Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (22 page)

“I’d like to see Sadie’s room,” I tell them.

For a moment, they stare at me as if I’m speaking in some language they don’t understand. Then Esther looks at her husband. “We could show her,” she says.

Impatience coils inside me. The Amish are a patriarchal society. The men make the rules and usually have the final say in matters. While most wives have a voice and their opinions are generally respected, they usually submit to their husbands’ wishes.

I direct my attention to Roy. “It’s important,” I tell him. “There might be something there that will help us find her.”

After a moment, he nods. “Show her the room.”

Esther rises and motions toward the hall. “Come this way.”

The steep, narrow stairs creak beneath our feet as I follow her to the second level of the house. Sadie’s room is at the end of the hall. It’s a small space with a twin bed, a night table, and a pine chest with four drawers. A white
kapp
and a black sweater hang from a single dowel on the wall above the bed. A window covered with gauzy curtains peers out over the front yard.

The room is cozy and neat. It might have been the bedroom of any typical Amish girl, but all semblances of plain end with the vast display of needlework. A green-and-white quilt utilizing several types of fabric that alter the texture in interesting ways covers the bed. Contrasting pillows, fabric layered with lace, and even a crocheted coverlet are piled against the headboard. The walls are white, but there’s nothing plain about them, because they’re plastered from floor to ceiling with fabric wall hangings. I see dark purple velvet layered with pink lace; red and purple fabrics sewn together with the avant-garde eye of an artisan—colors that are frowned upon by the Amish. Yet her parents allow her this small expression of individualism.

“Sadie loves to sew.” Esther says the words as if her daughter’s needlework requires justification. “She’s been doing the needlework since she was six years old.”

I can’t stop looking at the yards and yards of fabric, so painstakingly designed and sewn by the hands of a young girl with a passion her parents haven’t been able to eradicate or contain. In the back of my mind, I’m remembering my conversation with Sadie that day on the bridge.
I’m drawn to all the things I shouldn’t be. Music and . . . art. I want to . . . read books and watch movies and see places I’ve never seen. I want to go to college and . . . I’m going to design clothes. I’m
so
good with the needle and thread. . . .

“She’s right,” I whisper.

Esther tilts her head. “What?”

“She’s very talented.”

Esther looks embarrassed as she crosses to the bed and picks up a pink-and-red pillow. “Perhaps we should not have allowed her so much individual expression.”

“Sometimes this kind of passion can’t be quelled.”

She looks unbearably sad, standing there holding the pillow. “We don’t approve of the colors. Sadie takes too much pride in her quilting. She’s willful. She can be disrespectful.” Yet she brings the pillow to her face and breathes in the scent of the daughter she misses so desperately.

The words, the reproach they contain, conjure an Amish proverb my
mamm
told me many times as a girl, especially when she was trying to get a recalcitrant me to do my chores. “Pride in your work puts joy in your day,” I whisper.

Tears spring into Esther’s eyes. She puts the pillow against her face as if to hide her tears and looks at me over the top of it. “She is a special girl with a good heart. A big heart.” She chokes out a laugh. “Perhaps too big.”

“I’ll do my best to find her.”

She sinks to her knees, as if her legs no longer have the strength to support her. Tears run unchecked down her cheeks as she lowers her face into her hands and begins to sob.

I give her shoulder a squeeze and then turn my attention to the room. There’s not much to search; the bedroom of a teenage Amish girl bears little resemblance to those of their English counterparts. I begin with the night table, finding a copy of
Es Nei Teshtament
, a Bible that’s written in both Pennsylvania Dutch and English. In the next drawer, I find a plain hairbrush and comb, a candle, a carved wooden bear.

Finding nothing of interest, I move on to the chest. The top drawer is filled with Walmart cotton bras and panties. There are also old-fashioned bloomers, a winter head covering in need of mending. I move to the next drawer and find several hand-sewn Amish dresses. In the bottom drawer, I find a pair of blue jeans tucked into the back, where no one would notice them unless she was looking.

Standing, I step back and look around, spot the sweater hanging on the dowel set into the wall. I check the pockets but come up empty-handed. I kneel and look beneath the bed, check the insides of the sneakers and leather shoes.

“Come on, Sadie,” I mutter as I cross to the bed.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The name of a boyfriend written in a notebook. A cell phone number or address scribbled on a scrap of paper. A letter with some helpful information. A diary. I lift the mattress and run my hand along the box spring. My fingers brush against paper. I pull out a
Cosmopolitan
magazine and stare down at the busty model in a low-cut red dress on the cover. The smile that emerges feels sad on my face.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

And I tuck the magazine back into its hiding place.

I’m at the police station, standing in the hall outside the conference room with Sheriff Rasmussen. Inside, it’s a full house.

Angi McClanahan and her mother sit together at the table, eyeing us like a couple of pissed-off cats. Matt Butler and his father, Andy, sit one chair away from the McClanahans. Andy looks impatient and put out as he thumbs his BlackBerry. His son, Matt, is hunched over his own device, texting and grinning with equal fervor. On the opposite side of the table, Lori Westfall sits alone, trying to look tough. Despite the too-tight jeans, black eyeliner, and pierced eyebrow, she’s not doing a very good job.

“We need to split them up,” I say to the sheriff. “Talk to each of them separately. We can use my office. Let the rest of them stew in here.”

He nods. “Which one is the friend?”

I indicate Lori Westfall. “I don’t know how close they are, but she was with Sadie that day at the bridge.”

“Any idea where her parents are?” Rasmussen asks. “They should be here for this.”

I shake my head. “When I called her mother and told her I needed to speak with her daughter, she didn’t seem too interested. I think she dropped her off and went back to work.”

