Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 18

The Willowdell Motel is located on Highway 83 a few miles out of town. During the summer months, the place caters to tourists visiting Amish Country. During deer season, the motel caters to the dozens of hunters that flock to the area to bag that purported eight-point buck. The motel’s one-size-suits-all décor doesn’t differentiate between the two groups of clientele.

Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into the gravel lot and we begin looking for Aaron Plank’s Camry. “He might have gone back last night.”

“He’s still got the house to deal with,” I point out. “He’ll either need to hire a professional cleaner or do it himself. With so much blood, I’m betting he hires it out. At some point, he’ll need to get the place appraised. If he wants to sell it, anyway.”

“How much is a farm like that worth?”

“A hundred and sixty acres. Farmhouse. Barn. Outbuildings. It’s a valuable piece of land. Traditionally, in an Amish family the eldest male child will inherit the farm when the parents pass.”

“It’s a stretch, but maybe he felt entitled. Kill the people who pissed you off and get a farm worth several hundred thousand dollars in the process. Maybe he decided to speed things up.”

I shake my head. “I don’t like Aaron Plank for this. James Payne, yes. But not Aaron.”

“People have done worse for less.” But I can tell by his lack of enthusiasm he’s not buying it either.

We’re midway through the lot; no sign of the Camry. “He’s not here,” I say.

Tomasetti stops outside the motel office. “Let’s see if he checked out.”

The heavy-set woman behind the counter tells us Plank checked out a couple of hours ago.

“He didn’t happen to say where he was going, did he?” I ask.

“Sure didn’t. But I can tell you he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath when he signed his receipt.”

Back in the Tahoe, I’m feeling frustrated and tense. “Kind of early in the day for a nightcap.”

“Especially if he’s driving back to Philly.” Tomasetti shrugs. “When in doubt, turn to alcohol.”

I frown at him, then a thought strikes me. “Maybe he’s at the farm.”

“Tough place to stay if it hasn’t been cleaned up.”

“Maybe he decided to do it himself.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tomasetti hangs a U-turn. “Worth a shot.”

Five minutes later we park next to the Plank buggy—right behind Aaron’s Camry.

“Good hunch, Chief,” Tomasetti says.

I glance toward the farmhouse. I see the kitchen curtains blowing outward, snapping in the stiff breeze. A nifty little gas generator sputters outside the window, the cord snaking inside. “Looks like he’s airing the place out.”

“Or cleaning up.”

“Let’s go find out.”

We disembark and head toward the door. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of the birds singing all around. The crisp leaves rattling in the wind. A dozen or so cows hanging out in the paddock near the barn. Everything seems so benign. Except for the fact that a family of seven was wiped out in this very place just three days ago.

I ascend the steps and knock. Music floats through the open window. Classical guitar with a dash of Madrid. Several minutes pass. I’m in the process of raising my hand to knock again when the lock rattles.

Aaron Plank opens the door several inches and peers out at me. Even through that small space, my cop’s eyes take in details. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks inordinately out of place in the big Amish kitchen wearing a paisley silk robe. His hair is mussed. His cheeks are flushed. His feet are bare.

“Can I help you?” No smile. No warmth. His voice tells me we’ve interrupted something he didn’t want interrupted. The cop in me wants to know what that is.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.

Plank’s eyes go from me to Tomasetti, who is standing slightly behind me. He makes no move to open the door. “This is kind of a bad time.”

“I understand,” I say. “But we only need a few minutes.”

His gaze flicks sideways. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“So are we,” Tomasetti cuts in. “A murder case. Now open the door and talk to us.”

Aaron’s mouth tightens into a thin, hard line. The door swings open as if by its own accord. Stepping back, he tugs at the belt of his robe. “I would have come down to the station.”

“I’m afraid this won’t wait.” I step into the kitchen. The aromas of candle wax and coffee mingles with the fresh air gusting through the window. I see a high-tech coffeemaker on the counter. Dishes draining in the sink. A bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses sit on the counter. That’s when I realize Aaron isn’t alone, and I get a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. The kind you get when you know someone is watching and you don’t know who or why. There were no other cars in the driveway, but I know he’s got company.

“Who’s here with you?”

