A Dark Path #4
“I got the bedroom,” I say as I stride to the hall. I hear Enos behind me, and I motion him left to the restroom. I enter the bedroom, turn on the light, looking for any sign of Lovina: a dustrag or broom or vacuum cleaner.
I’ve just opened the closet door when I hear Enos gasp. “Chief Burkholder!”
I rush from the bedroom, find him standing in the bathroom, his face ashen. “What is it?” I ask.
Even as I ask the question, I spot the blood. It’s stark and looks out of place on the white porcelain. Several drops mar the front of the vanity. More on the floor.
“Mein Gott.” My God. “She’s hurt.” He chokes out a sound of distress. “I didn’t notice this earlier when I was here.”
“Maybe she cut herself or slipped in the snow and cut her knee,” I offer.
I can tell by the man’s expression that neither of us believes it.
“What happened?”
I glance toward the hall to see Tomasetti come around the corner.
“There’s blood.” I motion toward the bathroom.
His expression darkens when he spots it. He looks at Enos. “Does your wife have a cell phone?”
“We have a landline at the house,” he replies. “In the office. For business, you know.”
Tomasetti passes his cell phone to him. “Call the number to see if she’s there.”
While Enos makes the call, I kneel at the vanity. There’s a smear of blood on the knob. A spot the size of a quarter soaked into the rug. No one says it, but it seems like too much blood for some benign injury, especially now that she’s missing.
“Nothing out of place in the bedroom.” I look at Tomasetti. “Kitchen?”
“Spick-and-span,” Tomasetti says.
“She’s not at the house.” Enos hands the cell phone back to Tomasetti, his eyes sliding from Tomasetti to me. “Even if she’d cut herself, she would have wiped up the blood before leaving. The woman’s a stickler for cleaning. Something’s wrong.”
Tomasetti contemplates the Amish man. “Mr. Nisley, have you had any security problems at any of the cabins? Burglaries? Intruders? Anything like that?”
“Nothing of the sort.” Enos shakes his head. “This area is quiet. No break-ins. No theft. No…” The Amish man’s brows knit, his expression growing troubled. “There have been some … unusual occurrences in the last three or four months.”
“Like what?” Tomasetti asks.
“A month ago, we had a bad roof leak at the Bluebird Cabin. The one you’re staying in.
I called my cousin down in Geauga County.
He’s a roofer and came up with his crew.
He looked at the roof and said there was a two-inch hole drilled right through.
The decking. The underlayment. And the steel panel.
He didn’t know what to make of it. His foreman said it was as if someone had used a hole saw on it. ”
I’m aware of Tomasetti staring hard at the older man, trying to make sense of the information and figure out how it might relate to his missing wife.
“Are you saying the roofer thought someone had vandalized the roof?” he asks.
“That’s what he said.”
“Any idea who might’ve done something like that?”
“I can’t imagine,” Enos says.
“Have you or your wife had any disagreements or disputes with your neighbors?” I ask. “Anything like that?”
“No,” he replies. “We enjoy what few neighbors we have left. They’re English, but we get along with them just fine.”
“You said there were several odd incidents,” Tomasetti says.
Enos nods. “Two weeks ago, a strange noise woke us up in the middle of the night. I looked around, but I didn’t find anything out of place and we went back to sleep.” He tightens his mouth. “A few days later, Lovina was cleaning the windows and found two bullet holes in the glass.”
“Did you report it to the sheriff’s office?” I ask.
“Well, no.” He shrugs. “It was hunting season at the time. I figured it was a ricochet or stray shot.”
“Anything else?” Tomasetti asks.
He starts to shake his head, but thinks better of it. “About three weeks ago, Lovina was walking to the Bobwhite Cabin. She came back all shook up. Said there was a man on the trail. A stranger.”
Tomasetti narrows his eyes. “Someone hiking?” he asks. “Is that unusual?”
“No one hikes those trails,” Enos tells him. “This is private property. We have signs, you know. Our closest neighbors are three miles away.”
“Did Lovina get a look at the man?” I ask.
“That’s the thing,” Enos says. “She claimed the man was wearing a ski mask.” He grimaces. “It was sixty degrees that day. I didn’t know what to think. I mean, with the Alzheimer’s…” He squeezes his eyes closed, anguish infusing his features. “What if she was right?”
Reaching out, I give his forearm a reassuring squeeze.
“Mr. Nisley,” Tomasetti begins, “what about contractors or workers? Have you had any disagreements? Any unhappy customers? Or disputes over money?”
Enos shakes his head. “We’ve never heard an unkind word from anyone, especially not our customers.” The old man’s brows furrow. “Only other thing I can think of is the fire.”
“Didn’t the fire marshal say it was caused by a burner being left on?” I ask.
“Yes, but Lovina says she checked and it wasn’t left on.”
