Amber parked her little red car as Gordon escorted Mary into the Middlebury Police Station. She’d offered to give Mary a ride, but Gordon waved off the suggestion, reminding her, “Mary’s not under arrest, but it would be better for her to ride with me. She seems to be a flight risk.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I simply need to ask her some questions.”
She’d called Elizabeth during the drive and asked her to cancel her afternoon appointments. She had also called Tate, who offered to meet her at the station.
“No. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. Hopefully we won’t be here long.”
“Gordon must have had a good lead to question Mary versus all of your other employees.”
“Yes. The number from Mary’s shop was on the dead guy’s phone. But that doesn’t necessarily incriminate her in any way.”
“Not like running does.”
“I’ll admit that looks suspicious. Perhaps she was afraid. Maybe she thought Gordon was accusing her rather than questioning her . . .” Amber’s explanation trailed off as she tried to imagine what could have caused Mary to run. She had to know that Gordon would be right behind her.
“Call me if you need anything, and remember—I’ll take care of dinner.”
“You always take care of dinner. You’re spoiling me.”
“Guilty as charged.”
And that short conversation was all it took to put her day back in balance. Tate always knew what to say or do or not say or not do. She thanked the Lord for him as she walked into the small police station.
Though they’d dealt with a murder in the spring, she’d never actually gone to the police station. She’d of course driven by the building in the more than twenty years she worked in Middlebury, but she’d never had a reason to stop. The two times she’d been pulled over while driving (once for speeding six miles over the limit and once for failing to come to a complete halt at a stop sign, where both directions were deserted), the officers had given her a warning.
It occurred to her she might not be so lucky now that she was no longer dating the boss. Probably she should watch her speed and stops more closely.
The inside of the station didn’t look anything like she had imagined. She’d expected cracked, uncomfortable chairs, a yellowed linoleum floor, and stale odors. She was wrong on all counts. The waiting area held black leather seats and a long table stacked with new magazines—she knew they were the most recent editions because she had two of them at home and hadn’t had a chance to read them yet. The television in the corner of the waiting room was a flat screen tuned to a twenty-four-hour cable news channel with the volume muted. The floor was covered with an industrial gray carpet, but it was clean and complemented the black chairs nicely. The room smelled of a lemony cleanser, which was accentuated by a plug-in deodorizer near the television.
A kindly-looking older gentleman with white hair and bright-blue eyes sat behind a counter. The name tag on his uniform read “Walter Hopkins.”
“I’m here to see Sergeant Avery.”
“He’s busy right now.”
From where she stood, she could see Gordon leading Mary into his office, a small area in the corner of the room. Glass walls separated it from the rest of the desks and officers. No one would hear them, but everyone could see what was happening. That could come in handy when working with a criminal, but Mary was innocent!
Amber understood Walter was there to keep her on the visitor side of the petition, but she briefly considered rushing past him. By the time he caught her she’d be at Gordon’s side. It was true that Walter Hopkins was wearing a holstered gun, but he wouldn’t use it. Would he? “Actually, I’m here with the woman he brought in.”
“Family has to wait over there.” Walter gestured toward the black chairs.
“I’m not family exactly. I’m her boss.”
“Still need to wait over there.”
At that moment Walter’s switchboard beeped. He took the call, his eyes locked on her, and then he said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
“It’s your lucky day. Boss says to go on back.”
Amber thanked him and hurried to Gordon’s office.
Mary had sat down in the chair opposite Gordon’s desk. She didn’t look as if she planned on being helpful. Her arms were crossed over her chest as before, and this time Amber could see that her hands were balled into tight fists. Instead of looking at Gordon, or at Amber when she walked in, Mary stared at a spot on the far wall—to the top and right of Gordon’s fishing pictures.
“Have a seat, Amber. We were about to get started.”
Mary flinched at the last word.
Did she think Gordon was going to arrest her, possibly even charge her with this terrible crime?
“Does Mary need a lawyer?” Amber asked.
