Only the Lucky, Page 4

  She looks down again. “Mary Zimmerman told me about it at worship last weekend. All the young people were going to be there.”

  I suspect there was a good bit of back and forth on social media, too, but I don’t ask about it. Instead, I look at her mother. “Did you know about it?”

  “We wouldn’t allow such a thing with the music and beer.” Clucking, she shakes her head in disapproval.

  I turn my attention back to Irene. “Were you with Alma all evening?”

  “We were only together for half an hour or so. Then she left to meet Aden in the barn.”

  “While you were with Alma, did the two of you talk to anyone else? Interact with anyone?”

  “Just . . . some girls we know. We listened to the band for a while and some boys tried to get us to drink beer.” She slants an anxious look at her mamm.“We didn’t.”

  I suspect I’d get more out of her without her mother hovering, but since this girl is only seventeen years old, that’s not an option. Yet. “Did Alma have any ongoing disagreements with anyone? Any arguments or harsh words?”

  The girl shakes her head. “No, she’s very kind.”

  “Were any of the boys . . . forward? Or too interested in her?”

  “All the boys want to marry Alma.” She offers a sad smile. “None of them were mean to her.”

  “What about in the days or weeks before the party? Has anyone been bothering her? Has she mentioned anyone doing or saying something unpleasant or threatening? English or Amish?”

  The girl’s brows knit as she takes a moment to consider. Then she shakes her head. “No.”

  “Where did you leave Alma this evening?”

  “I walked her about halfway to the barn. We hugged, and then I went back to listen to the band.” She shrugs and then her face screws up. “A couple hours later I heard she was in the hospital and I . . . didn’t know what to do. So I came home.”

  “Did you go into the barn with her?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Was there anyone else in the barn with her?”

  “Not that I know of. Just . . . Aden.”

  I nod, let the name hang. “We think someone may have attacked Alma while she was in the barn.” I watch her carefully for a reaction, but the girl keeps her eyes downcast.

  “Do Alma and Aden get along well?” I ask. “Did they ever argue?”

  She raises her head. Her eyes widen as my words register. “He wouldn’t. I mean, he’s got a temper, but . . . he loves Alma.” Tears threaten. “Too much probably.”

  “What do you mean by ‘too much’?” I ask.

  Her gaze hits the floor; she doesn’t answer.

  “Aden has a temper?” I press.

  The girl hesitates, glances at her mamm, as if seeking permission to flee to her room. Her mother stares back as if wondering how could she know of such things?

  “All you have to do is tell the truth,” I say gently.

  “He gets mad sometimes,” the girl mumbles.

  “About what?”

  “He doesn’t like other boys looking at Alma like they do.”

  “Was he angry with her tonight?”

  Again, she avoids making eye contact with me. She studies the floor as if it’s some enigmatic piece of art. “I think he was going to ask her to marry him.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. “He was going to ask her to marry him tonight?” I repeat.

  Just when I think she isn’t going to respond, she raises her gaze to mine, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Alma was going to tell him no.”

  * * *

  I call Glock on my way back to the station. “I want you to pick up Aden Keim and bring him in for questioning.”

  “You got it, Chief.”

  “Did you and Skid get that party dispersed?”

  “Guy with the smoker just left. Hated to turn down all that brisket.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “You think the boyfriend did it?”

  I tell him about my conversation with Irene Miller. “He’s my number one suspect at the moment.”

  He sighs. “Aren’t they always?”

  The statement echoes the sentiments of most cops. It makes the situation doubly sad because far too often it’s the person women love most who would do them harm.

  “Keep an eye on Keim,” I say. “He’s a big guy and from what I hear he has a temper.”

  “Suspect with a temper is my specialty,” he says with a chuckle. “Especially if they’re a bully. See you in a few.”

  * * *

  It’s midnight when I arrive at the station.Mona is kicked back at the dispatch desk, studying a textbook while The Black Keys belt out a tune on the radio. She grins when I enter and turns it down.

  “Any word on the condition of Alma Fisher?” I ask.

  “As of ten minutes ago she was undergoing a CAT scan. Nurse told me to check back in an hour.”

  I pluck messages from my slot as I pass. “You can turn the radio back up now.”

  She dazzles me with a grin. “Oh, and you have a visitor in your office.”

  I enter my office to find Tomasetti sitting in the visitor chair across from my desk.

  “I heard you have a felony assault on your hands,” he says by way of greeting.

  “And you learned about that in your sleep how exactly?” But I smile as I slide behind my desk.

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose my sources. You know, BCI policy and all that.”

  I laugh outright. “Tomasetti, you’re so full of shit.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me.”

  I turn on my computer. “I’m bringing the boyfriend in for questioning.”

  “He have a record?”

  “Not even a traffic ticket. But then he’s Amish.”

  “You think he did it?”

  I consider everything I know about the case, about Alma Fisher, about Keim. “I think we’ll know a lot more after we talk to him. I asked Glock to pick him up.”

  “I’m glad I showed up.”

  “Me, too.”

