Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 5

Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm is located on a pretty tract of land that includes a thirty-acre orchard where hundreds of McIntosh apple trees flourish. When I was a girl, my datt brought my siblings and me here, where we were given bushel baskets and spent entire afternoons picking apples for pies, apple butter, and of course, cider. It was hot, buggy work but we always found a way to make it fun. Not only did I get to eat my fill—which I usually regretted later—but it was a prime opportunity for unsupervised playtime. Jacob and I would duck into the rows of trees and play hide-and-seek. He’d climb the tallest trees and then laugh when I couldn’t reach him. He was older and stronger, but I was a determined child and once took him out with a well-placed rock. Jacob never ratted on me for that; I think he was secretly proud of me, and Datt was never the wiser.

Four years ago, after moving back to Painters Mill and spending several weekends scouring the local tourist shops for the perfect Amish quilt, I was told that Hannah Yoder was one of the best quilters in the county. I stopped by their fruit stand and spotted a lovely gray geometric with the requisite seven stitches per inch and black detailing. I ended up paying too much, but I walked away with the knowledge that it was money well spent.

I’ve always been aware that William was the lone survivor of a violent crime. I knew his father and four siblings had been killed, that his mother had disappeared, and the perpetrators were never apprehended. I didn’t, however, know the details until I read the file. Those details haunt me as I turn into the gravel lane bordered on either side by razor-straight rows of McIntosh apple trees.

A colorful sign welcomes me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm, where the BEST CIDER IN OHIO is one dollar a glass. I park adjacent the large produce stand. The small frame building is nestled between two maple trees that offer welcome shade in summer. Through the open window that runs the length of the structure’s facade, I see shelves filled with jars of apple butter, applesauce, and spiced apples. A dozen or more jugs of cider take up an entire lower shelf. Beyond, more shelves are dedicated to embroidered doilies, canvas tote bags, and bird feeders designed to look like Amish buggies. At the rear, handmade quilts hang on wooden arms set into the wall, the bold colors and geometric designs beckoning one to stop and browse.

I’m midway to the produce stand when a female voice calls out. “Here for another quilt, are you?”

I glance up to see Hannah Yoder standing just inside, her elbows on the counter, looking at me through the front window. She’s in her mid-thirties with a fresh, pretty face and an infectious smile. She’s wearing a dark blue dress, black apron, and a black winter head covering.

“I wouldn’t rule that out.” I return her smile. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” How’s it going?

“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. She arches a brow at my Pennsylvania Dutch. “’Sis kald heit.” It’s cold today.

I look up at the sky. “More rain on the way, too.”

“The apples will be sweet and plentiful this year.”

I enter through the side door and extend my hand. “You remember me.”

She nods, giving my fingers a firm squeeze. “Of course. I sold you my favorite quilt.”

I look around and my eyes are drawn to the quilts. Winter colors. Maroon and cream and brown. My fingers itch with the urge to touch, but I resist. They’re not cheap, and on the salary of a police chief, I can’t afford another.

“Is your husband home?” I ask.

A male voice calls out. “That depends.”

I glance to my left to see William “Hoch” Yoder emerge from a small storeroom. He’s a tall, thin man clad in typical Amish garb—black trousers, blue work shirt with suspenders and a flat-brimmed hat. This morning, he’s wearing a black barn coat.

“Hi.” I approach him and offer my hand. “Mr. Yoder.”

“Call me Hoch.”

The story behind the nickname is well known among the Amish. After William’s family was murdered, an Amish couple with the last name of Yoder adopted him. Rumor has it that fourteen-year-old William resisted changing his name from Hochstetler to Yoder, and in the months that followed, the Amish fell to calling him Hoch, honoring his wish to keep at least part of his name.

“Hoch,” I begin, “if you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about what happened to you and your family back in 1979.”

His eyes widen. “Did you find them?” he asks. “The men responsible?”

“No.” I let my eyes slide to his wife. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

“Let’s go inside,” he tells me. “Hannah will make us some hot cider.”

