He blinks at me. “Then who is he?”

  I ponder the question a moment. “I need to know if there’s anyone who knew Ananias or Mia. Even if it’s someone who’s moved away. Or elderly. Is there anyone I can talk to?”

  “I don’t know of anyone else. Ananias was old and all of this happened eighteen years ago.” His expression turns troubled again. “Even if we discover he was not Amish or who he said he was, how does that help us find the person who killed him?”

  “Maybe it was someone from his past or somehow related to his past. Maybe he has a history we don’t know about.”

  Thoughts churning, we sip our tea in silence for a few minutes.

  “So what’s next?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I put a call in to Minnesota,” I tell him. “I’m waiting for a call back. Maybe someone there knows or remembers something about the Stoltzfuses or their past.”

  He nods, staring down at the glass sweating on the table in front of him. “Maybe we’ve reached a dead end.”

  Seeing the stress etched into his features, the circles beneath his eyes, I’m reminded of how much he has at stake. His freedom. His business. His family. His life.

  “Not yet,” I tell him.

  When he raises his gaze to mine, it’s disconsolate. “Maybe my going to jail is part of God’s plan.”

  “That’s bullshit.” I soften the words with a half smile.

  “You’ve done more than I would have asked, Katie. You’re away from home. Your family. You’ve been hurt. I can’t ask you to stay on. Or do more than you already have. We’ve reached the end of our options. Maybe you should just go home. Forget about this mess and get back to your life.”

  “There’s only one problem with that,” I tell him.

  He raises his brows in question.

  “I’m not a quitter. You should know that about me. I can’t abide injustice. I can’t abide a killer thinking he beat the system. I sure as hell won’t tolerate an innocent man going to jail for something he didn’t do.”

  He looks down at the glass, his jaw working, saying nothing.

  In that moment a hundred memories assail me. The mess I’d made of my life the last summer we were together. The intensity of the feelings we shared. The tumult of our relationship. The mistakes, most of them mine. Everything that happened between us—both good and bad—in the final days before he left.

  “Last time I was here,” I say quietly, “you mentioned the elephant in the room. I didn’t let you finish.”

  “Probably a good call on your part.” He smiles, but it’s for my benefit. There’s a profound sadness in his eyes he can’t hide. He shrugs. “Ancient history.”

  I smile, too, and I’m surprised to feel that same sadness reach into my chest and twist. “Maybe ‘ancient’ isn’t quite the right word.”

  We stare at each other, unspeaking, and yet we’re communicating clearly and in a way that speaks of a closeness the years haven’t erased.

  “I’m sorry for what happened,” I tell him. “I never got to tell you that.”

  The history between us is the last topic I want to revisit, ancient or not. But I’m a far cry from the confused and rebellious girl I was. The one that was in love and didn’t have the slightest clue how to handle it or what it meant.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

  “Maybe. But I knew better. I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a mistake. That it was serious. I knew you would be blamed for all of it. You got into a lot of trouble.”

  A minute quiver runs the length of him as my words register. I expected him to wave off the statement. Make some joke. Laugh it off. Chalk it up to inexperience and immaturity. But he doesn’t do any of those things. Maybe because we both know what happened that summer was as genuine and pure as it was wrong.

  “It was a bittersweet time,” he says quietly. “For both of us. You were too young. I was—” He bites off the word. The smile that follows is sheepish and reluctant. “I wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming to get away from you.”

  “You lost a lot.”

  “You lost something, too, no?” He studies me with such scrutiny that I can barely hold his gaze, but I do. “We both did.”

  “You paid a big price,” I tell him. “So did your family.”

  “Bad timing, no?” He cocks his head, his eyes probing mine. “A few more years and things might’ve worked out differently.”

  I’m not sure I agree, but I don’t say. He wanted to marry me. I was too young, too screwed up, to know what I wanted let alone make such an important life decision.

  “The years teach a lot of lessons the days never know,” I tell him.

  It was one of my mamm’s favorite sayings. As a fifteen-year-old Amish girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders and a duffel bag full of anger in her heart, I had little understanding of its meaning. As a grown woman, I’ve never appreciated it more.

  The sound of shod hooves against gravel and the music of children’s voices come to us through the screen door, telling us Dorothy and the kids have arrived home.

  And the moment is gone.

  * * *

  I call Deputy Vance on my way to the motel. I can tell by his tone he’s not happy to hear from me. I make a halfhearted attempt to soften him up with small talk and a not-so-funny joke. He doesn’t bite.

