Page 72 of The Hidden One

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.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me about Ananias or Mia Stoltzfus?” I ask. “Anything at all?”

Irritation flares in his eyes. “I heard you were hardheaded and difficult.”

“Two things that have served me well.”

He looks past me, where his wife is standing at the counter, pretending to be immersed in the book.

“Close the door,” he says.

I rise and click it shut, then settle back into the folding chair.

“Being struck by the lot and becoming bishop is a weight to bear, Kate Burkholder. It is a blessing and gift. But it is also a burden that has broken many a strong man.”

I nod my understanding of that.

“My dawdi had a saying about speaking out of turn.” He switches to Deitsch. “Blessed are the ones who have nothing to say and cannot be persuaded to say it.”

I wait.

“It’s not easy to speak ill of a man, especially when he was your bishop. But that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Grimacing, he leans forward and shuts down the sewing machine. “The meting out of punishments is a weight to bear,” he says. “There is no enjoyment. Only duty. The call to do God’s will.”

I say nothing.

“Shortly after Ananias became bishop, there was a young Amish man in the congregation who worked at the mill in Lewistown. It was too far for him to drive his buggy every day, so he borrowed a car from an English friend. He didn’t own it, mind you, but drove it nonetheless. Ananias warned him, but the driving continued. A few weeks later, Ananias put him under the bann. In the end, that young man left.”

It’s not an unusual story. But it’s exactly the kind that could cause hard feelings. “You disagreed with the decision to bann the young man?”

“No. That young man had been warned and refused to comply. I would have done the same.” The bishop seems to look inward, remembering, his lips turned down as if he’s realized a bad taste. “But I was there the day Ananias excommunicated him. There were tears; this young man cried. He begged. Could something have been worked out?” The bishop shrugs. “Who knows?”