“Not the kind of thing hubby mentions over shoofly pie,” Glock adds.
“So, if the wife doesn’t know what happened,” T.J. says, “she has nothing to hide from the police.”
I look at him and nod. “If she does and refuses us access to the farm, we’re going to have to find another way.”
CHAPTER 22
I arrive at the station early and spend two hours digging up everything I can find on Abram Kaufman. There’s not much; law-abiding citizens tend to lead boring lives, especially when it comes to law-enforcement databases. He’s married, never been arrested, pays his taxes on time, and he’s never been involved in a lawsuit. Aside from a slow-moving-vehicle citation two years ago, he’s kept his nose clean.
I find Skid in his cubicle, pecking at the keyboard of his desktop. “Any luck with veterinarians?” I ask.
“Not yet, but I’m only halfway through the list. Most of these guys are retired now. One has passed away.”
“You up to making a trip out to Kaufman’s place with me?”
“Which Kaufman?”
“Both,” I tell him. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”
*
Abram and Frieda Kaufman live on a dirt road off of County Road 600, a mile or so from Reuben Kaufman’s farm, not far from Charm. A good portion of the area is a floodplain, where the pasture is lush and dotted with dark pools filled with lily pads and moss. Massive old-growth trees—maple, elm, and black walnut—crowd the road on either side, casting us into dusky shadows. We crest a hill, and the trees open to endless rows of corn on both sides of the road, where hip-high leaves sway in the breeze.
I nearly miss the narrow mouth of the gravel lane. It’s bordered on both sides by tall grass and tangles of raspberry bushes hugging the fence line. The plain mailbox is overgrown with weeds and easily overlooked. I make the turn, and the Crown Vic bounces over ruts and potholes.
“Bet the mailman loves delivering to this place,” Skid mutters as we approach a small hill.
“Especially in winter.”
The lane makes a lazy S, and then the corn gives way to a mowed shoulder. Ahead, I see a two-story brick house with a tin roof and the brooding facade of a place that’s decades past its prime. The front porch wraps around two sides and tilts slightly on the north end. There are no hanging plants or clay pots. The windows are darkened with black coverings.
“They’re Swartzentruber,” I say as I park behind a black windowless buggy. A second buggy with a handsome sorrel gelding still harnessed is parked beneath the shade of a tree.
“Is that good or bad?”
“We’re about to find out.”
We disembark and take the sidewalk to the front door. To my right I notice the big barn adorned with what looks like a fresh coat of white paint. The sliding door at the front stands open, telling me there’s probably someone inside.
I hear Skid behind me as I cross the porch to the front door. I’m raising my hand to knock, when the door creaks open. I find myself looking at a stout Amish woman of about thirty-five with a round, ruddy face. She’s wearing a dark gray dress that falls to mid calf, an apron, and off-brand sneakers. White kapp with the strings tied neatly beneath her chin. Her summer-sky eyes contradict a mouth that’s disapproving and thin.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her accent heavy.
“Frieda Kaufman?” I ask.
“Ja.” She looks me up and down. “Who wants to know?”
I show her my badge and identify myself. “I’m working on an old case and was wondering if you’d mind answering a few questions.”
“We don’t know anything about any case.”
The aromas of yeast bread and a house that’s overly hot waft through the door. “I’m trying to find out what happened to a young Mennonite man who disappeared from Painters Mill back in 1985,” I tell her.
She fingers the worn dish towel in her hands. “You’re speaking of Leroy Nolt?”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know him?”
“I met him once or twice. Way back. I heard he moved to Florida.”
It’s the first time in the course of the investigation anyone has mentioned Florida in relation to Leroy Nolt. “Did he tell you that?”
“Something I heard, is all. Don’t recall who said it.”
“Were you and Leroy friends? Was he friends with your husband?” I watch her closely for a reaction as I pose the questions.
She looks down at the dishcloth and dries hands that are already dry. “Leroy Nolt was no friend of my husband’s and no friend of mine.”
“Did you or your husband have some kind of falling out with him?”
She looks at me as if I’m dense. “Never was friendly to begin with. We’re Swartzentruber. Leroy’s Mennischt.” The laugh that follows isn’t pleasant. “He was maulgrischt.” A pretend Christian. “Always had a lot of Englischer ways, if you know what I mean, with all the drinking and running around. Always smoking cigarettes and taking the Lord’s name in vain.” She clucks her tongue, then lowers her voice. “From what I heard, he liked his women, too.”