A Gathering of Secrets Read online

  If Emma Miller and Elam Schlabach were involved in a serious relationship and hadn’t had yet had sex, how did she end up pregnant? Was she seeing Daniel behind his back? Did that relationship, her pregnancy, or her death have anything to do with Gingerich’s murder? Is Elam Schlabach telling the truth about any of it?

  The possibilities gnaw at me as I drive to the farm. I hate to call it a night when I have so many unanswered questions buzzing inside my head, but it’s late; any answers are going to have to wait until morning.

  It’s dusk when I arrive home. I’m so preoccupied, I barely notice the way the sunlight slants through the trees at the back of our property or the mist rising from the pond. I glance at the dock where Tomasetti sometimes likes to fish, but he’s not there. Two mallards glide through the smooth-as-glass water.

  I’m midway to the old Victorian house we’ve shared for nearly two years when a pang of something I don’t recognize stops me in my tracks. The chatter in my head grinds to a halt. Turning, I look out across our property, and for the first time in days, I see the simple beauty of my surroundings and I drink it in. Somehow I hadn’t noticed that the foliage is abloom with fall color. I stand there, listening to the calls of the red-winged blackbirds that swoop and play among the willows by the pond. The whisper of the wind through the treetops. The bawling of Mr. Cline’s cattle to the south. The tinkle of the wind chimes I bought on impulse at one of the Amish tourist shops in town. Autumn evenings in this part of Ohio are magical; they are a feast for the senses, balm for the soul of a troubled cop. And I’ve been missing all of it for so long I hadn’t even noticed when it slipped away.

  I’m about to open the back door to find Tomasetti and talk to him about my epiphany when I hear pounding coming from the barn. Setting my laptop case on the stoop, I turn and head that way. The structure is nearly as old as the house, in dire need of new shingles and a paint job, but it’s chock-full of character. Tomasetti and I have done little in the way of barn renovation, and it’s probably going to be our next big project.

  The sliding door stands open, so I go up the ramp and walk inside. The sound of the pounding is louder. I move more deeply into the dimly lit interior. Someone is definitely hammering away on something.

  “Tomasetti?”

  “Back here!” comes his voice from somewhere outside at the rear.

  The bank barn is an old German design that’s built into a hillside. The front has two stories. The back has three stories due to the additional livestock stalls on the underside of the building. I head toward the rear, take the step-up to the wood floor, and cross to the window. I look out to see Tomasetti working on a good-size shed of some type.

  “What are you doing?” I call out.

  He looks up at me and grins. “I think the technical term for it is busting my ass.”

  I grin back. “You look good in that hammer.”

  “Why don’t you come down here and show me?”

  Laughing, I take the stairs to the lower level. I cross through the livestock stalls mounded with decades of manure that’s long since composted to dirt. Tomasetti has set up shop ten feet from the barn. I see the orange snake of an extension cord. A handsaw lying in the dust. A toolbox full of his tools of the trade.

  The structure he’s working on is about ten feet square. It’s not finished; there are only three walls and it’s not yet too heavy for him to move. No windows or door yet. It looks like some sort of rustic, giant doghouse.

  I don’t want to ask what it is; I feel as if I should know. “Are we getting a dog?” I ask, though neither of us would ever consider leaving a dog in a doghouse.

  Tomasetti removes a nail from his mouth, sets it against the wood, and drives it home with four blows of the hammer. “Two too many legs.”

  I think about that a moment, as amused as I am baffled. “We’re getting a kid?”

  When he’s finished with the nail, he sets down the hammer and gives me his full attention. “How’s the Gingerich case going?”

  Only then do I realize that I don’t want to talk about the case. I don’t want the ugliness of it to intrude on this otherwise perfect moment. Still, I’m thankful he asked. Not only because he’s a good sounding board, but because I’m floundering and making little headway.

  “I don’t think Daniel Gingerich was as sweet and innocent as everyone seems to think,” I tell him.

  “That can certainly change the dynamics of a case,” he says. “Especially in terms of motive.”

  When I don’t respond, he rises to his full height and crosses to me. He’s wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt that makes me smile. “I like your shirt.”

