What the Bishop Saw

by Vannetta Chapman

  “I’m truly sorry that you suffered.”

  “And that’s as close to an apology as I’m likely to get.” Alvin exchanged a glance with his brother. He stood, walked across to the windows, and stared outside for a moment. There was no sound except for the ticking of a clock.

  Abe stared at his hands.

  Henry waited.

  Finally, Alvin turned back toward them. “It was many years ago. I do not carry hard feelings in my heart each day of my life. Such a burden would be too much. What is the saying Mamm used to quote?”

  Abe smiled for the first time since they’d arrived. “To forgive heals the wound…”

  “And to forget heals the scar. I forgive you, Henry, but it seems I have a ways to go as far as forgetting. And seeing you here… well, it’s brought back some difficult feelings.”

  Henry waited a full minute. Then he said, “If I remember correctly, you did not get along well with Vernon.”

  “You remember correctly.”

  “Had you seen him recently? Did he possibly mention anyone who was particularly angry with him?”

  “I have not seen him since I moved to Alamosa.”

  “You haven’t been back to Monte Vista in all these years?”

  Instead of answering, Alvin said, “I have an eleven o’clock class to teach—woodworking at the community center.”

  Apparently their meeting was at an end. The two brothers embraced when they reached the door.

  Abe walked to the car, but Henry held back. “I am truly sorry for the pain you’ve been through, Alvin.”

  “And I’m sorry I took my anger out on you. Abe has told me you’re a kind and compassionate bishop. I’m glad the community has that sort of leadership, even if it didn’t extend to me.”

  There seemed to be nothing he could say to alleviate the hurt in Alvin’s voice, so Henry nodded and wished him a good day. He walked down the drive, putting his hand on the top of Alvin’s small silver Honda. It was an unexceptional car and seemed to indicate that Alvin was attempting to live as modestly as possible.

  The drive home was quiet. The driver tried a few times to initiate a conversation and then finally settled for finding a news program on the radio. It wasn’t until they were back at Henry’s house, out of the earshot of everyone else, that he turned to Abe and said, “Tell me about Alvin’s trips to Monte Vista.”

  Forty-One

  He felt the anger building inside of him. Like heartburn it exerted a heaviness on his chest, burned his throat, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew the signs. If he didn’t do something to alleviate the pressure soon, he would lash out, act impulsively, and make an error.

  Which was where most criminals were caught—not accounting for the building tide of emotion. He’d done a study of it, and he was determined not to fall into the same trap. He’d managed his feelings and worked his way down his list of targets, spacing the attacks a few days apart. He’d followed his plan.

  But he was, after all, only human. The anger built up until he was seeing things as if through red-tinted sunglasses. And all because of the follow-up story in the newspaper. It was the last straw.

  ARSON INVESTIGATION PROGRESSING

  Investigator Meg Allen claims to be close to capturing the person responsible for local fires. The Monte Vista Gazette spoke on Tuesday with Ms. Allen. “I’d like to ask for the public’s patience in this matter. We feel certain we are making progress regarding apprehension of the person responsible for the string of fires in Monte Vista.”

  Ms. Allen recently returned to the county office, which she claims is not an indication that the case has gone cold. “Quite the opposite. We have several leads, not the least of which is a letter directly implicating the guilty party. It’s a matter of being able to work more efficiently from the district office. Here we have the computers and manpower needed to follow every aspect of these leads from the type of paper used to the postmark on the envelope. I’ll also be working closely with sketch artists, who will use the video tape from the construction site as well as eyewitness accounts we received from a few of the JSW workers. Together they can create a better composite sketch of our perpetrator than the one we have offered to date.”

  When pressed for details as to the contents of the letter, Allen responded with “No comment.” Other sources have confirmed that the letter is thought to be from the arsonist to Vernon Frey, who was killed in the fire on May 1.

  Allen reiterated that the reward money now stands at $10,000, payable to anyone who provides information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the arsonist.

  The JSW construction site suffered fire damage on May 4.

  Henry Lapp’s workshop was burned to the ground in the late hours of the evening on May 14.

  Anyone with information should contact Crime Stoppers or phone Meg Allen directly.

  He read the article again, agonizing over every word, his anger increasing with each syllable and fear causing his heart to beat wildly.

  Throwing the paper onto the table, he walked to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank the entire thing. He needed to calm down. He needed to think about what they were saying.

  It was true he had sent a letter to Vernon, but he knew that couldn’t be the letter Allen was referring to. Everything, absolutely everything, had been destroyed in the blaze. He’d seen it himself. She had to be bluffing.

  Unless Vernon had given the letter to someone else.

  The statistical odds of that were low. Vernon Frey didn’t exactly have a fistful of friends. So the existence of a letter was probably a lie to provoke him into confessing.

  He also didn’t believe there were any eyewitnesses. He’d been careful each time. He was certain no one had seen him, and if they had? He’d already be arrested.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was the reward money. People would sell out their father for less.

  The entire situation caused the anger in his veins to boil. He was doing everything right. His technique was perfect, and he was certain he was leaving no fingerprints at the scene—not that it would matter. His fingerprints were not in any database. He’d dropped the top to his gas can, but there were no prints on that. The gas can could hardly be traced back to him, as most families in Monte Vista had one.

