children, isolated from her family, and how both of those things could affect someone who is part of a community in which children are so highly valued.
“Did you know Mary Yoder?” I ask.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“What about Marlene Byler?”
The knitting needles go still. “She’s the woman who killed herself all those years ago. Jumped off the bridge.”
“Did you know her?”
“I know the name is all. Lots of people around here remember that name. What she did … such an awful thing.”
Her eyes don’t meet mine. She stares at her knitting, realizing she’s dropped a stitch.
“Marlene Byler and Mary Yoder were sisters,” I tell her.
The woman stares at me, her mouth working. I see the wheels of her mind spinning and I get the impression she’s struggling with some internal dilemma.
“Mrs. Detweiler, a little girl’s life is at stake,” I say quietly. “She’s seven years old. Amisch. If you know something that might help me find her, I need to hear it.”
For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the hiss of the lantern, the patter of rain against the window, the splat of water against the sidewalk as it overflows the guttering outside.
“I never got to know my daughter-in-law well.” The woman tightens her mouth, looks down at her knitting, picks at the yarn. “Chief Burkholder, Rosanna told me a strange story once. You have to understand, she was … a peculiar girl. Always saying odd things no one really understood or knew how to react to. You never knew if it was true or make-believe.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me that Marlene Byler was her mamm.”
My pulse jumps at the possibility of yet another familial connection. “So Marlene Byler had more than one child?”
“Oh no. You misunderstand. Marlene only had one child.”
I stare at her, my mind scrambling to make sense of what I’ve just been told. “Are you telling me Rosanna is the baby that went off the bridge with Marlene?”
“I’m telling you that’s what Rosanna said. I don’t know if it’s true. Lord knows she told her share of tall tales.”
“Did she tell you how she survived the fall?” I ask. “Did she say who raised her?”
“Her grandmother.”
I pull the spiral pad from my pocket. “Do you have a name?”
“Rosanna only mentioned her once or twice in all the years I knew her.” Closing her eyes, she presses her fingers to her temples. “Ruby something. I remember because it’s kind of an unusual name for an Amish woman.” She massages her temples. “Mullet.” Her eyes open. “Ruby Mullet.”
Behind me, I hear Tomasetti move. “Does she live in the area?” he asks.
“Last I heard she owned a farm down south, on the other side of the river. Eads Hollow, I think.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Tomasetti and I are back in the Explorer. “If she’s right about Rosanna being Marlene Byler’s daughter, then Mary Yoder was her aunt,” I say.
“There’s your connection. Might be why the bishop chose the Helmuths. To keep the child with family.”
“What does it mean in terms of the case?” I ask.
“It means we have one more place to look for that girl.” Tomasetti puts the Explorer in gear and starts down the lane. “I don’t have to tell you we’re going to be a couple of light-years out of our jurisdiction.”
“I’m aware.” I type Eads Hollow into my phone. “We’re twenty minutes away.”
He sighs as he makes the turn onto the highway.
I call Dispatch. “Lois, can you pull up the tax roll for Boyd County, Kentucky, and do a property search for Ruby Mullet?” I spell the last name. “I’m looking for an address.”
“Sure.”
Keys clack on the other end. Lois makes a few noises, including a “crap” and “dang it,” and then she tells me, “It looks like Ruby Mullet owns a thirty-acre tract in Eads Hollow.” She rattles off an address.
I enter it into my GPS. “Any news on David Troyer?”
“No change, Chief. Last time I checked he’s still in a coma, but holding his own.”
“Let me know if anything changes.” I end the call and recite the address to Tomasetti.
“Get the Boyd County Sheriff’s Department on the line,” he says.
I’m already dialing the number. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get connected with the chief deputy, who agrees to have a deputy meet us at the Mullet address.
CHAPTER 27
One hundred and seventeen hours missing
We cross the Ohio River at the Twelfth Street Bridge and enter Kentucky. From there, Tomasetti takes us south