversation with Loretta Bontrager and her comments about Gingerich and Martyrs Mirror. “Can you send me copies of the letters?”
“I’ll do it.” He pauses. “One more thing that may or may not be related to any of this. It appears Rachael Schwartz and Andrea Matson lived above their means. I checked the books on the restaurant they own, and they barely make a profit. And yet they live in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city.”
“So where are they getting their money?”
“Still digging,” he says. “Anything new on your end?”
“Spinning my wheels mostly.”
“It’s still early.”
I smile, missing him. “Do me a favor and don’t stay away too long.”
“Bet on it.”
* * *
The police station is usually quiet at this hour. This morning, with a homicide investigation spooling and the grapevine on fire, my entire team of officers has already arrived for the day. I walk in to find Mona standing at her desk, headset clamped over hair that’s slightly wild, the switchboard ringing off the hook. Next to her, my first-shift dispatcher, Lois, has the handset at the crook of her neck and waves a stack of pink message slips at me.
I grin at both of them. “Morning.”
Both women mouth a reply, listening to their callers.
“Briefing in ten,” I tell them. “Round everyone up.”
Lois gives me a thumbs-up.
At the coffee station, I upend the biggest cup I can find, pour to the brim, and flip through messages. Tom Skanks, owner of the Butterhorn Bakery down the street, wants to know if there’s a serial killer on the loose in Painters Mill. Town councilwoman Janine Fourman reminds me that a violent murder in Painters Mill will adversely affect tourism, not just the shops but the restaurants and B and Bs. She suggests I immediately request assistance from a larger, more proficient law enforcement agency to assure this crime gets the expertise it deserves.
I sigh as I head to my office. I’m going through my notes, struggling to read my own handwriting, when Mona appears in the doorway. “Everyone’s RTG, Chief.” Ready to go.
A couple of years ago, it wouldn’t have been unusual to see her in a bustier and short skirt, purple streak in her hair, and still smelling of cigarette smoke from the night before. She’s come a long way since those days. Though she worked through the night, she’s in full uniform this morning. Hair pulled back. Minimal makeup. She looks like a cop. Unlike me, she’s brimming with energy.
Feeling … old, I set down my cup. “You got time to sit in?”
She grins. “That’s affirm.”
Grabbing my notes, I round my desk, and we head toward the “war room,” which is basically a storage-closet-turned-meeting-room—design compliments of Mona. I take in each member of my small police force as I stride to the half podium set up at the end of the table. Rupert “Glock” Maddox sits next to it, a spiral-bound pad and a pen on the tabletop in front of him. He’s a former marine, a Little League coach, a father of three, and the first African American to grace the ranks of the department.
Next to him, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker nurses a to-go cup of coffee from LaDonna’s Diner. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke and English Leather as I pass. He may be down to working just ten hours a week—which entails crosswalk duty at the elementary school—but his uniform is creased, his hair and goatee are colored a not-so-natural hue of brown, and his trademark Lucchese boots are polished to a mirror sheen. Pickles might be an old-timer, but I’ve seen his file—all sixty pages of it—and I know he earned every “above the call of duty” and “risked his own life” comment, and then some. He spent years working undercover narcotics and made one of the biggest busts in the history of Holmes County.
Chuck “Skid” Skidmore sits across from Pickles looking a little rough around the edges. He’s our resident jokester, and eschews early mornings, which is why he prefers second shift. I hired him shortly after becoming chief. He’d been terminated from the Ann Arbor PD for drinking on the job. But I liked him; I thought he deserved a second chance, so I hired him with the caveat that if I ever caught him drinking while on duty he would be out the door. He’s never let me, or himself, down.
T.J. Banks had always been the departmental rookie—until I promoted Mona. At twenty-eight years of age, he’s serious about his job, doesn’t mind working graveyard, and is the first to volunteer for overtime. Baby-faced and charming, he’s invariably in the process of landing a new girlfriend or breaking up with his current squeeze.
Mona sits next to T.J., looking at something he’s showing her on his cell, probably some cop story that includes a generous amount of embellishment. She’s not buying into it, but letting him have his moment. Good girl, I think, and I take my place at the half podium.
“As all of you know, thirty-year-old Rachael Schwartz was murdered in her room at the Willowdell Motel night before last. Our department is primary. BCI is assisting, as is the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office. The killer or killers have not yet been apprehended or identified. That means mandatory OT until we make an arrest.”
I glance down at my scrawled notes. “Doc Coblentz hasn’t officially ruled on cause or manner, but this is an obvious homicide. NOK have been notified,” I say, referring to “next of kin.” “I don’t have to tell any of you to not discuss this case with anyone. Refer any media inquiries to me.”
I pass the folder containing the crime scene photos, reports, notes, and every scrap of information I’ve amassed so far to Glock so he can take a look and pass it on.
“From all indications, the victim was beaten to death,” I tell him. “The murder weapon was not found. We’re not making that public. The coroner wouldn’t commit, but we’re likely talking about piece of pipe or club, or some other heavy, blunt object.”
