I recall Dorothy telling me about the fire at the old mill owned by Mary Elizabeth and her husband. The broken window I saw when I was there. Coincidence? Or has someone targeted them?
“Has anything like this happened before?” I ask.
He picks up the wrench, bends to pluck a bolt from the box at his feet. “A time or two.”
“Any idea why?” I ask. “Or who?”
He sets his shoulder against the ladder. “No.”
He’s trying to press the ladder against the corrugated tin and screw in the bolt at the same time—a task that requires more than just two hands. I go to the ladder, set my shoulder against the rungs, brace my legs, and push until the ladder is snug against the tin.
“Tight enough?” I ask.
An instant of hesitation and then he fits the mouth of the wrench over the bolt head and begins to tighten. “Ja.” He snugs the head down tight, grunting with the effort. “Need to put a nut inside, too.”
“I’ll hold it.”
He makes eye contact with me an instant before passing behind me and going through a trapdoor and disappearing into the interior of the silo. I hear the tap and scrape of his wrench beneath my shoulder as he screws in the nut on the other side.
He emerges through the trapdoor a minute later. “Got it,” he says.
I release the ladder. “Looks like it’s going to hold.”
“It better. I got corn to harvest and cattle to feed.”
I step back, survey his work. “Is someone upset with you?”
Using a drill, he deburrs the next bolt hole. “Upset with my datt, maybe. He was a firm-minded bishop. A weak man might not like that too much.”
“Someone has a long memory.”
“Finding the bones dredged up some old feelings, I reckon.” He removes the bit, sets down the drill, turns to face me. “What brings you here?”
I pick up the box of nuts and bolts and hand him three of each. “I talked to an old friend of your mamm’s. Mia told her she was from Germany. Bavaria. Her father, your grandfather, owned a bakery there. That’s where she learned to bake.”
He takes them, drops them into his pocket. “My parents were from Minnesota.”
“I talked to the bishop in Harmony. He’s never heard of Mia or Ananias Stoltzfus.”
He blinks, looks away, but his eyes swivel back to mine. “My parents left Minnesota over fifty years ago. Whoever you talked to either doesn’t remember or has forgotten.”
“I also talked to Pastor Zimmerman at the Lutheran church here in Belleville.”
He glowers at me, shakes his head. “Of course you did.”
“He said your mamm had a journal with her the day he found her,” I say. “The sheriff’s department returned it to the family.”
“I don’t know anything about a journal.”
He works in silence for a couple of minutes. He finishes with the second bolt and steps back to assess his workmanship. “You didn’t come here to help me with this silo,” he says.
“But it’s good to get help when you need it.”
He looks at me from beneath his hat, saying nothing.
“Henry,” I say slowly. “I think someone took that muzzleloader from Jonas Bowman’s mudroom, killed your father with it, and left it at the scene so the police would find it and Jonas would be blamed. I think that same person planted evidence in the old water well behind Jonas’s house.” I motion to the graffiti. “Maybe it’s the same person who did that.”
He looks down at the wrench in his hand. Uneasiness quivers between my shoulder blades, but he tosses it into the old toolbox a few feet away. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I think what happened to your father has something to do with his past. In Germany. I think he may have done some bad things—”
“Bad things?” He stops working and frowns at me. “My father was an Amish bishop. I’ll not have you stand on my land and speak ill of him.”
“Your parents came here to start a new life. I think someone knows about your father’s past in Germany and they killed him for it.”
“I have nothing to say to you about that. I don’t know who these people are you’ve been speaking to, but they’re wrong.”
“I know you loved and respected your datt. I understand that. But I need your help. I need Mary Elizabeth’s help. If there’s anything at all you’ve heard or know about, if there’s anything you have in your possession—”
“My father was a strong leader. Ezra Bowman nearly caused a schism with all his backtalk and complaining. When he died, Jonas blamed my father. He lost his mind and killed him. And now here you are, blaming my father—and defending the man who killed him.” He tightens his mouth and looks away. “I think we’ve talked enough.”
“Henry—”
“No more questions.” He raises a hand, cuts me off. “Get off my property and don’t come back. You’re not welcome here. You never were.”
Turning away, he scoops up the wrench and disappears inside the silo.
CHAPTER 25
Twenty years before
The thermometer read ninety-two degrees the day I finished my chores early and went to the creek to cool off. For two hours it was just me and the sun, the smell of grass, and that rusty reel mower. By the time I finished it was late afternoon. I’d worked barefoot and my feet were stained green. Grass clippings clung to my sweaty legs. Mamm had taken the buggy and a bushel of sweet corn over to the neighbors, which gave me about an hour.
Mower stowed, I rushed inside for my bath towel and laundry-day dress, and set out across the pasture. Sweat dribbled down my temple as I entered the woods. A few yards in, the path widened and I caught sight of the water, dappled with shade. The earthy smells of growing things hovered as I made my way to the bank. I draped my towel and fresh dress on a branch, removed my halsduch, or cape, and hung that as well.
Swimming wasn’t practical with my kapp and dress. But the cool brace of the water felt heavenly as I waded in. The bottom was gravelly against my feet. Cupping my hands, I bent to splash water on my face, scrubbing away the sweat and specks of grass.
“Well, isn’t that a sight to behold. Katie Burkholder taking a bath.”
Gasping, I spun to see Jonas Bowman sitting on a log, watching me with amusement. I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. I wasn’t sure if I was avoiding him or if he was avoiding me, but somehow we’d managed.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.
“Is that so?” he drawled.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t stop thinking about the last time I’d seen him. That I’d behaved badly and now I was too embarrassed to face him.
“Need some help?” he asked.
I was standing in about three feet of water. My dress was soaked and clinging, the fabric cold against my skin. It wasn’t proper. I turned away from him. “If you wanted to help, you could have come over earlier and cut the grass,” I said.
“I would’ve if you’d asked.”
He wore a baseball cap instead of a straw hat. No suspenders. I’d heard he was on rumspringa and enjoying his “running around” time to the fullest. He looked older. More man than boy now. He looked more serious, too. Something different about his eyes.