A few minutes later, Hoch and I are seated at opposite sides of a large kitchen table. Behind us, his wife is at the stove, heating cider in a kettle. I detect a hint of kerosene in the air from a space heater, and cinnamon from something recently baked. To my right, a fire blazes in the hearth, chasing the chill from the room. The place smells very much like my childhood home, and fingertips of nostalgia press into me.

“How much do you remember about what happened that night?” I begin.

He blinks rapidly an instant before looking away, telling me that even after all these years, the horror of it haunts him.

“I remember too much. For too many years.” He shakes his head. “It was a terrible thing.”

“I’m sorry to put you through this again, but I need to know what happened.”

His gaze meets mine. “Why now? After all this time?”

“I think it might be related to another case I’m working on.”

“You mean the man who was murdered?”

“I can’t get into the details with you yet, but yes.”

Hannah crosses to the table and sets a wicker tray with three mugs of cider and a plate heaped with oatmeal cookies on the table between us. “Cookies will go nicely with that cider,” she says. “They’re not too sweet.”

Hoch helps himself to a cookie. “She’s determined to make me fat.”

“The only thing making you fat is your lack of willpower,” she replies in a teasing voice.

“Danki.” I pick up one of the mugs and sip. The cider is steaming hot and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg and dances happily on my tongue.

“Hoch,” I say, “I know it’s difficult, but I need you to take me through what happened.”

Hannah starts to leave, but he stops her. “Stay.”

She takes the chair next to him and looks down at the dish towel in her hands. Then her eyes find mine. “Chief Burkholder, it’s taken him a long time to come to terms.”

He sends her a grateful half smile. “You helped.”

I sip the cider, giving them a moment, then turn my attention back to Hoch. “You were fourteen years old?”

Taking a deep breath, he nods, and begins to speak. His words are practiced, telling me he’s relived this story many times over the years. His voice is monotone, as if eradicating the emotion will somehow protect him from the impact of the words and the pain they conjure. He paints a brutal picture. An Amish boy wakened by a younger sibling in the middle of the night. Downstairs, he finds his parents held hostage in the kitchen by armed gunmen. In the ensuing scuffle, his father is shot and killed. Hoch and his siblings are locked in the basement. Hoch escapes, but the children never make it out of the house.…

“I tried to reach them,” Hoch says, “but the flames were too hot. There was too much smoke.…” His voice trails.

“You were a kinner.” A child. Hannah lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, then turns her gaze to me. “He was terribly burned.”

I don’t ask him to elaborate. I read the fire marshal’s report. I know that kerosene from the lantern caught fire, and all four of his siblings perished. Their little bodies were recovered the next day, all burned beyond recognition.

The detective with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department believed the perpetrators were local. There were rumors that Willis Hochstetler didn’t use a bank and kept a lot of cash at the house. The detective surmised the culprits had heard about it and decided an Amish family would be easy prey. But despite an exhaustive investigation, no arrests were ever made and Wanetta Hochstetler was never found.

Word around town is that Hoch Yoder has suffered with depression and nightmares for years. The shrinks have all sorts of official names for it: survivor’s guilt; post-traumatic stress disorder. But the bottom line was that Hoch Yoder blamed himself, and the guilt affected every facet of his life. While most Amish men are married with children by the age of twenty-five, Hoch didn’t marry Hannah until just a few years ago, when he was already into his forties.

I look across the table at Hoch. “I understand your datt was an excellent furniture maker.”

Pleasure flashes in his features, and I know that while the past holds plenty of bad memories, some were good, too. “He made everything we sold in our store.”

“Hoch’s a furniture maker, too.” Hannah motions toward a cabinet set against the wall. “He made that for me a few years ago.” She nods with pride. “He won’t admit it, but he’s as good as his datt.”

Hoch looks down at the table, where his hands are folded. “He taught me everything I know.”

“Did your datt make peg dolls?” I ask.

He nods. “When he had time. The small ones. Sometimes he gave them away to the children of customers.” He gives me a quizzical look. “I haven’t thought of those dolls in years. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I hold his gaze. “Did you know Dale Michaels?”

“The man who was murdered?”

