A brisk breeze sent the swings in the playground swaying back and forth, and I shivered. Oliver stayed close to my legs. He must have sensed the eerie feeling too.
I walked up the three steps to the schoolhouse. The front door was ajar. “Hello?” I called in a singsong voice as I pushed the door open.
In the middle of the schoolhouse, the red-hot mouth of the potbelly stove was open, and Phoebe knelt in front of it, tossing paperback novels into the flames two by two.
Chapter Thirteen
“What are you doing?” I cried as she tossed another book into the stove. The novel instantly set ablaze, its pages curling inward as the flames ate them away.
A wooden crate of paperback books sat beside her on the floor. More kindling, it appeared.
Phoebe let out an “Eep” and dropped the stack of paperbacks in her hands. She spun around as if expecting to see a monster. Instead, she found me. She fell on her hip so close to the stove, I thought she might singe her dress. “What are you doing in here? You aren’t supposed to be here.”
I rushed forward and yanked the crate of books away from her.
“What are you doing? Those are mine.” She sat up and scooted herself away from the stove.
“Then why are you burning them?” I nudged the crate of books behind me with my foot.
Her face crumbled. “I have to. They killed the bishop.”
I picked up one of the novels. There was a young couple on the cover watching a sunset together. It was a romance, very sweet, very . . . non-killeresque. I held up the book. “This killed the bishop?”
She stumbled to her feet and closed the stove’s door. “Yes. Those books are the reason the bishop is dead. Without them, he would still be alive.”
“Because he didn’t want his district members reading them?”
Her mouth fell open. “How did you know that?”
I dropped the paperback back into the crate with the other books. “I was here the day before he died.”
She stared at me, blinking.
“I was here when he was fighting with Austina about the bookmobile visiting his district. You were here too. I saw you in the doorway.”
She brushed dust and soot from her black apron. There was a lot of soot gathered there. I wondered how many books she had burned before I showed up. Phoebe cleared her throat. “I remember. So you must know that’s why he died. Austina argued with him about allowing books in the district. When he still wouldn’t let her bring books in, she killed him.” Her voice shook as she said this.
“Austina didn’t kill the bishop over library books.”
She folded her arms. “Then she must have had another reason, because she did it.”
“How are you so certain? Did you see something?”
“N-nee, I didn’t see anything myself, but it’s what everyone is saying.”
I scowled. “That doesn’t make it true.”
She pointed a soot-blackened finger at me. “I know who you are. You’re the township trustee who helped Aaron Miller get permission for his pie factory last year.”
I frowned. “I didn’t have that much to do with it.”
“You shouldn’t be in here. This is a school for Amish children.” She stood and brushed soot off her hands. “Give those books back to me and leave.”
I kicked the crate farther behind me with my heel. “I’m not going to let you burn them.”
“They’re mine and I can do whatever I wish with them.”
I gave the crate another back kick and it banged into the edge of the door frame. “I suppose that’s true, but there are a lot of easier ways to dispose of those books rather than burning them. Your stove will never keep up with this many books.”
She folded her thin arms over her chest. “That’s none of your concern.”
“If you don’t want them, let me take them for the library book sale. Maybe then they can do some good.”
She bit her lip. “So that someone else can buy them? They are evil. They cannot do any gut for anyone.”
“If that person isn’t from your Amish district, what do you care if someone else buys and reads them?”
She thought on this for a moment. “Fine,” she said, nodding. “Take them. I don’t ever want to see them again.” She walked over to the chalkboard and started wiping away the math problems covering it.
“I hated long division in school. It always seemed to take longer than it should,” I said in a more conversational tone.
She swiped an eraser across the board, completely wiping out one of the problems with a fluid, practiced stroke. “It is important that the children learn how something is done even if the answer to the question is obvious.”
I nodded. “I think my dad would agree with you at that. He was always disappointed that I didn’t have his passion for math. I have always been more attracted to art.”
She didn’t respond, and kept erasing. Strands of her bright red hair sprang out of her bun and out from under her prayer cap on the back of her head like rays of the sun.
There was a globe in the front corner next to Phoebe’s desk. A paper nameplate was in the middle of the desk, and it read, MISS TRUBER.
Everything in the room was labeled in English, reminding me that some Amish children didn’t learn English until they started school. Two blackboards covered almost the entire front wall. The first blackboard had the Beatitudes written on it. Although I hadn’t attended church in many years, I recognized them because my aunt Eleanor made me memorize them. She said they were one of the most important passages to remember. My eyes fell on one verse: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Was Bartholomew Beiler’s family being comforted now? I realized I didn’t know much about him or his family. I assumed he was married. He would have to be to be a bishop. Did he have any children? Who were they? Wouldn’t his family be the best ones to know who might have wanted the bishop dead?
On the chalkboard, my eyes fell to the next line: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” That was a perfect description of Phoebe. Her hands shook as she erased the other board.
