“That sounds about right.”
“Did she mention why she was here?”
“Nein.”
“Why she was waitressing?”
“She said she needed a job while she was here.”
“Future plans?”
“Nein.”
“You’re not being particularly helpful, Mr. Lapp.” Agent Delaney studied his fingernails. “Perhaps you could tell us what you do know about Ms. Brooks.”
“I’d be happy to. She was a personable young woman, worked hard at her job, and people seemed to like her.”
“People? Or you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.” Delaney sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, and a smile tugging at his lips. “For an older man like you, it would be natural for a beautiful young woman like Sophia Brooks to catch your eye.”
When Henry didn’t answer, Delaney added, “You’re Amish, right? I understand dating is limited in your culture, and the women…well, they don’t exactly look like Sophia.”
“Hey. That’s unnecessary.” Grayson shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Agent Delaney is correct. Sophia was quite beautiful.”
“And yet someone killed her.”
“So it would seem.”
Grayson cleared his throat. “Our preliminary autopsy ruling confirms the cause of death was strangulation.”
“She was strangled?”
“Yes.”
Henry thought of one drawing on his kitchen table. Some detail wasn’t jibing with what Grayson said. He nearly snapped his fingers when he thought of it—her nails had been clean and unbroken.
“Was there any sign that she fought back? Surely she didn’t simply lie in the reeds and allow someone to choke the breath out of her.”
Grayson stared at his pad a minute, as if he was trying to decide whether to share some piece of information. In the end, he said, “The medical examiner found small leather fibers around the victim’s neck, consistent with strangulation by a thin strap. The perpetrator was likely male, strong, and standing over her when the homicide took place.”
Henry had pictured hands wrapped around her neck.
Who would use a leather strap?
Why?
“Sophia was killed with a leather strap?”
“Yes, Mr. Lapp.” Delaney didn’t bother looking his direction. He again scanned the room as if he might find some clue to Sophia’s murder there.
“Someone squeezed Sophia’s throat so tightly she couldn’t breathe. He stood there for at least two minutes, possibly longer, and continued to strangle her until he was certain she wasn’t merely unconscious but dead.” Delaney stood, walked across the room, and stopped beside the cubbies where Henry placed his hat and coat and, after he’d been birding, binoculars.
He crouched down, studied the binoculars where they hung from their strap, and then turned to pierce Henry with an accusatory glare. “According to Sheriff Grayson, you were wearing these when you found the body.”
“I was, as were a couple hundred other bird-watchers at the refuge yesterday.”
“And yet you were the one who stumbled on the body. You just happened across Sophia Brooks where she lay hidden in the reeds on a fifteen-thousand-acre preserve.”
“Gotte’s wille, perhaps.” This Henry muttered under his breath. If Agent Delaney heard, he gave no indication.
Grayson crossed his right leg over his left knee. “I’m sorry about this, Henry. But I have to ask. Can you tell me where you were Wednesday morning between the hours of five and seven in the morning?”
“Two days ago you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I was here, at my home and workshop.” He wanted to ask both men if they believed he had anything to do with Sophia’s death, but it was plain they did. At least Delaney did, and perhaps he was the one in charge now.
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
Henry’s right arm began to tremble. He tucked it closer to his side. “Nein. I was alone all day.” It was rare indeed that one of his parishioners didn’t stop by or that he hadn’t been out to see someone, but it did happen. And that early in the morning?
As an afterthought, he asked, “Is that when she died? Wednesday morning?”
“We’re not authorized to share information pertinent to the case,” Delaney said.
“It’s preliminary,” Grayson added.
Delaney had examined the rest of the cubbies and their contents. Now he was again studying the binoculars hanging from a peg by a leather strap. “You wouldn’t mind if we took these in, would you? I could get a warrant, but it would look better all around if you helped us in our investigation.”
Henry stood, anger and disbelief warring with one another in his mind and heart. In the calmest voice he could muster, he said, “I’d like you to leave now.”
“Fine.” Delaney raised his hands, palms out. “Just don’t go anywhere. We’ll be back in a few hours, and we’ll bring a warrant.”
The screen door banged behind Delaney. Henry could see through it, could see the man standing on his front porch and surveying his property.
“He thinks I did it.” His voice seemed to come from far away.
He jerked his head around when Grayson didn’t answer. Finally, the sheriff lowered his voice and said, “He can think what he wants. Doesn’t mean he can prove it. Stay calm. Cooperate. Hopefully we’ll get something in on the tip hotline we’ve set up, or the lab results from the crime scene will point him toward the real killer.”
“So you don’t believe… You know I didn’t do this.”
Grayson pulled him back, farther away from the door. “Henry, we both know you didn’t do this, but Delaney is like a bloodhound that thinks he’s caught a scent. Cooperate. Show him you’re on his side. You’re innocent, and the forensics will prove it.”
Henry nodded, wanting to believe his friend. But he’d been involved with the Englisch police before, and he knew what often mattered wasn’t the data they found but the way they interpreted it.
