Page 86 of The Hidden One

Before he can respond, Dorothy rises and scoops up the clothes at her feet. “Effie, you can finish tomorrow. Let’s go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ve devotional to read and you could use a bath.”

Effie deflates, her expression telling me she’d rather stay down here and eavesdrop, but she’s too well-mannered to argue. “Junior smells worse than I do,” she grouses. “Why doesn’t he ever have to take a bath?”

Jonas wrinkles his nose. “In Junior’s case, I think it’s those beans he had for dinner.”

Effie giggles.

“There’s coffee on the stove, Katie.” Dorothy gestures toward the kitchen. “You make yourself at home while you’re here.”

The aromas of cooked onions and meat hover in the kitchen when I enter. I take in the warmth of this house, the closeness of this family, and I try to ignore the doubt I felt earlier, the sense of things lost, of nostalgia pressing down on me.

Jonas goes to the lamp and turns up the gas. “You’re limping,” he says.

I tell him about the accident. “It was a pickup truck. Dark. Blue or black.”

At the stove, he tips a percolator and pours coffee into two cups, cuts me a sharp look over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Just a little bruised.” I hold his gaze. “Do you know anyone who drives that kind of vehicle?”

He sets a cup in front of me and takes the chair across from me. “Roman Miller drives a truck.”

The rumble of thunder that follows rattles the plates hanging on the wall. I listen to the storm, sip coffee that’s a little too weak.

“The bishop in Minnesota has never heard of Ananias or Mia Stoltzfus,” I tell him.

He sets down his cup, his brows furrowing. “How can that be? Ananias was bishop. For years. Is it possible the man you spoke with is mistaken?”

“Ananias also had a lover.” I recap my conversation with Bob the bartender at the Triangle Bar and Grill. “In Lewistown. Her name was Rosemary. An English woman who owned a bar.” I pull out my cell and show him the photo of her. “Have you ever seen her before?”

“No.”

I set my phone on the table, thinking about my conversation with Nelson Yoder. “How well do you know Bishop Yoder?”

“I’ve known him for many years.” He narrows his gaze on mine. “He is a good bishop. A good man, I think.”

“Are you sure about that?” I ask.

“What are you asking me exactly?” he snaps. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

“Evidently, Yoder didn’t care for Ananias either, but then you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Jonas looks away, says nothing.

“Yoder told me Ananias was cruel. He claims to have witnessed that cruelty firsthand. He said Ananias’s tactics were tearing apart the community.”

He stares down at the tabletop in front of him, his mouth tight.

“Jonas, do you think it’s possible Bishop Yoder—”

“No.” He slaps his hand down on the tabletop. “No.”

I pick up my phone, scroll through the photos until I find the shot I took of the Lapplandschild shield. I show it to him. “Do you know what this is?”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulls out a pair of reading glasses, slides them onto his nose, and studies the photo. “No.”

The Amish attend school through the eighth grade. Most of their education focuses on reading, math, spelling, grammar, penmanship, and some history. “It’s a wartime medal,” I tell him.

He looks at me, incredulous. “Are you telling me Ananias fought in a war?”