When the Bishop Needs an Alibi

by Vannetta Chapman

  “It’s the same for all of us. One day I’m on top of the world, sure Gotte is on His throne and I’ve conquered this thing called living.” She stopped beside the geranium plant to pinch off one last bloom. “Other days I wonder how I managed to get to the ripe old age of sixty-two and yet still be so clueless.”

  “Maybe that explains why we’re still here. Gotte isn’t finished with us yet.”

  “He who began a gut work in you will carry it on to completion.”

  “I should have thought of that.”

  Emma nudged his shoulder with her own. Together they walked over to Henry’s mare, who seemed content to crop at what remained of the summer’s grass. Emma looked up, out across the valley and toward the mountains. Soon their peaks would be capped with snow, and they’d be making their way through another Colorado winter. Such were the seasons of life—each one seemed to come too quickly and pass before she’d settled into it.

  “I thought life would slow down as I got older,” she said.

  “The months and years seem to speed by.”

  “You feel it too?”

  “Ya.” Henry’s hand was next to hers, stroking Oreo’s neck. “Perhaps because they have become so precious, and we realize they are limited.”

  “Death is a normal part of life.”

  Henry nodded in agreement.

  “And yet Sophia’s death wasn’t natural.”

  “Every life is complete.” They were the same words he’d shared with Stuart, the same words he’d uttered through the years over dozens of freshly dug graves. It had been a privilege to help families through their time of suffering, but who would mourn Sophia? Would Grayson be able to locate her family? Did she have friends who would grieve her passing?

  Emma scratched the mare between her ears. “Why would anyone want to kill Sophia?”

  “I can’t think of a reason, but she did seem to think she was in danger.”

  “She certainly appeared quite troubled the morning she left here. I remember looking out the window and watching her walk down the lane. It seemed to me she carried the burdens of the world on her shoulders.”

  “I went to see her twice after that,” Henry admitted. “Tuesday, early in the morning, but the diner was too crowded to speak with her. She was rushing back and forth between tables. I went back later that afternoon.”

  “You must have been very concerned.”

  “I was. I also had a sense that time was running out.” His thumb was under his suspender. He looked down, surprised to find it twisted. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed that before. He hadn’t given a thought to how he looked. He’d been overwhelmed with a need to be with Emma and Clyde and Rachel, to be among friends.

  Emma walked behind him, straightened the strap, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  “Danki.”

  “Gem gschehne.” The old words passed between them, blessings passed on time and again.

  Henry unwrapped the reins from the hitching post in front of Emma’s house. Funny that he couldn’t remember putting them there to begin with. He’d allowed fear to consume him, and he’d run to the Fishers. To Clyde and Rachel and Emma, the people God had given him to stand in the place of family. Henry had family, of course—siblings who lived in Indiana. They wrote letters and spoke on the phone occasionally, but it wasn’t the same as having someone you could share a cup of coffee with, share your immediate fears with. Clyde and Rachel and Emma were three people who were incredibly important to him spiritually and physically. He could see that now, that in his time of need, he’d realized he couldn’t do life alone.

  Bishop or not, he still needed others.

  Together they walked to the side of the buggy.

  “Were you able to speak with her the second time you went to the diner?”

  “For a few moments. We talked of my being a bishop, of our faith, a little of her family. Her grandmother read the Bible each day.”

  “It’s gut that she had those memories, that her grandmother was a believer.”

  “And yet Sophia’s life had its share of tragedy.”

  “True for us all.”

  “She was widowed.”

  “Perhaps that explains the sadness about her.”

  “Maybe.” Henry kissed Emma’s cheek and then climbed into the buggy. “She told me she was giving notice at the diner, and that she probably wouldn’t see me again. She said it wasn’t safe to be freinden with her, and that she was ‘close.’”

  “Close to what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Emma sighed as she stepped back from the buggy. “Let us know if there’s more trouble with the FBI fellow.”

