Two hours later Tomasetti and I are seated at Pier W, one of Cleveland’s most elegant and renowned restaurants. Cantilevered atop the cliffs in Lakewood, west of the city, the restaurant offers a stunning view of a brooding Lake Erie and the skyline to the east.
After leaving the station, we’d made a quick stop at the farm, where I showered and spent ten minutes tearing through my closet, searching for something to wear that didn’t include denim or have the Painters Mill PD insignia emblazoned in the fabric. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn a dress in the last decade. Luckily, I kept the one I wore to my mamm’s funeral five years ago. It’s a simple black shift with three-quarter sleeves and a hem that falls to the knee. I dusted off the pair of plain black pumps at the back of my closet. A touch of makeup, and I was good to go.
“No place for my mini Magnum,” I’d told Tomasetti as I emerged from our bedroom.
“I’ll keep mine handy.” But his eyes swept over me. “You look nice.”
“Can’t do anything about the black eyes.”
“They’ll probably earn me some dirty looks.”
I snorted. “You know, Tomasetti, you clean up pretty good yourself,” I’d told him. “I mean, for an old guy.”
He was laughing when we walked out the door.
I’d expected some overpriced steakhouse or seafood restaurant in Wooster. Not for the first time, Tomasetti surprised me when we hit the interstate and zipped north toward Cleveland. Now we’re sitting across from each other at a round table draped with white linen. A votive candle flickers on the tabletop between us. To my left, a restless Lake Erie tosses whitecaps onto the rocky shore. Leaving us with menus, the waiter hustles away.
“So is this a date?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure we’ve actually done this before.”
“We haven’t.” He glances over at me. “We should have.”
I look out across the silver shimmer of the lake. In the distance, I see the silhouette of a freighter against the horizon. Seagulls wheeling and circling overhead. Farther out, the hazy flash of lightning from a summer storm. I’m not easily dazzled. But tonight, with the mesmerizing power of the lake, and the man I love sitting across from me, I feel that rare sparkle inside.
“If you’re trying to impress me,” I tell him, “you’re succeeding.”
“I was still working for the division of police when I discovered this place. A lot of locals come here. It’s low-key with great service.” He glances down at his menu. “Damn good seafood.”
I nod. “There’s a whole part of your life I don’t know much about. You don’t talk about it.”
“You know the important stuff.”
The waiter returns and we order our food. Grilled walleye for me. Lake perch for Tomasetti. After refilling our water glasses, he leaves us again.
“Anything else come in from the sheriff’s office today on the shooter?” he asks after a moment.
“The partial on the cartridge didn’t match up with anything on AFIS.”
“So he’s never been arrested,” he tells me.
“Nick Kester has a sheet as long as my arm.”
“What about his wife? Maybe she loaded the rifle for him.”
“She’s not a match.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t get someone else to do it.”
“I know.”
He nods, thinking. “What about the John Doe you’re working on? The remains? Have you been pushing someone who might’ve pushed back?”
“I’ve been asking questions.” I think about that a moment and shake my head. “Amish mostly.”
“A lot of Amish have .22 rifles.”
“True, but I can’t see any of them doing something like that.”
“No one ever does.” He picks up his water glass. “Who are your suspects?”
Pleased to be on comfortable ground, I tell him everything I know about the case. “I’m getting some odd vibes from Abigail Kline. I’m pretty sure she lied about the quilt. She lied about not having any new quilts for sale, because she didn’t want me to see that she embroiders her initials on them.”
“People don’t lie without a reason.”
“I can’t prove it, but I think she was the woman involved with Nolt when he disappeared.”
“Why would she lie about it?”
“That’s where things get complicated. Abigail Kline is Swartzentruber, which is one of the most conservative sects of the Amish. Leroy Nolt was New Order Mennonite, which is pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum. It’s generally frowned upon for Amish people to marry outside their church district, particularly if the person they choose is from a more liberal congregation. The gap between some of the church districts is huge, and a relationship between the two of them would have undoubtedly caused big problems, especially for Abigail.”
“You think she lied simply because she doesn’t want anyone to know she was involved with Nolt?”
I nod. “That’s certainly a possibility.”
“But you think there’s more to it.”
“I don’t think she killed him,” I tell him. “But she might know who did.”
“She’s protecting them?”
“Yes.”