The Dead Will Tell Read online

  I read the reports first. Forty-two-year-old Willis Hochstetler owned Hochstetler Amish Furniture, which he ran out of the home he shared with his wife, Wanetta, and five children. In the early morning hours of March 8, one or more individuals went into the home, probably looking for cash. In the course of the robbery, Willis Hochstetler sustained a fatal gunshot wound. At some point thereafter, the house caught fire—possibly from a lantern. Four of the children perished in the fire. According to the sole survivor, fourteen-year-old William, there were at least three men in the house, possibly more. They were armed with handguns and covered their faces so he was unable to identify them. When they left, they took his mother, thirty-four-year-old Wanetta, with them. The Amish woman was never seen or heard from again.

  According to the coroner’s report, the four children died of smoke inhalation. It was also determined that Willis Hochstetler died of the gunshot wound, which he sustained before the fire. I pick up the photos. They’re faded, but I can see enough to know there wasn’t much left of the house—or the victims. In the back of the file, Chief Mackey made a notation that William Hochstetler was taken in by an Amish couple and later adopted by Jonas and Martha Yoder, taking their name.

  Now, William and his wife, Hannah, own Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm. I’ve stopped by there a dozen times since I moved back to Painters Mill, to buy apples or cider or apple butter, all of which are delectable. It’s a good way for me, as chief, to keep a finger on the happenings within the Amish community.

  I close the Hochstetler file, and pull out the photos of the Amish peg doll. Why was the figurine left inside the mouth of the victim? Is there some connection between the two cases?

  I call out to Mona. “Did you get anything back on Michaels’s neighbors?”

  “Did I ever.” She enters my office with another file in hand and passes it to me. “I guess you never know who you’re living next door to.”

  “Until you run him through LEADS, anyway.” I open the file and look down at the printout. Sure enough, Kerry Seymour had amassed an extensive record as a younger man. An assault charge in 1985. Burglary conviction two years later. Drunk and disorderly. Two DUIs. He did eight months in Mansfield for a felony assault in 1999.

  “Busy man in his youth,” I say dryly.

  She motions to the folder. “I put contact info and Glock’s old incident report in there, too.”

  “Thanks.” I look at the report. True to Belinda Harrington’s assertion, Dale Michaels had filed a complaint, claiming Seymour’s dogs were loose and digging in his trash. Seymour was issued a citation and that had been the end of it. Or was it?

  * * *

  I blow most of an hour returning e-mails and phone calls. At 8 A.M., I’m back in my Explorer and heading toward the home of Dale Michaels’s neighbors. Kerry Seymour and his wife live on a small tract of land just south of the Michaels property. I pull into the asphalt driveway and park next to a maroon Ford F-150. The house is a redbrick ranch that looks professionally landscaped or else someone has a green thumb. Ahead is a good-sized metal building with an overhead door. A chain-link dog kennel with a concrete run is located on the south side of the building, but there are no dogs in sight.

  Drizzle floats down from a cast-iron sky as I leave my vehicle and take the sidewalk to the house. I open the storm door and use the brass knocker, which is, not surprisingly, in the shape of a dog’s head. The door opens a few inches and I find myself looking at a middle-aged woman wearing a pink robe over flannel pajamas. Lower, two Labrador noses sniff at me through the opening.

  “Mrs. Seymour?” I ask, showing her my badge and identifying myself. “Is Kerry Seymour home, ma’am?”

  “He’s here.” She looks past me as if expecting to see the SWAT team preparing to swoop in. “He do something wrong?”

  “Not that I know of,” I say. “But I’d like to ask both of you some questions.”

  The door opens the rest of the way. Mary Ellen Seymour is holding a coffee mug in one hand, a magazine tucked beneath her arm. At her feet, the two dogs stare at me, panting.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “Your neighbor, Mr. Michaels, was killed last night.”