I nod. “Have you ever met or spoken to him?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“I don’t want you to read anything into what I’m going to ask you next, Hoch, but I need to know where you were the last two nights.”

Hannah sets down her mug with a little too much force. “Chief Burkholder, surely you don’t think Hoch had anything to do with that awful murder?”

I ignore her, keeping my gaze locked on her husband.

“I was here,” he tells me.

“Both nights?”

“That’s right.”

“All evening?”

“Yes.”

“Do you own any firearms?” I ask.

“I have a muzzle-loader that was passed down from Grossdaddi Yoder. For hunting.” He cocks his head. “Would you like to see it?”

“What about a handgun?”

“No.”

I reach into my jacket, tug out my card, and hand it to him. “If you think of anything else, will you get in touch with me?”

He nods. “The men responsible for what happened to my family will be judged not by you or me or even by some Englischer court,” he tells me. “They will be judged by God and God alone.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Pushing away from the table, I rise and start toward the door.

CHAPTER 6

They met at The Oak, an out-of-the-way wine bar a few miles out of Dover. The place was windowless and dark with a generous amount of antique brick and rough-hewn barrels for an ambience not quite achieved. It was the kind of place where no one would notice a group of middle-aged, financially comfortable friends getting together for a liquid lunch and some chitchat about old times. But the conversation they were about to have wouldn’t be about children or grandchildren, their looming retirement or even the good times they’d once shared. In fact, the man they called Brick was pretty sure if they weren’t frightened when they walked in, they would be when they left.

They’d been known as the Goldens back in high school. Thirty-five years ago, they’d been a tight-knit group of hotshots with the world at their feet and a future as bright as the sun. Brick had been the leader of sorts. The bad boy with a reputation he’d done his utmost to live up to. He’d dabbled in drugs and alcohol and gotten into a few fights, but nothing too serious—until college, anyway. When he was seventeen, he took his aunt’s car for a joyride and ended up wrecking it. His parents managed to talk her out of pressing charges, but he’d spent an entire summer working a shit job to pay for the damage.

Pudge had been his best friend. The little guy with skinny legs who made up for his lack of stature with a mind that kept him on the honor roll the entirety of high school and earned him a full scholarship to the University of Michigan. Studious and diligent, Pudge had always been the serious one. The one who, back in high school, had been voted most likely to succeed. The one most likely to become President of the United States. Brick always thought he would, too.

Snipe had been the football star, the charmer, the quarterback with the Hollywood good looks who could throw a fifty-yard pass and outrun any cornerback who tried to stop him. He was the athlete who could run a four-minute mile and barely break a sweat. The girls had thrown themselves at him. Rumor had it Snipe took the virginity of more girls than he’d made touchdowns, and that was a lot. But Brick and the rest of them knew about the darker side of the football star’s personality. The binge drinking. The marijuana deals and rumors of harder drugs. The girls who’d said no—and whose voices he hadn’t heard. He’d gone to Kent State on a football scholarship. Rumor had it, he’d got into a scrape with the law up there. A girl told him no and Snipe hadn’t listened. When Brick had asked him about it, Snipe was vague about the details. Somehow, the whole incident had been swept under the rug and the football team went on to win the season.

Jules was the perfect one. She was Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek rolled into a perfect ten with a capital T. The blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty queen with the face of an angel and a body designed by Satan himself. She’d been a cheerleader, class valedictorian, president of the Girls Athletic Association—and a purported virgin throughout high school. She was the one you fantasized about fucking not only because she was beautiful, but because you knew it would be a wild ride. Back in high school, all the boys had wanted Jules. The girls had wanted to be her. If you were lucky enough to be her friend, everything you did was for Jules, even though she didn’t reciprocate in any way. Jules always said no, but every male who met her secretly clung to the desperate hope that sooner or later, she would change her mind.

Brick had known all of them since he was he was thirteen years old and broke Snipe’s front tooth in a game of stickball. They’d been best friends ever since. Baseball games. Campouts. Long days at the public pool. He’d laughed with them. Fought with them. Cried with them. He’d had more fun with them than at any other time in his life. He’d been closer to them than to his own brothers and sisters, a closeness he never found again. He’d shared the best days of his life with this group. But not all of those memories were good.

