What the Bishop Saw

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What the Bishop Saw Page 4

by Vannetta Chapman


  “Why would somebody do that?” Katie Ann asked.

  “I don’t know. A warning maybe?”

  “There was no message scrawled on the wall,” Emma said.

  Everyone stopped to stare at her.

  “What? I spoke with Henry this morning after we’d done our cleaning. There was no note of any sort, though the authorities do suspect it was a case of arson, and that the person who set the fire did so in order to kill Vernon.”

  “Why would someone kill another person?” Katie Ann used her fork to push her potatoes back and forth across the plate. “I can’t imagine a reason to do such a thing.”

  “Greed,” Silas said. “Most sin is from greed. Don’t you agree, Dat?”

  “I suppose much of it is.”

  “Maybe he made someone angry.”

  “He made everyone angry.”

  “Could be a person was robbing him, and then he set the fire to cover up the robbery.”

  “Not much there to steal, not that I could see when we had church there last.”

  “Revenge, that’s a gut motive.”

  “But revenge for what?”

  “Money.”

  “Same thing as greed, I suppose. I don’t think he had much of that.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Can’t see what he would have to be jealous of.”

  The topic was volleyed back and forth between the children until Clyde brought up the subject of their upcoming crops and water conservation. Vernon was temporarily forgotten. But after Rachel, Emma, and Katie Ann had cleaned up the kitchen, the adults slipped out onto the front porch to the rockers. Silas had cleaned up and left on an errand, which Emma supposed meant he was courting. Well, that was what seventeen-year-old boys were supposed to do. Stephen and Thomas were practicing for the next softball game with a ball and bat. Katie Ann headed to the barn to brush down the workhorses, though the boys had no doubt already done that.

  “Any excuse to spend time with a horse is a gut excuse to our Katie Ann.” Clyde reached out and squeezed Rachel’s hand. The look that passed between them brought a smile to Emma’s heart. What could make a mother more content than seeing her son happily married?

  “I can’t say I liked that conversation at dinner,” Rachel said.

  “Best to let them work through the topic and be done with it. Otherwise, we’ll find them speaking of it in whispers every time we come around a corner.”

  “It’s not a subject that’s likely to go away until the authorities find the killer.” Emma pulled a knitting project from her bag. The long days allowed enough light to work on it for the next hour, and she’d much rather do so outside while she enjoyed the setting sun casting colors across the sky.

  “Henry had no idea who it might have been?”

  Emma told them about the list.

  “It included Englisch and Amish?” Clyde stood, walked to the porch steps, and stared out at a beautiful sunset complete with purple, rose, and gold light splaying across his land. With a sigh, he turned toward them. “That’s surprising.”

  “It is, but I suppose he wanted to be thorough. I don’t think he believes any Amish person did such a thing.”

  “I heard Henry had been to visit Vernon the afternoon before.” Rachel held a book in her lap, but she didn’t open it.

  “Ya, he said as much.”

  “If he was there in the home, then he might remember seeing something. Perhaps the killer had been to visit earlier.”

  “He says he doesn’t.”

  They were all quiet for a moment. Clyde finally asked, “Has he tried drawing whatever he saw?”

  “Nein.”

  “It’s been years since Henry used his gift.” Rachel drummed her fingers against the cover of her book. “Who knows if he even still has it?”

  “I imagine he would be relieved to find that he didn’t.” Emma focused on the yarn and knitting needles, attempting to push back her memories of those dark days.

  “The last time was before we left Indiana, right?” Clyde glanced from his mother to his wife and back again.

  “Ya, and I have no doubt that incident played a large part in Henry’s decision to join this community.”

  “People weren’t fair to him.” Rachel opened her book, but she didn’t look down at the page. “They seemed almost afraid of him, as if he was some sort of freak or something. It’s always caused me to feel a little protective of Henry, which I know is silly. He’s twenty years older and my bishop to boot.”

  “That’s a gut way to put it,” Clyde said. “We do feel protective.”