  “I need your help,” I say.

  “Nothing personal, Chief Burkholder, but I think I’ve done my share of helping.”

  “I know this isn’t an ideal situation,” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “You’re going to get me fired.”

  “There’s no one else,” I tell him. “I’m not getting much cooperation from your department.”

  “Let it go through the channels.”

  “Kris, you know as well as I do that Jonas Bowman didn’t murder Ananias Stoltzfus. He didn’t leave his muzzleloader at the scene. He didn’t cut off a dead man’s hands and toss them into his own well.”

  “Murderers aren’t exactly the brightest bulbs in the pack.”

  “Will you at least hear me out?”

  Vance says nothing, so I trudge on. “I’ve discovered some things about Stoltzfus that don’t sit well. The more I uncover, the more convinced I am that he’s not who he claimed to be.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks irritably.

  I give him the rundown of incongruities, starting with Mia’s suicide and her request for absolution and ending with the beating of Levi Schmucker. “I grew up Amish. I can tell you those are not the actions of an Amish bishop.”

  “Maybe he was just an asshole.”

  “You guys should have looked into it.”

  He groans. “Look, I wasn’t exactly involved in the case, Chief Burkholder. What the hell do you want from me?”

  I pause, close my eyes briefly. “I need a DNA sample from those remains.”

  He has the gall to laugh. “You’ll have to talk to the sheriff about that. I’m not part of chain of custody,” he says. “I spend my time writing tickets and rounding up cows, for God’s sake.”

  “Kris, if I can get my hands on that DNA, I’ll send it to the lab and have it run through some databases to see if we get a hit.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A definitive ID for one thing. I know it’s a long shot, but—”

  “I’m not going to risk my job on a long shot, Burkholder.”

  “Will you at least look into it?” I think about Tomasetti, wonder if he has the connections to help, if he knows anyone on a federal level who might be able to step in and grease the wheels.

  “Look, I’m not going to make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Fair enough. Thank you.”

  He’s anxious to end the conversation, so I jump into my next question. “One more thing. Do you have any idea what happened to the diary that was found with Mia Stoltzfus when she committed suicide?”

  “I don’t know anything about a diary.”

  “Do you know who might—”

  He hangs up on me.

  * * *

  I’ve devoted most of my adult life to law enforcement and solving crimes, which sometimes includes putting someone in jail. How ironic that the one time I’m trying to prove a man’s innocence and keep him out of jail is the one time I can’t pull all the loose ends of the case together.

  It’s nearly midnight. I’m sitting at the table in my room at the Kish Valley Motel, thinking about old bones and the story those bones have told so far. I’ve been at it for a couple of hours and I’m doing my best not to be discouraged. I’m failing at that, too.

  A DNA sample from the human remains found in the field or the water well could be tremendously helpful. Not only in terms of matching, but also running it through some databases to find out exactly who those bones belonged to. Chances are, that won’t happen; the lab will likely only make the match and not take the testing any farther. That’s when it occurs to me that at some point, I’ve come to believe Ananias wasn’t the man he proclaimed to be. If I’m right and that’s the case, who was he really? And why was he doing his utmost to conceal his identity?

  Frustration sits in the chair across from me, a foul apparition, mocking me. I resolve to call the sheriff’s department first thing in the morning and formally request that the DNA results be run through several databases. They may or may not agree to do so. I’m not going to hold my breath.

  I google “Minnesota Amish” and tap a key, landing on the blog of a well-known scholar on the Amish culture. He writes about the settlement in Harmony, Minnesota, and I read with interest. I’m midway through when something pings my brain. I stop reading and backtrack, read the passage again.

  Founded in 1972, Wadena is the oldest Amish community in Minnesota. Harmony was founded by the Swartzentruber Amish in 1974.

  My conversation with Amanda Garber flashes in my brain. They moved here in 1967 or so.

  If the Harmony, Minnesota, settlement was founded by the Swartzentruber Amish—in 1974, no less—how is it that Ananias was elected bishop? He wasn’t Swartzentruber. According to Amanda, he arrived in Belleville in 1967.

  “The timeline doesn’t add up,” I whisper.

  It’s possible that Ananias and Mia lived in Harmony before the church district was formally established. But in order for a bishop to be elected, there must be an organized church district, even if the term is used in a loose sense. In addition, it would be extraordinarily unusual for a bishop to move. Usually, when a bishop is struck by the lot, it is a burden he bears the rest of his life.

  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.