They were older now—strangers, in fact, having gone their separate ways years ago. They rarely saw each other. Rarely spoke. But there was one thing that would always bind them. An inescapable link that would connect them until they died.

He was on his second cognac when Snipe and Jules walked into the bar. At fifty-three, Jules was still a stunner. She was wearing a pale blue suit with pearls at her throat and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was still the same shade of blond. The kind that made your fingers itch to run through it. Beneath that skirt and jacket, he could see her body was still slender and athletic. She still had it and people still noticed, including him.

Snipe, on the other hand, at the age of fifty-four looked as bent and grizzled as the old man they’d once beat down for leering at Jules. He’d heard Snipe had a problem with booze. From the looks of him, the gossip wasn’t too far off the mark.

Raising his hand, Brick motioned them over to the table. It was still early, but he was pretty sure he was going to need another drink, so he caught the bartender’s eye. Phony smiles and overly cheery greetings were exchanged as his onetime friends settled into the booth, polite strangers bringing with them the redolence of the past—and the knowledge that this was no happy reunion, no matter how hard they tried to pretend.

Across from him, Jules offered a nervous smile. Her lips were still pouty and full and painted an appealing shade of red. Brick knew he’d never rated with her; he’d always been her least favorite, but in those early days, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing about her.

Returning her stare, he smiled. “How’s it going, Jules?”

“I’ve been better.” She pressed her lips together and looked at Snipe. “Pudge called you, too?”

He nodded. “Talking crazy.”

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said. “Pudge. Murdered. My God.”

Snipe sat in the booth next to Jules, his elbows on the table. He wore a JCPenney shirt with a pair of khakis that were too long and baggy for his frame. “Have either of you been receiving notes?” he asked.

Brick nodded. “First one came two days ago.”

Jules looked from man to man. “Me, too. Two of them. Frankly, all of this is scaring the hell out of me.”

“Especially since Pudge turned up dead,” Snipe put in.

“Maybe we ought to go to the police,” Jules suggested.

Brick glared at her. “And tell them what, exactly?”

She looked away and didn’t mention it again.

The barkeep came over to their booth and took their orders. Snipe ordered whiskey. No brand. Jules asked for the house cabernet. Brick got a refill of cognac.

When the bartender was out of earshot, Snipe said, “Maybe Pudge wasn’t talking so crazy after all.”

Brick looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Snipe stared back, his eyes bloodshot and full of fear. “I saw her, too.”

Checking to make sure no one could hear them, Jules leaned forward and addressed Snipe. “What do you mean you saw her?” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw her,” Snipe said. “I swear to God. She was at my place. Three days ago.”

Jules’s pretty blue eyes went from Snipe to Brick as if wishing he’d intervene with some logic. When he didn’t, she said, “You couldn’t have seen her, Snipe. For God’s sake.”

“I saw her,” he maintained. “Standing in my driveway like she lived there. By the time I got the shotgun, she was gone.”

“You never could hold your booze,” Brick muttered.

Snipe looked from Brick to Jules, his expression telling them he’d known they wouldn’t believe him—but he didn’t give a good damn. “I know what I saw. She was there. Left tracks, too. I saw them the next morning when it was light.”

“So it was dark,” Jules said hopefully.

“Someone might’ve been there, but it wasn’t her,” Brick cut in. “Unless you believe in ghosts.”

Snipe glared at him. “So if it wasn’t her, who’s sending the notes? Who murdered Pudge?”

“Not her,” Brick snapped.

They fell silent when the bartender returned with their drinks. Snipe reached for his and downed it in two gulps. “I saw her out at the old Hochstetler place, too.”

The three of them exchanged meaningful looks.

Jules fingered the stem of her glass nervously. “God, I wish none of that had happened.”

“We all wish that,” Brick said. “Can’t go back. Can’t change it.”

