Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (28 page)

“Where was Paul?”

He was at his parents’ house up in Fredericktown. His
mamm
had just had a stroke.”

I nod, recalling that Paul’s mother recently passed. “What were you doing outside that time of night?”

“It wasn’t that late. Still light, in fact. I saw Wayne coming down the lane in his buggy.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information, Katie, but I know exactly what time it was. I’d just put the children to bed.” Mattie cocks her head. “You’ve been talking to that Schlabach girl, haven’t you?”

“I’m not going to get into that with you.”

“I don’t want to speak ill of a child, especially a troubled child. But Sarah is known for telling tall tales.”

I say nothing.

“Sarah Schlabach makes up stories, just like her
mamm
used to. You remember how Martha was. She never liked me.” She looks down, presses her hand against her abdomen. “Sarah may have a sweet little face, but she’s a troubled child, Katie. In fact, she was mean to Norah once. They were playing and my sweet little girl came in with a black eye.”

That wasn’t my impression of the Schlabach girl, not even close, but I keep the thought to myself. The time discrepancy bothers me, but I can get to the bottom of that later. For now, I need to know about Wayne Kuhns.

“You need to tell me about Kuhns, Mattie. And I mean all of it. Right now.”

She looks down at her hands. “Let’s sit.” But I know she doesn’t want to risk the woman downstairs overhearing us.

I nod, and she takes me into her bedroom. Closing the door behind us, she motions toward a rocking chair at the window. She sits on the edge of the bed and puts her hands in her lap. “He started coming over about eight months ago.” She says the words so quietly I have to lean forward to hear. “At first it was innocent. The kind of thing a neighbor does. He would drop by on his way to the market and ask if we needed anything. Sometimes he would bring squash or eggs or bread. Once he helped Paul dig some postholes.”

She stops speaking and takes a moment to gather herself. “After a while, I knew it wasn’t innocent.” Shame seems to emanate from her pores, like greasy, nervous sweat. “I could tell by the way he looked at me. Nothing I could put my finger on. But his eyes were too bold. I knew it wasn’t right. I knew he wasn’t coming over to just to be a good neighbor.”

“He was coming to see you.”

“I think he was lonely and sad. I think he was having problems in his life. His faith.”

I stare at her, wondering how she could be so naïve. “Did you tell Paul?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to upset him or turn it into some big issue. I know it may not make sense to you, Katie, but you’re not Amish anymore. You’re not married.” She struggles to find the right words. “I felt … ashamed. I mean, I know it wasn’t my fault; I hadn’t done anything wrong. But still … I know this sounds dense, but I didn’t want to get Wayne into trouble. His wife had just found out she was expecting. I thought it was a passing thing.”

I stare at her, sensing I’m not getting the full story. She’s leaving something out, so I push. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She picks at a hangnail that’s already picked down to the quick. “You know how the Amish are. Sometimes they talk.”

“You mean about you?”

“About the way I look. Some of the women … they don’t like me. Sometimes they’re all too willing to lay blame where there is none.”

“So you didn’t mention it to Paul or anyone else because you thought the women would gossip about you? Blame you?”

“Come on, Katie. You know how they are. Look at how they treated you.” Grimacing as if the memory of my leaving still pains her, she lowers her head, rubs at her forehead with her fingertips. “The women would think I’d somehow tempted him. That it was my fault.”

“Tell me the rest of it.”

“Things got bad when Wayne started coming over when Paul wasn’t home. That was when I knew the problem wasn’t going to go away on its own.”

“Did he ever touch you inappropriately, Mattie? Did he ever try to do something you didn’t want him to do?”

Before she looks away, I see misery and shame in the depths of her eyes and, despite everything, I’m moved. I want to put my arms around her and tell her everything’s going to be all right. That she didn’t do anything wrong. But I don’t.

“He tried to, you know, kiss me. Once. He’d brought eggs and we were in the kitchen. He just sort of tried to put his mouth on mine. You know, all awkward-like, and I pushed him away.”

“Did he get the message?”

