Page 103 of A Gathering of Secrets

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

I pick up the glass and sip. “You know she confessed to setting the fire that killed Daniel Gingerich.”

“I read your statement.” He looks down at the glass in his hands, swirls the whiskey. “Hard to figure.”

I shake my head. “Tomasetti, suicide by cop?”

“We’ve seen crazier things.” He shrugs. “With her being Amish, maybe the guilt was too much.”

“She knew what Gingerich was.”

“Even so.” He shrugs. “Maybe she couldn’t handle what she’d done and decided to end her life without having to do the dirty work herself.”

It’s a solid theory. But Edna Lambright was so far removed from the profile of someone who would do something so desperate, I can’t accept it. “Was there a note?”

“Not in the vehicle,” he tells me. “Or on her person. Agent talked to the family earlier and there’s nothing there.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

Even as I say the words, I realize it does, but in a way that’s so twisted, so perverse, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get my head around it.

* * *

They say criminals always return to the scene of the crime. Sometimes cops do, too. For different reasons, of course. Closure being one of them. Not that I believe in that sort of thing. When you’re a cop, believing in something as trite as closure—or even justice, for that matter—is sort of like believing in the tooth fairy. Life isn’t that neat.

Drizzle falls from a Teflon-gray sky when I pull into the parking lot of The Mercantile. For five days I’ve debated whether to come back. I want to think it’s for a final look at the place where I nearly lost my life. Maybe thumb my nose at the Grim Reaper. But this pilgrimage isn’t about coming to terms with either of those things. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the three young Amish women whose lives intersected with mine in the course of the Gingerich case. Viola Stutzman. Ina Yoder. And Neva Lambright. Especially Neva.

Instead of parking near the front entrance, where a dozen or so vehicles and half as many buggies are lined up outside the door, I idle around to the rear, where the skeletal remains of the round barn stand in dark testament to the tragedy that occurred here just five days ago. The only things left are the blackened bones of the wood frame, the rafters, and the stone foundation. I wonder if it’s been slated for demolition.

Shutting down the engine, I get out, barely noticing the drizzle or the breeze that’s kicked up from the east. A lone piece of yellow caution tape demarks what had once been the crime scene. I think about Skid and I wonder if he’s been back to the scene where Edna Lambright died.

It wasn’t easy telling him he shot and killed an unarmed woman. She brandished the weapon; we had no way of knowing the gun was unloaded. There’s no doubt he had just cause for deadly force. Still, there are some who will argue the point. Skid put on a brave front after receiving the news; he cracked a couple of inappropriate jokes. We laughed when we probably shouldn’t have. He cursed the woman who’d used him in such a cruel, life-altering way. Despite his efforts to convince me otherwise, I’m pretty sure I left him in worse condition than when I arrived.

I’ve talked to him every day since it happened. Twice he was drunk and alone—a bad combination for a cop dealing with killing an unarmed citizen. But he’s trying. BCI is handling the investigation. I fully expect him to be exonerated of any wrongdoing. Once that happens, I’ll put him back on duty. I’m hoping his old routine—and being around people who care about him—will help get him back on track.

I stroll over to the barn. The stone foundation looks like rows of rotting and missing teeth. Inside, the ground is littered with charred debris of indiscernible origin, burned chunks of wood, blackened rock. I make my way down the hill and around to the back. The two rocks I dislodged to escape are still there, lying in the weeds and mud, forgotten.

“What the hell were you thinking, Edna?” I whisper.

The only answer is the solitary whistle of a cardinal from the row of trees at the edge of the parking lot.

Back in the Explorer, I drive around to the front of The Mercantile and head inside. Today is the first day the shop has been open for business since Edna Lambright’s death. The community—Amish and English alike—have come out in force to support the Lambright family, and the place is a beehive of activity.

Inside, a handful of customers stand in line at the cash register, which is being manned by a somber-looking Ina Yoder. A family of four, out-of-town tourists probably, is checking out the greeting card display. I wave to Ina when I walk in, but she doesn’t notice. I start toward the rear of the store.

I’m midway through the candle section when I spot Viola Stutzman in the next row. She’s with two customers, but spots me. Her eyes jump with a quick flash of recognition, but I can’t read her expression. I’m not sure how my being here will be received, since I was there the night Edna Lambright was killed.

I start toward Viola, pausing a few feet away, giving her time to finish with her customers. She’s been crying at some point. Her eyes are puffy; the tip of her nose is red and chapped. Her face is paler than usual. If I’m not mistaken, she’s lost a couple of pounds since I last saw her. Despite her evident sadness, she’s doing a decent sales pitch for the pretty knitted afghan draped over her arm.

“My grossmudder made this one,” she tells them. “It’s my favorite and I’m sure your aunt would love it, especially on those cold winter nights up there in Cleveland.”

Sold, the couple thanks her and takes the afghan to the cash register.

“You’re a natural,” I tell her.

There’s no hostility in her eyes when she looks at me, no blame. Just a thinly veiled sadness and the same kind of discomfort I feel in the pit of my stomach.

“Chief Burkholder. I’m … I’m glad you’re okay.”