He watched Grayson drive away and then walked back into the kitchen in a daze. He glanced at the table and froze when he saw the drawings of Sophia spread across it. His arm began to tremble again as he realized he would probably be in the back of that police car right now if Delaney had seen them. It was bad enough that he didn’t have an alibi, but he had little doubt that the agent would view the drawings as an indication that Henry was obsessed with Sophia.
Delaney would be easily convinced that obsession had something to do with a motive for murder.
Twenty-Nine
Emma was crouched in the flower beds, deadheading the faded geranium buds, when she heard a buggy tearing down her lane.
“Is that Henry?” Rachel asked.
“Appears so.”
“I’ve never seen him drive so fast.”
“Maybe you should fetch Clyde.”
Rachel rushed off in the direction of the barn as Emma hurried toward the buggy.
Oreo looked very pleased with herself, tossing her black head as her white tail slapped back and forth. Henry on the other hand, tumbled out of the buggy looking quite frazzled.
“Is something wrong?” Emma asked.
Instead of answering, he reached into the backseat and pulled out a large paper bag. “Can we go inside?”
“Of course.”
By the time they made it to the kitchen, Rachel and Clyde had come through the back door.
“Rachel said there’s an emergency?”
“Ya. I think so.” He set the bag on the table.
They had been through a lot together, but Emma had never seen Henry look as flustered as he did now. His hat was on backward, his shirt had come untucked from his pants, and his suspenders were twisted. His eyes darted around the kitchen as if he expected someone to jump out and shout boo!
“Maybe you should sit down and have a glass of water,” she said.
“I can’t.” Henry’
s hands flapped at his side. “I have to get back before they return.”
“Take it easy, Henry.” Clyde walked up to his bishop, placed a hand on each shoulder, and looked him directly in the eyes. “Slow down and take a deep breath. Then tell us what’s going on.”
In a faltering voice, Henry recounted his meeting with Grayson and Delaney. By the time he was finished, they were all sitting at the table, and he’d downed an entire glass of water.
Emma crossed her arms and clutched her elbows. “This Delaney fellow…I wonder why Grayson brought him in.”
“I imagine he didn’t have a choice.” Rachel smiled slightly when they all turned to stare at her. “The Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge is on federal land, ya? Then the murder would be deemed a federal crime.”
“How does my sweet, Plain wife know such things?” Clyde reached over and rubbed the back of her neck. “Wait. Don’t tell me. It’s those books you read.”
Rachel blushed prettily, but she didn’t deny it.
“They have no reason to even suggest you could be involved in this, Henry.” Emma had a flyswatter in her hand, and she whacked it against the floor, whether because of a fly or picturing Delaney, she wasn’t completely sure. She just needed to whack something.
“Grayson will be on your side,” Clyde said. “He’s a gut man.”
“He is, but I’m not sure he’s running the show. Like Rachel suggested, I believe it’s a federal matter now.”
“You have nothing to hide, Henry. Let them come back to your house with a warrant. Let them take the binoculars. They’ll find nothing. You’re an innocent man, and the investigation will prove that.”
“It could be that I’ll need an alibi, though, which I don’t have.”
Clyde rubbed a hand across his face. “You were home and in your workshop all day? Well, you had to walk from one to the other, probably a couple of times. Your place is close enough to the road that someone could have seen you.”
“At seven in the morning?” Henry shook his head. “I usually eat breakfast and then putter around inside the house until eight. No one would have seen that from the road.”
“But they need more than just suspicions,” Rachel said.
“She’s right.” Emma waved the flyswatter in the air. “They have to prove your guilt, and we all know they can’t do that. In fact, I think we’re all panicking over nothing. So a bully came to see you. So what? Let him be a bully. He has no proof, and so he’s grasping at straws. So what if no one saw you at home? That could be said of many other people in the early hours of the morning. And how many people own binoculars with a leather strap? Plenty. Nearly every birder in Monte Vista. As Clyde said, you have nothing to hide.”
“Ya, what you all are saying is true, and I don’t know why I’m so…so frazzled.” Henry reached again for the glass, which was now empty, and Emma noticed how his hand shook.
“Say, you’re really upset about this.” She jumped up to refill the glass. “Henry, we won’t let anything happen to you.”
“The problem is, Henry doesn’t entirely trust the Englisch legal system.” Clyde sat back and drummed his fingers against the table. “Can’t say I blame you, either.”
“After what happened in Goshen? Nein. I don’t.”
“But you were found innocent,” Rachel argued. “Eventually.”
“It’s the eventually that’s the problem.” Henry clutched the glass Emma gave him in his hand, holding it so tightly Emma feared he might break it. “I was a younger man then. I could withstand the pressure of sitting in an Englisch jail cell, but I’ll tell you, it’s not natural. Now that I’m an older man, I’m not sure how I would handle it.”
“You’re not going to be jailed, Henry.” Emma could see the fear in her friend’s eyes, and that upset her more than anything. “This isn’t like Goshen.”
Henry was their port in a storm. He was always calm, practical, and at peace with whatever was happening. She’d never seen him in a state of panic. Not during the mess in Goshen, not when young Sam Beiler was jailed for a murder he didn’t commit, not ever. Her eyes darted left and then right, and then they landed on the large paper bag.