She averts her eyes again. “That last night, the night Sarah told you about, I threatened to go to his wife and tell her what he was doing. He stopped coming after that.”

“You never told Paul?”

“No.” Fresh tears pour from her eyes, but she makes no move to wipe them away. “Now I feel as if I betrayed him. As if I’ve done something wrong. I know I didn’t, but he’s gone and I’ll never have the chance to make it right.”

I look away. Even though the door is closed, I can hear the clanging of pots and pans being washed and dried in the kitchen. “How did Kuhns take it when you threatened to go to his wife?”

“He was angry. I mean, at first. But he is Amish, Katie. Aside from his weakness for the women, he’s a good man. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He loves his wife. In the end, he agreed to stay away.”

“Did he ever lose his temper or threaten you in any way?”

“Oh, no, Katie. He knew it was the devil’s thoughts running through his mind. He fought them and in the end he won.”

“Is he a jealous man? Did he ever show any anger toward you or Paul?”

“Never.”

“When’s the last time you had contact with Kuhns?”

“That night on the road six months ago. I’ve prayed for him every day since.”

“Has he tried to contact you?”

“No.”

“Did he ever stalk you?”

“No,” she says.

“Have you seen him at all? Or run into him anywhere? Even by accident?”

“I see him at worship on occasion. He never even looks my way.”

“What about in town? Or when you’re out running errands?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him hanging around the farm?”

“Never.”

I stare hard at her. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about Kuhns? Is there anything you left out?”

“He didn’t do this thing, Katie. He would never hurt Paul or the children. He is a husband and soon to be a father. More importantly, he is Amish. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Of that, I’m certain.”

As I rise and make my way to the door, all I can think is that she has a hell of a lot more faith in human nature than I do.

*   *   *

When you’re Amish—even formerly Amish, like me—some things are so ingrained you can’t escape them. Harsh judgment is one of them. I haven’t been Amish for almost eighteen years—more than half of my life—but as I turn onto the highway I feel all of those tattered morals rising to the surface. I don’t consider myself a religious woman. I don’t attend church or pray before meals. But I do believe in fidelity.

I’m well aware that the Amish are held to higher moral standards than their English counterparts. Because of their strict belief system, they have farther to fall from that perch of righteousness. It’s hypocritical of me to stand in judgment of another soul. My own résumé isn’t exactly squeaky clean, and you sure don’t have to dig too deep to find dirt. I’m a sinner just like everyone else. Perhaps more so because of the nature of my crimes. But old habits die hard.

I find myself chomping at the bit to speak with Wayne Kuhns. Finally, I have a possible motive. It wouldn’t be the first time a stalker had acted on some dark impulse. One of the first objectives of the stalker is to isolate his victim. Eliminate their support system in the hope they will turn to him. In Mattie’s case, he would have also eliminated his competition: her husband.

I call Lois on my way to the station and ask her to run Wayne Kuhns through LEADS. I’m not surprised when he comes back clean. But even seemingly decent, God-loving people can have a hidden dark side, especially when it comes to lust.

Normally, when dealing with the Amish, I prefer to do it alone, for the simple reason that they’re more apt to speak openly to me, if only because of my background. But because of my past friendship with Mattie, I want an objective opinion, so I swing by the station and pick up Glock. I give him the details of my conversation with Mattie on the way to Kuhns’s house.

“You think Kuhns was stalking her?” he asks.

“I thought we might ask him.”

“Damn.” He whistles. “The kids. That’s cold blooded.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time some obsessive narcissist took out his competition.”

“Takes a sick son of a bitch to do something like that.” He motions right. “There’s the street.”

I make a hard right and park at the curb in front of a nondescript frame house with white siding and small concrete porch in the front. From where I’m sitting, I see a one-car detached garage off the alley. The overhead door stands open and yellow lantern light spills into the backyard.

Most Amish in the area live on farms. But with a limited amount of land, and the cost of owning it increasing, some have adapted their lifestyle to keep up with the times. Glock and I take the sidewalk to the front porch. The sound of hammering draws my attention and I realize someone is in the garage off the alley. Instead of going to the front door, we take the sidewalk around the side of the house toward the rear. An old chain-link fence stops us, but there’s no dog in sight, so I open the gate and we continue toward the garage.