  “Killed? Oh my God. How?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Mary Ellen?” A man wearing striped pajamas and a ratty-looking robe enters the foyer. He’s tall and thin, with a narrow face framed by a horseshoe mustache. He comes up behind his wife, sets his hand possessively on her shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

  The woman doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Kerry, Mr. Michaels next door is dead! Can you believe it?”

  “Dale? Dead?” Brows knitting, he rubs his hand across his chin. “Damn.”

  I purposely didn’t reveal how Michaels was killed. It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t ask.

  “His daughter found him last night,” I tell them, watching them carefully for any outward signs of previous knowledge or nervousness. “I’d like to ask you some questions,” I tell them. “May I come inside?”

  “Oh. Sure.” Glancing down at the dogs, the woman sets down the magazine and points. “Greta! Dagmar! Go!”

  Canine toenails click against the tile floor of the entryway as the animals trot off. When the dogs are gone, the woman motions me in. I step into a small entryway jammed with a console table that’s too big for the space. To my left is a living room crowded with plaid furniture, a gurgling aquarium full of iridescent orange fish, and walls painted 1980s blue.

  The couple doesn’t invite me to sit, so I go to my first question. “Did either of you notice anything unusual over at Mr. Michaels’s place in the last few days?” I ask. “Did you hear or see anything? Any visitors or strange vehicles in the area?”

  “We can’t really see his house from ours.” Kerry Seymour points through the storm door at the row of blue spruce trees that obscures the view of the Michaels house. “I planted them four years ago. For privacy.”

  He adds the final word in a way that tells me the trees have more to do with complete separation than simple privacy, and it makes me wonder just how serious the issues between them had been. “I understand there have been some problems between you and Mr. Michaels,” I say.

  “We’ve had a few skirmishes over the years.”

  “What kind of skirmishes?”

  “Our dogs got out a couple of times. He called the law on me.”

  “They’re good dogs,” Mary Ellen adds quickly.

  “I know about the citation,” I tell them. “Any other problems? Arguments?”

  “I called the County on him once for burning trash during a burn ban.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “That guy never liked me.”

  “Any particular reason?” I ask.

  He stares at me, and I notice red blotches at the base of his throat.

  “I know about your record,” I tell him.

  As if unable to bear the tension, Mary Ellen pipes up. “Mr. Michaels threw some trash on our side of the fence once. Pop cans. Kerry went over and asked him about it and he denied it. Said our dogs had gotten into his trash and the wind blew it over.”

  “How long ago was that?” I ask.

  “Two weeks ago,” she says.

  Kerry glowers at his wife and she swallows hard. I raise my brows and wait.

  “I had a few words with him a couple of weeks ago,” he admits.

  “About what?”

  “In addition to his bogus trash complaint, he said our dogs were barking and keeping him awake at night.”

  “They sleep inside with us,” Mary Ellen says quickly.

  I ignore her. “Did any of these confrontations ever get physical?”

  His wife laughs. “Of course not.”

  I don’t take my eyes off Kerry.

  He tosses me an I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this smile that isn’t friendly. I’ve met plenty of cop-haters in my time. People who, for whatever reason, detest anyone in
law enforcement, and Kerry Seymour fits the mold to a T. “You got something to say, just say it,” he says.

  “I’d appreciate it if you just answered my question.”

  “I never laid a hand on the guy.”

  I nod. “When’s the last time either of you saw Mr. Michaels?”

  “Last week,” Mary Ellen blurts. “Wednesday morning. I was on my way into town to see the eye doctor in Painters Mill—Dr. Driver—and Dale was getting his mail at the end of his lane.”

  I turn my attention to her husband. “And you?”

  “I don’t recall. Couple of weeks, probably.”

  “Can both of you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”

  “Kerry was at work.” Mary Ellen fingers her coffee cup nervously. “He works for the railroad. Eight to four thirty.”

  “Do you work, ma’am?”

  “I’m the gardener, maid, and cook.”

  “What about the last couple of evenings?” I ask.