  “I suspect there will be.” Henry pulled on the reins and called out to Oreo. It was only when he was far down the lane that he noticed clouds were building in the west. Rain was rare in the valley, storms few and far between, but it looked as if they were in for a big one.

  Which didn’t surprise him one bit. The weather had a way of matching the twists and turns of life.

  When Henry pulled into his lane, Lexi didn’t run out to meet him, which was strange. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep in a patch of sunshine, or maybe she was chasing toads. She’d developed a fascination with them. But he didn’t believe either of those things. She’d never failed to meet him before.

  He guided Oreo to the barn, unharnessed the horse, and led her to the pasture.

  “Where could she be?” he murmured. When he walked into the barn, he noticed the stall door was closed. He always kept it open because he didn’t want one of the barn cats getting locked in there without food or water.

  Walking toward it, he was overcome by a terrible sense of foreboding, which was ridiculous. This was his barn, and everything was exactly as he’d left it.

  Then he opened the door and saw Lexi lying motionless on the ground.

  Thirty-Two

  Henry sank to the floor next to the little beagle.

  He ran his hands up and down her side. She was breathing, though it seemed to be slow and shallow. He couldn’t be sure, though. He didn’t know how a dog was supposed to breathe. He did know her not waking up was a bad sign.

  “Come on, girl. Wake up for me. Show me you’re okay. Show me that beagle spirit.”

  She still didn’t open her eyes, but her ear twitched and her tail tapped the ground once.

  He continued petting her, talking in a low voice, and praying that his dog wasn’t mortally injured. Was it silly to pray for a dog? He didn’t think so. He thought if God had His eye on the sparrow, He could watch out for Lexi just as easily.

  As he prayed and waited, he tried to think of some scenario where what he was seeing made sense. Had someone drugged her? If so, why would they put her into a horse stall? Or had they chased her? Perhaps she’d run into the horse stall? Or maybe she wasn’t drugged at all. Doc Berry would know, but Henry didn’t want to leave Lexi long enough to run to the phone shack and place a call. He also didn’t want to load her into the buggy. Best to wait and see.

  Finally she opened her eyes and locked her gaze on Henry.

  “Gave me a scare there. Can you stand up?”

  She attempted to do so, her legs wobbly and her eyes closing.

  Henry scooped her into his arms and carried her outside into the sunshine, hoping its warmth would bring her around. He sat there on a bench, holding her close until her tail began to tap a steady rhythm and she took an interest in licking his hand.

  “That’s a gut girl. Sure wish you could talk and tell me what’s wrong. Maybe you need some water.” He set her on the ground with an admonition to “stay.”

  Lexi, however, had other ideas.

  She let out a menacing series of barks, and then she took off across the yard, headed toward the front porch.

  “Quickest recovery ever,” Henry muttered.

  Lexi barreled up the steps, growling and baring her teeth.

  Feeling as if his life had spiraled into an Amish nightmare, Henry opened the
front door.

  His dog tore across the front room, reversed directions, and then moved more slowly with her nose pressed to the floor, ears touching the ground, tail pointed up. She came to a halt in front of the small wooden wall clock. Henry’s father had made it from pallet wood that was now at least fifty years old. The four boards were slightly different colors, and the hour numbers were hand painted. Henry could remember being a young child and reading on the sitting room floor, looking up and seeing that it was time to outen the light and head to bed.

  Lexi sat down, her nose raised high as if she were sniffing the air, and then she began to bay. Henry had heard her do it only once before, when she’d treed a squirrel. The sound reverberated through his bones and instantly raised his anxiety level. But instead of reprimanding her, he walked to the clock, pulled it off the wall, and stared at the front and then the back. Everything looked as it always had. The small battery reminded him of the solar energy he’d spoken to Albert about. Had that been only a few days ago? It seemed another lifetime.

  He turned the clock back over and was about to hang it on the nail when he noticed the numeral 3 looked off, as if the paint had run.