I’m a few yards from the door when the sound of sawing reaches me. Through the window, I see Kuhns hunched over whatever project he’s working on. The smells of sawdust and kerosene greet me when I enter. The shop is organized and well lit. A lantern burns from atop the workbench behind him. A second lantern hangs from an exposed beam overhead. Kuhns glances up from his sawing, but takes the time to finish his cut. He’s wearing typical Amish garb: gray trousers with suspenders, a blue work shirt, and a straw hat. I guess him to be in his midthirties. Physically fit. Attractive.

He doesn’t look surprised to see us as he straightens and sets the saw on the workbench. He’s building a doghouse, I realize. A nice one with stained trim, faux shutters, and a roof that opens for easy cleaning. Indoor/outdoor carpet lines the interior.

“Looks like that’s going to be a nice doghouse,” I begin.

He glances at his creation and I see a quick flash of pride in his eyes. “It’s a custom order for one of Mrs. Steinkruger’s customers.”

“Are you Wayne Kuhns?” I ask.

“Yes.” His eyes sweep to Glock and back to me. “What’s this about?”

I show him my badge and identify myself, then we shake hands. Glock hangs back, unobtrusive, but I know he’s watching the other man closely.

“I’m working on the Borntrager case,” I tell him. “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

He physically recoils when I mention the Borntragers, and I know instantly that while Wayne Kuhns is either a wannabe adulterer or a stalker, he’s not proud of it, and he’s not very good at hiding his emotions.

“Did you know Paul?” I ask.

He nods. “I met him several times. At worship. The horse auction. Helped him a few times at the farm.”

“What about Mattie?”

He looks down at the floor. I give him a moment, but he doesn’t answer. I’m aware of Glock moving around, looking at the workbench, peering into the trash container.

“Mr. Kuhns?” I say.

“I know Mattie.”

“How do you know her?”

No reply. I don’t know if he doesn’t want to answer or if he’s so upset he can’t.

“How do you know Mattie, Mr. Kuhns?”

“I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Six months or so.”

“What was the nature of your relationship?”

His gaze flicks toward the door and I wonder if his wife is inside. I wonder if she knows he’d recently had his sights set on another woman. His silence is telling.

“I know you approached her about a relationship,” I tell him.

He winces as if I slashed him with a blade. “I wasn’t … I mean I didn’t … we didn’t…” He lets the words trail as if he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. “I figured that’s why you’re here.” He doesn’t meet my gaze.

“Were you stalking her?”

“Is that what she told you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would just answer the question.”

“No. I would never do such a thing.”

I glance over at Glock to see him shake his head. “Do you own a vehicle, Mr. Kuhns?”

“I don’t drive. I have no use for a vehicle. If I need to travel, I hire the Mennonite down the street.”

“Where were you three nights ago?”

His eyes widen as if he’s suddenly realized why we’re here. “I was here. Working.”

“Can anyone substantiate that?”

“My wife.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

I stare hard at him. “Tell me about your relationship with Mattie.”

“That is in the past, Chief Burkholder. I do not wish to speak of it.”

“Mr. Kuhns, this is a police investigation. You don’t have a choice.”

A flash of anger crosses his features. “Who are you to ask me such a thing?” he snaps. “Who are you to judge me?”

He’s referring to my being ex-Amish, but I let the condemnation behind his words roll off me. “I’m the chief of police, and I’m conducting a murder investigation.” I step toward him, put my finger in his face. “If I were you, I’d answer the question. If you don’t, I’ll get a warrant and we’ll finish this at the police station. Do you understand?”

His face goes crimson. Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. I can’t tell if it’s temper or humiliation, but if a man can look like a volcano about to blow, Wayne Kuhns is Mount Pinatubo. “She and I…” he stammers. “We were … friends.”

“Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”

A flush of embarrassment deepens his color. His eyes skate away from mine. “No.”

“Did you
want
a sexual relationship with her?”