She finished her task and gasped when she turned around. “What are you still doing here? You should leave.”
“Not yet. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Bartholomew Beiler.”
“Nee.” She spun around and started to attack the second chalkboard. The verses disappeared with each swipe of her eraser. Her shoulders drooped, and she turned around to face me again. “You aren’t going to leave until I talk to you, are you?”
I smiled. “Nope. I’m annoying that way, or so I’ve been told.”
She sat in one of her students’ desks facing away from me and toward the chalkboard. I sat at a desk in the same row a couple of seats away. The desks looked as if they came from public school circa 1970. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. The Amish were bargain hunters, and flea markets and school auctions were favorite places for them to shop. They were the ultimate recyclers before it was trendy.
My knees knocked onto the bottom of the desk. It was easy to forget how small children’s school desks were. Sitting in that seat reminded me of my childhood, of the many times I would read in my lap or draw when I should have been paying attention to whatever the teacher was saying.
She didn’t look at me, just kept staring straight ahead and said, “I’ve already told you why the bishop was murdered. Those books by the door are the reason he is dead. What more can I tell you?”
I folded my hands on the top of the desk. “How can you be so sure? Do you know something? Did you see something?”
She ignored my question and said, “I know you own Running Stitch. Everyone in the county has heard much about you since you moved here.”
“I bet they have,” I said, and shifted in my seat. I could already feel the bruises forming on my
knees. “I’m sorry for your loss and the loss to your community. I know it must be devastating to lose such an important man.”
Phoebe removed a white handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed her eye. “I didn’t cancel school today, not officially, but none of the children showed up. I can’t say I blame their parents for wanting to keep their children at home. It’s so terrible.”
“Was the bishop giving you a hard time because you borrowed and read books from the library?”
Her head snapped up. “Did Austina tell you that?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just figured it out. Why else would you use them for kindling?”
“I wasn’t reading anything bad—I promise you I wasn’t. If I had known it would drive Austina to kill the bishop, I would have stopped reading. I didn’t want this to happen over some silly book I hid under my pillow at night.”
“Why are you so sure it was Austina?”
“Who else could it be?” She braced her hands on the desktop. “Who else was angry with him? You were here the last time they fought. Didn’t Austina look angry?”
I thought back to that afternoon. More than angry, Austina had appeared defiant, and maybe a tad bit superior. The bishop had been the furious one.
“So no one in the district was angry at the bishop?”
She didn’t answer.
“You saw the bishop fight with Austina. Whether you like it or not, the police are going to want to talk to you. They are going to ask you the same thing.”
She stared at her hands. “The only person I know of is Gil Kauffman.” She whispered the name.
“Who’s that?”
Still without looking at me, she said, “He lives in the district. He wanted to marry the bishop’s daughter. The bishop supported him, but the bishop’s daughter wanted to marry someone else.” She took a breath. “The bishop finally relented, and her engagement to the other man was announced the day before the bishop died.”
“Who was the other man?”
“Levi Leham.”
I nearly fell out of my chair—or I would have if I wasn’t wedged so tightly into the tiny desk that I could barely breathe. “Levi Leham? He’s marrying the bishop’s daughter?”
She nodded. “He was. The wedding was supposed to be this weekend. Now it will be postponed.”
Why hadn’t Jeremiah and Sarah shared this little kernel of information with me? It wasn’t like Sarah to keep a secret about anything, especially something this interesting.
“What’s the name of the bishop’s daughter?”
There was a pause, and for a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she said, “Faith.”
“Faith Beiler,” I said. I didn’t know her.
Just then the door to the schoolhouse flew open.
Chapter Fourteen
A redheaded Amish man who looked to be in his early forties stomped into the schoolhouse. His red beard was streaked with white, giving it a peppermint look, and was much longer than my friends in the New Order wore theirs. From the beard, I knew immediately that he was married. It was pretty easy to tell the married men from the unmarried men in the Amish world. Beard, married. No beard, not married. I also surmised, from the shade of his hair, that he was related to Phoebe.
“Phoebe, what are you doing here?” the peppermint-bearded man demanded. “We need you to come home right now. I told you there was no point in teaching to—” The man pulled up short when he saw me. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” I shot back, realizing that I had been asking that question a lot lately.
“I’m Phillip Truber, Phoebe’s brother.” He stood next to the potbelly stove and dug his fists into his hips.
I ungracefully wiggled out of the student desk. “Angie Braddock. I own Running Stitch, one of the quilt shops in town.”
“Quilts? We have no need for quilts. Why are you here?” He looked from me to his sister and back.
“I stopped in to talk to Phoebe to see how she was doing,” I said. “The death of Bishop Bartholomew Beiler has been very upsetting.”
“You know her?” Phillip’s voice cracked like a whip as he directed the question at his sister.
“I—I—” Phoebe stammered.
“We met yesterday, when the bookmobile was visiting the school,” I fibbed.
“You’re one of those librarian people?” he spat. His face grew as red as his beard.
