Grabbing my keys, I rise. “Damn, you’re getting good at this cop stuff, Tomasetti.”
“I was just trying to impress you.”
“It’s working.”
CHAPTER 18
The Willowdell Motel is located on Highway 83 a few miles out of town. During the summer months, the place caters to tourists visiting Amish Country. During deer season, the motel caters to the dozens of hunters that flock to the area to bag that purported eight-point buck. The motel’s one-size-suits-all decor doesn’t differentiate between the two groups of clientele.
Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into the gravel lot and we begin looking for Aaron Plank’s Camry. “He might have gone back last night.”
“He’s still got the house to deal with,” I point out. “He’ll either need to hire a professional cleaner or do it himself. With so much blood, I’m betting he hires it out. At some point, he’ll need to get the place appraised. If he wants to sell it, anyway.”
“How much is a farm like that worth?”
“A hundred and sixty acres. Farmhouse. Barn. Outbuildings. It’s a valuable piece of land. Traditionally, in an Amish family the eldest male child will inherit the farm when the parents pass.”
“It’s a stretch, but maybe he felt entitled. Kill the people who pissed you off and get a farm worth several hundred thousand dollars in the process. Maybe he decided to speed things up.”
I shake my head. “I don’t like Aaron Plank for this. James Payne, yes. But not Aaron.”
“People have done worse for less.” But I can tell by his lack of enthusiasm he’s not buying it either.
We’re midway through the lot; no sign of the Camry. “He’s not here,” I say.
Tomasetti stops outside the motel office. “Let’s see if he checked out.”
The heavy-set woman behind the counter tells us Plank checked out a couple of hours ago.
“He didn’t happen to say where he was going, did he?” I ask.
“Sure didn’t. But I can tell you he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath when he signed his receipt.”
Back in the Tahoe, I’m feeling frustrated and tense. “Kind of early in the day for a nightcap.”
“Especially if he’s driving back to Philly.” Tomasetti shrugs. “When in doubt, turn to alcohol.”
I frown at him, then a thought strikes me. “Maybe he’s at the farm.”
“Tough place to stay if it hasn’t been cleaned up.”
“Maybe he decided to do it himself.”
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tomasetti hangs a U-turn. “Worth a shot.”
Five minutes later we park next to the Plank buggy—right behind Aaron’s Camry.
“Good hunch, Chief,” Tomasetti says.
I glance toward the farmhouse. I see the kitchen curtains blowing outward, snapping in the stiff breeze. A nifty little gas generator sputters outside the window, the cord snaking inside. “Looks like he’s airing the place out.”
“Or cleaning up.”
“Let’s go find out.”
We disembark and head toward the door. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of the birds singing all around. The crisp leaves rattling in the wind. A dozen or so cows hanging out in the paddock near the barn. Everything seems so benign. Except for the fact that a family of seven was wiped out in this very place just three days ago.
I ascend the steps and knock. Music floats through the open window. Classical guitar with a dash of Madrid. Several minutes pass. I’m in the process of raising my hand to knock again when the lock rattles.
Aaron Plank opens the door several inches and peers out at me. Even through that small space, my cop’s eyes take in details. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks inordinately out of place in the big Amish kitchen wearing a paisley silk robe. His hair is mussed. His cheeks are flushed. His feet are bare.
“Can I help you?” No smile. No warmth. His voice tells me we’ve interrupted something he didn’t want interrupted. The cop in me wants to know what that is.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.
Plank’s eyes go from me to Tomasetti, who is standing slightly behind me. He makes no move to open the door. “This is kind of a bad time.”
“I understand,” I say. “But we only need a few minutes.”
His gaze flicks sideways. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“So are we,” Tomasetti cuts in. “A murder case. Now open the door and talk to us.”
Aaron’s mouth tightens into a thin, hard line. The door swings open as if by its own accord. Stepping back, he tugs at the belt of his robe. “I would have come down to the station.”
“I’m afraid this won’t wait.” I step into the kitchen. The aromas of candle wax and coffee mingles with the fresh air gusting through the window. I see a high-tech coffeemaker on the counter. Dishes draining in the sink. A bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses sit on the counter. That’s when I realize Aaron isn’t alone, and I get a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. The kind you get when you know someone is watching and you don’t know who or why. There were no other cars in the driveway, but I know he’s got company.
“Who’s here with you?”
Leave it to Tomasetti to cut to the chase. Listening, I cross to the living room. A dozen candles sit on the table, their tiny flames flickering in the breeze. Classical guitar streams from a cool little sound system on the floor.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Both Tomasetti and I look up to see a dark-haired young man trotting down the stairs. He’s got eyes the color of whiskey and just enough scruff of a beard to look en vogue. I know even before he introduces himself that the man is Aaron Plank’s lover.
“I’m Rob Lane.” Crossing to us, he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”
Tomasetti shakes the man’s hand and introduces himself.
I step forward and do the same. “We spoke on the phone,” I say.
“Of course.” Rob’s expression turns appropriately sober. “I couldn’t believe it when Aaron told me what happened to his family, especially with their being Amish and in a town this size.”
“You didn’t mention you would be traveling to Painters Mill,” I say.
“I hadn’t planned to at the time.” He grimaces. “But Aaron’s been understandably upset. He asked me to fly out for the weekend.”
I spot Aaron in the kitchen, pouring red wine into two glasses and start toward him. “Is there some place we can talk?” I ask him. “Alone?”
Frowning at me, he brushes past and hands Rob one of the glasses. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Rob.”
I nod, wondering about the attitude change. Last time I talked to him, he was cooperative and forthright. Now, he’s petulant. Why the turnaround? Is the grief over losing his family settling in? Did I come down on him too hard the last time we spoke? Or is there another reason for his abrupt turnaround?
“Why didn’t you tell us you attacked your father with a pitchfork when you were seventeen?” I ask.
Aaron takes a swig of wine. “It’s not the kind of thing you want to reveal to the cops when they’re investigating the murders of your estranged family.”
“Surely you knew we’d find out sooner or later.”
He shrugs.
Tomasetti steps closer, crowding Aaron. “It’s called lying by omission. In case you missed that episode of
“I don’t have anything to hide,” Aaron says.
“You attacked your father and put him in the hospital,” I say. “You didn’t tell us. Now he’s dead. It could
