He looks at the cabinet and the flight response seems to wane. Still, he doesn’t like being the center of attention. “B-b-brushed nickel,” he says.
“He stutters when he’s nervous,” Effie announces.
“Or when you pay him too much attention.”
At the sound of the deep male voice, I look over my shoulder to see the older boy approach. He is, indeed, the spitting image of Jonas when he was a teen. Dark hair and eyes. A surly demeanor that’s as charming as it is off-putting. And a direct stare that speaks of attitude and self-assurance.
He comes up behind his younger brother, sets his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and eases him toward me. “She’s not going to bite you,” he says in Deitsch.
“And this is Reuben,” Dorothy tells me. “Our oldest.”
We shake hands and for an instant, I can’t look away. It’s as if I’ve been swept back in time and I’m seeing the Jonas I knew twenty years ago.
“Just turned seventeen,” Dorothy says with a shake of her head. “Already works like a man.”
“Seventeen going on ten,” Effie whispers.
Grinning, Reuben tosses his shop rag at her. “Who asked you?”
The girl bats the rag aside, then smiles at her mamm. “Acted like he was twenty at the singing Sunday. Especially when Miriam Miller came around.”
Reuben falls back into surly mode, bends to pick the shop rag off the floor, but not before I catch the rise of color in his cheeks.
The girl turns her attention back to me, tilts her head. “What brings you to Belleville?”
Since Dorothy hasn’t explained to them the situation with their father, I keep it vague. “I’m here to help your parents with a couple of things.”
Reuben’s eyes flick from me to his mamm. “Does it have something to do with Datt being in jail?”
Dorothy puts her hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to her other children. “Reuben.”
“Mr. Gleason told us,” he tells her. “He came to check on his cabinets when you were in town. He figured there wasn’t any work getting done since Datt was sitting in a jail cell.”
Effie steps closer and takes her mamm’s hand. “He told us everything. Everyone in town knows, too. Mr. Gleason said.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Dorothy looks helplessly at me, at her children, and grapples for composure.
“He w-wanted his m-money back,” Junior puts in.
“He tried to cancel the contract,” Effie adds. “Reuben talked him out of it.”
Reuben slings the shop rag over his shoulder. “We’re going to show the old big-bug we know a thing or two about cabinets.” “Big-bug” is an Amish term for a rich person.
“Reuben told him they’d be finished on time,” Effie says.
“Which is tomorrow,” Reuben finishes.
“W-we know D-D-Datt didn’t do anything b-bad.” This from Junior, and somehow it is the most profound of statements.
Dorothy winces, blinking back tears, but regains her equanimity quickly. “Katie is a police from Ohio. She’s going to help if she can.”
The kids eye me with a combination of wonderment and awe.
“Are you going to get our datt out of jail?” Effie asks.
“I’m going to do my best,” I tell her.
Dorothy cuts in before any more questions can be voiced. “There’s fried chicken inside. I want your hands washed. Effie, grab a jar of beets out of the cellar on your way.”
“But we have to finish the cabinets tonight!” the girl exclaims.
“Mr. Gleason is going to pick them up first thing in the morning,” Reuben puts in.
The Amish woman doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, you can’t work on empty stomachs, can you? Go wash up. I don’t want to see any dirty fingernails.” She turns to me. “Katie, you’ll be staying for supper. I’ve got enough for an army.”
Had the circumstances been different, I would have happily joined them. But with the clock ticking and an innocent man charged with murder, I decline. “I need to talk to the bishop’s family,” I tell her.
Dorothy doesn’t respond until the children file past and are out of earshot. “I hope they cooperate. Mary Elizabeth is decent enough, but that Henry is as prickly as his datt and twice as mean.”
CHAPTER 9
Dorothy didn’t have an address for Ananias Stoltzfus’s daughter, but Amish directions are usually spot-on. Just west of town, she’d told me, take a right on Blue Run Road. Past the chicken farm. Over the bridge at Little Kishacoquillas Creek. Second place on the right. There’s a big “Brown Eggs for Sale” sign out front. Can’t miss it.
I pass the sign for eggs, which spells out NO SUNDAY SALE in bold caps, and pull into the gravel driveway. The house is nestled in a pretty spot with half a dozen shade trees and a white picket fence. As I get out of the Explorer, I notice the square of cardboard crisscrossed with duct tape covering a front window. A plump Amish woman stands at the clothesline, laundry basket at her feet, watching me through the space between two pairs of trousers. I guess her to be in her mid-fifties. She wears a gray dress with dark stockings and shoes. Blond hair streaked with silver is tucked into a gauzy white kapp.
“Mrs. Hershberger?” I say as I pass through the picket gate.
She cocks her head, wondering who I am and how I know her name. “That’s me.”
I extend my hand for a shake and introduce myself. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
She unpins a shirt, folds it, and places it in the basket. “Always nice to take a break, especially on such a pretty evening.”
I’ve debated how to best approach Ananias Stoltzfus’s family. Asking questions about the death of a loved one, even after so many years, requires tact. That’s particularly true in this case because the remains were just recently discovered—and I’m friendly with the accused.
I lay out the reason for my visit, my background, and my connection to Jonas. “The Diener came to me in Painters Mill and asked me to look into the case.”
“The Diener, huh?” Her expression remains impassive as she takes in the information, with no indication of wariness or hostility. “I reckon it took some nerve for you to show up here.”
“I know this is a difficult time for you and your family,” I tell her.
“As long as you’re not here to get that no-good friend of yours off the hook.”
“I’m just looking for information,” I say simply.
She snaps a shirt from the line, shakes out the wrinkles. “The police seem pretty sure Jonas Bowman shot my father with that old muzzleloader of his.”
“Sometimes things aren’t always as they appear,” I tell her.
Frowning, she tosses the shirt into the basket without folding it. “Jonas Bowman.” She huffs the name like a curse. “Shot his own bishop like an animal. Left him for the vultures and critters to pick at. Not a shred of decency or a thought for the family. Eighteen summers and winters and not a word. The awfulness of that tears me apart to this day.”
I look past her at the house where the shadows of the trees play against the siding, give her a moment before continuing. “What do you think happened?”