He stops abruptly when Suzy reaches up and squeezes his hand. “Sell her the bread box,” the woman says.
I glance at Tomasetti. With a nod, he moves toward the door. “I know which one you want,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves the room.
Eli takes a final look at his wife. With a shake of his head, he follows.
When we’re alone, I address Suzy in Pennsylvania Dutch. “He’s a good husband, isn’t he?”
“Ja.” She nods adamantly, but her eyes are sad. “A good father, too.”
I wait.
“But he is a man and there are certain things he cannot understand.”
I don’t agree; men are as capable of understanding as women, but I let it go. I watch her struggle with the words; then she raises her gaze to mine. “Bonnie had a beau,” she says.
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he Amish or English?”
“I do not know.”
“How do you know she had a beau?”
She looks down at the invoice to her left, transfers a number onto the columnar pad. “Because she was with child.”
I’ve been around the block a few too many times for this news to shock me. Teenagers having babies is nothing new—even within the Amish community. The thing that does surprise me is that this information hadn’t come out before now.
“How far along was she?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She wasn’t showing yet.”
“She confided in you?”
Her gaze skates away from mine, and I realize she’s more hurt by the fact that her daughter didn’t confide in her than she is by the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. “I found the … plastic thing,” she tells me. “You know, from the drugstore.”
“A pregnancy kit?”
“Ja. In the trash. She’d tried to hide it, but…” A sigh shudders out of her. “That’s when I knew.”
“You asked her about it?”
“She denied it at first, but when I told her I’d found the test, she … confessed.”
“Do you know who the father is?”
My question elicits a blank stare, as if it hadn’t occurred to her to ask. But I know it had, and I realize with some surprise there’s something else going on that she considers even worse than the pregnancy.
“Who’s the father?” I ask again.
She transfers another number onto the columnar pad.
“Mrs. Fisher?” I say gently. “This could be important. Who is he?”
The woman looks down at the desktop, folds her hands in front of her. “Bonnie doesn’t know,” she whispers.
“She had more than one partner?”
The woman jerks her head. “I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she does these things.”
“Do you know the names of the men she was with?”
Her face screws up, but she regains control before the tears come. “She would not say.”
“Do you know how many there were?”
She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. “No.”
“Do you know where she met them?”
“She is … secretive about such things. She gets angry when I ask too many questions.”
I want to say something to comfort her. But I’m so far out of my element, I can’t find the words. The things I know as a cop would be no comfort, and so I hold my silence.
“We did not teach her to be that way. I don’t know how she knew.…”
I nod, give her a moment. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find these young men?”
She shakes her head, as if she’s too upset to speak. When she raises her gaze to mine, her eyes are haunted. “Do you think one of the boys might have taken Bonnie?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “But I’m going to do my best to find out.”
*
Ten minutes later, I slide into the Tahoe beside Tomasetti. Neither of us speaks as he backs from the parking space. The two horses and the wagon filled with furniture are still there. Eli Fisher is helping a younger man load a cabinet into the back. He stops what he’s doing to watch us. His eyes are shadowed by the brim of his hat, so I can’t discern his expression, but he’s not smiling and he doesn’t wave.
“Mrs. Fisher isn’t a very good liar,” Tomasetti says as he pulls onto the road. “Did you get anything?”
“Bonnie Fisher was pregnant.” Only after the words are out do I realize I’m speaking of her in the past tense.
He glances away from his driving and makes eye contact with me. “Who’s the father?”
“She doesn’t know.” I pause. “Evidently, the girl didn’t know, either.”
He cuts me a sharp look. “Maybe her disappearance is some kind of jealous-lover situation. One guy finds out about the other and the girl gets the short end of the stick.”
“Or maybe lover boy decided he didn’t want to be a dad.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I think about that a moment. “Two of the missing girls were involved in relationships.”
“I don’t think that’s unusual.”
“Undesirable relationships,” I say, clarifying. “Especially in the eyes of the Amish.”
He nods. “Might be something we need to add to the profile.”