Since when was that a bad thing?
He glared at his sister’s soot-covered apron and skirt. “What on earth have you been up to?”
Phoebe swallowed. “I stoked the fire in case any of the children came here.” As her voice shook, I realized that she was afraid of her brother.
I eyed him more closely. He was tall, at least six-three, an unusual height for an Amish man. He had buttoned his navy blue work shirt all the way up to his throat, just as Bartholomew Beiler had worn his the day I met him. It appeared to be part of the confining dress for Bartholomew’s district.
I had been in Amish Country long enough to notice some of the subtle differences in the clothing. Jonah would never wear a shirt that tightly buttoned. He’d complain about not being able to breathe. Jonah may have been Amish, but he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. Thankfully, he grew up in a New Order district that allowed him to do that . . . within reason.
“I told you this morning the children would not come here,” Phillip snapped. “Why did you waste firewood to start a fire?”
It wasn’t firewood, I thought, but held my tongue. I guessed Phillip would be all for the book-burning party.
“It’s time to go.” He threw open the door.
Phoebe gathered up her cloak and large black bonnet from one of the many pegs that lined the left side of the schoolroom.
Phillip glared at the crate of novels by the door. “Whose are these?” He glowered at his sister.
I hurried forward and picked up the crate. “Oh, those are mine. I’m in charge of the library book sale that was scheduled for the end of the week. I’m not sure if it’s still going to happen now, considering, you know . . .” I smiled brightly. “But I’m always gathering up books to sell for such a good cause.”
Phillip gave his sister a suspicious look, as if he knew exactly who the books belonged to. If Mattie, who was from a completely different Amish order, knew Phoebe was borrowing books, then he must have known as well.
I carried the crate through the door. “I should be going. Nice visiting with you, Phoebe. If you want to talk, just let me know.”
“She doesn’t have anything to say to you,” Phillip snarled from the top of the steps.
That’s what you think.
After leaving the schoolhouse, I swung by the sheriff’s station to sign my statement. I was in and out within thirty minutes. I was beginning to become a bit of a pro at it. Mitchell wasn’t there. When I reached Running Stitch, Mattie was closing up shop.
She walked out the door and said, “I have to help out at the pie factory tonight. One of Aaron’s bakers called in sick, but tomorrow I want to know everything. You were gone forever.”
“You got it,” I promised.
Before heading to my parents’ house for dinner, I stopped at home to change. My mother was the sort that expected folks to dress up for dinner. I blamed this on her obsession with Downton Abbey.
Dodger gave Oliver and me a dirty look when we walked into the house. He was angry that we had left him alone all day. Oliver took a downward dog stance in penance. Dodger boxed at his canine brother’s nose, and soon all was forgiven, the two rolling on the floor together.
I set the crate of books from the schoolhouse next to my front door. I sighed and felt sorry for Phoebe. I too had been a shy girl who kept her nose in a book growing up. Eventually, I grew out of my shyness. My mother would credit that to forcing me to part
icipate in beauty pageants. To tell the truth, she was right. I hated them so much that I had to assert myself to make her give up the dream of having a future Miss America for a daughter. I shuddered at the thought.
Instead of the evening gown my mother would have preferred for dinner tonight, I opted for black slacks and a silver sweater. Even though they didn’t go with the outfit, I chose to wear my cowboy boots. They’d help me get through the night.
Before we left, I whistled for Oliver by the back kitchen door to let him out into the backyard. Once upon a time, Oliver had a doggy door to come and go as he pleased, but when a deranged arsonist used it to try to kill me, I had Mitchell nail it shut. Since then, my landlord had installed a new door altogether. “Time to go outside,” I said in a singsong voice.
Oliver sighed, looking at Dodger, but finally waddled to the back door.
I did not allow Dodger outside unsupervised. The cat got in all sorts of trouble when I was watching; who knew what trouble he could cause when I wasn’t paying attention?
Oliver stopped on the threshold and growled.
Oliver wasn’t a growler. When it came time to fight or flight, he was the first one to hightail it out of there.
In the fading light I scanned the yard, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
The house behind mine had some overgrown brush that grew up right alongside my back fence. Maybe there was a cat or chipmunk hiding back there? “It’s okay, Ollie,” I said. “You need to go potty, so we can go to Grandma and Grandpa’s.”
Oliver growled deeper in his throat, and I knew something was wrong. I took a step out the door, and Oliver bit into the pant leg of my dress pants, holding me there, unless I was willing to let him tear a hole in them. Was someone out there spying on me, or preparing to rob me? I knew Oliver wouldn’t bite me like that unless he was truly concerned. I froze.
Something in the bushes moved, and it was a lot bigger than a chipmunk. The form stood, and I could just make out the shape of a person. I thought it was probably a man or a very tall woman. It was too dark to know for sure. Nor could I tell if the intruder was Amish or English. The sun was setting and the backyard was almost completely in shadows this late in the day.
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