Harmless as Doves (5 page)

Cal nodded. “Linda Hart.”

Impatient with the exchange, Robertson moved to Missy Taggert’s side, standing over the body of Glenn Spiegle, and asked, “Missy, you have a time of death?”

Troyer stood his place to listen just inside the barn door, and Ricky resumed his search of the trunk of Burkholder’s car.

To Robertson, Missy said, “I just took a liver temperature,” and held up her abdomen probe.

“What’s that tell us?” Robertson asked, beginning to dump some of his frustration with Cal.

“I need to make some calculations,” Missy said, kneeling to clip her temperature probe back into its case. The curls of her brown hair were tucked up inside a medical cap, and she wore a white coat over her slacks and sweater. She stood and explained.

“Darba said she turned the car off when she found the body. But she didn’t come down here right away, so it had been running for quite some time.”

Robertson interrupted, “She told Ellie on the phone that it wasn’t but maybe ten minutes before she came down here. Ten minutes after seeing Burkholder bolt up the drive.”

“Point is, Bruce, she did wait. And the car was running. So, that would have warmed it up in here. Warmer than outside, anyway, and when she turned the car off, it would have started cooling down in here. So, we can chart that.”

“How?”

“As soon as we got here, Pat Lance started taking ambient temperature readings.”

“Way to go, Lance,” Robertson said.

“So, we can graph the trend as the barn cooled down. I’ll make a few calculations.”

“OK, whatever,” the sheriff said, already losing interest in the details.

Missy smiled, knowing well her husband’s changeabilities. “Give me a couple of hours, Sheriff, and I’ll have a time of death for you. Sometime later this afternoon.”

“Good,” Robertson said and turned to Ricky. “What’d you find, Sergeant?”

At the back of the Chevy, Ricky lifted up a small suitcase, held shut with a leather strap. “This is full of men’s clothing. Amish.”

Robertson stepped over, peered inside the trunk, and pulled out one of several plastic bottles of commercial spring water. “He was taking a trip,” he remarked.

“And there’s food in this box,” Ricky said, pulling a tab open on a produce box. “Crackers, a jar of peanut butter, boxes of raisins, apples, and candy bars.”

Robertson dropped the water bottle back into the trunk and asked, “Did he have any cash on him?”

“About a hundred dollars in an old wallet,” Ricky said. “And there was a stack of hundred dollar bills, about fifteen thousand dollars, in the trunk. I bagged it for evidence.”

“He claims that’s the money he got from Spiegle. You buy that, Ricky?”

Ricky nodded. “He says Spiegle tried to buy him out. To get him to forget about marrying Vesta Miller.”

“Can’t believe that would work,” Robertson commented.

“I think it fits,” Ricky said. “Crist says he was leaving to get Vesta this morning. To elope. That’s when he says Glenn Spiegle came down and gave him this fifteen thousand, so he wouldn’t elope.”

“Yeah, sure,” Robertson scoffed. “Like fifteen K would have convinced you not to marry Ellie.”

Ricky shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible, Sheriff.”

“Doesn’t make any sense, Ricky. Why would Spiegle think he had a chance with a girl so much younger than him?”

Behind them, the larger barn doors cracked open to admit a shaft of bright morning light, and Linda Hart—lanky in a black pantsuit, with the short, black hair of a tomboy, combed, parted, and gelled in place—pushed the right half of the track doors fully open, and then the left. Then she bent to pick up a black leather briefcase and a can of Diet Pepsi.

“Where’s my client, Sheriff?” she asked pleasantly, a wide, toothy smile on her face.

Robertson stepped forward and said, “Linda, don’t start.”

“Start what, Bruce?”

“You know.”

The smile disappeared. “I just want to see my client.”

From the back of the Chevy, Ricky said, “He’s sitting in the back room.”

Hart smiled again and said, “Bruce, if you’ve mishandled my client, I’ll have your head.”

“You don’t need to make it all adversarial, like this, Hart.”

Still smiling, Hart started for the back Rumspringe Room saying, “Everything between us is adversarial, Bruce. You know that.”

* * *

While Linda Hart conferred in Darba’s Rum Room with Crist Burkholder and the sheriff’s people finished up their investigation inside the barn, Cal turned his attention to the cluster of Amish folk standing out on 601, at the top of the Winterses’ drive. As he climbed the hill, Cal counted seven black buggies parked along the road in front of the Winters house and three more on the Spiegle side of the road, leaving only a narrow lane for cars to pass down the middle. As he reached the top, a sedan drove slowly through the gap, the English driver and his wife studying the crowd and stopping briefly to peer down the driveway toward the barn.

