the drawer and move on when I spot the brown envelope in the back. I reach for it. My heart stutters when I see the familiar crinkled white notebook papers inside.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
Pinching the corner of the papers, I pull out two notes and carefully unfold them.
It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.
I go to the second note.
If a thief is caught breaking in at night and is struck a fatal blow, the defender is not guilty of bloodshed …
Though I still don’t have a name or suspect, for the first time, I can definitively tie the murder and abduction in Painters Mill to at least one murder in Crooked Creek.
CHAPTER 22
Ninety-one hours missing
After leaving the Stutzman place—the manila folder and a boatload of newspapers, tear sheets, and cutouts in hand—we head north toward Wheelersburg. As we make the turn onto Hansgen Morgan Road, I tell Tomasetti about my conversation with Freda Troyer. “The night they brought the baby to Painters Mill, they used a driver. Freda remembers seeing a van parked in her driveway.”
His eyes latch on to mine. “Does she have a name to go along with the van?”
“She didn’t see the driver, but some of the Amish drivers, fondly referred to as ‘Yoder Toters,’ are hired out on a regular basis and are well known by the Amish community. The bishop is usually well connected. I’m betting we can get a name.”
“You thinking this driver overheard something?”
“Or he might be able to give us a name we don’t already have.”
We park in the same spot as last time I was here. I notice the barn door standing open, so we forgo a trip to the house and head that way. We find Chupp mucking stalls, a wheelbarrow full of wood shavings and manure in the aisle.
“You’re back,” he says by way of greeting, and his eyes slide to Tomasetti. “With a friend.”
Tomasetti introduces himself and extends his hand.
“Any luck finding that missing girl?” the bishop asks.
I shake my head. “Did you have a chance to ask around to see if anyone is aware of what may have happened with the newborn seven years ago?”
Sobering, the bishop sets the pitchfork on the ground and leans. “I spoke with several people, Chief Burkholder. Reliable people who’ve lived in Crooked Creek all their lives. No one knows of an infant. If Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman were involved in such a thing, they did not speak of it.”
Disappointment takes a swipe at me, but I block it and move on to my next question. “I think Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman may have hired a driver the night they traveled to Painters Mill. Do you know of someone who was driving for the Amish about that time?”
The bishop’s eyes widen slightly. “Elmer Moyer has been driving the Amish around for as long as I can remember. He’s a nice fellow. A Mennonite. A real talker, if you know what I mean. I’ve hired him a few times myself.” Chupp looks from me to Tomasetti and back at me, his expression grave. “Chief Burkholder, I heard just last week that Elmer Moyer left town.”
My heart does a weird patter against my ribs. “Do you know where he went or why he left?”
He shakes his head. “Word around town is that Elmer had some debt.” He lowers his voice. “A tab at the feed store. A bunch of credit cards. It was common knowledge he was having money problems.”
“How long ago did he leave?” I ask.
“Recently.” He shrugs. “A couple of weeks maybe.”
“Do you have any idea how to get in touch with him?”
The bishop shakes his head. “Cell phone is disconnected. Several people I know have tried to contact him when they needed a ride. Elmer hasn’t returned a single call.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t want to be found.” Tugging his cell from his pocket, Tomasetti thumbs something it. “Let me see if he’s in the system.”
“Does Moyer have family in the area?” I ask the bishop. “Friends? Someone who was close to him?”
“I don’t believe so. Not in Crooked Creek, anyway. He courted the waitress down to the diner for a while. Patty Lou. But I don’t think they ever married. She still works there. Little place on Buckeye Street downtown called Foley’s.”
The bishop’s eyebrows furrow as if he’s troubled by the things we’ve discussed. “You don’t think something bad