“What do I think?” She chucks a clothespin into a small wicker caddy. “I think the devil lured my datt down to that abandoned farm. Nearly two miles and the man was eighty-six years old, for goodness’ sake. Spry for his age, but not a spring chicken.” She sighs. “Once we realized he was gone … we figured he’d fallen somewhere or had a heart attack. The kind of thing that happens to an old person.” She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but she’s talking, so I don’t interrupt.
“We looked for him for days,” she says. “Even the Englischers pitched in with their ATVs and horses and whatnot. All the while, we worried and we prayed.”
“Was there anything unusual going on in your father’s life at the time he disappeared?” I ask. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nothing of the sort. Like I said, he was old. Liked to take walks and tend his garden. Feed the birds. He was a godly man. A loving man who lived simply and plainly.”
“Had there been any disputes or arguments with anyone?” I ask.
“Everyone loved Datt.” Even as she snaps the words, I see a flash of hesitation in her eyes, and I wonder if she truly believes it—or if she’s convinced herself of it because she loved her father. “He was a good bishop. Must have done a hundred communions and baptisms. Dozens of marriages.” She clucks, a sound of irritation, as if I’m trying to sully his good deeds.
“What about excommunications?” I ask.
“Datt brought them backsliders right back into the fold.”
“Not all of them came back, though, did they?” I ask. “Roman Miller?”
“Now there’s a backslider for you. Two-timing a nice Amish girl with some Mennischt floozy.” Mennischt is the Deitsch word for Mennonite.
“Was Miller upset with your father?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” She straightens and gives me a level look. “My datt helped a lot of people here in Big Valley, Chief Burkholder. He did a lot of good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I nod my acceptance of that and press forward. “Was he a strict bishop, Mary Elizabeth? With the rules, the following of the Ordnung?”
“Someone’s been handing you a lot of talk.” She chucks a handful of clothespins into the wicker basket, but misses and they scatter in the grass. “You’d be wise not to listen to the gossipmongers.”
She’s getting herself worked up, so I kneel and pick up the pins, place them in the container. “I’m just gathering information,” I tell her. “Trying to figure out what happened.”
When the clothesline is bare, she steps back and looks at me as if trying to decide if I’m friend or foe. “Look, my datt kept people in line. A bishop has to keep things in order. Things are just better that way.”
“Fair enough.” I motion toward the house. “I couldn’t help but notice the broken window when I pulled up.”
She turns and looks, shrugs dismissively. “Someone threw a rock. English kids probably. You know how they are.”
“Did you report it to the police?” I know the answer before she answers.
“I don’t know how it is where you come from, but around here we like to handle things on our own.”
“I understand there was a fire, too,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “You know a lot for having been here only a day.”
“Any idea who did it? Or why?”
“Wasn’t much of a fire, really. We lost some lumber is all. Adrian is renovating that old mill at the back of the property. Thinks he’s going to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.” She shakes her head. “I reckon someone would rather we not do that.”
“How long ago did it happen?” I ask.
“Been about a month now.”
“Interesting timing, don’t you think?”
Her eyes probe mine. “Jonas Bowman was still on the loose.”
“Are you saying you believe he started the fire?”
“You’re the one mentioned timing.”
I nod. “Did you report the fire to the sheriff’s department?”
“Like I said, we prefer to handle things our own way. Nothing much they could do, anyway.” Bending, she picks up the laundry basket. “I know you don’t mean any harm with all these questions, but I think I’ve had enough.”
I pass her a card with my cell phone number scribbled on the back. “Let me know if you think of something that might be important, or if you just want to talk.”
After a brief hesitation she takes the card. “I don’t think I will, but thank you.”
I’m midway to the Explorer when a final question occurs to me and I turn back to her. “Mrs. Hershberger, can you tell me where your datt was living when he disappeared?”
Holding the basket at her hip, she motions toward the road. “He’d been living out to the dawdi haus since Mamm passed.” It’s Deitsch for “grandfather house” and is generally a small abode where Amish grandparents live with—or close to—their grown children when they become too elderly to manage on their own. “Little cottage on Indian Ripple Road. It’s been vacant since we lost him.”
“Would it be all right if I took a quick look around?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you expect to find. A mouse or two maybe.” She shrugs. “I don’t think my brother keeps it locked, so go ahead.”
“Thank you.” I turn and start toward the Explorer, but she calls out to me.
“You want to know what the worst part of this was, Kate Burkholder?”
I reach my vehicle and turn to her.
“The not knowing,” she tells me. “Eighteen years of wondering. Is he alive or dead? Is he hungry and cold and hurting? Did he suffer? Cry out for us? Think about that while you stand there and ask questions so you can get that hohchmeedich friend of yours out of jail.” It’s the Deitsch word for prideful. “All the talk of justice. Tell me, where’s the justice in that?”
* * *
According to my GPS, Indian Ripple Road runs east and west on the north side of Belleville. There’s a good bit of daylight left, so I head that way and quickly realize it’s a barely-there asphalt two-track shrouded with trees and marred with potholes. I’ve just spotted the dead-end sign when I notice the narrow opening in the trees to my right. I slow, discern the patches of gravel, and pull in.
The canopies of seventy-foot-tall trees fill the cab with shadows. Spindly fingers of bramble scrape at the doors. I’m wondering if I made a wrong turn and thinking about turning around when the forest opens and I find myself looking at a small cottage. The siding had once been fresh and white, but time and the elements have worn it to gray. A porch encompasses the front, but the character is lost due to a dozen or so missing rails and a warped floor that gives the place a lopsided appearance. A stone chimney juts from a steeply pitched steel roof that’s gone to rust. There are no shutters or landscaping. A tiny one-horse barn is the only other building. The attached pen is filled with weeds as tall as a man’s shoulders. In the side yard, I see the scar of what had once been a garden, the picket fence grinning a hit-or-miss smile.