After the Storm (23 page)

“I heard your daughter, Abigail, used to see a young man by the name of Leroy Nolt.” I don’t know that to be fact, but I put it out there to see if it conjures a response.

“I don’t know where you heard that, Chief Burkholder, but Abby never had eyes for anyone but Jeramy Kline.”

I shrug. “Sometimes children do things without their parents’ knowledge.”

“Not Abby. She was a good girl.” She looks at her husband. “In fact, I don’t know anyone by the name of Nolt. That’s a Mennonite name, isn’t it, Reuben?”

He gives a barely discernible nod. But the old man’s eyes are sharp on mine, and for the first time I realize that while his body was devastated by the stroke, his mind is crystal clear.

Naomi sips her tea, studying me over the rim of her glass. “What makes you think our Abigail knew this Nolt boy?”

“Since this is an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Kaufman, I can’t get into the details just yet.”

She laughs and pats her husband’s hand. “Well, that’s the police for you. Not as forthcoming as they should be.” She cocks her head and her expression turns knowing. “I remember you now. You’re the one who left.” Nodding, she touches her temple. “Takes me a while these days, but I never forget a name.”

I don’t take the bait, instead, I turn my attention to Reuben. “What about you, Mr. Kaufman? Did you know Leroy Nolt? Did he ever do any work for you? Around the farm, maybe?”

The man gives a minute shake of his head and mouths a single word:
No.

Naomi looks at me, triumphant. “See?”

CHAPTER 17

I take the long way back to Painters Mill and cruise past Abigail Kline’s farm. I’m only mildly surprised when I see three Amish quilts hanging on the old-fashioned clothesline in the front yard. When I spoke to her yesterday, she denied having any quilts on hand. Did she think I wouldn’t drive past and notice them? Is she selling them for someone else? Or did she make them? If so, why would she lie about something so seemingly benign?

I pull into the driveway and park in the same spot I did the day before. Instead of going to the front door, I start toward the quilts flapping in the breeze. The first is a traditional broken-star pattern with a striking color combination of sage green, teal, and purple on a backdrop of taupe. Even with my unqualified eye, I can see the required seven stitches per inch and the kind of intricate piercing that achieves perfect points.

I turn up corners of the quilt until I find what I’m looking for. The letters “A.K.” embroidered in the fabric. The initials of the quilter. The initials of Abigail Kline. The same initials on the quilt I saw hanging on the wall in Sue and Vern Nolt’s house.
Abigail Kaufman.
Are they one and the same?

“Are you looking to buy a quilt, Chief Burkholder?”

I turn at the sound of Abigail Kline’s voice. She’s standing between me and the Crown Vic, a bushel basket propped on her hip.

“I suspect they’re probably out of my price range,” I tell her.

“They do bring a pretty penny.” After a brief hesitation, she starts toward me. She’s dressed much the same as she was last time we spoke. Drab gray dress. Black sneakers. Head covered with an organdy
kapp.

“My
mamm
taught me to quilt. Started when I was all of six years old. She told me I was born with the gift.” She runs her hand over the quilt as if she’s touching her firstborn child and gives a wistful smile. “I’ve had a needle in my hand since before I can even remember.”

“I made one or two when I was younger,” I tell her, “but I was never very good at it.”

“It takes patience.”

“And talent,” I point out.

She smiles at the compliment. “By the time I was twelve, my
mamm
was telling all the women I was a better quilter than her.” She laughs. “I was, too, though I’d never admit to it. I guess it’s a good thing I love to sew. Keeps the hands busy and a little cash in the cookie jar.”

She sets the basket on the ground at her feet. I look down to see it’s full of dandelion greens with a few weeds mixed in. I motion toward it. “Now that brings back memories,” I tell her.

“They’re at their best in early spring, but still good now.”

“My
mamm
used to make them with bacon and vinegar.”

“Good on a salad, too, if you like them raw.”

“I do.”

We stand there a moment, admiring the quilts in silence, enjoying the breeze. “You told me yesterday you didn’t have any quilts,” I say.

She looks over her shoulder toward the house but doesn’t respond.