Leave it to Tomasetti to cut to the chase. Listening, I cross to the living room. A dozen candles sit on the table, their tiny flames flickering in the breeze. Classical guitar streams from a cool little sound system on the floor.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Both Tomasetti and I look up to see a dark-haired young man trotting down the stairs. He’s got eyes the color of whiskey and just enough scruff of a beard to look en vogue. I know even before he introduces himself that the man is Aaron Plank’s lover.

“I’m Rob Lane.” Crossing to us, he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”

Tomasetti shakes the man’s hand and introduces himself.

I step forward and do the same. “We spoke on the phone,” I say.

“Of course.” Rob’s expression turns appropriately sober. “I couldn’t believe it when Aaron told me what happened to his family, especially with their being Amish and in a town this size.”

“You didn’t mention you would be traveling to Painters Mill,” I say.

“I hadn’t planned to at the time.” He grimaces. “But Aaron’s been understandably upset. He asked me to fly out for the weekend.”

I spot Aaron in the kitchen, pouring red wine into two glasses and start toward him. “Is there some place we can talk?” I ask him. “Alone?”

Frowning at me, he brushes past and hands Rob one of the glasses. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Rob.”

I nod, wondering about the attitude change. Last time I talked to him, he was cooperative and forthright. Now, he’s petulant. Why the turnaround? Is the grief over losing his family settling in? Did I come down on him too hard the last time we spoke? Or is there another reason for his abrupt turnaround?

“Why didn’t you tell us you attacked your father with a pitchfork when you were seventeen?” I ask.

Aaron takes a swig of wine. “It’s not the kind of thing you want to reveal to the cops when they’re investigating the murders of your estranged family.”

“Surely you knew we’d find out sooner or later.”

He shrugs.

Tomasetti steps closer, crowding Aaron. “It’s called lying by omission. In case you missed that episode of Law and Order, Einstein, that’s the kind of thing that usually makes the cops suspicious.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Aaron says.

“You attacked your father and put him in the hospital,” I say. “You didn’t tell us. Now he’s dead. It could appear as if you do have something to hide.”

“I didn’t kill my family. It’s absurd of you to think so.”

“Lying to the police doesn’t exactly bolster our confidence in your ability to tell the truth,” Tomasetti says.

Aaron glares at him, swigs more wine. “I’m not capable of that kind of violence.”

“You stuck your old man with a pitchfork,” Tomasetti mutters. “That’s pretty violent.”

“I had no reason to kill them.”

“They condemned you for being different. They thought you were perverted. Maybe you wanted to pay them back for the hell they put you through when you were seventeen.”

“All I wanted was to live my own life.”

“They wouldn’t let you do that, though, would they?” Tomasetti is goading him now.

“I forgave them a long time ago.” Aaron’s voice turns defensive.

“Did they forgive you?”

“I had no control over what they thought of me or my lifestyle,” he says.

“This is a nice house, Aaron,” I break in. “Are you going to keep it?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Tomasetti picks up an empty bottle of wine, makes a show of looking at the label, then sets it down. “Nice little love nest. Private. Roomy. Kind of ironic that the two of you are holed up in here now, drinking wine, hanging out, while the rest of your family is buried just down the road.”

Rob steps forward. “You’re out of line.”

Tomasetti shows his teeth, but his eyes are focused on Aaron. “They put you through hell, Aaron. Especially your old man. He thought you were sick. Maybe this is your way of paying him back.” He makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “Maybe you and lover boy are celebrating. Rubbing all that intolerance in their self-righteous faces.”

“That’s not how it is,” Aaron retorts, his voice rising.

“Then tell us how it is.”

Aaron divides his attention between Tomasetti and me. “I told you. I forgave them. I moved on.”

“Is that why you’re so upset?” Tomasetti asks.

“I was alone here! I needed . . . a friend. I called Rob.”

“You haven’t even cleaned up their blood yet, and here you are dancing and drinking wine and having veal parmesan for lunch. That’s cold.”

“W-we were going to hire a professional c-cleaner.” Aaron stutters the words. “They can’t come out until tomorrow.”

“How much did you hate your father?” Tomasetti asks.

“I didn’t hate him. He hated me. His son. He couldn’t stand what I was.” He turns his gaze to mine. Through the anger, his eyes plead for understanding, and for the first time I see the shimmer of tears. “I loved him. I loved all of them.”

“Is that why you stabbed him with a pitchfork?” Tomasetti asks.

“I was a teenager. He was . . . ignorant. He didn’t . . . wouldn’t understand. I lost my temper!”