  Only it wasn’t paint. It was some sort of electronic device or mechanism, approximately the size of an acorn. It definitely was man-made, and it had not been there when he’d last changed the battery.

  He pulled the device off the clock, held it between his thumb and forefinger, and tried to determine what it was. Why was it there? Who had put it there? The same person who had locked Lexi in the barn stall and possibly drugged her? Or maybe he was becoming paranoid.

  At that moment, Lexi jumped up and knocked the object out of his hand, causing it to skitter across the floor.

  Henry returned the clock to the wall and then walked over to the device and put it in his pocket. He’d ask Grayson about it later.

  Turning toward his dog, he wasn’t surprised to see that she’d now stretched out, her head resting on her paws.

  “How about some chicken for lunch?”

  Which seemed to be all the thanks Lexi wanted or required.

  Three hours later, rain had turned to a steady downpour. The storm had raised the temperature, and the day had turned balmy by the time Delaney pulled off the road, slinging mud as he came to an abrupt stop. He’d returned with the warrant and a crime scene crew. Grayson didn’t accompany him, and Henry didn’t ask why.

  He did insist on seeing the warrant that gave Delaney permission to search his property.

  “I assure you that I had nothing to do with the death of Sophia Brooks.”

  “I’ve heard claims of innocence from dozens of murderers, Mr. Lapp.”

  “And yet I am innocent.”

  “So you say. The judge deemed we had enough cause to search your premises.” Delaney stepped forward, and if Henry wasn’t imagining it, his eyes sparkled. Like Lexi earlier, he was a man on a hunt. He honestly believed he was hot on the trail of the person who had killed Sophia Brooks. “Better to tell us now if you have something you’re hiding. Because we will find it.”

  Henry put his hand in his pocket, fingered the device he’d found on the clock, and thought of showing it to Delaney. Something cautioned him not to. Some instinct told him to keep this between himself and Sheriff Grayson.

  Surely they wouldn’t ask him to empty his pockets.

  He shook his head and said, “Call me if you need anything.”

  He sat on the porch of his workshop, a small nightstand in front of him that had been painted at least three different shades of blue. He’d purchased it from a yard sale and thought that with a little care and attention he might restore it to its original beauty. The piece was solidly built of good oak wood. It only needed the paint to be sanded off and a few fresh coats of varnish applied.

  He held a piece of sandpaper in his hand, but it might as well have been a prop in an Englisch movie. His mind was completely focused on what was happening inside his home, and then they moved into his workshop. Several times he saw them carrying clear evidence bags out to their vehicles. He couldn’t imagine why they would want his tack hammer or his receipt book. The person logging in the evidence assured him everything would be returned, though she couldn’t say when.

  When he peeked inside the shop, he saw a trail of fingerprint powder scattered around. He supposed it was in his house too. He’d even seen one of the techs dusting for prints inside his buggy. Henry was familiar with some of the evidence-gathering processes after what had happened in Goshen when young Betsy Troyer was killed. He didn’t want to revisit those memories, but they pushed forward, bringing with them a profound sadness.

  He noticed, as he sat back down in the rocker with the rain splashing in front of him and the crime scene techs scurrying back and forth, that they carried more computers than they did all those years ago in Indiana. Advances in technology had changed the specifics of their work, though not the general goal—to catch a killer.

  Lexi rolled over in the dog bed he’d made for her from an old wooden crate. Feet in the air, she let out a yip-yip-yip and her back legs jerked as if she were running—chasing rabbits in her dreams.

  It was two hours before the Englischers began packing up. The rain had stopped, though the afternoon remained dark. Lexi stood, stretched, and trotted off toward the barn.

  Henry walked over to where the police vehicles were parked, planning to ask Agent Delaney if there was anything else he could do to be helpful. He might not like the man, but supposing that he was trying to do his job and do it well, he could at least offer his assistance. Not because it made him look less guilty, but because it was the right thing to do.

  His good intentions lasted all of two minutes.

