Page 107 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Because of the cause and manner of Edna Lambright’s death, fingerprints were obtained at the time of autopsy.” A few more clicks sound, and then, “That comparative analysis was never done because Edna Lambright confessed.”

“Can you get that for me?”

“Let me make some calls.” But he pauses. “Look, Kate, one thing we need to keep in mind is that Edna Lambright confessed. She tried to murder you. We can’t ignore that either.”

“Tomasetti, what if she was trying to protect someone?”

A too-long pause ensues, and then, “Viola Stutzman? Were they that close?”

Mamm loved Emma like a daughter.

“I don’t know. She’s close to the girls…”

The next thought that strikes me fills me with such repugnance that it makes me nauseous. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I shift the air-conditioning vent to my face, crank it up.

“Tomasetti,” I whisper. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“And where is that?”

I close my eyes. “Look, if you could check on those latents for me. I need to check a couple of things on my end.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go back to The Mercantile.”

* * *

It’s nearly six P.M.—a few minutes before closing at The Mercantile. The lavender hues of evening settle over air fragrant with the smells of burning leaves and a backyard barbecue somewhere nearby. I’m sitting in my Explorer in the side parking lot. My police radio is turned down low. I’m listening to an old Alan Parsons Project tune, feeling more than is prudent, wishing I could walk away from this. Like so many other times, I can’t.

I didn’t hear back from Tomasetti until nearly four P.M. The news wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The latent prints found on the mason jar that was discovered in Chris Martino’s garage, and the prints lifted from the key found at the scene of the Gingerich barn fire, did not belong to Edna Lambright. He also took the time to have the latent-print expert compare the prints to those of the Gingerich family members, including the children. Again, there were no matches.

I get out of the Explorer and walk into the shop. The now-familiar aromas of vanilla, citrus, and bergamot greet me. Neva Lambright stands at the cash register, ringing up a sale for a Mennonite couple. I head toward the back of the shop. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for until I find myself in an aisle jam-packed with kitchen décor: glass pitchers, vases, votives, and other appealing items that draw tourists from as far away as Pennsylvania.

I grab four votives. They’re about two inches tall and made of smoked glass. Unusual-looking, but pretty, just like everything else in The Mercantile. I tug a tissue from my pocket, take a moment to wipe each of the votives clean, and start toward the front of the store.

Neva Lambright stands at the cash register, listless, a ghost of her former self. Her shoulders are slumped. Her complexion is pale and mottled. Her nose glows pink, as if the skin is chafed from blowing. She gives me a double take on spotting me, and offers a poor imitation of a smile. “You’re back.”

“I forgot to buy these when I stopped in earlier.” I set three of the votives on the counter, hand the remaining one to her.

She takes the votive, turns it over in her hand. “I love these.” Her smile is sad. “For your sister?”

“These are for me.” I watch as she upends the votive, looks at the price sticker and enters the SKU number and amount into the cash register.

“You’re becoming one of our best customers, Chief Burkholder.”

“I know a good thing when I see it.” My smile feels plastic on my face. I’m keenly aware of how she’s handling the votive.

“Would you like a gift box?”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

She tugs tissue paper from a box, sets it on the counter, and carefully wraps each of the votives.

“Are Ina and Viola around?” I ask.

“You missed them by about twenty minutes. Left early today.” She sighs. “Datt’s going to help me close up.”

I’d been hoping to catch the other girls, too. I’m going to have to settle for what I’ve got—and hope to hell I’m wrong.