Page 28 of The Hidden One

“As long as you’re not here to get that no-good friend of yours off the hook.”

“I’m just looking for information,” I say simply.

She snaps a shirt from the line, shakes out the wrinkles. “The police seem pretty sure Jonas Bowman shot my father with that old muzzleloader of his.”

“Sometimes things aren’t always as they appear,” I tell her.

Frowning, she tosses the shirt into the basket without folding it. “Jonas Bowman.” She huffs the name like a curse. “Shot his own bishop like an animal. Left him for the vultures and critters to pick at. Not a shred of decency or a thought for the family. Eighteen summers and winters and not a word. The awfulness of that tears me apart to this day.”

I look past her at the house where the shadows of the trees play against the siding, give her a moment before continuing. “What do you think happened?”

“What do I think?” She chucks a clothespin into a small wicker caddy. “I think the devil lured my datt down to that abandoned farm. Nearly two miles and the man was eighty-six years old, for goodness’ sake. Spry for his age, but not a spring chicken.” She sighs. “Once we realized he was gone … we figured he’d fallen somewhere or had a heart attack. The kind of thing that happens to an old person.” She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but she’s talking, so I don’t interrupt.

“We looked for him for days,” she says. “Even the Englischers pitched in with their ATVs and horses and whatnot. All the while, we worried and we prayed.”

“Was there anything unusual going on in your father’s life at the time he disappeared?” I ask. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing of the sort. Like I said, he was old. Liked to take walks and tend his garden. Feed the birds. He was a godly man. A loving man who lived simply and plainly.”

“Had there been any disputes or arguments with anyone?” I ask.

“Everyone loved Datt.” Even as she snaps the words, I see a flash of hesitation in her eyes, and I wonder if she truly believes it—or if she’s convinced herself of it because she loved her father. “He was a good bishop. Must have done a hundred communions and baptisms. Dozens of marriages.” She clucks, a sound of irritation, as if I’m trying to sully his good deeds.

“What about excommunications?” I ask.

“Datt brought them backsliders right back into the fold.”

“Not all of them came back, though, did they?” I ask. “Roman Miller?”

“Now there’s a backslider for you. Two-timing a nice Amish girl with some Mennischt floozy.” Mennischt is the Deitsch word for Mennonite.

“Was Miller upset with your father?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” She straightens and gives me a level look. “My datt helped a lot of people here in Big Valley, Chief Burkholder. He did a lot of good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I nod my acceptance of that and press forward. “Was he a strict bishop, Mary Elizabeth? With the rules, the following of the Ordnung?”

“Someone’s been handing you a lot of talk.” She chucks a handful of clothespins into the wicker basket, but misses and they scatter in the grass. “You’d be wise not to listen to the gossipmongers.”

She’s getting herself worked up, so I kneel and pick up the pins, place them in the container. “I’m just gathering information,” I tell her. “Trying to figure out what happened.”

When the clothesline is bare, she steps back and looks at me as if trying to decide if I’m friend or foe. “Look, my datt kept people in line. A bishop has to keep things in order. Things are just better that way.”

“Fair enough.” I motion toward the house. “I couldn’t help but notice the broken window when I pulled up.”

She turns and looks, shrugs dismissively. “Someone threw a rock. English kids probably. You know how they are.”

“Did you report it to the police?” I know the answer before she answers.

“I don’t know how it is where you come from, but around here we like to handle things on our own.”

“I understand there was a fire, too,” I say.

Her eyes narrow. “You know a lot for having been here only a day.”

“Any idea who did it? Or why?”

“Wasn’t much of a fire, really. We lost some lumber is all. Adrian is renovating that old mill at the back of the property. Thinks he’s going to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.” She shakes her head. “I reckon someone would rather we not do that.”