Page 61 of Shamed

The scene of the accident is four miles from Sadie Stutzman’s house, about midway to the address Harleson gave me for the bishop’s wife. Chances are, the deputy’s assessment of the incident is correct—a tragic hit-and-run—and Sadie Stutzman, with her strange earthen project and nonsensical ranting, is in the early stages of dementia. I remind myself of all of those things as I roll up to the intersection of Burkes Lane and Hayport Road and park on the gravel shoulder.

Rain pours down from a bruised sky as I take in the scene. It’s mostly rural, with a few small, generously spaced homes. There’s a guardrail along Burkes. Evidently, the bishop was southbound on Hayport and the unknown driver failed to stop and plowed into the buggy. It’s an unfortunate reality anytime you put horse-drawn buggies on the same road with motorized vehicles. Add alcohol or excessive speed—and the absence of proper signage on the buggy—and a cataclysmic outcome is almost guaranteed.

I flick on my emergency lights. I’m already soaked to the skin, so I don’t bother with my slicker as I get out of the Explorer. Too much time has elapsed for anything of interest to be left behind. Still, it’s usually helpful to see an accident scene in person, to get a feel for it, a better perspective.

The area is wooded. The homes are on good-size lots—an acre or two—and most are relatively private from their neighbors. If someone were planning something nefarious and didn’t want to be seen, this would be a good place to do it.

My cell chirps as I’m sliding behind the wheel. I try not to groan when I glance at the display. I don’t quite succeed. “Hi, Auggie.”

“Kate, I’m glad I caught you. Look, I just took a call from Councilwoman Fourman and she’s shitting bricks. Someone told her you went out of town. Is that true?”

Auggie Brock is the mayor of Painters Mill. He’s a good mayor and a nice man—most of the time. He’s well liked, a born politician, and an ally when it’s convenient to his agenda. This afternoon, I have a feeling my being here is going to be a huge inconvenience.

I tell him where I am, wondering who the stool pigeon is. “I’m following up on a lead, Auggie. You know I wouldn’t have left at a time like this if it wasn’t important.” I roll my eyes as I speak, because I know he’s not going to buy it.

“Well, has anything panned out?” he asks, exasperation ringing in his voice.

“I’m working on it.”

“Kate, you’re in the midst of a murder investigation, for God’s sake. A little girl is missing. People are freaking out. They’re scared. I’ve taken a dozen calls just today from citizens wanting to know what’s happening and what we’re doing about it. Some parents didn’t send their kids to school today. Tourists are canceling their reservations at the B and Bs. That’s how bad it is. I don’t see how your traipsing down there to some river town is going to help solve this case up here.”

I’m not exactly traipsing, but I refrain from pointing that out. Instead, I lay out the scenario as explained to me by Miriam Helmuth. “Auggie, most abductions are committed by family members. I believe Elsie Helmuth has family here in Crooked Creek, and I think they may have been involved not only with the kidnapping, but the murder of Mary Yoder. None of this is for public consumption.”

“What the hell am I supposed to tell Janine?”

Several choice words float through my brain, but I behave myself. “Tell her I’m following up on a lead. Let her know Agent Tomasetti is handling the task force, and I should be back inside of twenty-four hours.”

He sighs, appeased, but barely. “I’ll cover for you as best I can, Kate, but I suggest you return with something to show for your time.”

“I’ll do my—”

He hangs up on me.

The house where Bishop Schwartz had once lived is vacant, with a for-sale sign in the front yard. I call the Realtor’s number, and after being put on hold twice, I get the address for the widow, Lizzie Schwartz.

It’s a scenic drive that takes me over a covered wooden bridge, past picturesque farms and forest, to a narrow patch of asphalt that ushers me to the doorstep of the Lake Vesuvius Recreational Area. The mailbox is well marked, so I make the turn onto a nicely maintained lane. The residence is a sunny yellow farmhouse with a bold red door and a wraparound porch jammed with potted plants and a wood swing.

I park in the gravel pullover at the side of the house. Two huge black dogs, tongues lolling despite the chill, bound up to me and begin to bark. Their tails are wagging and they look like they’re enjoying the rain, so I take a chance and get out. Luckily, the dogs are friendly, and they accompany me onto the porch.

I knock and take a moment to scratch one of the dogs behind a floppy ear. The door opens and I find myself looking at a pretty Mennonite woman. She’s wearing a pink print dress that falls to just below her knees, with a white apron and a high-end pair of sneakers. I guess her to be about forty years of age. She’s got freckles, bright red hair pulled into a ponytail, and eyes the color of a mossy pond. She’s not a classic beauty, but she’s attractive. Even though her clothes are rumpled, her hands stained with something that looks like paint, she’s comfortable in her skin.

She looks from me to the dogs and grins, revealing crooked teeth that somehow add to the allure of her face. “You lost?”

“I hope not.” I show her my badge. “I’m looking for Lizzie Schwartz.”

“I’m Rachel, her daughter.” Her smile falls just a little. “Is this about the buggy accident?”

“In part,” I say honestly.

She looks at me thoughtfully. “After Dad was killed, my husband and I brought Mom here. We’ve got a big house. The kids are grown—only two for me, thank you very much. I don’t know if you saw it when you pulled in, but we’ve got that cute little dawdi haus out back.”

“Dawdi haus” is Deitsch for “grandfather’s house,” which is basically a cottage some Amish build next their home so their elderly parents can live nearby and they can care for them during their golden years.

I follow her through the living room and kitchen and out the back door. The dawdi haus cottage is more Victorian than Plain, but somehow exudes the best of both worlds. White board-and-batten siding, Galvalume shingles on a steeply pitched roof, wood shutters stained a dark walnut, and a tiny stone porch crowded with clay pots overflowing with sweet rosemary and fall mums.

“Mama?” Rachel doesn’t knock, but calls out as she enters.

“In the kitchen!” comes a spry female voice.