  Emma tugged again on the yarn. “That situation was heartbreaking from start to finish. Henry and your father had been to counsel the girl the night before she ran away. She’d refused to come down to the sitting room, so they’d gone upstairs to her bedroom. Which is why Henry saw what he did.”

  “Only he didn’t know what he’d seen. Not until later. Not until he’d drawn it.” Rachel shut the book again, keeping her finger in the spot where she’d intended to read. “I’ve never understood how it works.”

  “Henry doesn’t understand himself, or so he told me.” Clyde sat back down in his rocker with a sigh. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  “What was the name of that expert they brought in? The trial had been going on for a few days and then Mr.…”

  “Malinowski,” Rachel said.

  “Right. He called it acquired savant syndrome.”

  “Another doctor called it accidental savant.”

  “First time I’d heard either term.” Clyde studied her, and Emma knew he was falling back into the memories of those terrible days.

  “I can’t remember how he described it, the gift Henry has. Something about the conscious mind… I don’t know. The Englisch can explain away the beauty of a sunset with their science and experts.” Emma realized she’d dropped a stitch. She pulled out the knitting needles and set to unraveling what she’d done.

  Clyde grunted in agreement. “I was in court that day. Malinowski testified that Henry’s conscious mind worked the same as ours, but his unconscious mind was able to remember anything he’d seen down to the smallest detail.”

  “When he draws it.” Rachel’s voice dropped, as if what they were speaking of was a secret.

  It wasn’t a secret. Henry made sure every family in the community moving west knew about his ability, and he’d made sure the small group already in Colorado was aware as well. He didn’t want anyone regretting the fact that they’d joined in with him.

  “That’s why officials thought Henry had something to do with the girl’s disappearance, but of course he didn’t.” As the memories cascaded forward, Emma felt anew the pain of that time. She’d spent many an hour on her knees for their bishop and for their community.

  “My mamm was so concerned,” Rachel admitted. “She believed in Henry’s innocence. We all did. But she still worried. I’d get up in the middle of the night and find her sitting in the family room, an open Bible in her lap and a cold cup of coffee untouched next to her.”

  “But he was proved innocent,” Emma said. She didn’t want her mind to drift back to the man who had been found guilty, the man the girl had been texting. Fortunately, he was convicted and sentenced to prison.

  “It’s little wonder Henry is hesitant to use his gift in this situation,” Clyde said.

  “But what if that’s the only way we can know what happened to Vernon?” Emma picked up her needles and began knitting again. The yarn was a pale yellow, and she planned to trim it in a soft green. It would make a nice blanket for the next baby expected in their congregation.

  “Give the Englisch process time to work. Perhaps with their technology they can solve this crime without the help of our bishop.”

  Eight

  Henry was up early the next morning and had Oreo hitched to the buggy by seven o’clock. He went by the homes of his church elders, but he didn’t stop—opting instead to leave a note in their mailboxes. The notes s
aid he’d like for them to meet at his place after dinner that evening.

  He was in town by the time the stores opened. At the lumberyard, he spoke with the manager, who was happy for him to take more scrap lumber. A young man loaded it into the back of his buggy.

  Next, he dropped off the woodworking items he had completed. The owner of Monte Vista Art paid him for what he’d sold and assured him there was room for more if he had a chance to make it. “The birdhouses are selling especially well.”

  Henry thanked the man and stopped by the bank to cash the check. Then he realized he should visit the morgue and check on when Vernon’s body would be released. The coroner explained that the autopsy had been limited because of the damage to Vernon’s body. They would notify the local mortuary, which would be able to transfer the remains out to his home whenever the bishop was ready for them.

  Which left Henry with the task of deciding when to have the funeral. They could wait a few days, but what would be the point? Best to put this behind them as quickly as possible. The funeral could be sooner if a plain casket could be made quickly. At his next stop, the town’s mortician assured him a few were in stock. “I’ll have the boys bring one to your place when they deliver the body.”

