A Hidden Secret (4 page)

The mention of the wood carving garners my attention. “What kind of toys?”

“Kind of rustic, but interesting. I think there was a top. A little round teething toy. A couple of rattles. Even a toy box.”

I pull the evidence bag containing the rattle from my desk drawer. “Do the rattles look like this one?”

Her mouth opens. “Exactly the same.” Her eyes land on mine. “You think he’s the—”

“I’d appreciate if you’d keep this between us for now,” I cut in.

“I understand. Of course.”

At the moment, she means it. But I’ve been around long enough to know it won’t last. This is too juicy not to become gossip. At some point, she’ll have a weak moment and spill her guts. The details of the story and the players involved will eventually get around. But if Noah Fisher was involved—if he’s the father of Baby Doe—I want to let his parents know before they hear it from another source.

“I appreciate it,” I tell her. “His parents have been put through the ringer.”

“I can’t imagine how devastated they must be. He was such a sweet kid.” Rising, she smooths her hands over her midi skirt. “In any case, I don’t know if any of what I’ve just told you is helpful, Chief Burkholder, but I thought it was my civic responsibility to let you know.”

I stand and extend my hand for a shake. “I appreciate your coming in to talk to me, Ms. Stelinski. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”

*   *   *

Willis and Miriam Fisher live off a dirt road a few miles east of Charm. The house and barn are plain, but picture pretty and well kept. A massive elm tree stands sentinel in the front yard. I park behind an Amish wagon loaded with hay, grab the evidence bags containing the rattle and quilt, and take the sidewalk to the front door. I knock and wait. Frustration presses into me when there’s no answer. I’m in the process of leaving a note when I hear the
clip-clop
of shod hooves against hard-packed dirt. I turn to see a black buggy pull into the gravel lane.

Tucking the half-written note into my pocket, I leave the porch and meet them in the driveway.
“Guder nochmiddawks,”
I tell them. Good afternoon.

An Amish man with a shaggy red beard slides from the buggy. He’s about fifty years of age, wearing a blue work shirt, dark trousers with suspenders, and a frayed black coat. His eyes are the color of a cornflower. As I draw closer, I sense those eyes had once been full of good humor and maybe a joke or two. Today, they’re shadowed with the grief of a parent who’s lost a child.

“Mr. Fisher?”

“That’s me,” he says.

I identify myself and offer my hand for a shake. He gives it two firm pumps, eyeing me, and I realize he’s just figured out I was one of the police officers here the day his son was killed.

The woman who’d been sitting beside him comes around the front of the horse and approaches. I nod and offer a smile. “You must be Mrs. Fisher?”

She smiles back. But I can tell it’s a habit borne of politeness. A sense of sorrow hangs in the air like a pall.

“Please call me Miriam,” the woman says.

“What can we do for you, Chief Burkholder?” Willis Fisher asks.

“I’m working on a case,” I begin. “Would you mind answering a few questions? It’s about your son.”

The Amish man’s eyes narrow. “What kind of questions could you possibly have about a dead boy? Did he do something wrong?”

His wife reaches out and pats his arm. “Willis.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I know it must be difficult for you.”

“We miss him every day,” Miriam tells me. “His voice. His smile. The way he used to slam the screen door in the kitchen.”

“We find comfort knowing Noah is with the Lord,” her husband says. But the Amish man looks anything but comforted.

I hold up the evidence bag containing the rattle. “Do either of you recognize this?”

Willis’s eyes flick to the rattle. His mouth opens slightly. A quiver runs the length of his body.

“Oh, my.” Miriam looks from the rattle to me. “May I?”

I hand her the bag. Removing a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket, she slides them onto her nose. “Noah made this.” She runs her fingers over the smooth wood. “I’m sure of it. He was a fine carver. He could make anything he set his mind to. Where did this come from?”

I don’t want to answer that yet, so I hold up the bag containing the quilt. “What about this?”

“That’s…” She takes the bag from me, handles it with reverence. “I made this quilt. Right before Noah was born. My goodness, I thought I’d misplaced it.” She raises her gaze to mine. “Where on earth did you find it?”

I go to my next question. “Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, do you know if your son was seeing anyone? Did he have a girlfriend? Or someone he was courting?”