I follow her gaze, and for the first time I notice the buggy is gone. “Your husband is away?”

“He went up to Keim Lumber for some wood.” She laughs. “I suspect he’ll come back with more goats.”

Smiling, I move to one of the other quilts and run my hand over the fabric. “Is there a reason why you didn’t tell me about the quilts, Mrs. Kline?”

She joins me, pretending to study her handiwork. When she runs her hand over the stitching, it quivers. “You were Amish once, weren’t you, Chief Burkholder? But you left the fold during
Rumspringa
?”

That’s not exactly the way it happened, but I don’t correct her. “Yes.”

“We’re Swartzentruber. My husband and I. My parents. I love being Amish. I love God, and living my life by the
Ordnung
gives me joy.”

“I understand.”

“The Amish have always been there for us. When Jeramy hurt his back two years ago, Big Joe Beiler and his friends cut and bundled our corn for us—when he had his own crops to harvest and eight mouths to feed.” She looks out across the pasture, toward the pond where the two pygmy goats nibble green shoots near the bank.

“The Amish can be harsh, too,” I say gently. “Judgmental.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes that harshness is warranted. Sometimes it isn’t.”

When she says nothing, I turn to her, tilting my head slightly to meet her gaze. “Leroy Nolt’s parents told me that in the weeks before he disappeared, he was seeing someone in secret. His sister saw him with a girl. An Amish girl.”

The silence between us thickens. I see discomfort in her face. Her skin reddens above the collar of her dress. “You recognized the ring in the photo,” I say gently. “I saw it on your face.”

After a full minute, she whispers, “I knew Leroy.” She utters the words as if she’s afraid someone will hear and the repercussions will be severe.

“Do you know what happened to him?” I ask.

“No. I figured he left for the city. Columbus or Cleveland or, my goodness, he was always talking about New York City.”

“Were you involved with him?”

“Involved?” She laughs but looks down at the ground. “I was just a girl with a silly crush.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course.”

“You must have missed him.”

“Nooo.” She draws out the “o” for emphasis. “I was happy for him. He’d followed his dreams, foolish as they were. And so different from my own.”

My mind is already poking into all the dark corners of words that don’t quite ring true. “Did anyone know about your relationship?”

“Chief Burkholder, we didn’t have the kind of relationship you’re insinuating.”

“What kind of relationship was it, then?”

“We were … friends. More like acquaintances.”

I nod, but I don’t believe her. There’s something there; something she’s not telling me. “Did anyone know you and Leroy were friends?”

“We had nothing to hide.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone, either, did you?”

If there was an Amish word for “touch
é
” she would have uttered it. “No one knew. At first, anyway. Then my
datt
saw us in the woods by the creek. Leroy was fishing. I’d gone down to pick raspberries for Mamm. My
datt
came down to seine for minnows.” She shakes her head. “It was all very innocent.”

“Was your
datt
angry?”

“He was … offended. You see, Leroy was
Mennischt.
” Mennonite. “And New Order at that. Datt … overreacted.” She shrugs. “Forbade me to see Leroy.”

“Because he was Mennonite?”

“Because he wasn’t Swartzentruber,” she corrects. “Datt told me I would be put under the
bann.
That I would have to confess my sins before the congregation.”

“Did your mother know what happened?”

“We never talked about it.”

“What about Jeramy?” I ask. “How did he play into this?”

“He didn’t.”

“Were you involved with Jeramy?”

Her smile is little more than a twist of her lips; her eyes are filled with something akin to nostalgia, only somehow sadder. “I’ve been in love with Jeramy Kline since I was a little girl. He’s always been so handsome. So strong and hardworking and yet humble. All the Amish girls wanted to marry him.”

“Your parents liked him?”

“They wanted me to marry him.”

“Did you want to marry him?”

“Of course I did. I’m lucky to have him. He’s a good husband. A good father. A good provider.”

I wonder if she’s trying to convince me—or herself. “Abigail, if you know something about Leroy Nolt’s disappearance, you need to tell me.”

“That’s all I know, Chief Burkholder.”

