“Katie, we don’t have that kind of money.”

  “With a bondsman, you only pay ten percent, and Jonas will be released.”

  “That’s fifty thousand.… I don’t know.… Maybe.”

  “Think about it,” I tell her. “I’ll help if I can.”

  I don’t know the dynamics of her and Jonas’s standing in the Amish community, but I do know the Amish will help. Even if there’s some kind of rift, the Amish will set it aside and do what needs to be done.

  She blinks back tears. “It’s such a foreign thing. Murder and jail and legal problems. I don’t know what to do.” The tears spill, but she swipes them away. “I can tell you one thing, Kate Burkholder. Jonas Bowman is a lot of things and he’s sure not perfect, but he is not a killer.”

  “I’m a civilian here in Big Valley,” I begin. “I don’t have any authority or resources, but I’ll help any way I can.”

  “We’re not ones to ask for help, but if there was ever a time when we needed it, this is it.” She sets her hand over mine. “Thank you.”

  I pull out my notebook and set it on the table in front of me. For twenty minutes we cover the situation from beginning to end. Jonas’s father being put under the bann and silenced. Ezra Bowman’s death. The ensuing feud. What I’m looking for now is new information and insights from someone close to Jonas rather than the perspective of a stranger.

  “What was Jonas’s state of mind after the death of his father?” I ask.

  “We’d been married a little over a year at the time.” The smile that follows is fraught with angst. “Losing Ezra was a shock. He was such a strong man. Sometimes he didn’t even seem mortal. It was as if nothing could ever stop him or take him down, not even the nature of life itself.”

  Hearing her speak of the larger-than-life Ezra Bowman is like watching a silent, black-and-white film. I remember him as an outspoken man with a piercing gaze that could send even the toughest of the tough running home to Mamm. When he spoke, it was with great passion—and you listened. More than once I recall him arguing with my own datt over some topic to which I wasn’t privy. Ezra Bowman was never unkind, but I was afraid of him.

  Dorothy heaves a sigh. “Heart attack finally got him. He was plowing the field and collapsed. He fell and … the plowshares tore him up something awful. Jonas found him.” She shakes her head, takes another sip of coffee as if in an attempt to wash away the terrible image. “Jonas was crushed. We’d lost two babies that year and not once did I see him cry. He’s stoic, you know. Keeps it all tucked away the way men do.” She looks away, blinking, remembering. “Jonas cried that day. And in the days that followed, he grew angry.”

  I’m familiar with grief and all of its gnarly repercussions. I’ve been handed my share by a Fate who’s rarely fair about how she doles it out. I’ve watched Tomasetti suffer with losses that hollowed him to the core. I’m no stranger to the anger stage.

  “Jonas blamed the bishop,” I say.

  “Right or wrong, he did.” She shrugs. “Ezra and Ananias had been at each other’s throats for a year. Ezra, the stubborn fool, had been put under the bann. But it was the silencing that did him in, Katie. He couldn’t preach and that destroyed him.”

  “Tell me about the argument between Jonas and Bishop Stoltzfus,” I say.

  “I’ll never forget it.” Her eyes meet mine. “Church Sunday after the funeral. Jonas was just … raw. He wasn’t himself. Wasn’t eating or sleeping. I figured worship would be good for him, you know. It always is. But when he saw the bishop that day. And his own datt wasn’t there to preach.” She shudders. “I’ve never seen him like that. Jonas went for the bishop and he didn’t stop. They had words. Terrible things were said. They nearly came to blows. Can you imagine? Right in front of everyone.”

  “What was the argument about exactly?”

  “Jonas blamed Ananias for his datt’s death. Called him cruel. Said the stress of the bann and the silencing killed him.”

  “How did Ananias respond?”

  “The bishop didn’t help. He said Ezra had fallen to error and sin. He said that God took him because of that tractor.” Dorothy puts her hand over her mouth as if to smother a sob. “I couldn’t believe he would say such a thing. To blame a dead man and point out the error of his ways.”

  “Did Jonas threaten him?” I ask.

