Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,54

the shovel, dumping dirt onto the pile. Her face is wet. I can’t tell if it’s rain or sweat.

I watch her work, uncomfortable because a levee is an impossible feat without heavy equipment and I remember Adam Fisher’s muttered description of Sadie Stutzman. Narrisch …

“Can I help you with that?” I ask.

“Only got one shovel.” She hands me the aforementioned tool and grins a semi-toothless smile. “Don’t mind if I take a breather, though.”

I take the shovel, jam it into the dirt-filled wheelbarrow, and toss a glob of mud onto the mound. I’m aware of her stepping back, bending, setting her hands on her knees.

I keep working. “I understand you’re a midwife.”

“Was till the stroke got me. Don’t do too much anymore. There’s a new one down to Portsmouth. A nice Mennischt girl.” Mennonite. “Gotta have all them certifications and paperwork for the government these days. I ain’t got the patience for such things.”

The handle of the shovel is muddy and wet. I’m not wearing gloves. But the woman is talking, so I keep going. “I understand you knew Bishop Schwartz,” I say as I toss another shovelful of earth onto the mound.

“Everyone knew the bishop.”

“You were close?”

“Close enough.” She straightens. “He was the bishop, after all.”

“Did you ever travel with him to Painters Mill?”

An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in her eyes. “Can’t say I did.”

Despite the cold and rain, I’m starting to sweat beneath my coat from the effort of my chore. “Are you sure about that, Mrs. Stutzman? I understand you and Bishop Schwartz transported an infant to Painters Mill.”

“Don’t recall anything like that.” She holds out her hand for the shovel. “Give it here.”

I ignore her, keep working. “How long have you been working on the levee?”

“A few weeks now.” She doesn’t seem to notice that her efforts have garnered little more than a pile of earth that will likely wash away with the next downpour.

“The river floods?”

“Every few years. It’s the way things are here.”

“Do you know Bishop Troyer in Painters Mill?” I ask.

She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Kate Burkholder? Coming down here and asking all these nosy questions.”

I set down the shovel and upend the wheelbarrow, dumping the remaining dirt and mud onto the mound. “I’m asking you questions that need to be answered.”

“Go get me some more dirt then.” She motions toward a section of the yard that’s been inexpertly excavated. The place from which she’s getting dirt for her levee.

Holding her gaze, I bend and lift the wheelbarrow, roll it over to the shallow hole. “A seven-year-old little girl is missing,” I tell her. “She’s Amish. Innocent. Someone took her two days ago. I think it’s related to something that happened here seven years ago.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

I bank a rise of irritation, and put the energy into filling the wheelbarrow. For the span of several minutes the only sound comes from the grate of steel against wet earth, the birds in the trees along with river, the din of rain against the barn roof a few yards away.

“They killed him, you know.”

I stop digging, turn to her. “What? Killed who?”

Another flash in her eyes, an unexpected wiliness, a cognizance of exactly what we’re talking about and what she’s saying. But there’s fear there, too. “Bishop Schwartz. That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

I pick up the shovel and cross to her. “Bishop Schwartz was killed in a buggy accident.”

She stares at me as if I’m some dense child. As I regard her, I’m reminded once again of Adam Fisher’s words. Narrisch, he said. Insane. Considering the project we’re working on, I suspect this woman may be well on her way. I don’t believe she’s arrived at that destination just yet.

“Was it an accident?” she asks.

“Are you saying you believe someone did that to him on purpose?”

“I’m saying I knew something wasn’t right all along,” she whispers in that rusty-steel voice. “Knew it for a long time. Everyone did. Kept their mouths shut like good Amish. Such a terrible thing. Sin piled atop of sin. I couldn’t abide by it.”

The old woman hobbles to the wheelbarrow, realizes the shovel isn’t there, and returns to where I stand. “He said I was never to speak of it. So I held my tongue.”

“Mrs. Stutzman, do you know who was driving the vehicle that struck Bishop Schwartz’s buggy?”

“The English police said it was druggies that killed him.” She hefts a