Jonas clears his throat to hide his laugh. I take a sip of water to stanch my own chuckle.
Dorothy isn’t amused. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Katie doesn’t want to hear those kinds of stories while she’s eating. Missing fingers and flesh-eating cats.”
But she’s laughing, too, and soon all of us are laughing so hard we’ve got tears streaming from our eyes.
I’ve much to discuss with Jonas about the investigation, about the case against him. I want to ask him about the bones found in the water well. About Amanda Garber and Mia Stoltzfus. Levi Schmucker. Most of what we need to discuss isn’t for young ears, so I keep my impatience at bay.
When the children are finished and leave, I help Dorothy with the dishes, and while she makes coffee, I sit down across from Jonas.
“I couldn’t help but notice those marks on your neck,” he says slowly. “What happened?”
Dorothy turns and looks at me from her place at the sink, her expression telling me she’d noticed them, too.
“Someone ambushed me at the motel last night,” I tell them. “They busted out the windshield on the Explorer and slashed the tires.”
The Amish woman gasps. “What? Oh, no. Katie.”
Jonas tightens his mouth. “Did the police arrest him?”
“He got away,” I tell him.
His eyes sharpen on mine. “Do you know who it was?”
“It happened too fast. It was dark. All I know is it was a male.” I meet his gaze, taking in the concern, looking for something else, anything askew, not finding it. “He suggested I leave town.”
Jonas makes a sound of disgust. “The elders shouldn’t have asked you to come here.”
Dorothy sets cups of coffee in front of us and then takes the chair next to her husband. “You think it has something to do with your asking questions about Ananias Stoltzfus?”
“I think someone’s afraid I’m going to uncover something they prefer to keep buried.”
Dorothy looks from her husband to me as if she isn’t sure if that’s good or bad.
“You have to stop.” Jonas grimaces. “It’s too dangerous.”
Dorothy pats her husband’s hand. “He’s right. Maybe we ought to rethink all of this and try to come up with another way.”
“All it means is that I’m on the right track.” The couple exchange a grave look, so I add, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a cop. I know how to handle myself. I’m armed. If it happens again, I’ll be ready.”
When neither of them responds, I pick up my cup and sip. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t public knowledge, so I’m going to ask you to keep it to yourselves. Will you do that?”
“Of course,” Jonas replies.
Dorothy nods.
I tell them about the human hand bones found in the well. “The police sent the remains to the lab for DNA analysis, but they believe they belong to Ananias Stoltzfus.”
“Mein Gott.” Dorothy presses her hand against her breast. “Reuben was right.”
Jonas’s brows knit. “But the bishop’s body was found in the field. How could his hands end up here?”
I lay out the most likely theory for the removal of the hands. The couple don’t press, but even they know the explanation doesn’t quite fit.
“How long have the bones been in the well?” Jonas asks.
“I don’t know.” But it begs even more questions. Did the killer remove the hands at the time of the murder and throw them into the well? Or did he, realizing he could frame Jonas for the crime, return to where he’d buried the body at a later date, remove the hands or bones, and throw them into the well?
“Whoever put them there wants the police to believe I killed Ananias,” Jonas says.
I divide my attention between them. “Who knows about the well?”
“That area is overgrown with brush and trees, but not hidden.” He considers a moment and shrugs. “Anyone who’s been on the property.”
“Have you had any trespassers?” I ask. “Have you seen anyone near the well? Recently or years past?”
Jonas shakes his head. “No.”
I tell them about the anonymous tip. “Someone knew those bones were there and called the police.”
“The person who did it,” Jonas says.
“Or an accomplice,” I add.
Dorothy looks down at the barely touched coffee in front of her and shakes her head. “Whoever did this is an evil person,” she whispers. “I’m afraid for Jonas.” She raises her eyes to me. “You, too, Katie.”
“My best advice is to stay alert,” I tell them. “Keep the doors locked. I know it’s against the rules, but I’m going to bring a cell phone. That way, if there’s an emergency, you’ll have it.”
“We don’t need a—” Jonas begins.
I cut him off. “Put it in the kitchen drawer and forget it’s there. Unless you need it.”
It’s clear the offer does nothing but frighten her even more.
For a moment, the only sound comes from the hiss of the gas lamp overhead and the steady drip of a leaky faucet in the sink. “Did either of you know Mia Stoltzfus?” I ask.
“Met her a few times,” Jonas tells me. “Years ago.”
“At worship.” Dorothy’s expression turns solemn. “Word has it the burden of being the bishop’s wife was too much for her.”
“Do you have any idea why she committed suicide in a Lutheran church?” I ask.
The couple exchange a grim look. “No one could ever figure that,” Jonas tells me.
“Do you know anything about their pasts?” I ask. “Where they came from?”
“All I know is they were from Minnesota.” Jonas looks at his wife. “Came here before we were born.”
I think of my conversation with Laura and Mahlon Barkman, who told me they were from Minnesota, and Amanda Garber, who believed Mia was from Germany.
“Is there anyone around who was close to Mia or Ananias?” I ask. “A friend or family member who knew them? Or spent time with them?”
The two exchange thoughtful looks and then Jonas shakes his head. “Just his two grown children,” he tells me. “Most of the folks who knew them are gone now.”
He went over to Lewistown every so often. Had himself a loose girl there.
Amanda Garber’s voice replays in my mind. “Did you ever hear any rumors about Ananias and any sort of impropriety?” I ask.
Dorothy drops her gaze to the tabletop, deferring to her husband.
Jonas looks away.
I wait, but he doesn’t answer. A lot of the Amish are reluctant to speak ill of their brethren. Usually, I don’t push. Tonight, knowing what’s at stake, aware of the ache of bruises at my throat, I make an exception.
“Jonas, you’re facing some very serious charges,” I remind him. “Whatever you do, don’t hold out on me. Do you understand?”
He raises his gaze to mine. “He was our bishop, Katie. As much as I disagreed with him … as angry as I was with him for silencing my datt … I never heard of any improper behavior.”
Dorothy pats her husband’s shoulder and rises. “All of this talk of death and bones and cut-off hands.” She shudders. “It’s too troubling. I’m going to bed.” She offers me a kind look. “I’ll pray extra hard for you, Katie.”