Not hiding his irritation with their curiosity, Cal waved for them to move on, and the driver pulled forward and stopped in the middle of the road, about forty yards beyond the last buggy. The passenger, a middle-aged lady dressed in a blue cable-knit sweater and a yellow windbreaker, got out and stood beside the car, looking back toward Cal. So Troyer sighed and walked down the lane to her, answered several questions to satisfy her curiosity, and turned back toward Darba’s place once the car had driven away.

Back among the Amish people, Cal sought out Vesta Miller and guided her off to the side, seeking privacy between the back of one of the buggies and the wet nose of the horse hitched to the rig behind it. Twisting a white hanky nervously in her slender fingers, Vesta asked Cal, “Where is Crist, Pastor? What are they going to do with him?”

Vesta’s white prayer cap was fixed at the back of her head, over the bun of her brown hair, and the white laces of her cap hung straight beside her cheeks, reaching the tops of her shoulders. Her plain aqua dress was tied with a thin cloth string at her waist, and over the dress she wore a white apron. The collar of the dress was plain and unadorned.
At the bottom hem of her dress, an inch of black stockings showed. On her feet she wore plain black walking shoes. The lids of her brown eyes were reddened, and her nose was chafed from wiping it. She struggled not to cry in front of Cal, but she failed in the effort, and more tears spilled onto her cheeks. Weary of using her hanky, Vesta let the tears fall. She asked in a whisper, “What will become of us, Pastor? What will become of Crist and me?”

Some of the other Amish women had wandered close to them, so Cal moved Vesta farther down the road and spoke softly. “He has a good lawyer, Vesta. We need to trust his lawyer now.”

“But what are they going to do to him? Will he go to prison?”

“They’ll take him to the jail in Millersburg. There’s a lot that the sheriff has to do, to charge him and such, so that’s why Crist needs a good lawyer. To guide him through the courts.”

“Will there be a trial?”

“I don’t know, Vesta. We need to let his lawyer work on that. Maybe they won’t have a trial.”

“Then they’ll just put him in prison?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Maybe down at the jail. Maybe this afternoon. Most likely tomorrow.”

Vesta stared down at her shoes. “Right now, I don’t know what I’d say to him.”

“Maybe tomorrow would be better.”

Looking back into Cal’s eyes, Vesta asked, “Why didn’t he just come to get me? Like we had planned.”

“He says that Glenn Spiegle stopped him.”

Vesta shook her head, not believing.

Behind them, Bishop Shetler spoke. “Yes, Vesta. Crist said that Glenn Spiegle told him that he would die if he couldn’t marry you.”

New tears fell over Vesta’s cheeks, and she wiped at them with her wrinkled hanky. Cal handed her a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket, and without unfolding
it, Vesta held it to her eyes and then to her nose. Then she slipped her wet hanky under the side of her apron and unfolded Cal’s handkerchief to blow her nose.

“I’m sorry, Bischoff,” she said, “but I never wanted to marry Herr Spiegle.”

“I’ve just spoken with your father,” Shetler said. “I know that he’s been telling people that you were promised to Spiegle.”

“He can’t do that,” Vesta cried. “I have rights.”

“I know,” said Shetler. “I’ve spoken with him about this before. I’ve warned him several times.”

“I can’t live at home anymore, Bischoff. He tells us girls that our only duty is to serve a man. He tells us that women are less than men, and it really doesn’t matter who we marry. I know he’s wrong about women, and I just can’t stay there anymore.”

“Vesta, I’ve warned him for the last time, and he knows it.”

“But he believes it, Bischoff. He believes that the Bible teaches these things. That men are the bosses of women. And my mother believes it, too. I think she’s depressed. I think she’s been that way ever since she got married. But I can’t live that way. Crist told me I don’t have to. I have rights, and women don’t have to live that way, anymore.”

The bishop considered her words silently, holding Vesta’s gaze with his sympathy. Then he said, “The Bible does not teach what your father preaches.”

“Somebody needs to tell him that.”

“I have told him many times.”

“He doesn’t listen, Bischoff,” Vesta said and looked away.

“But Vesta,” the bishop started.