“A girlfriend?” Willis spits the words at me. “Why do you want to know something like that?”

Making a sound of discomfort, his wife sets her hand on his arm. “Now, Willis…”

“I understand it’s a personal question,” I tell him, “but it may be related to a case—”

“I’m going to unhitch the horse,” the Amish man says abruptly. “I don’t wish to speak of my son or disrespect his memory with questions about girls.” Shaking his head, he grasps the reins and leads the horse toward the barn.

Miriam and I watch him walk away. When he’s out of earshot, she lowers her voice and says, “Would you like a cup of coffee, Chief Burkholder?”

I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she’s offering more than coffee. Something she’d prefer her husband not hear. “I’d like that very much,” I reply.

A few minutes later, I’m seated at the big rustic table in her kitchen. Miriam fusses with an old-fashioned percolator, then sets a platter mounded with oatmeal cookies on the table while the coffee perks. Within minutes the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee fills the air. She places a steaming mug in front of me. I sip, find it strong and good.

“I know it must be difficult talking about your son so soon after his death,” I begin.

“Some days I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a force and so full of life.” She bows her head slightly. “To tell you the truth, I could talk about Noah all day. And I do, sometimes, to anyone who will listen.” Her lips twist into a sad replica of a smile. “Willis took his death hard. Won’t speak of it. Spends all his time in the barn, working.” She chuckles. “I think we have the cleanest horse stalls in all of Holmes County.”

We reach for cookies at the same time and smile at each other. I like this woman, I realize. She’s kind and maternal and it’s hard to look into her eyes and see so much pain.

“Noah was our only child,” she tells me. “I had some problems with his birth and I was never able to carry to term again. Lost four little souls in the years that followed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was God’s will.”

I nudge her back to my question. “Mrs. Fisher, do you know if Noah was seeing someone?”

“I’m pretty sure he was courting a girl. There were a few times when he didn’t come home. He was on
rumspringa,
you know, so we tried not to pry. Willis thought he was out drinking and raising cane with his friends.” She looks at me from beneath her lashes. “But I knew. I knew because Willis acted the same way while he was courting me. Like he had a hundred dollars in his pocket and the world at his feet.”

“Do you know her name?”

“I asked Noah about it once or twice.” Another sad smile. “But he wouldn’t speak of her.”

“Any idea why he didn’t want to say?”

She lifts her shoulders, lets them drop. “I don’t know. For whatever reason, he wasn’t ready, I suppose.”

I struggle to find the right words to ask her about the possibility of a pregnancy. “I thought it was interesting that he carved a baby rattle. Do you have any idea why he would make something for a baby?”

“At first I thought it was for the money. I thought maybe he was selling things to the shops in town.” Her expression turns sage, and she sets down her mug. “Let me show you something.”

We leave the kitchen. I follow her through the living room and up the stairs to the second level. Down a darkened hall toward a bedroom at the end. She pushes open the door and we walk inside. Like many Amish homes, there’s no closet. Clothing and hats are hung on hooks or dowels set into the wall. Boots are left in the mudroom downstairs.

“This was Noah’s room,” she tells me.

I notice a hand-carved wooden yo-yo on the table next to the bed. The handmade wooden rocker in the corner. Above the steel frame headboard, a wood wall-hanging depicts the faceless images of an Amish boy and girl. “He made some beautiful things,” I tell her.

Miriam goes directly to a wooden trunk at the foot of the twin-size bed and opens the lid. Something inside me quickens at the sight of the items inside. We kneel. With a certain reverence, she picks up a newborn’s onesie. A wooden teething ring. A rattle much like the one in my evidence bag. A double pack of baby bottles. I recognize the bibs from the Buckeye Baby Boutique in town.

When I glance over at Miriam, tears are streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know why he had these things,” she whispers.

“It’s almost as if he was saving them for something,” I say gently. “Or someone.”

“In all the years Willis and I have been married, I’ve never lied to him. I’ve never kept anything from him. But I didn’t tell him about this.”

“Mrs. Fisher, did you hear about the newborn baby found on Bishop Troyer’s front porch?” I ask gently.

“I heard.” She lowers her gaze. “And I’ve been praying ever since.”