Tomasetti scowls at him. “What do you think?”
The Amish man shrugs. “She may be forgetful sometimes, but most days she’s sharper than me.”
Something I can’t quite put my finger on dances in the back of my mind, just out of reach. Something he mentioned earlier that may or may not be relevant.
Developers buying up the land.
Paying a pretty penny for it.
We’re the last holdouts.
… developers are hungry for land.
“Mr. Nisley,” I say slowly. “You and your wife mentioned a developer earlier.”
The Amish man’s gaze locks with mine and in that instant, I see a flicker of comprehension in his eyes. “Louis Devlin,” he says. “He’s been buying up a lot of the Amish land around here for the last six or seven years.”
“Have you had any problems with Devlin?” Tomasetti asks. “Any arguments? High-pressure tactics? Anything like that?”
Enos shakes his head. “Not outright. But he did try to put some pressure on us. And there was something about him that just didn’t sit right.”
“How so?” I ask.
Glancing toward the window, where the storm continues to rage, Enos sighs.
“Devlin paid us a visit a few months ago. He made a serious offer. A generous offer. Cash. Said he was going to put up forty tiny homes and a fancy hotel for the tourists. The missus and I told him no. We’ve no use for his money.
We plan to live out our retirement here.
We plan to die here and be buried in the old Amish cemetery off of Lake Road. ”
“How did Devlin take it?” I ask.
“Didn’t like it much.” The Amish man huffs. “The man was a pushy sort. Rude, too.”
“Did he get angry?” I ask.
“Not exactly. But he made an odd comment before leaving. Said life could get difficult when people get too old to take care of their land. I didn’t think too much of it at the time.” Looking miserable, he shakes his head. “Maybe I should have.”
“Did he ever threaten you or your wife?” I ask.
“No.”
“What about your Amish neighbors?” I ask. “Before they sold their land. Did any of them have any problems with Devlin?”
The old man considers. “Now that you’re asking, I recall the widow who owned the gift shop down to the cove had a thing or two to say about Mr. Devlin. Called him greedich.” Greedy. “Said he was kfeahlich.” Dangerous. “I didn’t pay her any heed…”
The old man’s voice trails off. He raises his gaze to mine, his mouth open and trembling. “Her shop burned to the ground a month later. No one suspected any kind of mischief. Maybe we should have listened to her.”
“Was there an investigation?” I ask.
“Fire marshal said smoking was the cause. The widow didn’t smoke, of course. But every now and again, her young nephew would sneak a cigarette out back.” Enos shrugs. “Three months later, she sold her land to Devlin and moved to Lancaster County.”
Tomasetti reaches for his cell. “I’m going to put out some feelers on Devlin.”
While he makes the call, Enos and I walk through the cabin, looking for clues. We’re more thorough this time. The only thing that’s out of place is a bottle of cooking oil on the counter.
We’re in the kitchen when Tomasetti comes in, his face grim.
“Devlin’s legit. Based in Pittsburgh.” He looks from Enos to me.
“That said, there have been a couple of lawsuits. Accusations of the company using high-pressure tactics. Intimidation.” He looks at me.
“Unsubstantiated reports that some of his ‘associates’ aren’t quite so squeaky clean. ”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Enos says.
“Who are these ‘associates’ you’re talking about?” I ask.
“Contractors. Casual labor.” Tomasetti shrugs. “Hired hands.”
Thugs.
Neither of us says the word. Not with an extremely worried husband standing next to us. But we’re both thinking it.
“We need to find Mrs. Nisley,” Tomasetti says.
The cabin shudders with a gust of wind. Enos startles, glances toward the door.
“Is there another cabin she might’ve gone to?” Tomasetti tugs the brochure from his pocket. “Maybe to take shelter from the storm?”
“The closest cabin to this one is the Bobwhite.” Enos indicates the location with his finger.
“How far?” I ask.
“Half a mile west.”
As we start toward the door, Tomasetti makes eye contact with me. “Eyes open. Watch for tracks. Vehicles.” He opens the door. “Let’s bring her home.”
A wind gust wallops me like a cold fist when I step onto the porch. Ahead, the men descend the steps side by side, moving fast. I see Enos motion toward the rear of the cabin. “Deahravayk,” he calls out. This way.
I start to follow, but something in the snow snags my attention. I go to it, set my beam on the disturbance. Trepidation quivers in my gut at the sight of the prints—and blood.
“Tomasetti!”
He jogs over to me, his flashlight beam joining mine. “Shit,” he mutters.
“Those are not the tracks of an Amish woman,” I tell him.
He kneels, studying the prints. “Waffle sole. Boot, maybe. Men’s size ten or eleven.”
Enos joins us, his eyes widening at the sight of the print and blood. “Deahra is so shlecht.” This is so bad.