Page 61 of The Hidden One

“And finding the truth.”

We clink our glasses together and drink.

It isn’t the first time I’ve sampled Amish wine. It isn’t the first time Jonas and I have drunk it together. This particular vintage isn’t very good. Too sweet, with a grassy flavor and an unpleasant tang that stings the tongue and lingers.

Jonas shudders. “Never liked it much.”

“It’ll do in a pinch.”

The silence that follows isn’t quite comfortable, but I let it ride. I sip the wine and listen to the cry of a barred owl through the window. I try to stay focused on the topic at hand—the mystery surrounding the death of Ananias Stoltzfus. Despite my efforts, the history we share looms large.

“Amanda Garber told me Mia Stoltzfus was from Germany,” I say after a moment.

“Never heard such a thing.” Jonas’s brows knit. “Mia did talk funny. Had that strange accent when she spoke Deitsch.”

“What about Ananias?”

“Now that you mention it, the bishop had a unique way of speaking, too. Especially Deitsch. Course he was from up north.” He swirls the wine, looks at me over the rim. “Do you think that means something?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s come up a time or two. Might be worth a closer look.”

I finish my wine and pour another couple of fingers into the glass. I tip the bottle toward Jonas’s glass, but he shakes his head.

“Do you have a theory about what happened to him?” I ask.

He knocks back the remainder of his wine and then leans back in the chair, considering. “I had a lot of time to think about it while I was locked up, and I still can’t figure it. Thing is, most of the Amish here in the valley are of the mind that Ananias was a good bishop. Yeah, he was strict. And there were a few of us who thought he enforced the rules with a heavy hand. But we were a minority. I can’t see someone killing him for it.”

“Did Ananias have much interaction with the English?” I ask.

“No more than the rest of us. We do plenty of business with the English. We visit with our English neighbors. We help them when they need it. You know how it is. We’re separate, only we’re not.”

“I talked to the pastor at the church where Mia Stoltzfus committed suicide,” I tell him. “He told me she asked for confession and absolution.”

“That doesn’t seem like something an Amish person would do.” His eyes narrow on mine. “Do you think what happened to Mia, what she did, has something to do with the murder of Ananias?”

“I think it raises a few questions.” I consider that a moment. “Did Mia Stoltzfus have any enemies? Any problems with anyone? Amish or English?”

“Not that I know of, but she was older than me. Seemed nice enough. Katie, I didn’t really know her at all.”

We fall silent again. This time, the silence is laced with the weight of our thoughts as they relate to the investigation. The puzzle of it. The unanswered questions. The ugliness of the end result.

“It seems like no one knows anything,” Jonas says.

“A lot of investigations are that way at first,” I tell him.

He offers a wry smile. “Are you telling me not to be discouraged?”

“I’m telling you we’re just getting started.”

He nods. “So what’s next?”

“I’ll keep poking around. Asking questions. Push if I have to.”

“You were always good at pushing, no?”

I nod. “Sooner or later, something will give. It always does.”

I finish my wine. I want more, but I don’t reach for the bottle. I try to focus on the business at hand, but once again the past hovers.