  “We were here. Both nights.”

  “Can anyone else vouch for that?” I ask.

  “Well, no,” she admits. “But he was here.”

  The dogs have inched their way over to us. Feeling a cold, wet nose against my hand, I reach down and stroke the head of the nearest Labrador, which is sitting at my feet. “Pretty dogs.”

  “Thank you.” She beams, and I’m instantly forgiven for asking such impolite questions.

  Her husband isn’t quite so magnanimous. “So am I a suspect?”

  “I’m still in the information-gathering stage of the case, Mr. Seymour.” I pet the other dog to give the couple a moment to consider everything that’s been said, everything they’ve learned about their now-deceased neighbor. “Is there anything else you can add that might help us figure out who might’ve done this?”

  Kerry sighs. “Look, I barely spoke to the man. Didn’t know him.”

  “Did either of you ever see or hear him arguing with anyone?” I ask. “Or do you know of any arguments or disputes?”

  Mary Ellen shakes her head. “As far as I know, the only people he yelled at was us. Cussed me out once because Greta pooped in his yard. Shook me up something awful.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm is located on a pretty tract of land that includes a thirty-acre orchard where hundreds of McIntosh apple trees flourish. When I was a girl, my datt brought my siblings and me here, where we were given bushel baskets and spent entire afternoons picking apples for pies, apple butter, and of course, cider. It was hot, buggy work but we always found a way to make it fun. Not only did I get to eat my fill—which I usually regretted later—but it was a prime opportunity for unsupervised playtime. Jacob and I would duck into the rows of trees and play hide-and-seek. He’d climb the tallest trees and then laugh when I couldn’t reach him. He was older and stronger, but I was a determined child and once took him out with a well-placed rock. Jacob never ratted on me for that; I think he was secretly proud of me, and Datt was never the wiser.

  Four years ago, after moving back to Painters Mill and spending several weekends scouring the local tourist shops for the perfect Amish quilt, I was told that Hannah Yoder was one of the best quilters in the county. I stopped by their fruit stand and spotted a lovely gray geometric with the requisite seven stitches per inch and black detailing. I ended up paying too much, but I walked away with the knowledge that it was money well spent.

  I’ve always been aware that William was the lone survivor of a violent crime. I knew his father and four siblings had been killed, that his mother had disappeared, and the perpetrators were never apprehended. I didn’t, however, know the details until I read the file. Those details haunt me as I turn into the gravel lane bordered on either side by razor-straight rows of McIntosh apple trees.

  A colorful sign welcomes me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm, where the BEST CIDER IN OHIO is one dollar a glass. I park adjacent the large produce stand. The small frame building is nestled between two maple trees that offer welcome shade in summer. Through the open window that runs the length of the structure’s facade, I see shelves filled with jars of apple butter, applesauce, and spiced apples. A dozen or more jugs of cider take up an entire lower shelf. Beyond, more shelves are dedicated to embroidered doilies, canvas tote bags, and bird feeders designed to look like Amish buggies. At the rear, handmade quilts hang on wooden arms set into the wall, the bold colors and geometric designs beckoning one to stop and browse.

  I’m midway to the produce stand when a female voice calls out. “Here for another quilt, are you?”

  I glance up to see Hannah Yoder standing just inside, her elbows on the counter, looking at me through the front window. She’s in her mid-thirties with a fresh, pretty face and an infectious smile. She’s wearing a dark blue dress, black apron, and a black winter head covering.

  “I wouldn’t rule that out.” I return her smile. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” How’s it going?

  “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. She arches a brow at my Pennsylvania Dutch. “’Sis kald heit.” It’s cold today.

  I look up at the sky. “More rain on the way, too.”

  “The apples will be sweet and plentiful this year.”

  I enter through the side door and extend my hand. “You remember me.”

  She nods, giving my fingers a firm squeeze. “Of course. I sold you my favorite quilt.”

