Page 57 of The Burning

The Amish woman stiffens, gives me with a withering look.

I point at her counterpart. “Tell her you need a fifteen-minute break,” I say. “Grab your coat. We can talk in the alley.”

A few minutes later, the two of us are standing outside the door at the rear of the restaurant, looking out at two rust-scuffed dumpsters and a vintage pickup truck, all of which are dusted with snow.

“You find out who killed him?” she asks as she yanks the collar of her coat up to her chin.

“Still working on it,” I say.

“Well, I don’t know why you’re bothering me again.”

I think about my brother, my young nephew, and the disturbing account of what happened in the barn. “Are you sure about that, Mrs. Swanz? Are you sure there isn’t something else you’d like to tell me about your ex-husband?”

“I told you everything I know,” she snaps.

“Everything you know about your children?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she huffs.

I can tell by her expression that she does. I lean closer to her, get in her face. “I think you do.”

She backs up a step, putting distance between us, her eyes skating away from mine.

“Was your ex-husband ever inappropriate with the children?” I ask.

Blinking, she reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a pack of Camel cigarettes. Smoking is considered “worldly” and therefore frowned upon by most Amish, but some of the more conservative groups still partake, especially the men.

With a shaking hand she taps one out and offers it to me. “It’s not against the Ordnung,” she mutters.

I know better than to take it, but I do and we light up. “Your secret is safe with me.” It’s a small, intimate bond that we now share.

We smoke in silence for a minute. I watch the snow come down. See the reflection of the traffic light against the brick façade of the building. I feel the passage of time pressing down.

“Bertha.” I take her back to the question at hand. “Was he ever inappropriate with the children?”

“No. He wasn’t.” Her voice is so low, I have to move closer to hear her. “But I saw him … looking at them, you know. I kept them in my room at night.”

I think about that in terms of Swanz’s murder and I wonder if at some point he took things too far. What if someone caught wind of it? A loved one? An uncle or grandfather or family friend? What if they decided to do something about it?

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I’m sure.”

For a full minute neither of us speaks. I watch her smoke, take in the way her hand shakes. I see the wheels of her brain spinning. Something there, I think, and I give her another push.

“Bertha, is there anything else you can tell me that might help me find the person responsible for your ex-husband’s death?”

“There was a rumor going around,” she whispers. “A while back. About Milan. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard it.”

“What rumor?”

“A couple of months ago at worship, everyone noticed that the bishop’s hair was all messed up.”

“His hair? Messed up how?”

“Like it had been cut. Or hacked off, more like.” She shrugs. “Some of us women talked about it and at first, we thought he might’ve had a cancer spot removed from his scalp. Something like that. But when we were cleaning up that day, some of the women were acting strangely. It was as if they knew something about me and didn’t want to talk about it.

“At first, I was hurt. Felt left out. I mean, we’re close. Friends, you know.” She shrugs. “A few days later, I went to see Erma Miller’s new baby. A few of us were having sweet coffee and I heard a crazy story about what really happened to the bishop.”