A Dark Path #5
Once we’re past the barn, we step over the remains of a rusted wire fence and keep going. The land slopes down with a thicket of trees ahead. I’m starting to think the property is too vast and overgrown for us to find the cemetery when I spot a white picket fence nestled in the stand of trees.
“Looks like a good-size cemetery,” I say.
“Picket fence has been maintained,” Tomasetti comments. “Fresh paint.”
“Grass has been cut, too.”
The area is a far cry from manicured, and while the grass is high, it’s obvious it was mowed at some point over the summer. The surrounding trees have been pruned. The wood planks of the fence have a coat of fresh white paint.
“The Amish seem to take pretty good care of their dead,” Tomasetti says.
“It’s one of the qualities I always admired.”
The fence surrounds about an acre of land.
In the center of the plot, a majestic sycamore tree obtrudes ninety feet into the air, its branches shading three rows of small white headstones.
The markers are faded to gray and covered with lichens and mold.
Not perfectly horizontal, but uniform in size, the rows razor straight.
“The Amish are Plain, even in death,” Tomasetti says quietly.
“Judging by the size of that tree, this cemetery has been here a very long time.” There’s a gate to my right, so I head that way. The hinges squeak as I open it and go through. For a moment, I stand there, taking in the cadence of the land, peaceful and somber. “Eighteen headstones,” I say.
“Kate.”
The edge in Tomasetti’s voice immediately gets my attention. I glance to my left to see him standing next to a section of fence that has been dismantled, the boards on the ground and neatly stacked.
I’m midway to him when I spot the disturbed earth. The trampled grass. The freshly turned dirt. “Oh no.”
“Yep.”
I stop next to the grave and for a moment I’m so shocked I can’t look away. “Hard to believe someone would dig up a grave. Some of them have got to be a hundred years old.”
“The headstone is gone, too.” He points to a place just outside the fence. “There’s been some foot traffic. Tire marks there.”
Sure enough, near the fence, tires have left ruts in the mud. “Judging from those tracks, they’ve been here more than once.”
Straightening, he looks around the cemetery, at the other graves, and curses beneath his breath. “There’s another one.”
The sight of the second grave shocks me anew. The freshly turned earth is mounded and smoothed over. The headstone is gone.
“Why these graves?” I say, thinking aloud. “This cemetery is old and hidden from sight.”
“Culprit could be selling the headstones. They’re old enough to have some historic value.” He shoots me a dark look. “What the hell are they doing with the remains?”
I think of the cult activity the sheriff told us about and suppress a shudder. “That’s incredibly … macabre.”
“Not to mention illegal as hell.”
I move closer to the grave and discern a pattern in the dirt, recognize it. “Odd that they would use a rake to smooth the dirt.”
“Nothing worse than an OCD grave robber.” Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he goes to the nearest marker. “No inscription. Any idea who’s buried here?”
“Gotta be family. Relatives. There’s probably a list of names somewhere.” I join him and kneel, brush at the lichen-covered surface. “Some of the Amish—the Swiss Amish, for example—don’t mark the headstones at all,” I tell him. “Some use numbers. Or initials.”
“How do they know who’s buried where?”
“The bishop keeps a map.”
I’m feeling uneasy when I spot a third mound of disturbed earth. Like the others, the headstone has been removed, the dirt raked and smoothed.
“Back in the old days,” Tomasetti begins, “grave robbers dug up the dead to steal jewelry or gold teeth.”
“Most people know the Amish don’t wear jewelry.”
“The isolation of this place would appeal to someone who didn’t want to be seen.” He looks around, peering into the shadows of the surrounding woods. “Son of a bitch could dig up every grave in sight and no one would be the wiser.”
Thinking about the signs of construction we saw earlier, I walk to the tire marks—and notice a detail that didn’t register before. “Tomasetti, these tracks … I don’t think they’re from a car or truck.”
He crosses to me and kneels, sets his fingertips against the ruts. “Trailer of some type? Wheelbarrow?”
“Or a buggy.”
He looks at me with skepticism. “You’re not saying an Amish person is responsible for digging up these graves.” He waits a beat. “Are you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But those ruts are from a buggy.” I think about that a moment. “Maybe someone came back here, saw the damaged graves, and just didn’t report it.”
His gaze focuses on something a few feet away. “The plot thickens.”
I follow his gaze and spot the paw prints. “This is where the dog got the bones,” I murmur.
“So Honeybear stays on our suspect list.”
“At least as an accomplice after the fact.”
“Hello?” A female voice echoes in the trees. “Who’s there?”
