“I wish we had a radio,” I say.
Mattie grins at me and breaks out into Sam Cooke’s “Wonderful World.” I take another swig of beer and join her. Swaying in time with our make-believe music, we sing off key, mangling the lyrics because we don’t know the words, making up our own as we go, laughing at the silliness of them. After a minute of that, we fall back onto our towels, laughing so hard tears stream from our eyes.
A comfortable silence ensues and in that moment everything is right in the world. The sun warms my face. I’m lying next to my best friend. The whole summer stretches ahead of us. And there’s no place else in the world I’d rather be.
I’m dozing off when Mattie speaks. “Does your datt still hug you, Katie?”
It’s such a strange and unexpected question that I raise up on an elbow and look at her. “When I was little. Not much, though, even back then. I think I’m too old now.”
She doesn’t open her eyes. “My datt hugs me more now than when I was little.”
A strange and uncomfortable awareness creeps over me. “Does he hug your brothers and sisters?”
“No. Just me.”
“Maybe he just loves you more.” I intended to say the words teasingly, but they come out sounding serious.
“Because I’m so loveable,” she retorts.
The odd exchange unsettles me, but I can’t put my finger on why. Before I can think too hard about it, Mattie turns to me. “The last one in the water is a rotten egg!”
She scrambles to her feet and sprints toward the muddy bank.
I watch her go, wondering why, in the instant before she turned away, I saw tears in her eyes.
CHAPTER 13
Tomasetti left shortly after I gave him the shotgun. That particular type of firearm would be difficult, if not impossible, to trace. But he’s a cautious man. I can only assume it ended up in some deep body of water between here and his place in Wooster. There are plenty of reservoirs and quarries in the area. He’s probably right that I’m better off not knowing.
It’s not yet 7:00 A.M. as I pull onto Main Street and head toward the police department. From the end of the block I spot the buggy parked in front of the building. The horse, a nice-looking bay, is tethered to a parking meter. The driver is nowhere in sight, so I assume he’s inside, waiting for me.
I park in my usual spot, two spaces down from the buggy, and enter the reception area to find Mona Kurtz, my graveyard shift dispatcher, at her station, headset on, drumming her palms against her desktop to a funky dance tune on the radio, eating potato chips from a vending-machine-size bag. Mattie’s father, Andy Erb, sits on the sofa, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Mona glances up when I enter, raises her hand to get my attention, and quickly swallows her food.
“Hey, Chief.” Rising, she snatches a stack of message slips from my slot and offers them to me. “Mr. Erb was wondering if you have a few minutes to speak with him.”
I take the messages, trying not to notice her red miniskirt paired with a pink jacket over an orange tank. I think they call it color blocking. Somehow it works for her. “Thanks, Mona.”
I turn to Andy and nod. “Guder mariye.”
He rises and crosses to me, holding his hat in one hand, a mug of coffee—at Mona’s insistence, I’m sure—in the other. He bows his head slightly. “Guder mariye.”
“Would you like more coffee?”
He all but shudders. “No.”
“I don’t blame you,” I mutter as I start toward my office. “Come in.”
I unlock the door, motion him into the visitor’s chair, and slide behind my desk. “I’m very sorry about your son-in-law and grandchildren,” I tell him.
He ducks his head, but not before I see the raw grief in his eyes. “Sis Gottes wille.”
“How is Mattie doing?”
“She is all right.”
I know she’s not all right, but I didn’t expect him to answer the question honestly. Andy Erb didn’t much care for me back when I was a teenager and his daughter’s best friend. The sentiment had been mutual. We haven’t spoken in a decade, but even now I feel the rise of dislike inside me, and I realize some emotions aren’t erased by time.
He picks at a loose straw on his hat. “The funerals are this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
When he looks up from his hat, I’m surprised to see a flash of something ugly. It’s so incongruous with everything I know about the Amish culture that I’m taken aback.
“Mattie told me the buggy accident wasn’t an accident,” he says.
Only then do I identify the emotion I see in his eyes as rage. He’s entitled, but it’s not a good fit. I choose my words carefully because the last thing I want to do is fan the flames. “I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s something we’re looking into.” I hold his gaze, trying to get a feel for his frame of mind. “Do you know something about that, Mr. Erb?”
“Paul was a deacon,” he tells me.