Poking it with the flyswatter, she asked, “What’s in there?”
“That’s why I’m here. I need you to hide something for me.”
Thirty
Emma watched as Henry spread out seven drawings on their table. Four were of Sophia at the diner, one was of her walking down the road in Monte Vista, another was when she’d come to Emma’s home, and the final one was at the Monte Vista Natural Wildlife Refuge.
Six of her alive.
One after she’d died.
All of photographic quality. Every inch of each large sheet of paper was covered. As often happened, Emma was surprised at what he had drawn. This thing he could do—this talent that had resulted from a careless boy’s accident—never failed to astonish her.
“When did you have time to draw these?” Emma’s voice was a whisper.
“Last night and this morning.”
“Did Grayson and Delaney see them?” Clyde reached forward to touch one of the drawings. It showed Sophia at the diner, helping the old woman.
It was the same drawing he’d given to Sophia. Emma recognized it immediately from when Henry told her about it. The same drawing that had scared Sophia.
“Nein. They didn’t.”
“You’re sure?” Rachel said. “Because we understand your talent, and Grayson should, but this man Delaney? He might view these differently.”
“I was thinking the same thing. It’s why I brought them here. Delaney is coming back with his warrant, and if he sees these, he might use them as evidence to say I was obsessed with Sophia. He might think I’ve been drawing her for days or weeks. How could he know I drew all of these last night? And would he believe me if I told him?”
“Of course we’ll keep them for you.” Emma couldn’t deny it. Sometimes Henry’s gift frightened her. Not only were these drawings exquisitely detailed, but the faces showed emotions to a degree that made her uncomfortable. It was as if the person’s every feeling was visible, maybe even his or her thoughts.
But that was impossible. A picture, a drawing, couldn’t do that.
And there was no reason they shouldn’t keep the drawings for Henry. They had nothing to hide. No one sitting around this table had a single thing to conceal from Delaney or anyone else, but prudence was a good thing, especially in legal situations.
“Why did you draw these, Henry?” Clyde had picked up the rendering of Sophia at the wildlife refuge. It showed her lying among the reeds, her neck bruised and her eyes shut, the dog tag with the “Serenity Prayer” peeking from beneath the collar of her shirt. It seemed to Emma that even in death she was beautiful, perhaps more so than she had been in life. She’d finally laid down all of her burdens, and her youth seemed to shine despite the lifelessness of her pose.
“Hard to say.” Henry began pacing back and forth in front of them. “Emma dropped by yesterday and said it might help with the shock of it all. I prayed on it, let the idea sit with me a while, and then last night before bed I became convinced it was the right thing to do, that it was a way of honoring Sophia’s life.”
“And you drew all of these last night?” Rachel asked.
“Nein. I drew four before I went to bed, after you came to visit, Emma. I decided you were right, that drawing what I’d seen might soothe the ache in my soul. I worked until almost nine o’clock and then went to bed. Didn’t think I would sleep, but I did.”
“The other three?” Clyde asked.
“I woke in the middle of the night with the feeling that I’d forgotten something, that some details needed to be put down for others to see. That’s when I drew the final three.”
Emma asked, “And which were those? Which were the ones your dreams or your subconscious—”
“Or the still small voice of the Lord,” Clyde said in a murmur.
“Ya, or that,” E
mma continued. “Which were those final three?”
Henry stepped to the table. He pulled out one of the drawings of the diner, the one he’d done of Sophia when she’d arrived at Emma’s house, and the drawing from the wildlife refuge. “These are the ones I drew early this morning.”
“All right.” Clyde slapped the table with his hand and stood, a smile wreathing his face.
It was one of the things Emma loved dearly about her son—his ability to greet life’s most challenging times with a positive spirit. He wasn’t a perfect man. He lost his temper when things broke in the barn, sometimes he was impatient with the children, and often he left his dirty socks on the floor. But he was a good man with a strong faith, and he was a true friend to Henry. These things she knew for sure and for certain.
“We will pray that this situation is resolved fully and completely. Leave the drawings here. Emma and Rachel and I will study the three you’ve pulled out when we have an extra moment here and there. It’s not as if you’re doing something wrong by removing them from your home. They would only bring more and unnecessary scrutiny on you from this Delaney fellow.”
“We’ll take gut care of them, Henry.” Rachel scooped up all of the drawings, placing the three he’d done that morning on top, and put them all back in the paper bag.
“There. Don’t give them another thought.” Emma tried for an optimistic smile, but it felt off, felt forced. She settled for swatting at a fly in mid-flight. “I’ll walk you out to your buggy.”
As they stepped outside, she said, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring Lexi.”
“I guess I wanted her to guard the house.”
“Guard it against what?”
“The police? Sophia’s killer? I’m not sure, Emma. To be completely honest with you, I have an overwhelming sense of danger, but I don’t know which direction it’s coming from.”
Thirty-One
I’m sorry, Emma. The way I arrived, practically in a panic, that wasn’t very bishop-like of me.”
“Still trying to be perfect?”
He laughed, perhaps his first of the day. “Nein, but occasionally my frailty and fears take me by surprise.”
When the Bishop Needs an Alibi Page 11