Tomasetti and I turn to see a plump woman walking toward us, her stride as determined as her expression. She’s wearing a rust-colored Bohemian-style dress with a contrasting scarf and brown leather riding boots.
“What’s going on?” Her gaze flicks from me to Tomasetti and back to me, her eyes taking in my uniform. “Someone with the police department called and said there was a problem out here at the property.”
I cross to her and extend my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the police chief of Painters Mill. Are you the property owner?”
“Naomi Zook,” she says as we shake hands
I tell her about the discovery of the bones. “We’re trying to figure out where the bones came from. Someone mentioned there was a cemetery here, so we drove over to take a look.”
“Apparently, someone disinterred three of your residents,” Tomasetti tells her.
“They what?” She looks past me at the upturned piles of earth. Some of the color drains from her cheeks. “That’s so crazy I can’t even wrap my brain around it. How many?”
“Three.” Tomasetti comes up beside us. “Do you have any idea who might’ve done this?” he asks.
“I can’t imagine.” Tearing her eyes away from the cemetery, she looks closely at him. “That graveyard has been here nearly as long as the house. Some of those graves date back to the mid-1800s. It’s one of the most remarkable features of the property.”
“Ms. Zook, has anyone expressed an interest in the cemetery?” I ask. “Or asked about the graves?”
“No.” She presses her hand to her chest as if still trying to absorb the news. “I’m not even sure exactly who’s buried here. None of the stones are marked. I heard there’s a roster that was kept by the Amish bishop of the time, but I’ve yet to find it.”
“Do you live here?” Tomasetti asks.
“The house is vacant,” she tells him. “Been that way for years. My husband and I live in Millersburg, but I drive down almost every day.”
“How long have you owned the property?” I ask.
“I inherited it about a year ago from my grandfather, Solomon Zook, after he passed away.”
“He lived here?”
She shakes her head. “He built another house down the road. This one went to ruin. He farmed the land when he was younger, but it got to be too much for him and he just let it go. Place has been in the family for years, but no one wanted it. Apparently, I’m the last living heir.
” She shakes her head. “It’s sad, but he wasn’t exactly pleased I would be the one to inherit the place. ”
“Do you mind if I ask why?” I ask.
“I left the Amish when I was twenty-five. I’m Mennonite now.” She gives a wistful sigh. “They were none too happy with me.”
“We lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand,” I say gently. If you listen through the wall, you’ll hear others recite your faults.
The woman looks at me a little more closely. “Only an Amish person would know that.”
“I left when I was eighteen.”
“Then you know how it is.” She shakes her head. “I’m an outsider now. Most of the Amish won’t speak to me. But that’s okay. Who needs all that holier-than-thou judgment anyway?”
Tomasetti motions toward the house. “You’re renovating?”
“We’re going to open a bed-and-breakfast.” Naomi squares her shoulders, gives a firm nod, settling back into herself. “The house is historic, you know, and so unique. Tourists are going to love it.”
She motions to the cemetery. “In fact, I’ve got big plans for that graveyard, too, and I sure don’t want some vandal messing things up.”
“What kind of plans?” Tomasetti asks.
“I thought a cemetery tour would be fun. Especially in the fall—you know, for Halloween.” Her eyes light up as she outlines her vision.
“We’ll have haunted wagon rides with pumpkins and ghosts.
Tourists love the Amish and they like their history, too.
And who doesn’t love a spooky old cemetery?
It’ll make for the ultimate B-and-B experience.
” She blows a sigh through tight lips. “Boy, did that get the tongues wagging.”
“You mean Amish tongues?” I ask.
“Well, I’m the first Englischer to own the place.” She emphasizes “Englischer” with air quotes. “The Amish were none too happy with the idea of a B and B. For God’s sake, you’d think I was going to sacrifice kittens on an altar or something.”
My cop’s antennae crank up. “Was there anyone in particular who was upset with you?” I ask.
“Most everyone, I guess. The bishop sent me a letter. Asked me to sell the property to the Amish. At a fair price, too. But I turned it down.”
“Bishop Troyer?” I ask.
She nods. “The one and only.”
“Do you still have the letter?” Tomasetti asks.
She smirks. “I wrote a big fat No at the bottom of it, gave it back to the kid who delivered it with instructions to take it back to the bishop. Evidently, he got the message because I haven’t heard from them since.”
I nod, wondering if that really was the end of it. “Ms. Zook, have you seen anything unusual out here?” I ask. “Any trespassers? Strange vehicles? Or buggies?”