“I think you still have a temper,” Tomasetti says. “I’ll bet you’d like to stick a pitchfork in me right now, wouldn’t you?”

Aaron hurls the wineglass to the floor, inches from Tomasetti’s foot. Glass shatters, shards flying against the wood cabinets. Tomasetti doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.” Rob steps between Tomasetti and Aaron, like a referee stopping a fight after a particularly devastating blow. “Come on, you guys. This has gone far enough.”

“Going to go a lot farther if we get lied to again.” Tomasetti jabs a finger at Aaron. “You listening?”

Aaron lunges at Tomasetti. I step forward, ready to intervene. But Rob catches Aaron by the arms, hauls him back. “This conversation is over,” he snaps.

Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “You might want to watch that temper of yours, Aaron. You don’t want the cops thinking you’re capable of violence.”

“Fuck you!” Aaron screams the words.

“Enough.” Before even realizing I’m going to move, I step closer, turn to face Aaron. “You need to calm down.” Then to Tomasetti. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

Scowling, Tomasetti walks away. Bad cop. Time for me to move in. I turn back to Aaron. Something I see in this troubled young man’s eyes touches me in a place I don’t want to acknowledge. Maybe because Aaron Plank and I have more in common than he could ever know. Those parallels have been floating around in my subconscious since I learned of his excommunication.

“Come here.” I motion toward the kitchen.

Feeling Tomasetti’s and Rob Lane’s eyes on me, I walk into the kitchen, aware that Aaron follows a few feet behind me. Once in the kitchen, I turn to face him. “You’re not helping your cause.”

He sneers. “You must be the good cop.”

“You’re not a suspect.”

“Then why are you hassling me?” Crossing to the counter, he snags another wineglass and pours more merlot into it.

“Because you withheld information that might have been helpful.” I return evenly. “What else aren’t you telling us?”

He looks away, raises the glass to his lips, takes a too-big gulp of wine. “I heard you used to be Amish,” he says. “Is that true?”

“I was. A long time ago.”

“Then you know gossip is one of their favorite pastimes,” he says. “You know they can be a bunch of judgmental pricks.”

“Who are you protecting?” I ask point-blank.

“No one.”

“Is it Mary? Was she into something she shouldn’t have been? Are you trying to protect her reputation? Her memory? What?”

He looks down at the wineglass in his hand.

“Aaron, you need to talk to me. We’re trying to find out who killed your family. If you know something, now is the time to open up.”

After a moment, he raises his eyes to mine. “I know in the scope of things it doesn’t seem important, Chief Burkholder, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m about to tell you, especially the Amish community. Mary cared about her reputation. It mattered to her. She wouldn’t want them gossiping about her. About Mamm and Datt.”

I give him the most honest answer I can. “I’ll do my best to keep whatever you tell me out of the public eye.”

His hand trembles when he sets down the glass. “I received a letter from Mary. About a month ago.”

The revelation sends a jolt through me. “What did it say?”

“She wanted to leave the Amish lifestyle. She asked for my help.”

“Why did she want to leave?”

“She said she didn’t fit in, couldn’t conform.”

I know there’s more. “Did she mention a boyfriend?”

He eyes me warily. “You know about him?”

“She kept a journal. I found it in her room. I’ve read it.”

“A journal?” Emotion swells in his eyes. “Can I see it?”

“You can when I close this case. For now, it’s evidence.” I move closer to him. “What did she say about the boyfriend?”

“Just that he wasn’t Amish, but she was crazy about him. Really crazy. Made it sound all romantic. You know, teenaged girl stuff. She wanted to marry him. Have his kids. Shit like that. She was sneaking out at night to be with him.”

“Did she mention a name?”

“No.”

I hold his gaze. “Do you still have the letter?”

“I tossed it.” He looks away. “I didn’t know it would be the last time I heard from her.”

“What was the tone of the letter?” I ask.

“I swear to God she seemed fine. Just . . . confused. In love for the first time.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I wish I’d dropped everything and driven down. I might’ve been able to do something.” He closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. “Mary always looked up to me. I was her big brother. She watched me leave the Amish way of life, and she wanted the same for herself.” He sighs. “I had Rob to help me through it. She didn’t have anyone. I wish I could have been there for her.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the letter?” I ask. “Anything that worried you?”