“Nice.” He sighs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll tell us the Miller girl is at some tat shop in Wooster, getting her goddamn eyebrow pierced.”

We both know the outcome of this isn’t going to be as cut-and-dried.

When I step inside, the room goes silent and all eyes land on me. Rasmussen hangs back, giving me the floor. “I know everyone is busy, but I appreciate your coming.”

“Like we had a choice,” Angi McClanahan mutters.

Ignoring her, I turn my attention to Matt Butler, who’s so embroiled in texting that the building could be crumbling around him and he wouldn’t notice until a chunk of concrete hit him in the head. “The first thing I’m going to ask you to do,” I say, “is put away the cell phones. That includes you, Matt.”

The boy looks up, blinking, as if he’s been awakened from a dream, then powers down. His father tosses his BlackBerry and it clatters onto the table in front of him, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he’s an important man and doesn’t appreciate being pulled away from his day.

Too bad.

“What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder?” he asks.

“She’s got it out for our kids.” Kathleen McClanahan casts me a spiteful look. “They’re easier to bully than us adults.”

I don’t take the bait. “We have a missing teenager in Painters Mill. Fifteen-year-old Sadie Miller. She’s Amish and disappeared sometime last night.” I watch the reactions of each person as I relay the news, paying particular attention to Lori Westfall and Angi McClanahan.

Andy Butler looks appropriately appalled. “My God, I had no idea.”

Lori Westfall goes stone-still, her eyes looking everywhere except at me. I try to read her body language, her facial expressions, but she’s so stiff and unnatural, I can’t. Does she know something? Or is she as shocked and frightened as the rest of us and simply doesn’t know how to absorb the information?

Kathleen McClanahan doesn’t react. When I look at her daughter, Angi, some of the toughness falls away. Before her eyes skate away from mine, I see a flash of guilt, and I wonder about its source. Does she have a guilty conscience because she fought with Sadie? Or does she have another reason to blame herself? It wouldn’t be the first time bullying took an ominous turn.

I scan the group. “I need to know right now if any of you know where she is.”

“Is it possible she ran away?” Andy asks me.

“Anything is possible at this point,” I tell him.

He looks at the other two teens in the room as if they have the answers, not his son.

I remain silent, waiting, watching.

At the door, Rasmussen remains unobtrusive. But his eyes are watchful and sharp, and I’m glad he’s here to help me gauge reactions.

When no one speaks, I turn my attention to Lori Westfall. “You’re first,” I tell her. “Come with me.”

“Wh—where are you taking me?” she asks in a tremulous voice.

Without replying, I start toward my office.

Once inside, I slide behind my desk and extract a legal pad, pen, and an antiquated tape recorder from the drawer. Lori lowers herself into the visitor chair across from me, nearly jumping out of her skin when Rasmussen closes the door and leans against it.

I turn on the tape recorder and recite the date, time, and the names of all present. Then I turn my attention to the girl. “Why don’t you start by telling me about your relationship with Sadie.”

The girl stares at me as if I’ve come at her with a knife. “She’s my best friend,” she mumbles.

My interest surges. I knew the girls were friends, but I didn’t realize they were
best
friends. That’s unusual, since Sadie is Amish. It’s been a while since I was fifteen, but one thing I know will never change is that best friends tell each other everything.

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“We met at the bridge. Last summer.”

“So you’ve known her for about a year?”

She nods.

“How is it that you became friends, when she’s Amish?”

“Most of the time, Sadie doesn’t
seem
very Amish.” The girl offers a pensive smile that reflects true affection. “She wears jeans and smokes and cusses. Sometimes I forget she’s different.”

“You don’t seem to have much in common with her.” I prod, hoping she’ll relax and elaborate and give me something—anything—useful.

Lori looks down and her hair falls forward, covering the sides of her face, as if she’s trying to hide behind it, and I realize this girl is painfully shy. “We just hit it off,” she tells me. “I mean, we’re both kind of outsiders, you know? Sadie because she’s Amish. Me because I’m not into the whole social clique thing.” She shrugs. “We don’t fit in, but when we’re together, that doesn’t matter.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Yesterday. Six o’clock or so. At the bridge.”

“How did she seem?”

“Same as always.” A ghost of a smile touches her mouth but vanishes quickly. “She was complaining about not having a car. She, like, wants wheels bad.”

“Why does she want a car?”

“She mainly just wants to cruise around.”

“Did she ever talk about leaving Painters Mill?”

“We’re always talking about getting out. But it’s like something we’re going to do in the future, you know? She’s got all these big plans to move to New York and design clothes.”

“Has she mentioned New York recently?”

She shakes her head adamantly. “She wouldn’t go without me.”

“Has she had any problems at home?”

She nods. “Her parents totally don’t get her.”

“Did she have an argument with them?”

“They don’t argue, exactly. But her parents have pretty much laid down the law about Sadie’s art. It’s like they don’t understand that it’s part of her, you know?” She frowns. “They think it’s worldly or something.”

I recall the needlework in Sadie’s bedroom, and I feel a pang in my gut, because I know her art isn’t condoned by her Amish peers. Like so many other things, her art is something she’ll be forced to give up when she’s baptized.

“What about the rest of the Amish community?” I ask. “Any problems she’s mentioned?”

“No.” Lori gives me a knowing look. “But she’s always talking about leaving. She’s tired of the way they live. And she’s struggling with the whole getting baptized thing.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“All the time. She says the Amish are always whispering behind her back, judging her. If she gets baptized, she’ll have to give up everything. Her cell phone. Any dream of owning a car or going to New York. She’ll have to give up her
art.
That sucks, you know?”