What the hell are you doing here, Kate?
I don’t think there’s any information to be had here at this bar. Too much time has passed. Even if the woman in question were still alive and willing to talk to me, it’s doubtful she’d have anything to say that would help solve the case. I’ve reached a dead end. Nowhere else to go. Time to call it quits and go home.
Good luck, Jonas. You’re on your own.
I tell him my name. “I’m looking into a cold case out of Belleville. A homicide. I was told your grandmother had a relationship with the victim. I’m wondering if you could answer a few questions.”
“Wow. Murder, huh?” He looks intrigued. “I’m Bob, by the way. Who was the victim?”
I tell him, adding what little I know about the purported relationship between his grandmother and Ananias Stoltzfus. “I hope I’m not putting a black mark on your grandmother’s reputation.”
A surprising amount of color infuses his cheeks. He chortles to cover his embarrassment. “Well, Grams was a little ahead of her time, if you know what I mean.” He looks around and lowers his voice. “From what I hear, she liked her men. Almost as much as she liked her booze.”
Smiling, I look down at my coffee. “I know you must have been a kid, but do you recall any of the men she was seeing? Anyone talking about it?” I comb my memory for the timeline. “I’m guessing it would have been back in the late 1980s or early nineties.”
“Dang, that is a cold case.” He makes a face. “Gramps died in 1970. Grams was here a lot after that. I don’t recall hearing about a boyfriend. Never heard any talk about one.”
“Did your grandmother happen to leave behind any letters? Old photos? Anything like that?”
“Grams didn’t have much. Some crappy furniture. A few knickknacks. We didn’t keep any of it. Just the bar. I know it ain’t much, but this place was her life, I guess.” He motions toward a couple of beat-up café doors behind the bar. “Only thing I got left is the memorabilia case in the office. It’s old and dusty, but you’re welcome to take a look.”
I round the bar and follow him through the café doors, past a galley-type kitchen with a sink, an industrial-size grill glazed with a brown film, and a refrigerator that looks nearly as old as the building. Using a key, he opens the door to a small office. There’s a metal desk piled high with paper and files. A 1980s-type calculator with tape. A bookcase. Framed photos on the wall to my left. Ahead, a glass-front memorabilia display case is mounted on the wall.
I look at the pictures first. Most are faded black-and-white prints. Old. People laughing and drinking, probably from the fifties and sixties. I see a small woman in a snug red dress. Curly brown hair spilling out of a wide-brimmed hat. A smile that speaks of attitude and confidence. I pull out my cell and snap a photo.
“That’s Grams there,” Bob tells me, motioning. “Nineteen sixty-five or so.”
I can’t help but think she really was ahead of her time. I look at the remaining photos, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just a woman who owned her own business enjoying her customers and success.
I move on to the memorabilia display case.
Bob flips a switch and light rains down on a hodgepodge of items. “That antique microphone belonged to Joseph Campanella. The actor, you know. He was a radio broadcaster here in Lewistown before he got famous. That ball cap belonged to Jack Palance. He was born over in Lattimer Mines.” He motions. “See that shot glass? Rumor has it crime boss John Sciandra drank whiskey out of it when he got stranded here in a snowstorm back in 1940. Grams collected stuff like that. No one cares now, but back in the day it was some interesting shit.”
I snap a couple of photos from different angles. “You guys have had some colorful clientele,” I say.
“I’ll say. Grams told me Jimmy Stewart came in for a drink and left her a hundred-dollar tip. That was a lot of money back in the day.” He grins. “She needed the cash, so it didn’t get added to the case.”
At the top right side of the display case, I spot an unusual-looking badge or shield attached to a square of fabric. It’s metal with a flat top and rounded base. There’s an eagle at the top. The impression of a map, the geography of which I don’t recognize. Directly below is the word “LAPPLAND” in capital letters.
I set my finger against the glass. “Do you know what that is?”
“No idea. Been there for as long as I can remember.” He fishes in his pocket and brings out a ring of keys. “Let’s take a look.”
I watch as he unlocks the display case. Dust motes fly when he opens the door. The fabric base is attached to the display-case backing with a safety pin. He struggles with it a moment, then plucks it off and hands it to me.
“Looks pretty old,” he says.
The badge is metal, but lightweight in my hand and slightly tarnished. I turn it over in my hand, but there’s no other inscription. “Some sort of military decoration?”
“Looks foreign,” he murmurs.
“Do you have any idea where your grandmother got this?” I ask.
“No clue.” He gestures toward the case. “Chances are, if it’s here, someone gave it to her.”
That the old badge shares a display cabinet with items that obviously had some meaning to the woman who owned it niggles at me. “Do you mind if I take a photo?”
“Knock your socks off.”
I set it on the desktop and snap the shot.
“Do you think a patron here at the bar gave it to her?” I ask. “Or a friend?”
He laughs. “Only thing I can tell you is that nothing went into that display case that didn’t mean something to Grams.” He jabs a thumb at the display case. “If it didn’t have some sentimental value, she’d have pawned it.”
CHAPTER 23
There is a moment in the course of an investigation when you know it’s going to come together. It’s a frenetic time. You don’t know how all the information fits or if it will come to you in the right order. All you know is that the answer is buried somewhere in the slapdash pile of data churning in your head.
It’s dark by the time I arrive back in Belleville. I swing by a mom-and-pop café for a sandwich and make a beeline to the motel. I fire up my laptop, grab the folder containing every hand-scrawled note and scrap of paper I’ve amassed, and I spread everything on the too-small table. Most of what I have are my notes from conversations, along with my thoughts and observations. I’ve downloaded a few background reports and several newspaper stories I pilfered from the internet. When the tabletop becomes too crowded, I drag the nightstand over, set the lamp on the floor, use it for work space as well. I put everything in chronological order. The newspaper stories about the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus. The disappearance of Ananias Stoltzfus. The things I learned from the Diener when they came to Painters Mill and asked for my help. The flurry of newspaper articles on the discovery of the remains and the arrest of Jonas Bowman.
It’s impossible to lump a culture into a box and profess to know everything about it. It can’t be done and anyone who claims otherwise is a fool. But there are cultural norms that can—and should—be taken into consideration, especially when it comes to the Amish. The culture is steeped in tradition. They are a religion centric sect and prefer to remain separate from the rest of the world. They are a patriarchal society and pacifistic in nature. The family unit is the core of Amish life. They’re decent, hardworking people. They’re good neighbors. Good friends.