He shakes his head. “God, I don’t remember all the details. She kind of caught me up on family stuff. How fast little Amos was growing. She said everything was fine. I do recall that she talked a lot about the guy. She was definitely into him.”

“Did she say anything that made you concerned for her safety?”

“No.”

Disappointment digs into me. “Did you write her back? Call her?”

“I wrote her a letter.” His face screws up. He brings his fist down on the counter. “I wish to God I’d had the courage to drive down.”

“What did you say in your letter?”

He blows out a breath, composes himself. “I hooked her up with an Amish guy near Millersburg. He runs a sort of . . . underground railroad for young Amish men who want to leave the Plain life.” He gives me a sage look. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you about this, Chief Burkholder. The man is Amish. He’s married to an Amish woman and they have six children. If anyone finds out what he does, he’ll be excommunicated.”

For the first time, Aaron’s reticence makes a certain amount of sense. “What’s his name?”

“Ed Beachey.

I’ve never met Ed, but I know of him. “He owns a small cattle operation down the road from Miller’s Pond.”

Aaron nods. “Ed gives these kids a place to stay. He gives them food. Counsels them. I told Mary to contact him.”

“Did she?”

“I checked. Ed says she never did.”

“You know I’ve got to verify all this with Ed,” I say.

“No one knows he helps young men leave the Amish way of life. If it gets out, he’s going to think I betrayed him.”

“I’ll let him know you didn’t have a choice.” I sigh, feeling deflated. “If you remember anything else that might be important, call me.” I turn to leave. I’m midway to the living room when Aaron stops me.

“Chief Burkholder?”

I turn back to him.

“I just remembered something that might help.” He looks more animated as he crosses to me. “She mentioned something about meeting her guy out at Miller’s Pond.”

“She wrote about it. In the diary.”

“Well, then you probably already know that one day when she was waiting for him, she carved their initials in a tree.”

I stare at him, aware that my pulse is spiking. Initials won’t solve the case, but they might help identify the boyfriend. “Do you know where the tree is? Near the water? The path? Parking area?”

He grimaces, shakes his head. “She didn’t say. Just a tree. That’s all I know.”

I stare at him a moment longer. I’m still not sure if I like him, but one thing that’s clear to me is that he loved his sister. “This would have been a lot easier if you’d just come clean from the start.”

He closes his eyes briefly and in that instant I know he blames himself, at least in part, for his sister’s death. Maybe for the deaths of his entire family.

“Nothing’s going to bring them back,” he says.

“No, but sometimes telling the truth helps you sleep at night.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Miller’s Pond, and I always forget how pretty it is. The dam is on the east side. Below the dam, a greenbelt thick with trees runs along Painters Creek. To the west is a cornfield. On the north side, a hay field is hip high with alfalfa. To the south, the yellow-green carpet of a soybean field stretches as far as the eye can see.

The pond itself is a good-size body of water. People swim here in the summer. They ice-skate in winter. Lovers park here at night. Teenagers drink and smoke dope. The area is secluded with no official parking area. The only thing that keeps the place from getting crowded is that you have to walk half a mile down a wooded path to get to the water.

Ed Beachey’s place was on the way, so Tomasetti and I stopped by to ask him if Mary Plank had sought his help. The Amish man claimed she never contacted him. I believed him. I wanted to assure him his secret was safe with me, but I’ve learned the hard way not to make promises I might not be able to keep. Another dead end.

I told Tomasetti about my conversation with Aaron on the drive over. Neither of us is very optimistic about finding the tree with the initials. But with the case stalled and the clock ticking, he wasn’t opposed to a quick look-see.

“Pretty heavily wooded area.” He parks in front of the guardrail.

“I thought we could walk the path, see if anything pops out at us.” I slide out of the SUV. It’s so quiet I can hear the bees buzzing around the goldenrod and dandelions in the bar ditch.

Tomasetti gets out and slides on his sunglasses. “If you’re thinking foot-wear impressions or tire treads, we’re a month too late.”

Our gazes meet over the hood of the vehicle. “I know it’s a long shot, but if we can find the initials, it could help.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s not sold on the idea. “If we don’t find the initials, at least we have a good supply of trees to bang our heads against.”

“Pragmatist.”

