“Tells you something about the man, doesn’t it?” she replies.
“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.
“A few months before Ananias went missing.”
The timing makes the back of my neck itch. “Does he still live in the area?”
“Last I heard, he joined a Mennonite church. Married that floozy and had a herd of little ones. Still a farrier, though. Does mostly English horses now. Cowboys and such. Lives on the other side of Belleville.” She rattles off directions.
I write all of it down. “Did the police talk to Roman?”
“I wouldn’t know.” She looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “They seem to have their sights set on Jonas.”
I think about other sources of information. Family or friends of the bishop who might be able to shed some light on his life. “I understand the bishop was a widower.”
“Mrs. Stoltzfus passed away when I was barely a teenager,” she tells me. “I think it was in 1999 or so.”
“Do they have children?”
“Mary Elizabeth lives right here in Belleville. Last name is Hershberger. Henry lives a ways out of town. Only had the two far as I know.”
I jot down the names. “Do you think they’d talk to me?”
“Probably. They’re Amish. Decent folks. Not too fond of Jonas and me, as you can imagine.” Her brows furrow and she drops her gaze to the floor. “Mary Elizabeth had some trouble a while back.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Vandals. She and her husband own an old paper mill at the back of their property, you know. Place has been abandoned for years. They were renovating it with plans to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast for all the English tourists that never seem to come. Anyway, someone set fire to the place. Did a lot of damage.”
“Were the police called?”
She gives me a what-do-you-think look. “The Amish like to handle things on their own when they can.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Mary Elizabeth blamed Jonas. Accused him of holding a grudge.” She makes a sound of distress. “I suspect it was teenagers. English youngsters out drinking and driving around the way they do.”
I glance at my notes. I don’t have much, but it’s a start. I slide the notebook into my pocket and finish my coffee.
“The little boy I met in the driveway,” I begin. “He looks like you.”
“That would be Junior, our youngest.” Her grin reaches all the way to her eyes. “He’s a shy one. Smart. Good little worker, too. Short on words, though.”
“Jonas tells me you have three.”
Her expression lights up at the mention of her children. “They’ve been in the shop all day, like little worker bees. Wouldn’t come in for lunch, so I took soup to them. Poor things. They’ve been working on some cabinets Jonas promised a client.” She glances at the clock on the wall and gets to her feet. “It’s past time for them to come in and eat. Come on, Katie, and I’ll introduce you.”
CHAPTER 8
I follow Dorothy across the parking area toward the metal building. A generator is still rumbling from somewhere on the other side. I catch sight of a large air tank and realize the equipment inside is run on pneumatic power. A cinder block props open the door. I hear the scream of a saw, the hiss and chirp of compressed air. It’s after hours; I wonder if the Amish community has stepped in to keep the business running while Jonas is in jail.
If you’re Amish and get into a jam, the community will rally. They will come even if they are not asked, and they will do what needs to be done to keep the home or farm or business up and running until you’re on your feet. It’s one of the things I admire most about the Amish.
The interior is a well-lit, state-of-the-art woodworking shop—Amish style, of course. The smell of fresh-cut wood mingles with the oily pong of wood stain. I see a long bench with air hookups above. A drill press. An impressive-looking lathe. Air lines snake along the ceiling, smaller lines hanging down. To my left, an Amish girl of about fifteen is on her knees, vigorously rubbing stain into a two-tone ladder-back chair. She’s so immersed in her work, she doesn’t notice us.
Junior, the little boy I met earlier, stands at a small bench, drill in hand, screwing brushed-nickel hardware into cabinet doors. He’s putting a good bit of muscle into the task, tongue poked out with the effort. An older boy, who looks astoundingly like a teenage Jonas, runs a sander over a tabletop, sawdust flying.
I ponder Dorothy’s comment about the children working on some cabinets and I realize there are no other workers. The Amish did not come to help this family. Has the community turned against them because they believe Jonas is guilty of murder?
My heart quivers uncomfortably in my chest as I watch the kids work. There’s no music. There are no masks or safety glasses. No gloves or hearing protection or steel-toed shoes. There’s little in the way of ventilation despite the heat, dust, and vapors from the stain. Still, I see intent concentration and adept hands that are likely callused because this kind of manual labor is a regular part of their day.
Dorothy brings her hands together. “We’ve got a visitor!” she calls out to be heard above the noise. “And then supper.”
Three heads swivel in our direction. The sander goes silent. The girl sets her staining rag on a bench and gets to her feet. Uncertainty overtakes her features as her eyes move from me to her mamm.
“This is Kate Burkholder,” Dorothy says in Deitsch. “She’s here in town to … visit for a few days.”
The girl is red-haired with a smattering of freckles on cheeks blushed pink from the heat. Not quite pretty, but she’ll grow into it. She’s wearing a light blue dress. White kapp. A smear of stain on her chin. Knees chafed from kneeling and covered with sawdust.
“This is Effie,” Dorothy tells me. “Fifteen years old already.”
“Almost sixteen.” She’s got a chipped front tooth, but it suits her. Hazel eyes. I amend my earlier assessment that she’s yet to grow into her prettiness.
I offer my hand. “Stain looks good.”
Grinning, she gives my hand a hearty shake. “Junior said you spoke Deitsch. Are you Amish?”
“Now you just mind your manners,” Dorothy says.
“I was,” I tell the girl. “I think maybe I broke too many rules.”
“Oh.” Her laugh is a musical sound that reminds me of simpler times, when such things didn’t need to be stifled.
Dorothy turns to the little boy. “I think you met Junior.”
The boy in question holds his ground a few feet away. He’s got a sweaty face. Sawdust on his cheeks. Lingering purple stains around his mouth. Hat cocked back. Red hair sticking to his forehead. He looks as if he’s thinking about bolting again.
I approach the boy and extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Junior.”
The boy backs up a step, eyes darting left and right.
“Junior don’t talk much,” Effie proclaims. “He’s only eleven but he’s good with the drill. Knows how to measure, too. Got an eye for color.”
I back off, motion toward the cabinet he’d been working on. “Is that hardware stainless steel?” I ask, knowing fully it’s not.