The Schlabach farm is on the north side of Belleville at the foot of a verdant green ridge. I make the turn into a long gravel lane, and I’m rewarded with a view so spectacular, I roll to a stop just to admire it. Lush with forest and surrounded by the gray veil of evening humidity, the mountain is a majestic sight. A four-rail wood fence lines both sides of the lane. Farther in, an ancient German bank barn is built into the hillside, with the livestock pens facing the front and the upper, bank side of the barn looking out at the ridge. These kinds of barns are common in Ohio. What differentiates this barn is a forebay where the upper-level wall overshoots the foundation.
The lane curves left and a frame house looms into view. It’s a typical Amish farmhouse with the appearance of having been added on to several times over the decades and not all of those additions executed with forethought.
I do a double take upon spotting the buggy parked beneath a giant oak tree, its shafts resting on the ground. I’ve heard of the Pennsylvania yellow-topped buggies, but I’ve never seen one and it’s a shocking sight to behold. The lemon-yellow top is anything but plain. I park next to it and get out of the Explorer. The brightly colored top isn’t the only difference from the buggies I’m used to seeing in Painters Mill. There are rearview mirrors on both the driver’s and passenger sides. At the rear, someone has installed brake lights, taillights, half a dozen reflectors, and two slow-moving-vehicle signs. Nearly as astounding as the yellow top is an interior decked out with green velvet and a gleaming burled-walnut dash more befitting a Rolls-Royce.
“She’s a nice one, ain’t she?”
I turn to see an Amish man approach. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties. A longish beard that tells me he’s married. He’s wearing typical Amish garb—trousers, work shirt, and a flat-brimmed straw hat. A single suspender crosses at his chest.
“It’s the most amazing workmanship on a buggy I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.
He grins. “I’m no craftsman—just ask my wife—but I do appreciate all that walnut. Too pretty for a buggy, if you ask me. Definitely got all the bells and whistles. Watch this.” He leans into the buggy and punches a button. He tugs a cigarette pack from his pocket, taps one out. By the time he’s got the cigarette in his mouth, the lighter has popped out of its place in the dash, and he lights up.
“Comes in handy if there’s a smoker in the family,” he says.
I’m not sure which surprises me most, the lighter set into the dash or the fact that he’s smoking. At a loss for words, I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill, Ohio.”
“Burkholder, huh?” He squints at me. “There’s a good name for you.”
“I’m an old friend of Jonas Bowman’s,” I tell him. “The Diener asked me to look into what happened.”
“Ah. Holy cow.” The mention of Jonas seems to deflate his mood. “Awful thing. About the bishop. Jonas, too.”
I glance toward the fields spread out to my left. “I understand you discovered the remains.”
He puffs the cigarette and motions toward the rear of the property. “I was out cutting alfalfa that day. Thought the blade hit a rock. I stopped to toss it and … there it was.” He feigns a shiver. “You don’t expect to see something like that. At first, I thought it might be some historical thing. You know, an old grave. A pioneer or forefather. Then I remembered the bishop disappearing and a shiver went right through me.” He exhales smoke. “I called the police. They came out with all their tools and such. Spent two days digging around in that field. Had those bones identified in a couple of weeks.”
The laugh that follows sounds forced. “I’m no believer in ghosts, but I ain’t been in the field since.”
“Would you mind if I took a look at the scene?”
He hesitates, his smile faltering. “I reckon I could walk back there with you.”
“I know you’re busy,” I say, giving him an out if he wants it. “If you point me in the right direction, I’m happy to walk on my own. I shouldn’t be but a few minutes.”
“Well, my wife is wanting me to finish that raised flower bed by the garden.” He flicks the cigarette to the gravel and crushes it beneath his boot. “I’ll walk you part of the way.”
It’s a half-mile hike to the field. As we walk, I learn that Doyle and his wife are Byler Amish. I don’t know much about them. My datt used to refer to them as “bean soupers,” ostensibly because they regularly served bean soup for lunch after the preaching service. The men wear their hair shorter than some of the other sects. The women sometimes wear brown bonnets. And, of course, the yellow-topped buggies.
“Do you know Jonas?” I ask.
We’re on a dirt two-track. A cornfield to our right. Thick woods to our left and, beyond, the steep ascent of the ridge.
“Sure. I’ve talked to him a hundred times over the years. Church Sunday, you know. Helped him on that workshop he built a few years ago. My wife spent some time with Dorothy down to the auction last summer, selling bread and cakes and whatnot.” He shakes his head, his brows knitting. “Good family. I always liked Jonas. Some people say he has a temper, but I never saw it. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to think when I heard they arrested him. Didn’t seem right.”
“Ananias was your bishop?”
“Bishop Stoltzfus baptized me. Got me married off.” He slides his hand under his hat and scratches his head. “In fact, that was the last time I saw him. I was about twenty, I guess.”
“What kind of bishop was he?”
“Some people thought he was strict. You know, kind of set in his ways.” He laughs. “Ananias was tough on backsliders.”
“The sergeant at the sheriff’s department told me there were problems between Jonas and the bishop.”
“Well…” The Amish man ducks his head, looks out across the field, away from me. Hesitant to engage in gossip or say anything negative about one of his brethren. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from our shoes against the ground.
“I’m not here to make judgments,” I say. “I’m just trying to get a handle on the relationship between the two men, so I can figure out what happened.”
Doyle nods, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Fair enough, I guess.”
A rustle in the grass, the breaking of brush to my right startles both of us. I glance over to see a deer and fawn bound across the road and disappear into the trees.
Doyle sets his hand against his chest and bursts out laughing. “That’ll get your heart started.”
“Or maybe stop it.”
We start walking again. Not for the first time, I’m drawn to the beauty of our surroundings. The razor-straight rows of corn in the field we just passed. The lush greenery of the woods and the cacophony of birdsong. Farther, the hulking form of the ridge. I’ve almost given up on getting any useful information out of Doyle when he speaks.
“Jonas’s datt was a minister, you know. Ezra was a good man, too. A good Amisch. More lenient than Ananias, I guess.” He whistles between his teeth. “From what I hear, the two men butted heads a time or two. Ananias could be a hard man. He enforced the rules with an iron hand and was always looking to add more. Bowman was more moderate, willing to ease the rules, especially when it came to technology.”