  Her brow creases as if there’s more to be pulled from her memory. “I was so shaken up, Katie. I’ve likely misremembered some of it. One thing I do recall is Jonas telling the bishop that there were a dozen families who supported Ezra’s use of the tractor. Jonas said he was going to rally those families, and that they were going to form a new church district. You can imagine how that went over.”

  Dorothy lowers her head, sets her fingers against her forehead, sucks in a deep breath as if to compose herself. “There were so many ugly things said. I could barely take it all in. I don’t want to say it, Katie, but Jonas lost some friends that day. He was too angry. Some of the Amish thought he was just wrong.”

  “How long after that argument did the bishop disappear?” I ask.

  “Two months to the day.”

  “The police spoke to Jonas?” I ask.

  “The sheriff’s department picked him up. Talked to him for hours. When they brought him back, Jonas was shook up something awful.”

  I think about the case against Jonas in terms of motive and realize that, as a cop, I would have done the same. Pick him up. Question him hard. Apply pressure. Shake him up.

  “What about the muzzleloader?” I ask.

  She huffs. “That old thing sat in the mudroom gathering dust for years. Jonas likes his meat just fine and that includes venison, but a hunter he isn’t. You know how he is. Got a soft spot for animals.”

  I think about that long-ago day when Jonas unleashed the family of skunks on those bullies at the baseball diamond, and something warm flutters in my chest.

  “Do you know what happened to the gun?” I ask.

  “I must have walked by the thing a hundred times. It sat in the corner for so long I didn’t even notice it anymore. Then it was just … gone.” She shakes her head. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out when it disappeared and who might’ve taken it, but I just don’t know.”

  “Could it have been a neighbor or friend who borrowed it?”

  “We asked. No one did.”

  “Can you show me where you kept it?”

  “Sure. We walked right by it on the way in.” She gets to her feet. “Mudroom. Come on.”

  I follow her to the narrow porchlike room I passed through upon entering. A row of windows on the outside wall lets in a generous amount of sunlight. A big chest freezer rattles against the opposite wall. There’s a shelf unit littered with canning jars and a few gardening tools. Next to it, hooks set into the wall for hats and jackets.

  “Kept that old gun right there in the corner.” Dorothy points. “Propped against the wall.”

  “Loaded?”

  “I don’t think so. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know.”

  “Do you keep your door locked?” I ask. “I mean, at night?”

  She smiles tiredly. “No one in Belleville locks their doors.”

  I stand there a moment, taking in the proximity of the place where the gun was stored in relation to the door. It wouldn’t take much for someone to slip inside unnoticed and snatch it up.

  “Was Bishop Stoltzfus having problems with anyone else in the community?” I ask.

  “Well, Ananias was strict. He was tough on anyone who broke the rules.” She purses her lips. “Now that you mention it, there might’ve been a time or two when someone got their back up.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Duane Mullet. That one was trouble from the day he was born. His poor mamm. He talked like a demon with all the cursing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Drank like a fish. The bishop wouldn’t have it and put him under the bann straightaway. Duane was just twenty years old and he sure didn’t take it sitting down. Cussed out the bishop right in front of everyone.”

  “Did the police question Mullet?”

  “He was a truck driver at the time, and he was up in Alaska when Ananias disappeared.”

  I write down the name anyway. “Is he still around?”

  “Lives up in the hills last I heard. Still a roughneck from what I hear.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Roman Miller comes to mind. That boy was as cute as a speckled pup. He’d been courting a nice Amish girl. Going to the singings and whatnot. Rumor had it, he was messing around with a Mennonite girl up to Lewistown at the same time. I don’t know how the bishop got involved; someone probably saw Roman with the girl and told him. Ananias came down hard.”

  “Did Roman come around?”

  The Amish woman scoffs. “Got mad is what he did. Roman’s a firebrand. He denied all of it. Refused to confess. Kept on seeing both them girls. Strutting around like a rooster. Believe me, he was no catch. Ananias finally put him under the bann.”