“Nein.” Mary dismissed the idea before they’d even discussed it.
“Actually, she doesn’t, though if she’d like to call one, I’ll wait to continue.” Mary shook her head again, indicating she did not want a lawyer present. “But I want to be clear. I’m questioning her, not charging her with anything—yet. And I’m allowing you in the room, Amber, in the hopes Mary will realize with your help that I’m reasonable and on her side.”
Gordon pulled out a small recorder, pushed the Record button, and informed Mary that the conversation was being taped, they were in the early stages of the investigation, and she was not being charged with anything.
Amber sat on the edge of her seat and reached over to touch Mary’s arm. “He needs to ask you questions, Mary. Answer as best you can. Answer truthfully. You don’t need to be frightened.”
“Actually, she does need to be afraid if she plans on not telling the truth. Lying to an officer during a murder investigation is no small thing.”
Closing her eyes, Mary murmured, “I would never lie.”
“Maybe not outright. But in the legal sense, not telling me everything—it’s the same as lying.”
“And how would you know if I’m not telling you something?” Mary glared at Gordon as she spoke.
“How would I know? Investigations come together like a quilt, Mary. You’re familiar with quilting, aren’t you?” He waited for her to nod and then continued, “Block by block we build our case until we’re ready to sew it together. When pieces are missing, we know it. And then we go hunting for them. But by that point, we’re not so polite about it.”
Amber wanted to ask him how he knew so much about quilting, but then she remembered going with him to the county fair. His mother and grandmother had both entered quilts, and they had both won ribbons. He probably sat at their knees as they pieced and basted and quilted.
“I don’t quilt,” Mary announced unapologetically. “I knit and crochet. Have you ever done either of those? If you’re not careful, yarn becomes tangled, stitches get dropped, you increase or decrease at the wrong time, and things can take the wrong shape.”
As if she’d said too much, she sat back in the chair and clamped her mouth shut.
“Is that what happened to Owen? Did he forget to be careful?”
Mary didn’t answer.
“Did he get tangled up in something?”
Mary didn’t answer.
“Maybe he didn’t pay attention to what he was doing, and whatever he was caught up in changed into something else, something he didn’t expect, something wrong.”
Mary didn’t answer.
The silence stretched uncomfortably around them. It was so quiet that Amber could hear the tape recorder turning, whirring its little cassette as it recorded nothing of importance.
The entire topic made her nervous. What did quilting and knitting and dropped stitches have to do with a poor man cut down in the prime of his life?
Amber stood and walked back into the main room. Two officers were working on computers. She saw what she needed in the corner near the bathrooms. She walked over to the water dispenser, poured herself a cup of water, and drank it. Crushing the paper cup in her hand, she tossed it into the wastebasket. Then she poured water into another cup.
When she returned to Gordon’s office, it seemed the two were involved in some sort of staring showdown. Amber handed the water to Mary, who drank it in one gulp.
“Maybe we should start with something simpler,” Amber suggested. “I know Mary isn’t involved in something as terrible as Owen’s death. She’s an excellent worker, and she’s very dependable. If there’s something she’s not telling you, then there’s a very good reason.”
Gordon scowled. “There’s no good reason to withhold information from me when I’m trying to find a killer.”
“Of course you wouldn’t understand, but Amish folks value their privacy.” Amber didn’t let Gordon’s tone ruffle her. She’d seen him irritated before. That last murder investigation had been a burr in his side, until she was in danger.
He’d been there for her then.
He was a good cop, but maybe not such a good interrogator when it came to the Amish in general and young Amish ladies in particular.
“Mary would never withhold information that might allow you to catch someone, especially since this person could still be armed and dangerous.”
Mary crumpled the paper cup as her eyes widened.
Amber continued the train of thought before Mary had a chance to recover.
“Murder on the Pumpkinvine Trail. Can you believe it?” She tsk-tsked even though it made her sound like an old woman. “When I think of how often I walk down that trail, it gives me the shivers. And, Mary, you come to work down the trail, don’t you? If I remember right, you live not too far from the trail.”