  Twenty minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting at the table in the meeting room when Glock brings in Aden Keim. Even in the dim glow of the emergency lights, I can see the Amish man has calmed down since the scene in the barn. Glock unlocks the cuffs and motions him into a chair.

  “Conduct yourself like a gentleman or I’ll come back in here and put those cuffs back on,” Glock tells him. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Keim mumbles as he lowers himself into a chair.

  Glock is the only person who could pull that off with a smile and still be taken seriously. Nodding at Tomasetti and me, he backs from the room and closes the door.

  “You’re not under arrest,” I tell Keim. “You are being questioned as a possible witness with regard to the assault that was perpetrated on Alma Fisher earlier. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, but I don’t see why we couldn’t do this at the hospital.”

  Ignoring the statement, I identify Tomasetti and myself before beginning. “Mr. Keim, I need you to tell me what happened in the barn this evening.”

  “Alma and I had been planning for days to go to the party together, but last minute I had to work late, so I asked her to meet me in the barn around nine thirty. I was a few minutes late. I found her on the floor, unconscious, and I called 911.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone else in or around the barn?” I ask. “Were there any signs that someone else might’ve been there?”

  His brows go together as he considers the question. “There were people milling around outside. But the barn is old and dusty . . . I don’t think anyone had been inside.”

  I think about the second set of shoe imprints. “You were alone?”

  “Of course I was alone.”

  “Why did you want to meet in the barn?”

  “I just . . .” He shifts in the chair, looking uncomfortable. “I wanted to be alone with her.”

  “Why is that?”

&nb
sp; He looks away, seems to gather himself, then meets my gaze. “I was going to ask her to marry me.”

  “Did you?”

  “I told you. She was unconscious when I got there. I didn’t get the chance.”

  Tomasetti speaks up for the first time. “Or maybe something else happened.”

  His gaze snaps to Tomasetti. “Something like what?”

  He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Maybe she said no and that pissed you off.”

  “What?” Looking indignant and trapped, Keim’s gaze jumps from Tomasetti to me and back to Tomasetti. “That’s not what happened! That’s just crazy talk. I’d never hurt Alma and she would never say no!”

  “Do you have a temper?” Tomasetti asks.

  “No. I mean, no more than the next guy. And never with Alma.”

  Tomasetti keeps pushing. “That’s not what we heard.”

  “I don’t care what you heard! I didn’t hurt her.” He chokes out a sound that resonates with near panic. “You have to believe me! I love her and she loves me. When she wakes up, she’ll tell you!”

  It’s an impassioned statement, but I know all too well that some individuals are born liars. I wish I could exclude the Amish altogether, but I can’t.

  I give him a moment to calm down and shift gears. “Did Alma have any enemies?”

  “She’s liked by everyone. I mean, she’s that kind of person. Always smiling. She’s humble and sweet and kind.”

  “Did she have any ongoing arguments or disputes?”

  “No.”

  “Any jealous ex-boyfriends?”

  “I’m her first.” He says the words with a hefty dose of male pride, then lowers his voice. “My first, too.”

  To some people the words might seem corny. Knowing the Amish as I do, I find myself endeared by this young man despite the circumstances.

  “Has she been approached or hassled by any strangers recently? Men or women? Amish or English?”

  “Sometimes I see men look at her, but not in a way that worried me. I mean, she’s so pretty who wouldn’t look at her?”

  “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt Alma?” I ask. “For any reason?”

  He shakes his head. “Not a soul.”

  For the span of several heartbeats no one speaks. As if reminded of the situation, Keim shifts in the chair and looks longingly at the door.

  “Do you have sisters, Mr. Keim?” Tomasetti asks.

  The Amish man looks from Tomasetti to me and back to Tomasetti. “Four of them,” he says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Are they younger or older than you?”

  “Two younger, two older. I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  Tomasetti cuts him off, addressing me.“Any more questions for him, Chief Burkholder?”

  “No.”

  Tomasetti gives Keim a poor imitation of a smile. “You’re free to go. Glock will drive you home.”

  Looking suspicious of the easy escape, Keim rises. “I don’t want to go home. I need to get back to the hospital.”

  When Keim is gone, I look at Tomasetti. Neither of us are a pushover when it comes to a sob story. We’ve heard them all, told a dozen different ways, some with a great deal of passion. But we also possess pretty good built-in lie detectors.

  “I have a feeling you and I are on the same page,” I say.

  “The page that says ‘he’s either an award-winning actor or he didn’t do it.’ ”

  “Something like that.” I tell him about the female shoe imprint left at the scene.

  “That’s interesting,” he says. “Do you have photos?”

  “Yep.” I pull out my cell. “Server is down so they’re only on my phone for now.”

  He comes around the desk and I scroll through the photos, enlarging each so we can see the detail. “Looks like some type of boot. With a heel.”

  “Tomasetti, you know your female shoes.” I give him a questioning look.

  “I’m going to have to take the fifth on that.”

  I elbow him and he returns to the visitor chair on the other side of my desk.“There was definitely a female in the barn. The problem is we don’t know when. She could have been there the day before any of this happened.”

  He thinks about that a moment. “Is there a shoe store in Painters Mill?”