Snipe leaned forward, his expression intense. “Look, is there some way she survived? That we’re wrong about what happened? That she’s alive and she’s come back for a little payback?”

“Is it?” Jules asked.

Brick sighed. “You didn’t see her,” he said. “No one did.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Snipe leaned back in the booth. “I know what I saw. And let me tell you something: She saw me, too.”

“What are you saying?” Jules asked, looking alarmed.

Snipe tossed her a nasty look. “Connect the dots.”

“Stop scaring her,” Brick growled.

“Better scared than dead.” Glancing over his shoulder, Snipe lowered his head and spoke urgently. “I’m not the only one who saw her. I was down at Ladonna’s Diner last Saturday, and I heard Tyler McKay say he saw her, too.”

“Tyler McKay is a drunk,” Brick said.

“Maybe we’re wrong about what happened. Maybe she survived.” Jules drank some of the wine, leaving a red imprint of her lower lip. “Maybe she’s come back.”

“Come back to do what?” Brick asked.

“To get revenge on us for what we did,” Snipe said.

“For what you did,” Brick snapped.

“We were all there.” Jules looked down at her glass of wine. “We’re all guilty.”

Snipe grimaced. “I heard Pudge was gut-shot and strung up in his barn like a side of beef.”

“Do the cops have any idea who did it?” Jules asked.

“No one knows anything,” Brick said. “We need to make sure it stays that way.”

“They’ll know about the calls he made to us,” Jules pointed out.

“There’s no law against old acquaintances calling to catch up on old times.” Brick looked from Jules to Snipe, wanting to make sure they understood what he was telling them. Snipe had never been smart, and evidently the years hadn’t changed that.

Jules nodded. “Okay.”

“All right.” Snipe leaned forward. “How do we keep her from coming after us, too?”

“Keep your imagination in check,” Brick said dismissively.

The words hung in the air, and for the span of several minutes, they drank in silence. “I know it sounds crazy,” Snipe said, “and I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I do know what I saw. I think she killed Pudge. And I got a feeling she isn’t finished.”

Jules pressed her hand against her chest. “Snipe … please.”

“Lots of people have seen her up to the Hochstetler place,” he maintained.

“Those are just … silly ghost stories,” Jules said.

“Silly until she sinks a knife in your back,” Snipe returned evenly.

Brick slapped both palms down on the tabletop so suddenly, Jules jumped. “Ghosts? Really? For God’s sake, Snipe, are you hearing yourself?” he asked in exasperation. “No one saw her. She’s not alive. And she’s sure as hell not back from the dead. You got that?” He divided his attention between Jules and Snipe. “She’s dead. She’s been dead for thirty-five years. People don’t come back from that.”

Jules stared down at her wineglass.

Snipe glared at Brick, but he didn’t speak.

After a moment, Brick sighed. “Anyone heard from Fat Boy?”

“I called him.” Snipe glanced at his watch. “He should have been here.”

“Figured he wouldn’t show,” Jules added.

“Never liked that two-faced, do-gooder punk,” Snipe muttered.

Brick picked up his glass and drank, enjoying the heat of the cognac on the back of his throat. “Do either of you know if the cops have any leads?”

Snipe shrugged. “Haven’t heard.”

“I’ll ask around at the gallery,” Jules offered.

Brick nodded. “Look, what happened to Pudge could have been a random thing. A robbery or something. He made all that real estate money back in the ’90s.”

He could tell by their expressions, neither of them believed it. He wasn’t even sure he believed it. Still, it was better than the alternative.

Across from him, Snipe finished his whiskey, set the glass down with a little too much force. “It was her.” He said the words without looking up. “Or someone else is a dead ringer and knows what went down that night.”

“Nobody knows what happened,” Jules whispered. “Except us.”

“The Amish kid,” Brick offered.

“He didn’t see our faces.” Snipe rubbed the back of his neck.

“What do we do?” Jules’s eyes searched theirs. “About the notes?”

“Lock your doors.” Having had his fill of ghost stories and nonsense, Brick scooted from the booth. “And hope she can’t walk through walls.”

He left without finishing his cognac.