Page 60 of Shamed

Ignoring me, she jams the shovel into dirt, pushes it deeper with her shoe.

“What about Marlene Byler?” I ask.

“They shamed her to death. That’s why she jumped. They shamed her. Shamed her.” Repeating the words like a mantra, she begins to dig, frantically. “Like mother, like daughter. One and the same—both were bad eggs.” Jamming the shovel into the dirt, tossing it into the wheelbarrow. Again and again.

When I can stand it no longer, I go to her, try to take the shovel, but she won’t release it. “Why did they take the baby?” I ask.

The woman tightens her mouth, doesn’t look at me.

“Who are the parents?” I wait a beat. When she says nothing, I add a resounding “Please, all I need is a name.”

She raises a shaking hand and wipes rain from her face, slings it to the ground. “You speak the devil’s name too often and you’ll hear the flap of his wings. You’d be wise to remember that, Kate Burkholder.”

Throwing down the shovel, she turns away and starts toward the house.

For an instant, I consider going after her. Pressuring her until I get what I need. I’m not above bullying when I want something, when it’s important, even if she’s old and frail. This is different. I think the stroke must have affected her mental state. Might be better to try again in the morning.

My boots sink into mud as I walk back to the Explorer. The rain is coming down in sheets and I’m soaked to the skin. My coat’s wet. My hair. Rain pounds the hood. I sit there a moment, trying to get my head around what just transpired between me and the old Amish woman.

… it wadn’t no accident.

Is it possible the hit-and-run that killed Bishop Schwartz wasn’t some random, tragic accident? Did the sheriff’s department interview Sadie Stutzman? Did they listen to her claims? Or did they simply write her off as an eccentric old woman?

“Damn it,” I mutter as I pick up my phone.

The last thing any cop wants to be subjected to is some cop from an outside jurisdiction coming in and questioning the way they handled an investigation. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m about to do, so I take a moment to get my words in order before punching in the number.

I get put on hold twice and then Deputy Harleson comes on the line. “Hi, Chief Burkholder. What can I do for you?”

“I got plaster on some tire-tread impressions related to the case I’m working on, and I realized I forgot to ask if you were able to pick up any tread on the hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz. I thought it might be worth running a comp.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but we didn’t get any tread marks. There was heavy rain that night. Anything left behind by the driver got washed away.”

I make a sound of disappointment. “I was just talking with some of the local Amish. There are some individuals who believe the bishop’s death was not accidental.”

He chuckles. “Ah, you talked to the Stutzman widow over there on River Road.”

Busted. “Yes.”

“I should have warned you. She’s a nice lady and all, but she’s crazy as a loon. Half the stuff she says … you can’t believe it. Sorry I didn’t warn you.”

I’m still thinking about the hit-and-run and the Amish bishop whose life was cut short. “Can you tell me where the accident happened?”

“Intersection of Hayport Road and Burkes Lane. Driver blew the stop sign at a high rate of speed. Hit the buggy from behind.”

“What time did it happen?” I ask.

“Nine P.M. or so. Schwartz was one of them Amish that don’t use slow-moving-vehicle signs.”

“He was Old Order? Swartzentruber?”

“I’m not sure what the difference is to tell you the truth. But Schwartz had no lights or reflective signage on the buggy. It was dark. Perfect storm for a wreck.” He pauses. “Do you mind telling me what that hit-and-run has to do with your case up there in Painters Mill?”

“I’m not sure just yet,” I say honestly. “If I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

CHAPTER 14

Fifty hours missing