The Tahoe is parked in gravel. The asphalt ended about a quarter mile back. There’s not much room for parking, but I can tell by the amount of trash on the ground that plenty of people come here. Where the weeds meet the gravel, broken glass shimmers like hot diamonds beneath the sun. I see dozens of tire tread imprints. Candy bar wrappers. A used condom. Most people are pretty good about picking up after themselves. But not the slobs. I’ve been standing in the sun for less than a minute and already I’m sweating beneath my uniform.

“Okay. So we’ve got a few thousand trees to check.” He opens the Tahoe door, digs around for a moment, emerges with two Wal-Mart bags, passes one to me. “Here’s your evidence bag.”

“You’re pretty resourceful, Tomasetti.” I take the bag. “You a Boy Scout?”

“Got kicked out for smoking when I was nine.”

“Figures.” But I smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have gloves, would you?”

He ducks back into the Tahoe and comes out with a handful of tissues. “These’ll have to do.”

“You BCI guys are high tech all the way.” I take a couple of the tissues, tuck them into my back pocket.

Sighing, he works off his suit jacket and tosses it onto the front seat. He is wearing a light blue shirt beneath the jacket. The armpits and back are wet with sweat. He takes a moment to loosen his tie. I see chest hair peeking out of his collar and it reminds me he’s got just the right amount of it.

“Anything else we should be looking for while we’re here?” he asks.

I shake my head. “They came here several times. They drank wine, had sex.”

“The boyfriend smoke?”

“She didn’t mention it, but Evelyn Steinkruger said Mary came back to work once smelling of cigarettes.”

“Even if we find a butt, chances are there won’t be any DNA. Even if there was, it isn’t against the law to smoke out here. Won’t do us any good in terms of the case.”

“Unless the DNA matches the DNA found inside her body.”

“Good point.” He rolls up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s see if they left us anything to work with.”

We begin in the gravel parking area. I walk the perimeter where flying insects swarm in hip-high weeds. It’s late in the season so everything is yellow and dry and coated with a thin layer of gravel dust. Tomasetti walks the dirt track that leads back to the main road, checking the bigger trees along the way. I use one of the tissues to pick up a candy wrapper and place it in the Wal-Mart bag. All the while my brain chants the word futile.

It takes us fifteen minutes to scour the area. I’ve netted a handful of candy and gum wrappers, a plastic water bottle and a crushed Skoal can. Wiping a drop of sweat from my temple, I look around, trying to put myself in Mary’s head. Ten feet away, Tomasetti looks the way I feel: hot and discouraged.

“She was breaking the rules by being here,” I say. “She would have wanted privacy.”

“He probably wouldn’t want to be seen with her.” He walks over to me. “Let’s check the woods.”

We head down the dirt path cut into the woods. The trees offer shade, but the mosquitoes have decided we’re fair game. No one officially maintains the path; it stays open due to the amount of foot traffic. Once or twice a year, one of the local farmers cuts down any overgrown saplings or bushes with his tractor and Bush Hog.

As we trudge into the woods, I try to put myself in Mary’s shoes. She was young, Amish and involved in an illicit love affair. Where did they walk? What did they touch? Did they leave anything behind?

“They drank a bottle of wine,” I say after a few minutes. “He brought her lunch once. They watched the stars.”

“Something concrete would be nice,” Tomasetti grumbles.

“Initials would be a great start.”

“A lot of damn trees.”

“A lot of damn bugs.”

Midway to the pond, I find a lone sock and toss it into my bag. Ahead of me, I hear Tomasetti slapping at mosquitoes and I smile. We don’t speak as we work. The only sounds come from the chatter of sparrows, the high-pitched whoit-whoit-whoit of a cardinal and the occasional call of a bobwhite quail. We don’t pass anyone, and I realize Miller’s Pond is quiet this time of day, this time of year. The kids are in school. Most adults are working. Come four o’clock, the elementary age kids will invade the place like a swarm of ants. The high school kids will park their muscle cars in the gravel lot and spend the afternoon smoking cigarettes, stealing kisses and flirting. Later, Dad might walk down to toss in a line and hope for a bass. Where would have Mary and her illicit lover gone?

It takes us twenty minutes to cover the half-mile trail. I check every tree along the way, but the initials M.P. are nowhere to be found. The woods open to the dam. I netted a total of six items, none of which is promising. My brain keeps telling me to stop wasting time and get back to the station where we can work an angle that might actually pan out.

