Page 85 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Okay.”

“Interestingly, the latent on the mason jar found at Chris Martino’s house doesn’t belong to Petersheim either.”

“So my arsonist is still out there.”

“This is where the plot thickens. The print found on the key retrieved from the Gingerich scene matches the print found on the mason jar.”

“So whoever handled the key at the Gingerich farm also handled the mason jars found in Martino’s garage.” The information swirls in my head, a leaf caught in an eddy. “What about the tire tread imprint?” I ask, referring to the one taken the night of the shooting.

“Still working on the comp. Probably going to match the tires on Petersheim’s truck.” He sighs. “Wish I had better news. I know you were hoping to close the case.”

“At least the shooter was identified.”

“One threat down.” He pauses. “You coming home anytime soon?”

“I thought I might talk to Elam Schlabach before I call it a day.”

“The Amish boyfriend of the girl who killed herself.”

I give him my impressions of Schlabach. “He’s twenty-three years old and newly married with a baby on the way. And yet the only emotion I got out of him when I talked to him is rage.”

“Give me a call if you need anything.”

“Bet on it.”

* * *

It’s nearly five P.M. when I swing by Buckeye Woodworks and Cabinetry on Fourth Street only to be told that Elam Schlabach has already left for the day. I drive out to his home on Dogleg Road. His wife tells me he’s working late.

I stand in the driveway, my hands on my hips, and wonder. “Where the hell are you?”

In a small town like Painters Mill, that question isn’t always difficult to answer, especially when there’s a young male and a certain level of discontent involved. There are three drinking establishments in the area. The Brass Rail is too rowdy and too far away for Schlabach to reach via buggy. McNarie’s is too … bikerish. That leaves Miller’s Tavern. It’s a dark, quiet drinking establishment that favors pop music over chain-saw rock and German beer over eighty-proof rotgut. There’s an old-fashioned jukebox next to the bar, a decent menu replete with sliders and stuffed jalapeños, and ice cream soft-serve for the kids. Most of the patrons are local business owners and shopkeepers who stop in after hours for a beer or cocktail before calling it a day. Just the kind of place a young Amish man might frequent when he doesn’t want to go home.

Back in the Explorer, I head toward town.

* * *

There are no buggies parked in front of Miller’s Tavern, so I idle around to the alley at the rear. Sure enough, there’s a nice-looking bay gelding hitched to a lone buggy, snoozing. I park next to it, take a moment to stroke the horse, and then enter the bar via the back door.

I take a narrow, dimly lit hall past the bathroom and janitor closet. I enter the main room to the Fixx blaring out “One Thing Leads to Another.” Elam Schlabach sits in a booth, a mug of beer in front of him, watching me. A red plastic basket with the remnants of a burger and fries sits in the center of the table, next to an empty shot glass.

I hold his gaze as I make my way over to him.

“You come in through the back door, too, huh?” he says.

“Once or twice. Comes in handy.”

“Especially when you’re Amish.”

“And the walls have eyes.” I reach the booth. “Mind if I join you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.” I slide onto the seat opposite him.

For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks. Schlabach appears to be perfectly at ease and fiddles with the paper lining the red basket. Fingers the condensation on the beer mug. Taps his fingers to the music against the tabletop.

He lifts his beer, takes a long pull. “So is this about Danny Gingerich or what?”