  I look around and my eyes are drawn to the quilts. Winter colors. Maroon and cream and brown. My fingers itch with the urge to touch, but I resist. They’re not cheap, and on the salary of a police chief, I can’t afford another.

  “Is your husband home?” I ask.

  A male voice calls out. “That depends.”

  I glance to my left to see William “Hoch” Yoder emerge from a small storeroom. He’s a tall, thin man clad in typical Amish garb—black trousers, blue work shirt with suspenders and a flat-brimmed hat. This morning, he’s wearing a black barn coat.

  “Hi.” I approach him and offer my hand. “Mr. Yoder.”

  “Call me Hoch.”

  The story behind the nickname is well known among the Amish. After William’s family was murdered, an Amish couple with the last name of Yoder adopted him. Rumor has it that fourteen-year-old William resisted changing his name from Hochstetler to Yoder, and in the months that followed, the Amish fell to calling him Hoch, honoring his wish to keep at least part of his name.

  “Hoch,” I begin, “if you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about what happened to you and your family back in 1979.”

  His eyes widen. “Did you find them?” he asks. “The men responsible?”

  “No.” I let my eyes slide to his wife. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

  “Let’s go inside,” he tells me. “Hannah will make us some hot cider.”

  A few minutes later, Hoch and I are seated at opposite sides of a large kitchen table. Behind us, his wife is at the stove, heating cider in a kettle. I detect a hint of kerosene in the air from a space heater, and cinnamon from something recently baked. To my right, a fire blazes in the hearth, chasing the chill from the room. The place smells very much like my childhood home, and fingertips of nostalgia press into me.

  “How much do you remember about what happened that night?” I begin.

  He blinks rapidly an instant before looking away, telling me that even after all these years, the horror of it haunts him.

  “I remember too much. For too many years.” He shakes his head. “It was a terrible thing.”

  “I’m sorry to put you through this again, but I need to know what happened.”

  His gaze meets mine. “Why now? After all this time?”

  “I think it might be related to another case I’m working on.”

  “You mean the man who was murdered?”

  “I can’t get into the details with you yet, but yes.”

  Hannah crosses to the table and sets a wicker tray with three mugs of cider and a
plate heaped with oatmeal cookies on the table between us. “Cookies will go nicely with that cider,” she says. “They’re not too sweet.”

  Hoch helps himself to a cookie. “She’s determined to make me fat.”

  “The only thing making you fat is your lack of willpower,” she replies in a teasing voice.

  “Danki.” I pick up one of the mugs and sip. The cider is steaming hot and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg and dances happily on my tongue.

  “Hoch,” I say, “I know it’s difficult, but I need you to take me through what happened.”

  Hannah starts to leave, but he stops her. “Stay.”

  She takes the chair next to him and looks down at the dish towel in her hands. Then her eyes find mine. “Chief Burkholder, it’s taken him a long time to come to terms.”

  He sends her a grateful half smile. “You helped.”

  I sip the cider, giving them a moment, then turn my attention back to Hoch. “You were fourteen years old?”

  Taking a deep breath, he nods, and begins to speak. His words are practiced, telling me he’s relived this story many times over the years. His voice is monotone, as if eradicating the emotion will somehow protect him from the impact of the words and the pain they conjure. He paints a brutal picture. An Amish boy wakened by a younger sibling in the middle of the night. Downstairs, he finds his parents held hostage in the kitchen by armed gunmen. In the ensuing scuffle, his father is shot and killed. Hoch and his siblings are locked in the basement. Hoch escapes, but the children never make it out of the house.…

  “I tried to reach them,” Hoch says, “but the flames were too hot. There was too much smoke.…” His voice trails.

  “You were a kinner.” A child. Hannah lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, then turns her gaze to me. “He was terribly burned.”

  I don’t ask him to elaborate. I read the fire marshal’s report. I know that kerosene from the lantern caught fire, and all four of his siblings perished. Their little bodies were recovered the next day, all burned beyond recognition.