I look at Skid. “I want you and T.J. to drive back out to the motel and continue our search for the murder weapon. Expand our original search area. We looked yesterday, but had to quit when it got dark. Check the ditches on either side of the road, woods, fields, walk it all the way to the highway. Check any dumpsters in the area. There’s a service station down the road. If they’ve got security cams, get me the video.”
Skid casts a half smile at T.J. “I guess we won’t have to go to the gym this week,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I tell him, and turn my attention to Glock and Pickles. “I want you guys to reinterview everyone who was staying at or visiting the Willowdell Motel the twenty-four hours before and after the murder. There was one person who checked out before we arrived. Find them and talk to them.”
Nodding, Pickles hitches up his belt, his chest puffed out. “We’re on it.”
I glance at Mona. “I want you to look at Rachael Schwartz’s social media accounts. I skimmed some of them last night and she’s active and controversial. Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. See if she had any ongoing feuds or disagreements. Anything that catches your eye, let me know and we’ll follow up.”
She gives me a two-finger salute.
“Lois.” I look up at my dispatcher, who’s standing in the doorway, headset on, listening for incoming calls. “I want a hotline set up. Five-hundred-dollar reward for information. I emailed you a press-release draft. Give me a quick edit, if you would.” I smile. “And get it out to local media. Steve Ressler at The Advocate. Millersburg. Wooster. Radio station down in Dover.”
“Got it,” she says, scribbling.
I’m not sure where the reward money w
ill come from. I’ll figure it out if and when I need it.
“Get with the technology people that handle Painters Mill’s website, too. Get the hotline number on it, front and center. Our social media accounts, too.”
“Yep.”
I look out at my team. “We’re already getting calls. Residents are anxious. Make yourselves visible around town when you can, do your best to reassure folks.”
“Tell Tom Skanks free apple fritters and coffee would go a long way to keep us first responders on our toes,” Skid mutters.
“Don’t forget that new place,” Glock adds.
“Mocha Joe’s,” T.J. tells them, referring to a nice little upscale coffeehouse in town.
I try not to smile, but I don’t quite manage. “I’ll see what I can do.”
My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see HOLMES CNTY CORONER pop up on the display. I look out at my team. “My cell is on twenty-four seven,” I tell them. “Day and night. Let’s go to work.”
CHAPTER 13
Loretta Bontrager couldn’t remember the last time she was so excited. Seeing a new baby for the first time was a happy occasion. It was one of the joys of being Amish, especially for the women. She’d known Mary Sue Miller most of her life. They’d gone to school together, played hide-and-seek in Amos Yoder’s cornfield as kids, been baptized at about the same time, and were married within weeks of each other. This was Mary’s fourth child. Baby Perry had been born just a few days ago and Mary was finally rested up enough to share him with the community.
Children were a gift from God. Loretta couldn’t wait to cuddle him. What a joy it was to hold a new baby. Like her mamm always said: Children are the only treasure you can take to heaven.
Though Loretta was genuinely happy for her friend and anxious to meet the newest member of the family, the occasion was marred by the death of Rachael Schwartz. Loretta simply couldn’t stop thinking about her. She hadn’t been able to eat or sleep. She’d been living in a fog since it happened and that wasn’t the worst of it. At night, and despite her fervent prayers at bedtime, the nightmares came for her. Dark images that left her gasping and tearful, her heart filled with grief.
Loretta had been closer to Rachael than she was to her own sister. She’d broken the rules herself to stay in touch with Rachael after she’d left. Truth be told, Loretta had always worried about her. The way she lived her life. Her lack of faith. She knew things about Rachael. Things that scared her—even now. She’d prayed for her friend’s well-being. Her happiness. Most of all, she prayed for her soul.
Now that Rachael was gone, Loretta worried not only about the horror of her death and the fate of her soul, but the secrets Rachael had taken with her to her grave.
“Mamm, I bumped the bott boi and a piece of crust broke off the side.” Potpie.
At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Loretta glanced over from her driving. Even embroiled in dark thoughts she had no business thinking on such a pretty spring morning, she smiled at the sight of her sweet face. “Let me see,” she said.
Fannie lifted the foil covering and pointed. Sure enough, a chunk of the lard crust had chipped off the side of one of the sausage and potato pot pies she’d made a little before five A.M.
“Looks like a little mouse sampled a piece of that crust,” Loretta said.
Fannie grinned. “It wasn’t me.”
“Well, in that case just press it back together,” Loretta told her. “No one at Mary’s house will even notice.”
They were in the buggy and traveling at a good clip down the township road. Around them, the pastures were astoundingly green, the trees in the woods bursting into bud, and the entire countryside was rife with birdsong. After such a long and cold winter, Loretta appreciated the gentle day.
She glanced away from her driving. A smile touched her mouth as she watched the girl press the wayward piece of crust back into place. “If we had some milk, we could glue it,” Loretta told her.
