Page 40 of The Hidden One

He shakes his head. “That’s what I was trying to find out when the deputy jumped me.”

Effie sets down her fork, blinks at her mamm. “Do the police think Datt did something bad to someone else?”

“Those police don’t know what they think.” Dorothy gets to her feet. “Pounding on the door at five o’clock in the morning like they did.” She brings her hands together. “If you kids are going to get those cabinets finished today, I suspect you ought to get started.”

I’m barely aware of the youngsters taking their dishes to the sink and clattering out the back door. Is Reuben mistaken about what the sheriff’s deputies were talking about? Human remains are the last thing I’d expect them to be looking for. Even so, it would explain the predawn raid, the crime scene unit, and the Tyvek-clad investigator.

Such a discovery would raise a lot more questions than it solved. Who do the remains belong to? Is there a second murder victim I’m not aware of? How did the bones get in the well? And how did the sheriff’s department know they were there? Most importantly, what do the bones have to do with Jonas and the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus?

CHAPTER 13

Information is a priceless commodity during an investigation. The more you know, the closer you are to the big solve. Unfortunately for me, information is the one thing the sheriff’s department won’t share. I’m no stranger to being stonewalled. When you’re a cop, there’s always someone with an agenda who’s willing to lie, cheat, and steal to keep you in the dark.

Being shut out of an investigation by fellow cops is different. I’m involved in this case as a civilian; no one is obliged to work with me. They don’t have to share information or answer my questions or even return my calls. I’m an outsider with a personal connection to the suspect which places me squarely on the opposing team.

Frustration sizzles like acid on skin as I toss my cell onto the passenger seat and pull onto the highway. All I can do at this point is push forward, keep digging, and add as much information to my arsenal as I can. As hopeless as it seems at the moment, things will eventually come together. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

The key to working a cold case is to treat every piece of information as if it’s fresh. Start at the beginning and retrace every step. Go through the motions and don’t make the rookie mistake of taking shortcuts because you know it’s already been done. If the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus had just happened, I’d start by looking at anyone who’d had a disagreement with him. While Jonas would be at the top of that list, Roman Miller wouldn’t be far behind.

He lives west of Menno, several miles outside of Belleville proper. It’s a nice-looking spread with a redbrick ranch house surrounded by a split-rail fence, and a pretty horse barn at the rear. I pull into the gravel drive and park next to a rusty two-horse trailer hitched to an old pickup truck. Two blue heelers rush from the barn, hackles up, barking.

I’m trying to decide whether to get back into the Explorer or try to make it to the house without getting bitten when a voice calls out.

“Girls! That’s enough!”

I look over the hood of the Explorer to see a woman on a big paint horse trotting toward me. Leather saddle squeaking. Buckles jangling. Shod hooves clanking against gravel.

The dogs back off, wagging their tails now, but keeping eyes on me nonetheless. The woman stops the horse a few feet away. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Roman Miller,” I tell her.

“You and me both,” she says with a huff. “The man disappears every time there’s an inkling of work to be done around here.” She makes the statement good-naturedly, but I can tell by her expression there’s a thread of truth to it.

I cross to the horse and run my hand over its neck. The animal’s nostrils are flared. Its coat is sleek and damp with sweat. A bit of lather where the saddle pad meets shoulder. “He’s a beauty,” I tell her.

“She,” the woman corrects. “And she’s the biggest bitch I’ve had since that Appaloosa gave me two broken ribs and a concussion last summer. If I didn’t love ’em so much, I swear I’d ship them off to the glue factory.”

I make a noncommittal sound as I run my fingertips over the animal’s muzzle, liking the velvety feel of it, the smell of the horse.

The woman is a talker and just getting warmed up. “If I had a steady income, I’d do the same to that no-good husband of mine.” Somehow, she makes the statement with affection. “He knows it, too.”

She looks down at me, tilts her head. “What do you want with Roman?”

I introduce myself. “I’m a family friend of Jonas Bowman and I’m looking into the Stoltzfus case.”

“Heard they found his bones.” She blows out a breath. “That’s some creepy stuff.”

I nod, aware that the horse is nuzzling me, and I get the impression that despite this woman’s tough talk, the animal gets its fair share of carrots.

“I suspect Roman’s in the barn.” Making a sound of supreme irritation, she motions. “He goes in there, makes all sorts of noise so I’ll think he’s working. Saw. Hammer. Whatever. I go in to check and he’s sitting on his ass with a beer in his hand. I swear I’m going to cut him loose one of these days.”

I clear my throat, reach down to pat one of the dogs, pleased when the animal wags its tail.

She gathers the reins. “Go on in,” she tells me. “I suspect he’ll give you an earful about Stoltzfus. I’m going to finish my ride.”

The dogs follow her. I start toward the barn. It’s a newish structure with a wide center aisle and horse stalls on both sides. I see the silhouette of a horse cross-tied at the far end, a man in a Western hat bent over, working on the animal’s hoof. A floor fan blows warm air on both of them.

“Mr. Miller?”