Turning back to face him with obvious disgust, Vesta said, “My sisters are all depressed, Bischoff. They’re numb, and they stumble through their chores like scarecrows, because they think life offers them nothing more than what our mother has endured all her married life. I’m sure that they’re all depressed. Worse than Darba Winters ever gets.”

“You know that is not our way, Vesta. And I’ve warned your father that he’ll be shunned.”

Defiantly, Vesta stared back at the bishop as if he were foolish. “I can’t live there anymore, Bischoff.”

Gently, Cal asked Vesta, “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I’m going down to the jail, to talk with Crist.”

“But do you have a place to stay tonight?” Cal asked.

Vesta turned to the pastor and considered her answer. “I could go to Sara Miller’s place. In the Doughty Valley. She and Jeremiah were going to help Crist and me. So, I guess I could go there.”

Cal asked, “Is this Jeremiah, the son of Jonah and the grandson of Eli?”

“Yes. They have the bishop’s old house.”

Cal nodded. “Do you want me to drive you there?”

Hesitating, Vesta said, “I’ve already got my horse and buggy here.”

Bishop Shetler offered, “We can take it home for you, Vesta.”

As Vesta considered this, the people standing together at the top of Darba’s drive shifted about and made a path for Deputy Armbruster to pull his cruiser in beside the driveway. When the people all turned to look down the drive, Vesta cried out and ran forward, pushing through to the front of the group. Coming up the drive, they saw Sergeant Niell escorting Crist Burkholder, whose hands were cuffed in front.

Beside them walked Linda Hart, saying to Crist, “I’ll follow you into town, Crist. Don’t say anything. Don’t talk to them at all. Do you understand?”

Crist nodded, head hanging down.

Vesta shouted, “Crist!” and ran down to meet them. She tried to reach out to Burkholder, but Niell waved her off and told Burkholder, “Keep moving.”

Vesta back-stepped up the drive in front of them, pleading, “I need to talk to him. Just let me talk to him.”

But Niell denied her, saying, “Maybe down at the jail,” as he held a hand on top of Burkholder’s head to guide him into the backseat of Armbruster’s cruiser.

6

Wednesday, October 7

9:15
A.M.

WHEN ARMBRUSTER pulled his cruiser away, Vesta Miller collapsed in the gravel at the top of Darba’s drive. Several of the women rushed to her and knelt beside her, rubbing her arms and shoulders, trying to calm her. But she lay stiffly on her side hugging her chest, muttering, “No, No, No,” and nothing the women said to her brought a sensible response.

Eventually, they managed to prop her up into a sitting position, and she appeared to focus her sight on the barn. Then, looking from one person to another, she asked the women beside her, “What can I do? What can we do?”

Cal knelt beside Vesta, and the women stood to let him speak with her. On his knees, he said, “Go home with Katie. Go to the bishop’s house and try to rest.”

“No, No, No,” Vesta cried. “I want to talk to Crist.”

Cal said, “You can see him later, Vesta. At the jail. I’ll drive you down, but first, go to Katie’s. Sit a bit. Take some food. Then, I’ll come get you, and we’ll drive into town.”

Trying to stand, Vesta was still unsteady. “I need to talk to him now.”

Cal helped her to her feet and supported her elbow. “Let Katie help you, first. You don’t look so good.”

One of the other women stepped forward and said to Cal, “My place is closer, Pastor. Let me take her. We’re just up the road. The next farm.”

“OK,” Vesta whispered.

Cal handed her to the woman and said, “I’ll come for her
this afternoon. Crist won’t be able to talk much before then, anyway. But get her to lie down. Maybe eat something.”

The woman nodded, and with help from two others, she guided Vesta toward her buggy.

* * *

The rest of the crowd seemed to be dispersing. At the edge of Darba’s front lawn, Cal saw Leon and Katie Shetler talking with the Burkholders. He joined them and said to Wayne Burkholder, “I’ll take Vesta into town a little later, but maybe you two should go into Millersburg to see about Crist, now.”

Wayne Burkholder nodded. “That’s what we were talking about. But we don’t know if the sheriff will let us talk to him.”

“He will,” Cal assured them. “Eventually. In the meantime, the best thing is to be there when they’re ready. You’ll want to speak to his lawyer, too. Linda Hart. Maybe you should do that first.”

Wayne nodded, and looked to Bishop Shetler and then back to Cal. Then he nodded again and with clarity of purpose, he hurried with his wife Mary toward their buggy.