I give her a full two minutes to say something more. When she doesn’t, I lean closer to her. “I think something bad happened to Leroy Nolt,” I whisper. “I’m going to find out what it was.”

“Sometimes when bad things happen,” she says, “the only one to blame is the person it happened to.”

*   *   *

My office is blissfully quiet. From the reception area, I hear Jodie’s radio grinding out an old Badfinger tune, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the police radio. I’m sitting at my desk with the John Doe / Leroy Nolt file open in front of me. But it’s all a blur. I’ve read it dozens of times, too many times to absorb anything new. A knock at my door draws me from my reverie. I look up to see Skid standing in the doorway.

“You got a minute?” He flicks the paper in his hand. “I’ve got the rundown on that hog operation you asked about.”

“At least one of us isn’t striking out.” I motion him in. “Have a seat.”

He takes the visitor chair adjacent to my desk and slides a single sheet of paper across to me. I can tell by the neatness of the typewritten page that he talked one of the dispatchers into typing it for him. Skid isn’t exactly a neatnik.

“I take it you got nothing from the Kaufmans or Klines?” he says.

“A few lies, maybe.” I tell him about my conversation with Abigail Kline. “I think she’s the girl Nolt was seeing when he was killed.”

“You think she knows what happened to him?”

“I think she knows more than she’s letting on.” Frowning, I look down at the sheet of paper he brought in. “I just have to figure out what it is.”

“Hewitt Hog Producers was owned by Homer Hewitt from 1982 until they closed down in September 1997,” he tells me. “Homer Hewitt filed for bankruptcy that same year. The company had amassed some EPA violations. Couldn’t fix them and eventually went belly up. Leroy Nolt worked there from May of 1985 up until he disappeared.”

“Interesting timing,” I say. “What did he do there?”

“He actually worked in the office and helped out with some heavy machinery work.”

“Any problems between Hewitt and Nolt?”

“Not that I could find.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, ma’am.”

I notice a Florida address for Hewitt. “When did he move to St. Petersburg?”

He glances down at his notes. “Four years ago.”

I nod. “What’s the status on the property?”

“Currently abandoned. There’s been some talk that the new owner is going to turn it into a turkey farm, but there’s nothing in the works.”

“Thanks for giving up happy hour to put all this together.”

He grins. “Anytime, Chief.”

Movement at the door draws my attention. I glance up, half expecting to see Jodie. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of Tomasetti standing in the doorway. “Hi, Chief.” He looks at Skid. “Skidmore.”

“Agent Tomasetti.” Skid rises and the two men shake.

“Anything new on your John Doe?” Tomasetti divides his attention between the two of us, including Skid in the conversation.

“I was just telling Chief Burkholder about that old hog operation down in Coshocton County.”

Tomasetti arches a brow.

I fill him in on the highlights. “Considering the marks left on those bones, I thought it might be worth a look around.”

“I agree.” He gives Skid a pointed look. “Might be a good idea to take someone with you.”

Skid clears his throat. “Sure, Chief, uh … just let me know and I’m there.”

We fall silent. Realizing that’s his cue to leave, Skid moves closer to the door. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

He tips his head at Tomasetti and then he’s gone.

For the span of several seconds, I stare at the door, part of me wishing Skid hadn’t left so quickly.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an egocentric son of a bitch,” he begins.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You could tell me I’m off the hook, or maybe let me know I’m being a little hard on myself.” One side of his mouth curves into a smile. “Then we could go home and have makeup sex.”

I return his smile, but mine feels halfhearted. “I know this has been hard for you.”

“Harder for you, probably. I’m sorry.”

I nod and look down at the reports spread out on my desk, not really seeing them.

“How are you feeling?” I look at him, not sure if he’s referring to the shooting and ensuing accident last night or my pregnancy. Then he touches the place between his eyes to indicate the cut on the bridge of my nose.

“Better.” The tension that had crept into my shoulders begins to unravel. “I’ve been wearing my sunglasses.”

“For the record, you look good in purple.”

“Tomasetti, you’re full of shit.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Probably not the last, either.”

“Yeah.” Sighing, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I was in the area and I thought, if you have time, I’d take you to dinner.”