So what happened in Harmony?
And what does it mean in terms of the case here in Belleville?
There’s one other source of information that might be helpful. A publication titled Raber’s New American Almanac, which is a comprehensive list of Amish bishops and ministers by state. If I can get my hands on a copy or have someone look it up for me, I should be able to determine if Ananias was, indeed, a bishop in Minnesota. One of the Diener here in Belleville may have a copy. Possibly the library or another Amish elder.
My cell phone buzzes. A burst of pleasure in my chest at the thought of Tomasetti. But when I glance at the display, I see a local number I don’t recognize.
I answer with, “Burkholder.”
A hiss of air and then a whispered male voice. “I got proof Jonas Bowman killed Ananias Stoltzfus.”
A couple of thoughts strike me at once. The caller is trying to disguise his voice. And there’s no ping of recognition. No accent. Nothing familiar.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Nelson Yoder knows the truth. He was there the night Stoltzfus was killed. He knows everything.”
“What does he know?” I ask.
“Bowman wasn’t the only one who wanted Stoltzfus gone. They all did.”
“Who?”
“Everyone hated him, including Yoder. Don’t let them lie to you. They’re covering for Bowman.”
“Tell me who you are,” I say.
Nothing.
“Why should I believe you?” I ask.
The hiss of a breath and then, “Because I was there, too.”
“Who is this?” I demand.
A resonant click sounds and the call ends.
Exasperated, I toss the phone, watch it clatter onto the table. I sit there a moment, not sure what to make of the call. Is it an anonymous tip that warrants follow-up? Or is someone yanking my chain? Trying to convince me Jonas is guilty? That there’s a witness? Deflect my attention to Yoder? Something else?
Nelson Yoder knows the truth.
If the bishop knows something about the case, why didn’t he mention it? Why would he travel to Painters Mill to ask for my help? It doesn’t make sense.
Cursing beneath my breath, I pick up my phone and look at the incoming number. Local. I hit the Call button. It rings a dozen times, but no one picks up. I go to my laptop, enter the number into a reputable reverse phone lookup site. To my surprise, the call originated at an Amish pay phone right here in Belleville.
CHAPTER 21
If Ananias Stoltzfus had secrets, he did a damn good job of keeping them hidden. I’ve discovered a slew of peculiarities about the bishop and his wife, but zero in terms of anything concrete that might explain what happened to him or why.
Between the phone call and frustration stemming from my lack of progress, I didn’t sleep much last night. I researched Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus. Harmony, Minnesota. I looked at Mary Elizabeth Hershberger. Henry Stoltzfus. I even spent some time delving into the lives of the three elders who brought me into the investigation. Nelson Yoder, the bishop. Nathan Kempf, the deacon. And Mahlon Barkman, the minister. There isn’t much out there. No criminal records. No legal issues or lawsuits. No drama. Even in terms of the Amish, they lead quiet lives.
I wrote down everything I could remember about the call.
I got proof Jonas Bowman killed Ananias Stoltzfus.
Nelson Yoder knows the truth. He was there the night Stoltzfus was killed.
Bowman wasn’t the only one who wanted Stoltzfus gone. They all did.
Everyone hated him, including Yoder. Don’t let them lie to you. They’re covering for Bowman.
I said: Why should I believe you?
… I was there, too.
The statements are not random. They’re bold and specific. The caller claimed Yoder hated Stoltzfus. That there were others who wanted him dead. He admitted to witnessing the murder. It’s a troubling notion, but is it possible the murder was some kind of concerted effort? With the days slipping by and my making little in the way of progress, I’m bound to follow up.
Nelson Yoder and his wife live in a heavily wooded area high on the ridge. As I make the turn into their driveway, a sign welcomes me to Yoder’s Harness Repair. I take the sidewalk to the front door, which opens to a reception area furnished with a sofa, chairs, and a coffee table piled with magazines. A woman stands at the counter, her nose buried in a paperback novel. Through the doorway behind her, I see the bishop sitting at a sewing bench, running a big black sewing machine.
“Can I help you?” asks the woman.
I introduce myself. “I’m looking for the bishop.”
She calls out to him in a loud voice, and I’m reminded that he’s hard of hearing. “Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde!” We have a non-Amish visitor.
The old man finishes his stitching, then struggles to his feet and hobbles to the doorway. “I’m hard of hearing, not dead.” He turns his attention to me. “Kate Burkholder. You come with news?”
“Just a few questions, Bishop.”
He motions me in. “Come on back. I think I can work and talk at the same time, but we’ll see.”
I follow him into a room that was once a bedroom, before the house was converted into a business. Twelve feet square. Two windows without curtains. He indicates a metal folding chair, then slides onto the bench. Giving me only part of his attention, he feeds a wide leather belly band into the sewing machine.
“Albert Miller is expecting his harness this afternoon, so I need to keep working. He’s not known for his patience, even if his repairman is the bishop.” He glances up at me, smiling, then goes back to his work. “If he spent more time saddle soaping, and a little less time talking, the leather wouldn’t need repairing.”
I smile politely. “Do you happen to have a copy of Raber’s New American Almanac?”
“You might check with Deacon Kempf,” he replies.
“I’m wondering if there’s anything new you remembered about Ananias or Mia Stoltzfus that you haven’t told me, Bishop.”
He glances at me over the tops of his wire-rim glasses, his eyes sharp, then back down at his work and continues feeding the leather into the sewing machine. “Not that I recall.”
“Last night, I received a call from a man who claims he was there the night Jonas Bowman murdered Ananias Stoltzfus.”
The old man deftly swivels the leather strap, takes the stitching down the other side, pulling it toward him now. “Who is this man? Why didn’t he go to the police with what he knows?”
“He wouldn’t say.” I pause. “He said you were there, too, Bishop.”
The old man stops sewing and gives me his full attention. “Now you’re investigating me, Chief Burkholder?”
“I’m asking you a simple question.” When he says nothing, I put it to him. “Were you there the night Ananias Stoltzfus was killed?”
His expression tells me he’s not accustomed to being questioned. Certainly not by a woman or non-Amish. “Of course I wasn’t there,” he snaps. “That’s a reckless, irresponsible question.”
“Maybe it is,” I tell him. “I had to ask.”
For a minute, the only sound comes from the rhythmic clank and hum of the sewing machine. I watch, let him stew, take the time to get my words right.