“Ya.”
“And your brothers and sisters use it too. Probably hundreds of people go down that trail every day. I know you want to catch this person as much as I do, as much as Sergeant Avery does.”
Mary threw a distrustful glance at Gordon. “I do.” The words were nearly a whisper.
“So let’s start with Owen.” Gordon picked up his pen and began to doodle with it. “How well did you know him? How did you know him?”
“From church and such. Not that well, though, since he is—was—younger.”
“Owen’s sister, Naomi Graber, told me he had moved away, to Fort Wayne, and that he returned a month ago.”
“Less than a month. A little less.” Mary’s defiance was being replaced by misery as the full realization of what had happened clearly dawned on her. “Owen was a gut boy. A gut man, I should say. At least he thought he was a man. After all, he had recently turned twenty-five.”
“When was his birthday?” Gordon’s questions were smoother now, quiet and unobtrusive.
“August fifth.” Mary didn’t even hesitate.
“Did you talk to him while he was away?”
“Every now and again. Not from home. We have no phone there, not even in the barn. My parents won’t abide it.”
Amber wondered how awkward that must be. She knew Mary was thirty years old. They’d spoken of her upcoming birthday when they’d shared lunch the week before. How would it feel to still live with your parents? To still be under your parents’ rules?
But what other option did Amish women have if they were unmarried?
It was one of the few things about the Amish life that rankled Amber, but perhaps that was because she’d been a single woman for so long. She understood full well both the hardship of being alone and the joy of being independent.
Both were experiences Mary would never know.
Then again, Mary had a strong support network. She would never want for someone to confide in or a place to live or food on the table.
“Owen was in the habit of calling you at the shop?”
Mary didn’t answer straightaway.
Gordon added, “We can check the phone records, Mary. It’s best if you tell me what you can.”
She pressed her fingers against her closed eyelids. Sitting up straighter, she dropped her hands into her lap and stared directly at him. “Ya. While he was away, he would call once, maybe twice a month.”
“Why?” I asked.
Mary turned to me. She seemed, for a minute, to forget that Gordon was there.
“To check on things. Ask after his schweschder and her family. Learn what was happening in Middlebury. Englischers think when an Amish man or woman leaves, when they’re on their rumspringa, that they don’t care anymore. This couldn’t be further from the truth. They care very much, but there are not many open channels of communication.”
“You were a friend to Owen.” Gordon sat back and studied her.
She nodded as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Two days ago.”
“He was already back. He could have stopped by the shop instead of calling.”
“Ya, and sometimes he did. By this time we’d become freinden, and we enjoyed talking to each other. Owen still had the cell phone he purchased while he was away. He would sometimes call me before work.”
“Why was he calling when you talked to him two days ago, on Tuesday?”
“He was excited.”
“About?”
Mary again closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. When she opened them, Amber had the sensation that she’d made a decision, though what it was she couldn’t imagine.
“About a group. He’d been trying to get in with this group, and he said things had gone well the night before, when he visited with one of the members. It was important to him for some reason. He was invited to go to the next meeting.”
“When was the meeting supposed to be?”
“Last night.”
“What was the name of the group, Mary?”
“It didn’t have a name. At least he didn’t tell me one. He did mention some letters.”
Gordon waited, his pen poised above the pad of paper.
“I-S-G.” Tears splashed down Mary’s cheeks. “I don’t even know what that means. Are they the ones who killed Owen? And who are they?”
But Gordon wasn’t listening anymore. He turned off the recorder, stood up, walked over to the door, and opened it. Without another word to them, he strode across the floor to where Walter Hopkins continued to monitor anyone coming into the building. Amber and Mary turned in their seats to watch him. He bent down and said something to Walter, which caused him to jerk upright and grab the phone.
Gordon walked resolutely back toward his office. He didn’t sit down or even enter the room. Standing in the doorway, he said, “Thank you, Mary. I may stop by the shop or your home if I have any further questions.”
Then he turned and was gone.