  “I’ll need time to notify everyone, have the grave dug, and a marker made.”

  “Day after tomorrow?”

  “Ya. That would work. We can have the funeral on Thursday. Danki.”

  Finally Henry directed Oreo down the road and to the hardware store, which fortunately had parking for buggies in the shade. He hoped to be in and out in a few minutes. He only needed to purchase seeds for his vegetable garden. Yes, he still planted a garden, though the families in his church insisted on providing most of his meals. But he felt it would be wrong to rely on the charity of others. He wasn’t so old that he couldn’t work in a vegetable plot. His own father had done so well into his eighties.

  It was while waiting in line to check out that he heard Sam might be in trouble.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” a woman with bleached-blond hair was saying to the clerk. “Remember that terrible explosion in Texas? It was in a town called West. I remember that because I thought it was west Texas where my sister lives, but it’s actually located in central Texas. The town’s name is West.”

  The clerk feigned interest as he rang up her purchases, and the woman continued talking—oblivious to the fact that Henry was standing behind her.

  “I never could understand how one of those Amish people could be allowed to serve as a volunteer firefighter. Aren’t they kind of, you know, slow?”

  The clerk raised an eyebrow and glanced at Henry.

  The woman turned, had the decency to blush, but continued with her story. “Anyway, the explosion in West was set by a volunteer firefighter. He was never actually convicted of setting it, but everyone knew he did. So it wouldn’t be the first time. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Henry waited patiently to check out, accepted the clerk’s apology though the woman’s ramblings weren’t his fault, went back out to his buggy, and studied the list he’d written on the back of the envelope. Next was visiting Rebecca Yoder. She was the most senior member of their community. Clucking to Oreo, he set off down the road and made it to the Yoder place in under twenty minutes. The sun was shining brightly, and the scenery was spectacular. If he hadn’t been preoccupied by Vernon’s murder, he would have been able to appreciate another beautiful Colorado day.

  Mary Yoder was standing on the front porch by the time he tied up Oreo to the hitching rail.

  “Is everything all right, Henry?”

  “Oh, yes. I wanted to visit with Rebecca, is all.”

  “Her birthday’s this summer.” Mary Yoder led him out to the screened back porch, where Rebecca sat near a window in the sun. “Chester is in the fields, but I can call him in if you like.”

  “No need. I’ll be staying only a few minutes.”

  “Then I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Rebecca Yoder looked every bit of her ninety-two years. Though she had plenty of children back in Indiana, she’d chosen to move to Colorado with her youngest son ten years earlier. The doctors, even then, had known how crippling her arthritis would be. They’d suggested that the dry air would be a benefit to her, and at first it had been. But for the last few years her condition had worsened.

  As he approached her chair, he studied this dear woman.

  Her hands were sitting on top of the armrests—thin, veined, twisted. She’d lost several inches in height and her posture was somewhat stooped. The kapp pinned carefully to her head revealed only wisps of white hair, and he could see quite a bit of scalp. Rebecca Yoder reminded him of an infant, and his thoughts drifted to a baby girl whose mother had used Karo syrup to keep the toddler’s kapp in place. The mother had worried the child would never grow hair, but she’d ended up with abundant blond tresses.

  “Bishop! It’s gut to see you.” Rebecca’s smile revealed missing teeth, reinforcing Henry’s thoughts of infants.

  “We missed you at church on Sunday. I wanted to stop by and see how you are.”

  “The Lord is gut. I’m alive.” Blue eyes danced with good humor. It humbled him, visiting with Rebecca. Her attitude reminded him of the many blessings in life.

  He sat across from her. On the table next to her chair was a jar of cream made from goat’s milk. All of the grandkinner in Indiana sent gifts to their mammi, and several had managed to come and visit over the years.

  “May I?” He nodded toward the jar.

  Rebecca raised her right arm. “These old hands have served me faithfully many years, but now… they seem to have a mind of their own.”

