“Pastor, was there a note?”
“There was a little scrap of notebook paper on the altar next to her. I was so shaken up I didn’t even notice it at first. But while I was sitting with her, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I found it.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“It was in Deitsch, so I’ve no clue.” His brows draw together. “She had a little journal with her, too.”
“A devotional?” I ask.
“More like a diary, I think. Just some writings. Also in Deitsch.”
“Do you know what happened to the journal?”
“I pointed it out to the police and they took it.”
I consider the tragedy and strangeness of the situation, but for the life of me I can’t fathom any sort of link to the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus.
“Do you remember how she was dressed?” I ask.
The pastor uses the last of the water and sets down the can. “She was wearing typical Amish clothes. A dress. Head covering. She’d removed her shoes. Seeing her lying there bleeding and all alone was one of the most profoundly heartbreaking sights I’ve ever seen.” His voice quavers with the final word, but he covers it with a cough and glances at his watch. “Ah, Betsy’s probably wondering where I am.…”
I extend my hand to him for a second shake. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“I hope the information is helpful in some way.”
He walks me to the door and opens it for me. I’m midway down the hall and heading toward the exit when a final question occurs to me.
“Pastor Zimmerman?”
He stops before making the turn into his office and raises his brows.
“Do you know what happened to the note?”
“I supposed the police picked it up. Perhaps they passed it along to the family. I don’t know.”
I thank him and make my exit.
* * *
Puzzlement nibbles at the periphery of my brain as I take the sidewalk to my rental car. I’m not sure what to make of the story Pastor Zimmerman relayed about Mia Stoltzfus. One of the most important Amish charters is separation from the unbelieving world. In terms of religion, they are sectarian. Why then would the wife of an Amish bishop—a devout Anabaptist—end her life in a Lutheran church and ask a Lutheran minister for confession and absolution?
My best source of information is going to be the Stoltzfus family. The problem is that neither Mary Elizabeth nor Henry is particularly inclined to speak with me. Amish families can be protective of their own, especially when it comes to outsiders asking unpleasant questions. If there was some sort of scandal or indiscretion, they’ll likely take the silent route.
A second source of information is the Diener, the three men who traveled to Painters Mill and asked for my help. The only physical address I have on hand is for Mahlon Barkman, the minister, who lives northeast of Belleville, so I head that way.
Barrville is a pretty area crisscrossed with meandering country roads and dotted with Amish farms. I pass two buggies on the way and get waves from both drivers, which bolsters my mood. The Barkman farm is small, with a hint of dilapidation that adds an interesting layer of character. The two-story house is set close to the road, with a massive weeping willow tree just off the front porch. I turn in to the gravel driveway and idle toward the rear. A garden the size of an Olympic swimming pool takes up the entire side yard, close enough that I can make out half a dozen rows of corn, staked tomato plants weighted down with fruit, and a lower growth of peppers and some type of melon. An older woman sits at a picnic table that’s heaped with a variety of produce, bushel baskets, a cook pot, and crates.
I pull over and start toward her. “Wie geht’s alleweil?” I say. How goes it now?
“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. She’s snapping green beans and placing them in a big Dutch oven.
“I’m looking for Mr. Barkman,” I tell her.
She doesn’t stop what she’s doing, doesn’t even look at me. “Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil.” Set yourself there and stay awhile.
It’s a pleasant late afternoon. Humid, but with a breeze coming down off the mountain. I take the bench seat across from her and start snapping green beans.
She eyes my technique. “You must be that police from Ohio.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Kate.”
“He told me you’d probably stop by.” She’s a fast snapper—faster than me—despite fingers that are twisted with arthritis.
When she runs out of green beans, she looks at me. “I’m Laura.” Her eyes flick to my hands. “You’ve done this before.”
“Too many times to count.”
Her mouth twitches. “Well, you just keep on snapping. He’ll be up shortly.”
We’ve worked in silence for a few minutes when the barn door rolls open and Mahlon Barkman appears. I see him do a quick double take upon spotting me, and then he hobbles toward us.
“It’s good to see you, Kate Burkholder.” He offers his hand for a quick shake and settles in next to his wife. “How do you like our neck of the woods here in Big Valley?” he asks.
I pick up another bean. “It’s beautiful.”
“A beautiful valley full of good people.” He looks at the beans, like a card shark intent on choosing just the right one, and he begins to snap. “You’ve talked to Jonas?”
“Yes.”
“He made bail,” he informs me. “This morning.”
“I’m glad.” Though it would have been nice for someone to let me know.
“The Amish pulled together, the way we do,” Mahlon says. “Nathan took the money to the bondsman first thing this morning. Jonas was out in a couple of hours.”
I see him studying the bruises on my neck. His eyes are sober when they meet mine. “You’ve been hurt. Here in Big Valley?”
As if sensing the rise of tension, his wife stops snapping and gives me her full attention.
I give them a condensed version of the ambush. “He suggested I leave town.”
“That’s worrisome.” The old man picks up a bean, his expression troubled. “Does it have something to do with your looking into the death of Ananias Stoltzfus?”
“I think someone doesn’t want me poking around.”
Husband and wife exchange worried looks.
“I spoke to Pastor Zimmerman at the Lutheran church this morning.” I grab a handful of beans and set it on the table in front of me. “How well did you know Mia Stoltzfus?”
“Well enough to know she was a good woman,” Mahlon tells me.
“She was a quiet thing,” Laura adds. “Worked hard.”
“Do either of you have any idea why she committed suicide?” I ask.
The Amish woman shakes her head. “It was such a bad time. For all of us. Mia was part of our sewing circle for a while. A sweet lady.” She looks down as if remembering and smiles sadly. “Wasn’t much good at sewing for a woman her age. Of course, no one ever said so. It was just one of those odd things.”
Having grown up Amish—and being resistant to the expected skill of sewing myself—I’m well aware that it’s held in high esteem by the women.