I look around. “This is a lovely bed-and-breakfast.”
“Thank you. We love it here. My husband and I both have a passion for historical homes. When it came up on the market we couldn’t resist. We’ve been running the place for almost five years now. And, of course, it’s a bonus that the winery is so close. The tourists love it.” She tilts her head, looking at me more closely. “My parents called me with the news.”
“The identification won’t be official until DNA comes back, but we think it’s Leroy. I’m sorry.”
“My poor brother. He was such a good kid. But kind of a lost soul, you know?” Putting her hands on her hips, she sighs. “I guess the good news is we know where he is now. He’s no longer lost. At least now we can give him a decent burial.”
“I know it was a long time ago, Rachel, but I was wondering if you could answer a few questions. I’m trying to piece together his final days and figure out what happened to him.”
Her eyes sharpen on mine. They’re an interesting shade of green and made up prettily with eye makeup. “Are you saying his death wasn’t an accident?”
“The coroner hasn’t ruled on cause or manner of death yet. In fact, we may never know for certain.”
“If it was an accident, you wouldn’t be here, though, would you?”
I don’t respond.
We spend twenty minutes going through the same questions I posed to his parents and his former best friend, but Rachel is unable to offer much in the way of new information.
“Do you know if he was seeing anyone?” I ask. “Did he have a girlfriend?”
Her eyes brighten. “I wouldn’t have thought of it if you hadn’t asked, but I do remember him seeing a girl. In fact, I walked up on them smooching in the woods across the street from our house, you know, before the grocery store was built. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, him or her or me.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know. Leroy got all flustered and angry and just sort of shooed me away. But let me tell you, for a nine-year-old girl, I got an eyeful.” Her thoughts seem to turn inward and she smiles. “I’d never seen two people kiss like that before. And I’d never seen my brother look at anyone the way he looked at that girl.”
“What way is that?”
She pulls herself back to the present and nods her head. “Like they were in love. Big time.”
“You have no idea who she was?”
“If it’s any help, she was Amish.”
It’s the last thing I expected her to say, and my curiosity surges. “Are you sure?”
“Not positive, but pretty sure. We’re Mennonite, you know. Mom and Dad left the Swartzentruber Amish when they were young. Right after they were married, I think. Mom still dressed plainly back when I was a kid. In an Old Order Mennonite kind of way.” She smiles. “But I remember looking at that girl’s dress and kapp and thinking how different it was than my mom’s. So, yes, she was Amish.”
*
I’m at my desk, looking down at the list of hog farmers my dispatchers collected. Orange marker in hand, I’m highlighting the names I know are Amish. Seven o’clock has come and gone. The clock on the wall taunts me with every tick of the second hand. I want to believe I haven’t left for home because I’m busy with this case. Because I’m only halfway through the list and I want to finish before I pack it in.
I’m lying to myself. Again. Surprise.
Tomasetti hasn’t called, but I didn’t expect him to. He’s home, waiting for me, trying to give me my space and wondering where the hell I am.
Way to go, Kate.
Finally, at just before 9:00 P.M., I pack my laptop into its case and head for the farm. Twenty-five minutes later I walk through the door. The television is on in the living room. I see the table set with two plates, a bottle of cabernet sitting untouched in the center, and guilt takes a swipe at me with big sharp claws. For not being here when I said I would, for being a coward. For not having the guts to face this head-on.
I make it through the kitchen and into the bedroom. I’m sitting on the bed, unbuckling my equipment belt, when Tomasetti comes to the door. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me a little too closely, trying to figure out why I can’t meet his gaze.
When I can stand the silence no longer, I put my elbows on my knees and look down at my boots. “I’m pregnant,” I tell him.
It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud, and they shock me all the way to my core. This is the kind of thing that happens to other women. Women who have normal lives and normal jobs and live with husbands who’ve never taken the law into their own hands. Women who don’t carry a gun and have never killed anyone.
The silence is deafening. I can’t look at him. I’m terrified of what I’ll see. Of what he’ll see in my own eyes. There’s no way I can protect myself or prepare for what he might say. Even after knowing him for over four years now, I haven’t a clue how he’ll react.