Dorothy heaves a sigh. “Heart attack finally got him. He was plowing the field and collapsed. He fell and … the plowshares tore him up something awful. Jonas found him.” She shakes her head, takes another sip of coffee as if in an attempt to wash away the terrible image. “Jonas was crushed. We’d lost two babies that year and not once did I see him cry. He’s stoic, you know. Keeps it all tucked away the way men do.” She looks away, blinking, remembering. “Jonas cried that day. And in the days that followed, he grew angry.”
I’m familiar with grief and all of its gnarly repercussions. I’ve been handed my share by a Fate who’s rarely fair about how she doles it out. I’ve watched Tomasetti suffer with losses that hollowed him to the core. I’m no stranger to the anger stage.
“Jonas blamed the bishop,” I say.
“Right or wrong, he did.” She shrugs. “Ezra and Ananias had been at each other’s throats for a year. Ezra, the stubborn fool, had been put under the bann. But it was the silencing that did him in, Katie. He couldn’t preach and that destroyed him.”
“Tell me about the argument between Jonas and Bishop Stoltzfus,” I say.
“I’ll never forget it.” Her eyes meet mine. “Church Sunday after the funeral. Jonas was just … raw. He wasn’t himself. Wasn’t eating or sleeping. I figured worship would be good for him, you know. It always is. But when he saw the bishop that day. And his own datt wasn’t there to preach.” She shudders. “I’ve never seen him like that. Jonas went for the bishop and he didn’t stop. They had words. Terrible things were said. They nearly came to blows. Can you imagine? Right in front of everyone.”
“What was the argument about exactly?”
“Jonas blamed Ananias for his datt’s death. Called him cruel. Said the stress of the bann and the silencing killed him.”
“How did Ananias respond?”
“The bishop didn’t help. He said Ezra had fallen to error and sin. He said that God took him because of that tractor.” Dorothy puts her hand over her mouth as if to smother a sob. “I couldn’t believe he would say such a thing. To blame a dead man and point out the error of his ways.”
“Did Jonas threaten him?” I ask.
Her brow creases as if there’s more to be pulled from her memory. “I was so shaken up, Katie. I’ve likely misremembered some of it. One thing I do recall is Jonas telling the bishop that there were a dozen families who supported Ezra’s use of the tractor. Jonas said he was going to rally those families, and that they were going to form a new church district. You can imagine how that went over.”
Dorothy lowers her head, sets her fingers against her forehead, sucks in a deep breath as if to compose herself. “There were so many ugly things said. I could barely take it all in. I don’t want to say it, Katie, but Jonas lost some friends that day. He was too angry. Some of the Amish thought he was just wrong.”
“How long after that argument did the bishop disappear?” I ask.
“Two months to the day.”
“The police spoke to Jonas?” I ask.
“The sheriff’s department picked him up. Talked to him for hours. When they brought him back, Jonas was shook up something awful.”
I think about the case against Jonas in terms of motive and realize that, as a cop, I would have done the same. Pick him up. Question him hard. Apply pressure. Shake him up.
“What about the muzzleloader?” I ask.
She huffs. “That old thing sat in the mudroom gathering dust for years. Jonas likes his meat just fine and that includes venison, but a hunter he isn’t. You know how he is. Got a soft spot for animals.”
I think about that long-ago day when Jonas unleashed the family of skunks on those bullies at the baseball diamond, and something warm flutters in my chest.
“Do you know what happened to the gun?” I ask.
“I must have walked by the thing a hundred times. It sat in the corner for so long I didn’t even notice it anymore. Then it was just … gone.” She shakes her head. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out when it disappeared and who might’ve taken it, but I just don’t know.”
“Could it have been a neighbor or friend who borrowed it?”
“We asked. No one did.”
“Can you show me where you kept it?”
“Sure. We walked right by it on the way in.” She gets to her feet. “Mudroom. Come on.”
I follow her to the narrow porchlike room I passed through upon entering. A row of windows on the outside wall lets in a generous amount of sunlight. A big chest freezer rattles against the opposite wall. There’s a shelf unit littered with canning jars and a few gardening tools. Next to it, hooks set into the wall for hats and jackets.
“Kept that old gun right there in the corner.” Dorothy points. “Propped against the wall.”
“Loaded?”
“I don’t think so. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know.”
“Do you keep your door locked?” I ask. “I mean, at night?”
She smiles tiredly. “No one in Belleville locks their doors.”
I stand there a moment, taking in the proximity of the place where the gun was stored in relation to the door. It wouldn’t take much for someone to slip inside unnoticed and snatch it up.
“Was Bishop Stoltzfus having problems with anyone else in the community?” I ask.
“Well, Ananias was strict. He was tough on anyone who broke the rules.” She purses her lips. “Now that you mention it, there might’ve been a time or two when someone got their back up.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Duane Mullet. That one was trouble from the day he was born. His poor mamm. He talked like a demon with all the cursing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Drank like a fish. The bishop wouldn’t have it and put him under the bann straightaway. Duane was just twenty years old and he sure didn’t take it sitting down. Cussed out the bishop right in front of everyone.”
“Did the police question Mullet?”
“He was a truck driver at the time, and he was up in Alaska when Ananias disappeared.”
I write down the name anyway. “Is he still around?”
“Lives up in the hills last I heard. Still a roughneck from what I hear.”
“Anyone else?”
“Roman Miller comes to mind. That boy was as cute as a speckled pup. He’d been courting a nice Amish girl. Going to the singings and whatnot. Rumor had it, he was messing around with a Mennonite girl up to Lewistown at the same time. I don’t know how the bishop got involved; someone probably saw Roman with the girl and told him. Ananias came down hard.”
“Did Roman come around?”
The Amish woman scoffs. “Got mad is what he did. Roman’s a firebrand. He denied all of it. Refused to confess. Kept on seeing both them girls. Strutting around like a rooster. Believe me, he was no catch. Ananias finally put him under the bann.”
“How did that go over?”
“Didn’t like it one bit. Roman’s a farrier, you see. Lost all his Amish business. From what I hear, it put him into financial ruin.”
“So he was more worried about the financial impact than being ousted from his friends and family,” I say.