I’m sweating profusely as I take the steep bank to the pond. The body of water covers about two acres. A big cottonwood tree and two huge rocks mark the north end. A derelict dock sags on the south side. On the west side, the water is shallow and green with moss. Two long-dead stumps twenty feet from the water’s edge act as lace-up benches in the wintertime. Beyond, the cornfield rattles in the breeze.

“You ever skinny-dip here as a kid, Chief?”

I glance over to see Tomasetti come up the dam. His face is damp with sweat. A mosquito bite stands out on his jaw. But he looks good when he’s mussed. Details I shouldn’t be noticing.

“Never skinny-dipped. Did plenty of ice-skating, though.”

“Hot enough to swim today.”

“Water will be cold. We had frost the other night.” I smile. “Are you asking me to skinny-dip with you?”

He grins back. “Water looks kinda mossy.”

“City slicker.”

“We could forget about the water and get naked in that cornfield over there.”

I laugh.

He smiles, but I can tell by the way he’s looking at me he’s not kidding. One nod from me, and he’d be all over me. The realization conjures a weird flutter in my chest.

He looks at the bag I tied to my belt loop. “Find anything?”

“Not really.”

He holds up his Wal-Mart bag. “I found a SpongeBob Lego and a chewed-up dime.”

Disappointment presses into me as we start back down the dam. The incline is steep and both Tomasetti and I skid part of the way. We enter the woods, and the mosquitoes descend on us like hyenas on prey. I’m going to need a shower by the time we get back. Of course, there won’t be time for it.

We walk in silence. I’m only keeping half an eye on the path now, glancing occasionally at the larger trees we pass. I’m anxious to get back to the station. I want to run through the vehicle registrations a second time. I need to talk to Barbereaux’s girlfriend to verify his alibi. I want a DNA sample from James Payne. Rob Lane, too.

I pick up the pace. The path curves and then straightens. The parking area comes into view twenty yards ahead. I see the hood of the Tahoe and dented steel of the guardrail. The telephone poles that run along the road. The trees open up and we step into bright sunlight. Heat slams down on me like a hot cast-iron skillet. I feel wilted and dirty as I head toward the Tahoe. I’m stepping over the guardrail when I notice the bottle propped against the shady side of a post.

I bend, pick it up using one of the tissues. The lower half of the bottle is basket covered. The label is crinkled, peeling and stained, nearly indecipherable. My brain pings when I see the word Chianti.

“I think I found something,” I hear myself say.

Tomasetti comes up behind me, looks at the bottle. “If you’re thirsty, I’m more than happy to take you to McNarie’s.”

“Mary and her lover drank a bottle of wine right here at Miller’s Pond a few weeks ago. She mentioned it in her diary. I’ll have to check, but I think she mentioned the wine was from Italy and said something about the bottle.”

He looks skeptical. “Kind of a long shot.”

“There’s only one place in town that carries this kind of Chianti,” I tell him. “Hire’s Carry-Out, a little place out on Highway 83. I’ve got a date, in the diary. If they can identify the buyer, we might get a name.”

“Worth a shot.” But he doesn’t look too excited. Maybe because it’s not a crime to drink cheap Chianti here or anywhere else.

Still, it’s worth a try. I drop the bottle into the bag, and we start toward the Tahoe. Without realizing it, we’ve picked up the pace. Two bloodhounds that have caught a scent, however faint.

Neither of us speaks again until we climb into the Tahoe. Tomasetti starts the engine, throws the vehicle into reverse. “So how do we get to Hire’s from here?”

I call T.J. from the road and ask him to get Mary Plank’s journal off my desk and skim through it for an entry that mentions wine. After several minutes, he finds it.

He reads, “ ‘September 22. He came to my window! I shouldn’t be, but I was so happy to see him. I sneaked out and we bought some wine. Then he took me to Miller’s Pond. We watched the stars and he gave me my first wine lesson. The bottle was in a cute little wicker thingie and came all the way from Italy! He’s so sophisticated. Later, we made love. I told him I want to marry him. I want to tell Mamm and Datt about us. He got a little angry and told me they wouldn’t understand. But I need their blessing, even if I am to leave the church. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do!’

“Jeez.” T.J. sighs. “Poor kid.”

I tell him about the bottle. “Tomasetti and I are going to swing by Hire’s Carry-Out.”

“Anything I can do on my end, Chief?”

“Let’s just hope they keep decent records.”