she changed her mind.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“So what would make her do it?” Robertson asked.
Newell shrugged his shoulders. “Or
who
would make her do it?”
Robertson stood. “Drugs have been finding their way into northern Ohio for decades, Bobby.”
Newell switched his monitor off and stood behind his desk to face the sheriff. He pushed his heavy glasses higher up on his nose and said, “I heard you tell Lance that you were going back out to the Zooks’ place, later this evening.”
The sheriff smiled. “To talk to the men.”
A grin spread across Newell’s thin lips. “They’re not going to be happy that you sent a woman out to question men.”
“You wouldn’t play it that way?”
“Probably not. They’re in mourning. Deserve some peace.”
Robertson shrugged an apology. “We need to know why an Amish girl brought suitcases of cocaine up to Ohio.”
“What if nobody knows why?” Newell asked.
Robertson laughed, “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” He turned in the doorway to leave and said back over his shoulder, “Right now, we don’t have much drug use in Holmes County, and a suitcase of cocaine just showed up on our doorstep.”
Newell followed the sheriff out into the second-floor hallway and said, “Amish girls don’t mule drugs for dealers, Bruce. When you go back out there, keep that in mind.”
9
Monday, April 4
5:15 P.M .
AFTER AN early supper at a restaurant in Charm, Cal searched downstairs at the Zooks’ for Emma, but he didn’t find her with the other mourners. People were seated in the parlor and the first-floor sewing room, all silent as he passed through the house. In the long hallway from the front door to the kitchen at the back of the house, friends, neighbors and relatives sat on wooden deacon’s benches, used bimonthly for Sunday services. These were the same benches that the men carted from house to house whenever they were needed for long visiting, mostly at weddings and funeral vigils.
Cal walked slowly down the hall, between men and older women as sober as a stern lecture and as still as death itself. Most eyes were closed, heads bowed in prayer, but some people sat staring at their hands in their laps. One old fellow gave a silent nod as Cal passed by, and then bowed his head again to pray. Cal knew they were praying both for Ruth and for the man who had killed her. He hoped they were praying also for little Emma.
At the kitchen door at the back of the house, Cal stepped aside to let two women in plain dress come up the steps from the drive below. One woman carried a basket of eggs, and theother held two loaves of bread in metal baking pans. The women eased past Cal as he held the door for them, and then, without speaking to him, they went into the kitchen to help other women working at the sink and stoves. An English neighbor lady standing at the sink, dressed in black slacks and a red knit sweater, looked up and gave Cal a sad smile before she returned to her work peeling potatoes.
Cal walked down the back steps and headed across the drive toward the barn where he had earlier that day found Emma Wengerd hiding. On his way, he passed two small groups of kids in Amish dress, standing outside to whisper. As he drew near to each group, the kids fell silent and watched him closely as he headed for the largest of the tobacco-red barns.
Inside, Cal’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. He stood a moment on the wide avenue down the middle of the barn, and his senses registered the classic sounds and aromas of the farm. There was soft lowing from a cow tied to a post inside the first stall on the right. A Standard Bred buggy horse lifted its head over the gate slats of the second stall. The musty aroma of wet hay and manure filled his nostrils. A flutter of wings sounded in the rafters high above him.
Cal worked his way down the right side of the avenue, looking in each of the stalls. At the far end of the barn, he searched in the right stall,
“Sounds reasonable.”
“So what would make her do it?” Robertson asked.
Newell shrugged his shoulders. “Or
who
would make her do it?”
Robertson stood. “Drugs have been finding their way into northern Ohio for decades, Bobby.”
Newell switched his monitor off and stood behind his desk to face the sheriff. He pushed his heavy glasses higher up on his nose and said, “I heard you tell Lance that you were going back out to the Zooks’ place, later this evening.”
The sheriff smiled. “To talk to the men.”
A grin spread across Newell’s thin lips. “They’re not going to be happy that you sent a woman out to question men.”
“You wouldn’t play it that way?”
“Probably not. They’re in mourning. Deserve some peace.”
Robertson shrugged an apology. “We need to know why an Amish girl brought suitcases of cocaine up to Ohio.”
“What if nobody knows why?” Newell asked.
Robertson laughed, “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” He turned in the doorway to leave and said back over his shoulder, “Right now, we don’t have much drug use in Holmes County, and a suitcase of cocaine just showed up on our doorstep.”
Newell followed the sheriff out into the second-floor hallway and said, “Amish girls don’t mule drugs for dealers, Bruce. When you go back out there, keep that in mind.”
9
Monday, April 4
5:15 P.M .
AFTER AN early supper at a restaurant in Charm, Cal searched downstairs at the Zooks’ for Emma, but he didn’t find her with the other mourners. People were seated in the parlor and the first-floor sewing room, all silent as he passed through the house. In the long hallway from the front door to the kitchen at the back of the house, friends, neighbors and relatives sat on wooden deacon’s benches, used bimonthly for Sunday services. These were the same benches that the men carted from house to house whenever they were needed for long visiting, mostly at weddings and funeral vigils.
Cal walked slowly down the hall, between men and older women as sober as a stern lecture and as still as death itself. Most eyes were closed, heads bowed in prayer, but some people sat staring at their hands in their laps. One old fellow gave a silent nod as Cal passed by, and then bowed his head again to pray. Cal knew they were praying both for Ruth and for the man who had killed her. He hoped they were praying also for little Emma.
At the kitchen door at the back of the house, Cal stepped aside to let two women in plain dress come up the steps from the drive below. One woman carried a basket of eggs, and theother held two loaves of bread in metal baking pans. The women eased past Cal as he held the door for them, and then, without speaking to him, they went into the kitchen to help other women working at the sink and stoves. An English neighbor lady standing at the sink, dressed in black slacks and a red knit sweater, looked up and gave Cal a sad smile before she returned to her work peeling potatoes.
Cal walked down the back steps and headed across the drive toward the barn where he had earlier that day found Emma Wengerd hiding. On his way, he passed two small groups of kids in Amish dress, standing outside to whisper. As he drew near to each group, the kids fell silent and watched him closely as he headed for the largest of the tobacco-red barns.
Inside, Cal’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. He stood a moment on the wide avenue down the middle of the barn, and his senses registered the classic sounds and aromas of the farm. There was soft lowing from a cow tied to a post inside the first stall on the right. A Standard Bred buggy horse lifted its head over the gate slats of the second stall. The musty aroma of wet hay and manure filled his nostrils. A flutter of wings sounded in the rafters high above him.
Cal worked his way down the right side of the avenue, looking in each of the stalls. At the far end of the barn, he searched in the right stall,
Similar Books