She was probably taking too much food over to Mary and her family. But having a baby was a busy and exhausting time. And Loretta loved them so much. She was hoping to help with a chore or two while she was there, if Mary would allow it.
She was so enmeshed in her thoughts, Loretta didn’t notice the car blocking the road until she was nearly upon it.
“Whoa!” she called to the horse.
The animal stopped so abruptly its steel shoes slid on the asphalt.
“Mamm?”
Loretta felt her daughter’s questioning gaze on her as she backed the horse up a couple of steps. She watched the driver’s-side door open. Her heart sank when he stepped out. She sat stone-still, the leather lines taut in her hands.
Taking his time, the man started toward them.
“Tuck that foil back around the bott boi,” she said to Fannie, more to keep her occupied than because the potpie needed covering.
“Nice morning for a buggy ride,” the Englischer said as he reached them.
Loretta said nothing. She could barely bring herself to look at him. Or breathe. She knew what he’d see in her eyes if she did. Fear. Knowledge. Secrets. She’d seen him around town dozens of times over the years, and she cringed every time. She knew it was wrong to have such thoughts, but she didn’t like him.
She knew things about this man. Things she didn’t want to know. She had no idea if he remembered her. If he knew she and Rachael had been friends. Regardless, she went out of her way to avoid him.
“Hi there, young lady,” he said to Fannie.
The sight of him looking at her daughter unnerved Loretta. Before she could react, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a package of chocolate-covered peanuts. The kind you could buy at the grocery-store checkout. He extended his hand and offered it to the girl. “You like chocolate?” he asked. “These are my favorite.”
Fannie nodded, her hand going up to take the candy. Quickly, Loretta snatched up the potpie, shoved it into her daughter’s hands. “Take this and put it in the back seat,” she said in Deitsch. “We don’t want to lose any more of that delicious crust now, do we?”
Curious about the Englischer, the girl hesitated before taking the pie.
Loretta gave her a helpful little push. “Go on now. Get back there. Make sure the foil stays on that casserole, too. Hold it on your lap so it doesn’t bounce around too much.”
As the girl climbed into the back seat with the pie, Loretta forced her gaze to the man standing next to the buggy, trying in vain to ignore the chill lodged in her spine.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Cute kid.” He watched Fannie settle onto the back seat. “Going to be pretty when she grows up,” he said. “Like you.”
Loretta looked down at her hands, tried not to notice they were shaking, and loosened her grip on the leather lines.
“Kids are innocent when they’re that age,” he drawled. “What is she? Ten? Twelve?” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I got four at home. Two boys. Two girls. And another on the way. Boy do they keep me and my wife busy.” He shrugged. “Childhood is an important time. For Amish kids, too, huh?”
She said nothing.
He continued as if he didn’t expect a response. “You never want anything bad to happen to them when they’re that age. Scars, you know. The girls especially. I think little girls need their moms even more than the boys, you know?”
“All children need their parents,” she said, hating it that her voice was shaking, the words little more than a whisper. That he had the power to frighten her—that there wasn’t anything she could do about it—disturbed her so much she could scarcely breathe.
“All I’m saying is that kids are a lot less likely to have trouble in their lives if their parents are around to raise them. You know, to guide them through their teen years and all.”
Loretta didn’t know what to say to that. He was talking in riddles and she wasn’t sure what he meant or where the conversation was heading. All she knew was that
she didn’t want to talk to him. He hadn’t threatened her, but the way he looked at her, the things he said, the way he said them, terrified her. She didn’t want him to talk about her daughter. She didn’t want Fannie exposed to him. She didn’t feel safe on this back road alone with him.
She picked up the leather lines. “I have to go.”
“Reason I stopped you.” He leaned slightly closer. “Did you hear about what happened to your old friend?”
Loretta clucked and jiggled the lines to move the horse forward, but he grabbed the leather and held them taut so the horse remained stopped. “The one used to be Amish. The blonde. What was her name? Rachael?” He nodded. “Yeah, Rachael Schwartz. The pretty one.”
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about Rachael or what had happened to her. She sure didn’t want to discuss it with this pig of a man. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not to you.”
He turned his head, his eyes scanning the road behind her and in front of the buggy. She stared at his profile, seeing the muscles in his jaw work. Anger, she thought, and another layer of fear settled over her. When his eyes landed on hers, the light in them startled her.
“I heard she told some lies about me,” he said. “Maybe she told you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, in that case, why don’t I bring you up to speed?” He leaned closer. “Whatever she said, it ain’t true. Nothing happened. Do you understand?”
She stared at him, unable to speak, barely able to manage a jerk of her head.
“If you’re smart.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “If you care about that pretty little girl in the back seat, you’ll keep your goddamn mouth shut. Do you understand me?”
She swallowed, jerked her head. “I don’t know anything.”
“Your friend was a liar,” he said. “She made things up. Ugly things that weren’t true. We both know that, right? Everyone in this town knows it. Even the Amish know it, for God’s sake. Whatever she told you is a damn lie. You need to forget it. Put it out of your head. You got that?”
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