An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(11)
“I’ll call you as soon as I get all this.”
I thank her and drop the cell into the console as I pull away.
* * *
Andy and Clara Byler live nearly to the Coshocton County line just off of County Road 19. It’s a well-kept farm with a white farmhouse, a grain silo, and two low-slung hog barns in the back. I follow the driveway around to the rear of the house and park next to a wooden wagon piled high with cut hay. The stench of hog manure hits me like a brick when I get out.
Midway to the house, I notice the Amish woman on her knees, weeding a flower bed off the back porch. She’s wearing a mauve dress, a white kapp, and a pair of sneakers that have seen plenty of miles. There’s a pile of pulled weeds the size of a Thanksgiving turkey on the ground beside her.
“Mums are pretty,” I say to her as I approach.
She glances at me over her shoulder and frowns. “Chickens sure do like ’em. The stupid things. Rooster leads the hens over here every morning and they go to town, scratching up everything in sight. I might just fry him up one of these days.”
I smile. “Clara Byler?”
“That’s me.” Tossing a handful of weeds onto the pile, she heaves herself to her feet and brushes her hands against the skirt of her dress. I see her eyes taking in my uniform, and she cocks her head. “You’re a ways from Painters Mill.”
I have my shield at the ready. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
She goes still and I see her mentally brace, telling me she’s no stranger to tragedy.
“Aden Karn was killed earlier this morning,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
The woman steps backward as if shoved by some invisible force. “Aden. Gone? Oh good Lord. He’s so young. How?”
I lay out the fundamentals without getting into too much detail.
“Was it an accident?” the woman asks.
“That’s yet to be determined. We’re looking into a few things.” Not wanting to get into the specifics when I have so little solid information confirmed, I press on. “I understand he was seeing your daughter, Emily.”
Shaking her head, she looks down at the ground. “My goodness, this is going to be a shock for her.”
“They were close?” I ask.
She nods. “She’s only seventeen, but we figured they’d get married. Next year, maybe.”
“Did they get along well?”
“Of course they get along,” she says a little irritably. “He’s the first boy that’s paid her any heed and she’s just bloomed. He brought her out of her shell, I reckon. She’s a shy thing. They’ve been seeing each other for six months now and it’s been a match made in heaven. He’s good to her. Kind and attentive and she’s been like a whole new girl.”
“How well did you know Aden?”
“I’ve known that boy since he was yea high.” She holds out a steady hand to indicate a height of about three feet. “Always was a charmer, that one. Funny. He could make you laugh even if you were having a bad day. Had a smile for everyone. Didn’t need to ask him for help; the boy would just show up and take on the hardest job you’ve got. Liked to get his hands dirty, never complained, and he didn’t leave until the work was done.”
“He was your daughter’s first beau?” I ask, using the Amish term for “boyfriend.”
“She might’ve gone to a singing or two before. A frolic down to Coshocton.” Her eyes flick away from mine just long enough to give me pause.
“None of the other boys had their eye on her?” I ask.
“They might’ve looked, but she wouldn’t have it. That girl only had eyes for Aden.”
I make a mental note of all of it, tuck it away for later. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Three days ago. We’ve had him over for supper every weekend since he started seeing Emily. Ate like a horse. Liked my chicken and dumplings just fine.” Lowering her head, she presses her fingertips to her eyes as if to keep the tears from falling. “My goodness, I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“God musta wanted him for something important. Sometimes when He takes ’em young, that’s the way it is. The Lord got a good one this time, that’s for sure.”
“Mrs. Byler, I know this is a bad time, but it would be helpful if I could speak to Emily for a few minutes. Is she home?”
“Oh, Lord, this is going to be hard on her.” The tears she’s been holding back spring free. She wipes them away without acknowledging them. A mother who has no patience with her own grief because she knows she must be strong for her daughter. “Em’s in the kitchen, peeling apples for pies.” She grimaces at me. “Come on in.”
I follow her into the house and through a small mudroom. The kitchen is uncomfortably warm and smells of cinnamon. The windows are open, the curtains billowing, but the breeze isn’t enough to dispel the heat. A young Amish woman stands at the counter next to the sink, rolling dough with a wooden pin, her hands covered with flour. She’s a scant five feet tall with a pretty face, a porcelain complexion, and full lips the color of a peach. She’s wearing a wine-colored dress with an apron. Intent on the dough in front of her. Perspiration beaded on her cheeks. I can tell by the amount of flour on the counter that she’s a messy baker.