  “It’s my farm shirt.” He kisses me on the mouth, and a quiver of pleasure goes through me. He smells of this morning’s aftershave and sawdust and man.

  After a moment, he draws back and motions to his project. “Give up yet?”

  “I’m stumped.”

  Taking my hand, he starts toward the barn. “In that case I’ll show you.”

  We cross through the livestock stalls and clamber up the stairs. I can see our house through the big sliding door and I realize in that moment this is exactly where I want to be. Where I’ve always wanted to be. I hear the red-winged blackbirds and the frogs from their place on the muddy bank of the pond. And a burst of simple happiness engulfs me. I’m reminded of how lucky I am. How differently my life might’ve turned out if I hadn’t met this man.

  We approach a small homemade pen, something Tomasetti has thrown together with quarter-inch plywood and a few nails. I see a heat lamp clipped to a two-by-four set across the top. I hear the chirping before I see the chicks and I feel a catch in my chest.

  “You didn’t,” I whisper.

  We reach the pen. I look down to see a couple dozen fuzzy chicks chirping and milling about. They’re a few days old and about the size of my fist. They’ve got tawny brown backs with butter-yellow undersides. Some have dark spots or a stripe on their heads. Tiny yellow beaks and feet. Tomasetti has placed a galvanized poultry drinker and matching chick feeder inside and laid a few inches of wood shavings on the floor. The temporary enclosure is about two feet square, giving the chicks plenty of room to move around, but there’s enough heat coming off the lamp to keep them warm during the night.

  “They’re Buckeyes,” he tells me.

  I feel his gaze on me, trying to gauge my reaction, figure out if I’m pleased or put off because both of us work too much to care for such delicate little creatures.

  “They’re adorable,” I say after a moment.

  “Good layers, too. Brown eggs.”

  I look at him and I can’t keep what is surely a stupid grin off my face. “I love the sound of a rooster in the morning.”

  “They’re not sexed. The breeder said there are probably two in there.”

  One of the chicks chooses that moment to let out a loud, distressed-sounding chirp. Grinning, I reach for it. “Gotta be the rooster.”

  Tomasetti chuckles. “If the beak fits…”

  The chick is tiny and warm and soft in my hand. I was raised around them, went through a period when it was my job to care for them. But I never appreciated them the way I do now.

  “He’s a cute little guy.” Gently, I pass the chick to Tomasetti.

  I can’t take my eyes off him as he takes the chick and an unexpected surge of affection moves through me. I’ve seen this man at his worst. I’ve seen him beaten down by grief and haunted by the kinds of memories none of us should ever have to face. I know the part of him that is capable of violence. But I’ve seen him at his best, too, and I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone else in my life. More than I ever believed possible.

  “How long until the coop is finished?” I ask.

  “A few days. I want to include a couple of roosts. Room for them to grow. I thought we might start looking for some of those galvanized laying boxes for eggs.” He leans over and sets the chick back into the enclosure. “Or maybe something retro. Antiq
ue.”

  “We should hit some estate sales, garage sales.”

  “If we train them to come in and roost at night, we can free-range them during the day.”

  I nod, feeling like an idiot because I’m overcome with emotion. “I love them,” I say.

  He slants me a look. “I’m not going to end up being jealous of these chickens or some nonsense like that, am I?”

  Choking out a laugh, I elbow him. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”

  He laughs. I love the sound of it. I want to stop this moment. Freeze it. Put it away. Save it for all of time, because both of us know how precious and rare this kind of happiness is.

  “Chief?”

  “Yup?”

  “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “Something in my eye.”

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “You, too, evidently.”

  He reaches for my hands and pulls me around so that we’re facing each other. The sound of the chicks fades to the background when I look into his eyes, and I know something is about to change. Something solid and good and forever.

  “We haven’t talked about making this arrangement of ours … official,” he says.

  “You mean getting married.”

  “You’ve been skittish.”

  When I don’t respond, he looks away, then back at me. “How do you feel about setting a date?”

  It’s not easy to cry in front of Tomasetti. He’s been through so much. We both have. More than our share, probably. For me to break at a moment like this seems … ridiculous.

  “Hopefully, those are happy tears, if there is such a thing.”