  “How did that go over?”

  “Didn’t like it one bit. Roman’s a farrier, you see. Lost all his Amish business. From what I hear, it put him into financial ruin.”

  “So he was more worried about the financial impact than being ousted from his friends and family,” I say.

  “Tells you something about the man, doesn’t it?” she replies.

  “How long ago did this happen?” I ask.

  “A few months before Ananias went missing.”

  The timing makes the back of my neck itch. “Does he still live in the area?”

  “Last I heard, he joined a Mennonite church. Married that floozy and had a herd of little ones. Still a farrier, though. Does mostly English horses now. Cowboys and such. Lives on the other side of Belleville.” She rattles off directions.

  I write all of it down. “Did the police talk to Roman?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “They seem to have their sights set on Jonas.”

  I think about other sources of information. Family or friends of the bishop who might be able to shed some light on his life. “I understand the bishop was a widower.”

  “Mrs. Stoltzfus passed away when I was barely a teenager,” she tells me. “I think it was in 1999 or so.”

  “Do they have children?”

  “Mary Elizabeth lives right here in Belleville. Last name is Hershberger. Henry lives a ways out of town. Only had the two far as I know.”

  I jot down the names. “Do you think they’d talk to me?”

  “Probably. They’re Amish. Decent folks. Not too fond of Jonas and me, as you can imagine.” Her brows furrow and she drops her gaze to the floor. “Mary Elizabeth had some trouble a while back.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Vandals. She and her husband own an old paper mill at the back of their property, you know. Place has been abandoned for years. They were renovating it with plans to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast for all the English tourists that never seem to come. Anyway, someone set fire to the place. Did a lot of damage.”

  “Were the police called?”

  She gives me a what-do-you-think look. “The Amish like to handle things on their own when they can.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  “Mary Elizabeth blamed Jonas. Accused him of holding a grudge.” She makes a sound of distress. “I suspect it was teenagers. English youngsters out drinking and driving around the way they do.”

  I glance at my notes. I don’t have much, but it’s a start. I slide the notebook into my pocket and finish my coffee.

  “The little boy I met in the driveway,” I begin. “He looks like you.”

  “That would be Junior, our youngest.” Her grin reaches all the way to her eyes. “He’s a shy one. Smart. Good little worker, too. Short on words, though.”

  “Jonas tells me you have three.”

  Her expression lights up at the mention of her children. “They’ve been in the shop all day, like little worker bees. Wouldn’t come in for lunch, so I took soup to them. Poor things. They’ve been working on some cabinets Jonas promised a client.” She glances at the clock on the wall and gets to her feet. “It’s past time for them to come in and eat. Come on, Katie, and I’ll introduce you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I follow Dorothy across the parking area toward the metal building. A generator is still rumbling from somewhere on the other side. I catch sight of a large air tank and realize the equipment inside is run on pneumatic power. A cinder block props open the door. I hear the scream of a saw, the hiss and chirp of compressed air. It’s after hours; I wonder if the Amish community has stepped in to keep the business running while Jonas is in jail.

  If you’re Amish and get into a jam, the community will rally. They will come even if they are not asked, and they will do what needs to be done to keep the home or farm or business up and running until you’re on your feet. It’s one of the things I admire most about the Amish.

  The interior is a well-lit, state-of-the-art woodworking shop—Amish style, of course. The smell of fresh-cut wood mingles with the oily pong of wood stain. I see a long bench with air hookups above. A drill press. An impressive-looking lathe. Air lines snake along the ceiling, smaller lines hanging down. To my left, an Amish girl of about fifteen is on her knees, vigorously rubbing stain into a two-tone ladder-back chair. She’s so immersed in her work, she doesn’t notice us.

  Junior, the little boy I met earlier, stands at a small bench, drill in hand, screwing brushed-nickel hardware into cabinet doors. He’s putting a good bit of muscle into the task, tongue poked out with the effort. An older boy, who looks astoundingly like a teenage Jonas, runs a sander over a tabletop, sawdust flying.

