Page 16 of The Burning

“Orla’s out feeding the cows, but he’ll be back in a bit.” She shakes her head as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. “My goodness this is going to be a shock to him. Kumma.” Come.

She takes me through a living room where a cast-iron stove pumps heat and the pleasant smell of woodsmoke throughout the house. In the kitchen, she motions me to a chair at the table, then goes to the counter. She leans for a moment as if trying to gather her strength, then goes to an old-fashioned percolator, pours coffee into mismatched mugs, and brings both to the table.

I give her a minute to shore up her defenses, but I’m ever aware of the tick of the clock inside me. The one reminding me that there’s a killer on the loose in my town and I haven’t the slightest clue who he is or what else he might have planned.

I pluck the notepad from my jacket pocket and set it on the table in front of me. “When’s the last time you saw your son?”

“Been a little while.” Taking the seat across from me, she sips from her cup. “A month or so. Came over to borrow some tools once or twice.”

“I understand he’d been excommunicated,” I say.

“Six months ago. It’s been tough on him.”

“Was he excommunicated because of the divorce?”

“So they say.”

My interest cranks up a notch. “What do you mean by that?”

She stiffens her shoulders as if at some point she’d made the decision not to be ashamed of her son. “I’ll not speak poorly of my son. I’ll surely not speak ill of the bishop. I won’t do it. But I will tell you this truth: Bishop Troyer was too hard on Milan.”

“How so?”

“I’ll be the first to admit Milan made a few mistakes in his time. Started when he was a boy. Jumped into everything with two feet, and never tested the water first. Got him into a lot of trouble.” She picks up her mug, sets it down without drinking. “I don’t think he was the only one wanted out of that marriage.”

I recall my conversation with Bertha Swanz.

Milan didn’t want to be married anymore.

I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

… all those loose girls …

“Are you saying both of them wanted a divorce?” I ask.

“I’m saying she wanted it too. I’m betting she’s the one put him up to it. She knew he’d get excommunicated and she sure didn’t care.”

Among the Amish, it’s common knowledge that in order for a member of the church district to be excommunicated, a vote from the congregation must be unanimous. Whatever Milan Swanz did, it must have been a serious offense. I make a mental note to follow up and see if I can find someone else to corroborate.

“Was there a lot of animosity between Milan and Bertha?” I ask.

“She’s an awful woman and she was a terrible wife. She drove him to the divorce if you ask me, and then made sure he got the blame. Told everyone she knew that it was Milan’s idea. Well, I doubt that’s exactly the way it happened.”

I’m well aware that sometimes the parents are the last to accept the flaws or wrongdoing of their children. Even so, I write all of it down, press on.

“Do you know if Bertha was seeing anyone else?” I ask. “Was there someone courting her? Anything like that?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a sneaky thing.” She tightens her mouth. “My goodness, I probably ought to stop right there. I’m just so upset about all this.”

“Mrs. Swanz, did Milan have any enemies that you know of? Any ongoing disagreements? Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm him?”

The back door swings open. An Amish man steps into the kitchen with a swirl of snow and the smell of cow manure. As he stomps snow from his boots, his eyes travel from me to his wife and back to me.

“What’s all this?” he asks in Deitsch.

I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he knows I’ve come bearing bad news.

“Mr. Swanz.” I get to my feet and tell him the same thing I told his wife, again leaving out as many details as possible.