A Dark Path #7
Her eyes hit the ground. Her shoulders slump.
“My grandparents had no part in this. It was my doing. My fault. All of it.” She presses her hand over her mouth as if to keep herself from sobbing, then continues.
“I thought he’d listen to me, Chief Burkholder, but my trying to stop him just made everything worse. ”
Next to me, Esther sidles over to her granddaughter and loops her arm around the girl’s. “Everything’s okay now.”
“You did a very brave thing.” Herman steps forward and sets his hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder. “Tyler wasn’t listening to anyone but the devil.”
Pulling out my notebook, I make a few notations. “Did he threaten you with the pistol? Fire it at you?”
“Fired it into the air,” Petersheim replies. “Twice.” The man shakes his head. “Narrisch, I tell you.” Crazy.
Christina wipes her eyes with her fingertips. “What will happen to him, Chief Burkholder?”
“He’ll be booked into the Holmes County jail,” I tell her. “He’ll be arraigned in the morning. Formal charges will be filed. He won’t be going home for a while.”
The girl looks down at the ground.
I turn my attention to the couple. “I don’t know what will happen with bail, but I think it would be wise for all of you to get a protective order. I can help you with that if you’d like.”
I’m relieved when neither of them tells me this is an Amish matter.
“All things considered,” I say, “I think everything worked out just fine.”
Tomasetti joins us, the dog at his side. He extends his hand to each of the Amish people for a shake. “The three of you look pretty healthy for having gone over the side of a cliff.”
Herman grins. “God was looking out for us today. Like always.”
A cold nose nuzzles my hand. I look down to see the yellow Lab grinning up at me, tongue lolling, and I find myself smiling back. I look at Herman. “Your dog must love you very much. He helped me find you. That’s not to mention his help with O’Connor.”
The three Amish people exchange confused looks. “He’s not ours, Chief Burkholder,” Christina says.
“Never seen him before,” Esther adds. “Looks pretty well fed, though.”
“Handsome, but fleshy.” Herman reaches down to scratch behind the animal’s floppy ear. “Smart, too.”
I’d assumed the dog belonged to them. “Does he belong to a neighbor?” I ask.
“Don’t think so.” The Amish man shrugs. “Fellow to the south has border collies and sheep.”
“Englischer to the north has a herd of those little yappy things,” Esther adds.
“He doesn’t have a collar.” I run my hands over the animal’s head, give him a quick scratch under the chin.
Tomasetti stares appreciatively at the dog. “At this point, I say we take him home. Treat him to a nice bath and dinner. Have the vet scan him for a chip in the morning.”
“Surely, such a good dog belongs to someone,” Herman says.
Christina kneels next to the Labrador and hugs him. “Thank you for all of your help, good boy!”
I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me. “One thing’s clear,” he says. “He’s certainly taken a liking to the chief of police.”
Herman chuckles. “I think the chief has taken a liking to him, too!”
I say nothing, but it’s true. I’ve had a profound love for animals since I was a kid. I was the one who brought home strays. When I was nine years old, I got into trouble for setting out food and water for the mice in the mudroom of our farmhouse, a practice that was quickly nixed by my parents.
The flash of red and blue lights draws my attention and I see the ambulance come over the rise. Behind it, a tow truck from the wrecker service out of Painters Mill.
I turn my attention to Esther. “What do you say we get that cut on your knee checked out by the paramedic and then Tomasetti and I will drive the three of you home?”
She starts to protest, but Herman silences her by sliding his hand into hers. “That’s the best idea we’ve heard all day, Chief Burkholder. Danki.”
It takes three hours to transfer the custody of Tyler O’Connor to the Holmes County sheriff’s deputy, haul the Explorer from the ditch, and get the Petersheims and their horse back to their farm. By the time Tomasetti and I arrive home to our farm in Wooster, it’s midnight.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of Carménère in front of me, listening to the patter of rain against the window.
Tomasetti stands at the stove, ladling soup into bowls.
The yellow Labrador is lying on the floor between us, keeping a hopeful eye on the soup, completely at home in his new surroundings.
“Apparently, the cat is offended that we had the nerve to bring a dog into his domain.” Tomasetti places a bowl in front of me.
“Can’t blame him,” I say. “The first thing said dog did when he walked in the door was eat all the cat’s food.”
“So much for making a good first impression.” He takes the chair across from me.
“I talked to the prosecutor while you were in the shower,” he says.
“O’Connor has been booked into the Holmes County jail in Millersburg.
He’ll be arraigned first thing in the morning and charged with menacing, brandishing a firearm, and assault.
Prosecutor is looking at stalking, too.”
“Serious charges.”
“He’ll likely do some time.”
I find myself thinking about Christina Petersheim—and the mistakes young people sometimes make. “Might be a lesson in there for both of them.”
“He’s still young enough to get his life back on track if he’s so inclined.”
I nod. “That brings us to our next matter at hand.”
“The missing cat food?” he asks, deadpan.
I smile. “The dog watching us eat.”
We turn our attention to the animal in question.
He’s sprawled on the floor, soft eyes studying our every move.
Upon our arrival home, I toweled him off.
He’s older than I initially assumed, likely eight or nine years old.
He’s intelligent and calm and very sweet tempered.
I can’t help but wonder why someone isn’t frantically looking for him.
“I’ll take him to the vet in the morning and check for that chip,” I say.
“Probably a good idea.”
“Surely someone’s looking for him.”
“What’s not to love about a fat, yellow dog with a mauve-colored nose and a penchant for helping the police with disorderly suspects and finding missing families?”
I take a bite of the soup. It’s hot and delicious, but my mind isn’t on the food. There’s something at play here. Feeling Tomasetti’s eyes on me, I look at him over my spoon. “Something on your mind?” I ask.
“Probably the same thing on your mind,” he says easily.
I set down my spoon, clear my throat. “We work too much to have a dog.”
“In all fairness, that’s what you said about the cat. And the goats. And the chickens—who keep us in free-range eggs, by the way. We manage to keep all of them happy and healthy.”
“And if he has a chip?”
“Then we do the right thing and return him to his rightful owner,” he says. “That is, as long as said owner is taking good care of him.”
I nod. “And the cat?”
“He’ll adapt.” He shrugs. “They’ll work it out.”
I take another bite of soup and look down at the dog, find those soft brown eyes already on me, and something warm trembles in the general vicinity of my heart. “You know we’re being manipulated here, right?”
Tomasetti looks down at the dog. “He certainly knows how to use those eyes to his advantage.”
“Do you have a name in mind?” I scoot away from the table and bend to the dog, give him a scratch behind his ears. “I mean, on the outside chance we need to name him?”
“We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, but…” He shrugs. “He was certainly instrumental in helping us with this case.”
I think about that a moment. “Sherlock seems appropriate.”
Tomasetti grins. “I don’t know about you, Chief, but I’m sort of hoping we don’t find a chip tomorrow.”
Rising, I go to him. He’s already gotten to his feet and looks at me expectantly. “You’re caving,” he says.
“You think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”
“I do.”
I put my arms around his shoulders. “There’s just one small problem.”
“What’s that?”
“We don’t have a dog bed,” I say. “I mean, for tonight.”
He glances down at the dog, who’s come over to sit on his foot. “We’ll think of something.”