  “While I was waiting on the warrant, I was able to interview a few people.” Delaney smoothed down the black tie that matched his pants. He wore a crisp white shirt and a black jacket, though the day was too warm for it.

  “Is that so?”

  “For someone who only knew Sophia casually, you spent a lot of time talking with her.”

  “People tend to confide in me. Perhaps because I’m a bishop.”

  “And is that why you gave her a ride in your buggy? Folks say that’s unusual, that single or widowed men don’t normally offer rides to single women. That it’s considered inappropriate by your kind.”

  “Our kind?”

  Delaney ignored the question. “I would think your deacons would be concerned about your connection with Ms. Brooks.”

  Henry didn’t answer. He was focusing on keeping his temper in check, which wasn’t an easy thing to do around Mr. Delaney. The man seemed to have an innate sense for how to offend someone.

  “Also you had an argument with her at the diner on the Tuesday before she was killed.”

  “I did not,” Henry replied hotly.

  Delaney again flattened his tie against his shirt and stroked it like a child might pet a kitten. He started to walk away, but then he turned and came back, stopping less than a foot from Henry. He lowered his voice, as if he were about to offer some secret advice. “You can deny your association with the deceased all you want, but we are good at what we do. Monte Vista has cameras on the through roads, which confirm that you did give Sophia Brooks a ride. That, in fact, you went to a motel with her. And we have firsthand testimony that you argued with her at Maggie’s Diner.”

  He smiled, waited for Henry to respond, and lowered his voice even more when Henry remained silent. “You had a known association with the deceased. You had means and opportunity to commit her murder. All I need is motive and evidence. And I will find both.”

  He paused, his smile widening, and then he turned and picked his way across the muddy lane to his vehicle.

  Henry couldn’t think of a single reason the FBI would single him out as a primary suspect. He did, however, realize the situation was quickly worsening. He went inside, picked up his hat, an umbrella, and his walking stick. Then he called to Lexi and hurried down his
lane. A quarter mile down the road was a phone shack.

  He placed three calls, leaving messages on each machine.

  As he was about to leave, he turned back and again picked up the receiver. When Stuart answered, he informed him he would not be going bird-watching the next day. “And Stuart, I expect you will have a visit from the FBI soon. It would seem I’m the prime suspect, or rather the only suspect, in the murder of Sophia Brooks.”

  Thirty-Three

  Emma had absolutely no intention of stopping at Bread 2 Go. She was a capable baker and didn’t need to spend their limited resources on someone else’s bread or cookies or cakes. But she and Katie Ann were returning from the library when they noticed a line of cars and buggies parked at the widows’ new shop.

  “Maybe we should stop.” Katie Ann sat forward, peering out the front window of the buggy.

  “We don’t need a thing.”

  “True, but haven’t you seen all the Shop Local posters? We’d be doing the Monte Vista economy a favor.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “I know I wouldn’t mind one of their cranberry walnut muffins.”

  “Clyde does love homemade bread, which I haven’t had time to make this week.”

  “Let’s do it!”

  She had to guide Cinnamon into the adjacent lot because there was nowhere closer to park. But once she approached the bakery, she knew the widows weren’t in need of extra customers. Shop Local indeed. The line stretched out the door. It would seem half the San Luis Valley had the same idea, or perhaps they all were craving cranberry walnut muffins.

  “This line is going to take forever,” Katie Ann muttered.

  “A handful of patience is worth more than a bushel of brains.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means you’re better off patient than smart.” The woman in front of them was dressed in a business suit and wearing high heels. “My grandmother used to tell me that one.”

  They shared a smile, and then the line moved forward so they were standing inside and Emma could see what all the commotion was about. She’d been there the day Franey, Nancy, and Ruth opened to show a sign of support, but she hadn’t been back in the month since. Red-checkered curtains adorned the windows. Tables for two and four were scattered throughout the room, and each one had an old-fashioned glass milk bottle on it, sporting fresh flowers.