For the first time I understand why she didn’t want her husband to overhear our conversation. “I’m trying to find the mother,” I say softly.

We stare at each other, a silent communication passing between us. A silent voice telling us now is not the time for certain words.

“Goodness.” Forcing a laugh, the Amish woman brushes at the tears with both hands. “Would you look at me?”

“Miriam, is it all right with you if I take a look around Noah’s room?” I ask gently.

Her gaze slides to the window. “I suspect Willis will be in the barn for a while.…”

“I promise not to leave anything out of place.”

Giving me a decisive nod, she gets to her feet. “I’ll fetch our coffee.”

*   *   *

I begin my search with the trousers hanging on the dowel next to the window, but the pockets are empty. I check the windowsill, behind the curtains, but it’s bare. I look beneath the cushion on the rocking chair in the corner. Next, I go to the neatly made bed. I peel back the vintage quilt and look beneath the pillow. I squeeze the stuffing, but there’s nothing inside, either. I look under the bed and randomly check for loose floorboards. There’s nothing there. Nothing tucked between the box springs and the frame. Finally, I slide my hands beneath the mattress. My fingertips brush something hard. At first I think it’s a board someone added to shore up the frame for support. But the object is small and plastic. I know it’s a cell phone even before I pull it out.

“What on earth is that?”

I look up to see Miriam standing at the door, a mug in each hand. “I found a cell phone,” I tell her. “Under the mattress.”

“Oh, my.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t know he had one.”

It’s an old-fashioned flip phone. The kind you can buy at any discount department or electronics store. “Any idea where it came from?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Too many Amish youngsters are using the phones these days.”

“Do you mind if I take it back to the station with me?” I ask. “I’d like to find out who he talked to.”

“I have no use for a phone. But since it belonged to Noah, I’d appreciate it if you brought it back.”

“Of course I will,” I assure her.

*   *   *

Back at the police station, I take the phone directly to my office and flip it open. The first thing I notice is that while it has the capability to send and receive texts, Noah Fisher didn’t utilize either. I page through the recent calls, sent and received, and I immediately notice nearly all the calls were to or from a local number, right here in Painters Mill.

Bingo.

If Noah Fisher were still alive and suspected of committing a crime, I’d have to secure a search warrant before looking through his cell phone to collect information. Since Noah is deceased and I received express permission from his mother, I’m free to use whatever information I find.

Picking up my desk phone, I dial the number in question. A girl’s voice picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

Young, I think. Teenager. Possibly pre-teen. “Hi,” I begin. “I’m trying to figure out if I dialed the correct number.” I recite the number back to her. “Who’s this?”

“Chloe,” she replies uncertainly. “Who are you trying to reach?”

“What’s your last name, Chloe?”

She makes a sound of annoyance. “Why are you asking me that? How did you get that phone?”

“Chloe, this is Kate Burkholder, the chief of Police in Painters Mill. Is your mom or dad there? I’d like to speak with them.”

A quick intake of breath and then the line goes dead. Either she didn’t believe me when I identified myself, or she knew exactly why I was calling and panicked. I’m betting on the latter.

My interest piqued, I enlist the help ofa reverse number lookup database and enter the number. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents later, I have a name and an address: Damon Atherton.

I’ve never met Chloe but her father, Damon Atherton, is a respected pediatrician at Pomerene Hospital. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard the name. More recently, I recall one of the nurses mentioning him the morning I brought in Baby Doe.

I spend a few minutes digging up everything I can find on Chloe Atherton. She just turned sixteen years old. She’s had her driver’s license for two months. No citations. No arrests. She’s on the Painters Mill High School track team and holds the record for the mile run. According to a recent newspaper story highlighting outstanding high school students, she’s an honor roll student with a 4.0 GPA—and aspirations for med school. Just three months ago she was awarded the People Helping People Award for her volunteer work at the local retirement home.

Is it possible this girl—Chloe—is Baby Doe’s mother? Did this young overachiever become pregnant, somehow hide the pregnancy for nine months, and give birth without anyone knowing? The scenario doesn’t seem plausible. Especially with her father being a physician. But experience tells me it’s not only possible, but it happens more often than most people realize.