  “There is.” I let go of his hand and swipe them away. “Sorry.”

  “I kind of like it when women weep over me. It happens more often than you think. They just sort of line up and the floodgates open.…”

  We’re facing each other. Hands clasped. I look down at the chicks, then back at him. “The Amish marry after harvest, usually in November or December. Maybe January.”

  “It’s almost October.”

  “I’m a practical woman. I thought we might … keep it simple.”

  “One of about a thousand things I love about you, Chief Burkholder.”

  “Only a thousand?”

  “And counting.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer, and, side by side, we start toward the door.

  CHAPTER 10

  I arrive at the station a little before eight A.M. to find Mona, Lois, and Pickles in the midst of relocating the coffee station to the corner by the window. Lois dons the dispatch system headset while Mona and Pickles heave and ho the old desk to its new home.

  “Morning, Chief.” Hands on her hips, Lois directs. “Move it to the right, guys. Six inches or so. It needs to be centered.”

  “Your six inches is my ten,” Pickles grumbles.

  Mona bursts out laughing. “Don’t even go there.”

  “Well, it’s not centered,” Lois snaps, then looks at me. “We’re almost finished here, Chief.”

  The coffee station is an old metal and laminate desk we inherited from a motel that closed back in the 1980s. It weighs close to a hundred pounds, and with Pickles being seventy-five years old, I question the wisdom of him moving it and I jump in to help.

  When the desk is in place, all four of us stand back and look at it. “Looks great,” Mona proclaims.

  “I say we test it out by making some coffee,” Pickles grumbles.

  Lois snaps up the carafe and sets to work.

  I’m midway to my office when it occurs to me Mona shouldn’t be here. She’s already worked her shift, which is midnight to eight A.M. At the door to my office I turn and look at her. “You’re still here.”

  She gives me a deer-in-the-headlights look. “I was on my way out the door when—”

  “I could probably muster a couple hours overtime for you this morning,” I tell her. “If you’re game.”

  She brightens. “Oh, I’m game. What you got?”

  I pull out the small notebook I keep in my pocket. “See if you can come up with an address for Ruth Beiler.” I spell the name. “She’s Amish. I don’t have a DOB, but she’s approximately twenty years of age. Last known residence is Painters Mill.”

  “Coming right up.” She starts for her computer.

  “Mona?”

  She stops and turns, her expression telling me she’s afraid I’m going to lay into her for staying late yet again when I’ve asked her not to. “I was on my way out the door when you walked in, Chief. I couldn’t let Lois and Pickles move that desk—”

  “When you find her address, I thought you and I might go speak to her.”

  “Seriously?” Her eyes and mouth open wide; then she catches herself, grapples for cool. “I mean, that would be great. Experience.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  I’m nearly to my office when I hear her let out a whoop loud enough to rattle the windows.

  * * *

  A few minutes later my phone buzzes. I glance down to see DEPT OF COMM pop up on the display. “Burkholder.”

  “Hi, Chief, it’s Bob Schoening. I wanted to let you know about an interesting development on the Gingerich case.”

  I shove the file aside. “I could use some solid information about now.”

  “As you are aware, I collected a number of items from the scene. Among them were two mason jars located just outside the tack room door. We suspect whoever set that fire used the jars to transport gasoline to the scene.”

  “Are the jars intact?”

  “Unfortunately they are not. In fact, there’s nothing about them that makes them particularly unique. The most interesting item I’ve examined was a key. It was discovered with a metal detector a short distance from the tack room where the body was found.”

  “Is it the key to the tack room door?” I ask.

  “It is. But, Chief Burkholder, what’s significant about the key is that we processed it for latents and, amazingly, we got a good print off it.”

  “A fingerprint survived the fire?”

  “The key was beneath some wood, lying against the dirt floor. It was somewhat protected from the fire and remained cool enough for the latents to show up when we tested it.”

  I sit up straighter. “Do you have a name to go with the print?”

  “We submitted to BCI via LiveScan and they’re running it through AFIS now.”

  AFIS is the acronym for the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. “Any idea how long that might take?”

  “Twenty-four hours, give or take.”

  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.