Page 44 of A Gathering of Secrets

It’s good news. Of course, the print could belong to one of the Gingerich family members. Even if it belongs to an unknown individual, like all law enforcement databases, AFIS is only as good as the information it contains. If the owner of those prints doesn’t have a record or has never been fingerprinted, there won’t be a match.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“I’m sending my report your way now.” Papers rattle on the other end. “I do have a couple more notable items. A wine bottle was found inside the tack room. A ceramic plate. Residue from a candle.”

“Latents?”

“No.”

“That’s an interesting combination of items.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Any chance the candle started that fire?”

“I’ve determined that the fire started outside the tack room. That, I’m sure of. It’s possible there was a secondary fire, but I’ve not seen indication of that.”

I rattle off my cell phone number. “Keep me posted on that latent, will you?”

“You bet.”

* * *

Mona is a whiz when it comes to digging up information. Not only is she adept on the law enforcement databases—LEADS and Ohio’s OHLEG—but she’s also quite the sleuth when it comes to the search engine and venturing into some of the internet’s best kept secrets.

“Would have found all this sooner, but Ruth Beiler is actually Ruth Petersheim now,” Mona says from the doorway of my office. “Married Mark Petersheim about a year ago. They live up in Wilmot now. She works part-time at the Amish Door restaurant.”

“Nice detective work.” I grab my keys. “Want to run up there with me?”

Her grin is the only answer I need.

* * *

Wilmot is a pretty little village with a population of about three hundred souls thirty minutes northeast of Painters Mill. I plugged Ruth Petersheim’s address into my GPS before leaving and head north on US 62. I stop for gas in Millersburg and continue on, passing a few buggies and driving by dozens of Amish farms. At the edge of Wilmot, we idle past the Amish Door Village and I smile. Two weeks ago, Tomasetti and I spent a rare Saturday morning together, pigging out on scrambled eggs and pancakes at their breakfast buffet.

As we approach the dogleg before Winesburg intersects with Main Street, the female voice instructs me to make a right on Milton.

Mona points. “There it is. Little house just past the church.”

I park curbside in front of a small frame home with white paint and a crooked front porch. There are two vintage metal chairs painted a pretty shade of turquoise and a planter box full of yellow and lavender mums.

“Is Ruth Petersheim Amish?” Mona asks.

“She was at some point.” I look at her, remind myself this is a learning experience for her. “The main thing to remember is that Petersheim is neither a suspect nor a witness at this point. We’re basically on a fishing expedition. The more she talks, the more fruitful this visit will be.”

“Got it.”

“Mainly, I want to know if she knew or was friends with Daniel Gingerich. I’m interested in what kind of relationship they had. If they were close. That sort of thing. You never know where some seemingly insignificant piece of information might turn out to be important.”

She stares at me, nodding, eyes wide, seeming to hang on my every word. “Right.”

“I’ll take the lead, but if you think of something important, jump in.”

We leave the Explorer and take a narrow, buckled sidewalk to the porch. At the door, Mona looks at me. I give her a nod. Standing slightly aside, she knocks firmly.

The door opens and I find myself looking at a young Amish woman. Early twenties. Dishwater blond hair encased in a gauzy kapp. Light blue dress, apron, and discount-brand sneakers. I hear a baby gaggling somewhere in the house.

She looks taken aback by the sight of my uniform. “Has something happened?”