  I ponder Dorothy’s comment about the children working on some cabinets and I realize there are no other workers. The Amish did not come to help this family. Has the community turned against them because they believe Jonas is guilty of murder?

  My heart quivers uncomfortably in my chest as I watch the kids work. There’s no music. There are no masks or safety glasses. No gloves or hearing protection or steel-toed shoes. There’s little in the way of ventilation despite the heat, dust, and vapors from the stain. Still, I see intent concentration and adept hands that are likely callused because this kind of manual labor is a regular part of their day.

  Dorothy brings her hands together. “We’ve got a visitor!” she calls out to be heard above the noise. “And then supper.”

  Three heads swivel in our direction. The sander goes silent. The girl sets her staining rag on a bench and gets to her feet. Uncertainty overtakes her features as her eyes move from me to her mamm.

  “This is Kate Burkholder,” Dorothy says in Deitsch. “She’s here in town to … visit for a few days.”

  The girl is red-haired with a smattering of freckles on cheeks blushed pink from the heat. Not quite pretty, but she’ll grow into it. She’s wearing a light blue dress. White kapp. A smear of stain on her chin. Knees chafed from kneeling and covered with sawdust.

  “This is Effie,” Dorothy tells me. “Fifteen years old already.”

  “Almost sixteen.” She’s got a chipped front tooth, but it suits her. Hazel eyes. I amend my earlier assessment that she’s yet to grow into her prettiness.

  I offer my hand. “Stain looks good.”

  Grinning, she gives my hand a hearty shake. “Junior said you spoke Deitsch. Are you Amish?”

  “Now you just mind your manners,” Dorothy says.

  “I was,” I tell the girl. “I think maybe I broke too many rules.”

  “Oh.” Her laugh is a musical sound that reminds me of simpler times, when such things didn’t need to be stifled.

  Dorothy turns to the little boy. “I think you met Junior.”

  The boy in question holds his ground a few feet away. He’s got a sweaty face. Sawdust on his cheeks. Lingering purple stains around his mouth. Hat cocked back. Red hair sticking to his forehead. He looks as if he’s thinking about bolting again.

  I approach the boy and extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Junior.”

  The boy backs up a step, eyes darting left and right.

  “Junior don’t talk much,” Effie proclaims. “He’s only eleven but he’s good with the drill. Knows how to measure, too. Got an eye for color.”

  I back off, motion toward the cabinet he’d been working on. “Is that hardware stainless steel?” I ask, knowing fully it’s not.

  He looks at the cabinet and the flight response seems to wane. Still, he doesn’t like being the center of attention. “B-b-brushed nickel,” he says.

  “He stutters when he’s nervous,” Effie announces.

  “Or when you pay him too much attention.”

  At the sound of the deep male voice, I look over my shoulder to see the older boy approach. He is, indeed, the spitting image of Jonas when he was a teen. Dark hair and eyes. A surly demeanor that’s as charming as it is off-putting. And a direct stare that speaks of attitude and self-assurance.

  He comes up behind his younger brother, sets his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and eases him toward me. “She’s not going to bite you,” he says in Deitsch.

  “And this is Reuben,” Dorothy tells me. “Our oldest.”

  We shake hands and for an instant, I can’t look away. It’s as if I’ve been swept back in time and I’m seeing the Jonas I knew twenty years ago.

  “Just turned seventeen,” Dorothy says with a shake of her head. “Already works like a man.”

  “Seventeen going on ten,” Effie whispers.

  Grinning, Reuben tosses his shop rag at her. “Who asked you?”

  The girl bats the rag aside, then smiles at her mamm. “Acted like he was twenty at the singing Sunday. Especially when Miriam Miller came around.”

  Reuben falls back into surly mode, bends to pick the shop rag off the floor, but not before I catch the rise of color in his cheeks.

  The girl turns her attention back to me, tilts her head. “What brings you to Belleville?”

  Since Dorothy hasn’t explained to them the situation with their father, I keep it vague. “I’m here to help your parents with a couple of things.”