But it’s the more sinister possibilities that haunt me this early evening. Did someone assault Nolt and throw his unconscious—or dead—body into the pen? Did they do it because they believed the animals would consume the body and in the process hide any evidence of foul play? Or did someone simply lock him in a pen with aggressive and hungry animals in an attempt to commit the perfect murder?
I think back to my own experience with hogs as a kid. We didn’t raise them, but over the years we kept a few for butchering. My datt would buy the occasional piglet at the auction in Millersburg—cute little pink babies my ten-year-old self fell in love with on sight. But those pink babies grew quickly into four-hundred-pound animals, not all of which had amicable personalities. The boars in particular, which commonly weighed in at five hundred pounds or more, became aggressive. When I was eight years old, I remember one of our big sows finding a chicken in her pen. She chased the hen down, cornered it, and proceeded to eat it alive while I screamed for her to stop. In the context of Leroy Nolt’s death, the memory makes me shudder.
It’s been a busy, eventful day, and so far I’ve been relatively successful in keeping my personal problems at bay. Tomasetti has called twice; both times I let his call go to voice mail. I know it’s stupid. I’ve been living with him for seven months now. I love him. I trust him. He’s my best friend and confidante. Despite all of those things, I don’t know how to tell him about my pregnancy. I want to believe it will be a happy moment for both of us, but I honestly have no idea how he’ll react.
Setting the list aside, my appetite for the sandwich waning, I pick up my phone and dial his cell. I nearly hang up after two rings; in some small corner of my mind I’d hoped it would go to voice mail. Then I hear his voice, and in that instant I’m certain everything’s going to be all right. Good or bad or somewhere in between, we’ll deal with this.
“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice.
Usually we share an easy camaraderie that includes a good bit of verbal jousting. But for an instant I can’t conjure a comeback, and I feel a slow rise of what feels like panic because I don’t know what to say. Finally, I land on the truth, hoping it comes out right. “I was.”
“If it’s about my eating that last Hershey’s Kiss…”
“So you’re the culprit.”
“Busted.” But his words are halfhearted. He’s an astute man; he knows something’s up.
We fall silent. I can practically feel his concern, gentle fingers coming through the line, pressing against me to make sure I’m all right.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I need to talk to you. I mean, in person. Tonight.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I say automatically, then think better of it and add, “I’m not sure … exactly.”
“Okay.” A thoughtful silence ensues. “You want to talk now?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Do you want me to drive into town? I can be there in half an hour.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ve got a couple of things to tie up here before I can leave.”
He sighs. “Kate.”
“Look, I’ve got to run. Seven o’clock or so?”
“Sure.”
I disconnect before either of us can say anything more.
CHAPTER 12
There’s no more beautiful place in the world than northeastern Ohio in the summertime. The drive to A Place in Thyme Bed-and-Breakfast is as calming and picturesque as a Bill Coleman photograph. Rolling hills of farmland with big red barns and neat farmhouses interspersed with thick forests and ponds alive with weeping willow and cattails. By the time I arrive, I’m feeling settled and optimistic.
The cottage is nestled in a wooded area just off of Spooky Hollow Road. I take the narrow gravel drive and park next to a golf cart adjacent to a small garage. I emerge from the Explorer to a cacophony of birdsongs—cardinals and sparrows and red-winged blackbirds.
The Tudor-style cottage is storybook pretty with a steeply pitched roof, cheery yellow paint, and shutters the color of old brick. Red geraniums bloom in profusion at the base of the screened front porch. Flowers with delicate pink blooms overflow from earthenware pots set on concrete steps. A gingerbread picket fence surrounds the front yard. I’m walking through an arbor dripping with antique roses, when a voice calls out: “If you’re looking for a rental, we’re booked through August!”
I look to my left to see a plump woman in a floppy hat rising from her place on the ground where a flat of petunias are in the process of being planted. I guess her to be in her late forties. Clad in blue jeans and an oversize denim tunic, she pulls off leather gloves and starts toward me.
“I’m looking for Rachel Zimmerman,” I say.
“You’ve found her.” Her stride falters as she takes in my uniform. “You must be Chief Burkholder.”
I cross to her and extend my hand. “Sorry to disturb your planting.”
“Oh, I needed a break, anyway.”