  Henry opened the jar, removed a dollop of the cream, and began to rub it into her right hand.

  They spoke of spring, the upcoming marriage of her grandchild, and a great-grandchild who had been born the previous week. Henry moved his chair to the other side of Rebecca’s and went to work on her left hand, careful to rub the cream in gently, to massage and stretch the joints as the health aid had shown them. “How can I pray for you this week, Rebecca?”

  “That I might be useful.” Her smile was nearly constant, but now she met his gaze and the corners of her mouth dropped and her lower lip trembled a bit. “Surely there is a way I can still be useful. Gotte has kept me here, ya? And if so, then for a reason.”

  He clasped both her hands in his. “Let’s pray.”

  Their heads bowed, nearly touching, Henry searched for the words to comfort her. “May Your hand be on Your servant, Rebecca, Holy Father. May You use her this day. Bring to her mind those who need prayer. Bring to her lips words for those who want encouragement. And bring to her heart a certainty of Your purpose in her life, as we know You are all-knowing, all-giving, and all-loving. It is in the name of Your Son, Christ Jesus, that we pray. Amen.”

  Though tears had trekked down her cheeks, Rebecca’s smile was once again firmly in place. Henry returned the jar of cream to the side table, picked up his hat, and was about to leave when she said, “I will pray for you as well, Henry. This terrible thing with the fire, I will pray that Gotte uses you to restore peace to our community.”

  Then the back screen door slammed shut, and twin girls who were seven years old ran into the room, intent on showing their mammi flowers they had found in the field.

  Henry looked back to see Rebecca exclaiming over the dandelions, her promise to pray for him ringing in his ears. As he left, he told Mary the funeral would be Thursday. She promised to help spread the word.

  His next stop was to visit and counsel young Albert Bontrager, who admitted he’d been riding a battery-charged bike.

  “It gets me to town much faster. You should try it, Henry.”

  “And yet faster isn’t always better.”

  Albert pulled off his hat, ran a hand through sandy hair, and replaced it. “I have to admit it’s more fun, though.”

  “Indeed. Perh
aps you could keep using the bike, but leave off the power until I have a chance to discuss it with the elders.”

  “Ya. I can do that.”

  “And be careful out on the roads. Word is that you were racing one of the buggies.”

  “Uphill.” Albert laughed. “The horse still won in spite of the battery.”

  The lad loved new gadgets. He always had. It seemed that Henry had these discussions with him at least once a month. Fortunately, Albert was easy to correct. It wasn’t that he was intent on going against their Ordnung. It was more that he saw technology as mostly good and couldn’t imagine how using it would be bad.

  “The funeral for Vernon will be Thursday,” Henry said as he was leaving. “It’ll be at my place. Will you pass the word on to your parents?”

  “Sure. We’ll be there.”

  “Danki, Albert.”

  Elmer and Grace Bontrager had moved to the area with the first wave of Amish folk, five years before Henry and the families from Goshen arrived. They had six children and lived in a farmhouse that could use an expansion. They were good people—strong in their faith and quick to help someone else. He’d counseled with them several times about Albert, suggesting they give the boy space and time to figure out who he was and what he planned to do with his life.

  Henry wasn’t sure battery-operated bicycles were bad, but he wasn’t prepared to approve that change yet. Adjustments in the Ordnung were best accomplished one item at a time and slowly. First things first, and at tonight’s meeting with his elders, they needed to discuss something far more important than what new technology to allow. They needed to discuss the fire, Vernon’s death, a possible killer among them, and the involvement of Englisch authorities.

  Motorized bikes would have to wait.

  His mind already on the last errand of the day, added after he’d first begun his list, he wondered what he could possibly say to Sam Beiler. Sam had risked his life to save Vernon, but he’d been too late according to Captain Johnson. And now rumors were swirling that Sam had somehow been involved with causing the tragedy. Henry didn’t know what he could say to ease the lad’s burdens, but perhaps it would be enough for him to listen.

 

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