  “The Bootery.” I feel a smile emerge. “Tomasetti, I’m really glad you decided to come in.”

  “Since the retail shops don’t open until ten a.m.or so, we could head back to the farm to discuss the crime, and maybe grab a couple hours of sleep. Not necessarily in that order.”

  I know him well enough to know the crime is the last thing on his mind. “Since I have a teenage girl in a coma and a town without power I think I’m going to stick around here the rest of the night.”

  “In that case I’ll take a rain check.”

  * * *

  I call the hospital twice during the early morning hours only to learn there’s been no change in Alma Fisher’s condition. She’s still in a coma, but stable. The nurse I spoke to informed me there were a dozen or so Amish in the intensive care waiting room. I’m not surprised; when someone gets hurt or is in need—even if they’re English—the Amish turn out in droves to support them.

  At 5:00 a.m. the electricity jolts on. Mona peeks her head into my office. “Do you think it’s safe for me to turn off the generator?”

  “It will be nice not to hear it,” I tell her.

  The day is looking up.

  A few minutes before 10:00 a.m. Tomasetti and I are standing on the sidewalk outside The Bootery, Painters Mill’s first upscale shoe store. It’s a chic retail space set into an historic building with the original front door and an artful window display chock-full of everything from gladiator sandals to suede fringed booties. The bell on the door jingles when we enter.

  “Good morning!”A white-haired gentleman with a precise goatee is standing at the counter behind an old-fashioned cash register. Wearing a double-breasted suit, a pair of square bifocals, and a bow tie, he looks more like a college professor than a shoe salesman.

  I show him my ID and identify myself.

  “Bart Wentworth.” He sticks out his hand and we shake. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Agent Tomasetti and I are wondering if you can help us identify the image of a sole.”

  He looks intrigued by the idea. “I’ve been in the shoe business since I was fourteen years old. If I can’t identify it, no one can. What do you have?”

  Pulling out my phone, I show him the image.

  “Hmmm . Interesting.” He tilts his head back and looks at it through his bifocals. “Exquisitely made shoe.”

  “A woman’s?” I ask.

  “Correct.”

  “Size?”

  “If that tape measure next to it is correct . . . size eight. B width probably.”

  “Any idea where it came from?”

  The old man’s eyes sparkle. “I’d venture to say it came off that shelf right over there.”

  Tomasetti and I exchange looks as Wentworth saunters to a shelf, kneels, and pulls out a shoebox. He brings it to us, sets it on the counter, and removes the lid with the flair of a chef revealing his greatest creation. “It’s a summer clog. Wood sole. Leather upper. It was a big hit last year. Pricey, but the workmanship and beauty make it worth every penny.”

  “Do you have the names of people who purchased this shoe?” Tomasetti asks.

  Wentworth nods, but his face is grim, as if in sharing the information he would somehow betray his customers. “Is it important?”

  I tell him about the attack on Alma Fisher. “She’s in a coma and we’re trying to find the person responsible.”

  He makes a sound of distress. “In that case, let me take a look at my records.”

  It’s not a speedy process since Wentworth’s sales records are on paper and in a steel file cabinet in the rear office. Tomasetti and I pass the time perusing the merchan
dise. He picks up a sequined platform pump, turns to me, and raises his brows. “You’d look great in these.”

  Grinning, I shake my head. “What is it with you and women’s shoes?”

  “I’m a foot guy. What can I say?”

  A few minutes later the curtain behind the counter parts and Wentworth comes through holding a short stack of sales receipts. “Here we go.”

  Sequined pumps forgotten, we cross to the counter.

  “I’ve sold nine pair since last summer.” Wentworth sets the papers on the counter. “Names should be on the merchant copy of the receipt.”

  I page through the receipts. Some of the names are familiar. The mayor’s wife. Jodie, my second-shift dispatcher. Three are from out of state.

  “That leaves us with four names.” Pulling out his phone, Tomasetti takes a photo of the receipts. I jot them down in my notebook.

  When I’m finished, I extend my hand to Wentworth. “Thank you for getting the information for us so quickly.”

  “I hope the injured young lady is going to be all right.”

  * * *

  By the time Tomasetti drops me at the station, my lack of sleep is starting to make itself known. Waving to Lois, my first-shift dispatcher, I grab a cup of coffee, go directly to my office, and dive in to the list. It doesn’t take long for me to call each of the four individuals—and strike out. All of the women have indisputable alibis for last night. No one borrowed the shoes in question. And none of the women donated them to charity.

  “So how the hell did those footwear imprints get in the barn?” I mutter.

  Realizing the footwear angle may be a dead end, I call the BCI lab only to learn there are no viable fingerprints on the two-by-four. The hair and blood samples have already gone to the lab for DNA testing, but I know both are probably from the victim.

  My only hope is that a second interview with Aden Keim and Irene Miller will reveal some new bit of information. I’ll also need to broaden my interview pool by including other individuals who were at the partyand close personal friends of Fisher and Keim. I remind myself that most cases are solved simply because someone can’t keep their mouth shut. Hopefully, someone will talk.

  I decide to pay Keim another visit. Back in the Explorer, I call his cell and identify myself. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the hospital.”