  “Why are you home? You should be looking for a job.” His mother’s voice grated on his ears.

  He glanced up to see her standing in the doorway, frowning at him.

  “Why don’t you clean up this place? It’s… it’s… it’s disgusting.” He hated that he stuttered when he argued with her. He’d left the habit behind years ago, watching Internet videos for how to cure himself of the verbal tick. But when his mother was glowering at him, he wasn’t twenty-seven years old anymore. He was eight, frightened and helpless to defend himself against her verbal and physical abuse.

  “Oh, not nice enough for you? Then move out!” She pivoted and lumbered back down the hall.

  Probably she was drunk already. He’d seen the bottles in the trash. No matter how little money they had, there was always enough for that. He focused on his breathing and pushed the image of his mother from his mind.

  Sitting in the kitchen chair, he stared out the grimy window and forced his thoughts to calm. This situation called for reason, not unfettered emotion.

  He’d killed Vernon Frey because the man was a crook and a cheat.

  He’d hit the construction site because they had refused him a job.

  He’d destroyed the bishop’s workshop so he would suffer financially.

  A headache pounded at his temple. He stood, returned to his bedroom, unlocked his closet to check his supplies, and then he made his decision. Better to release the anger, even if it meant veering away from his list. He would strike soon, within the next twenty-four hours.

  One last glance at the newspaper, and then he tossed it into the trash. His next target deserved whatever happened.

  Forty-Two

  Clyde hitched their mare
to the buggy and had it waiting when Emma was finished with the lunch dishes.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to go?” she asked.

  Rachel shook her head and smiled. They both knew she’d prefer an hour alone for some quiet time to read, and, goodness, she had earned it. They’d spent the last two days putting in the garden as the men finished planting the crops. It had been arduous work. Their skin was red turning to brown from the elbows down, around their neck, and across their cheeks.

  “Bye, Mamm.” Katie Ann kissed her mother on the cheek. “We’ll be sure to stop by the library and return your books.”

  “I have three more on hold. Check to see if they’re in.”

  “We will.”

  Emma clucked to their mare, Cinnamon, and they started off down the lane.

  It was a beautiful afternoon—crisp, cool, and with a hint of rain in the air.

  Clouds were building on the horizon, and with any luck they would have rain by nightfall. It would certainly help with the newly planted crops.

  “I will never understand what Mamm sees in these books.” Katie Ann was staring at a cover of a woman in a prairie dress standing beside a wagon.

  “We all need our moments of rest, when we can step away from the day’s troubles.”

  “Step away?”

  “In our mind.”

  “Oh. When do you step away?”

  “I suppose when I’m sewing or doing any type of handwork—knitting, crocheting. It relaxes me and allows me to forget about the crops and the weather and if your brother is going to be bitten by a snake when he hunts for his arrowheads.”

  “Whoever heard of an Amish boy who liked history? Thomas is weird.”

  “But girls who love horses are completely natural.”

  “Ya! They are.” Katie Ann grinned at her, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

  Cinnamon trotted merrily down the road. When they passed the bishop’s place, both Emma and Katie Ann craned their necks to see the empty place where his workshop had been.

  “Looks like he cleaned it up.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Will they be able to rebuild his workshop in one day?”

  “Our men can build a large barn in one day. A workshop will be no problem.” Emma guided the horse to the side of the road so an automobile could pass—it was an older model, rusty in places, and sorely in need of a paint job. “How old were you when we had our last barn raising?”

  “Six? Maybe?”

  “There was a flurry of building when we first settled here. Less in recent years.”

  “I missed the one two years ago. I’d gone to spend a month with Aenti Rose in Pinecraft.”

  “After she broke her hip. Rose still mentions in letters to your mother how much she enjoyed getting to know you.”

  “Pinecraft is so different from here.”

  “How so?”

  “Hotter. Sand and beach and shuffleboard courts. It’s funny to see all the older folks on their bikes and scooters. And ice cream shops—they’re on nearly every corner.”

  “Are you ready to go back?”

  Katie Ann twisted her kapp string between her fingers. “Nein. I wouldn’t want to leave Cinnamon or Duncan or Dakota.”

  “You’re a big help with all the horses.”

  “I can’t imagine not seeing them for an entire month.”

  “You know what they say about absence.”

  “I don’t think my heart could grow any fonder.” Katie Ann cornered herself in the buggy and studied Emma. “I’m not sure what it all means. Why do I love them so? I even dream about horses.”

  “Do ya now?”

  “It’s not as if I can become a vet or even a vet tech.”

  “Well, you could become anything you want. It’s just that one day you will have to decide whether to live a Plain life or an Englisch one.”

  “I would never want to move away from you all.”

  “And we wouldn’t want you to.” Emma thought of Alvin, as she always did when conversations turned to such things. It was such a sad situation. She’d always felt pity for the man.

  “So why do I love horses so? What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Maybe you don’t need to do anything with it, especially now. You’re still young, Katie Ann.”

  “Young? Mammi, I’m sixteen. That’s practically grown, and I have no idea what’s next.”

  “Gotte knows what is next, so don’t worry about that. He gave you a love for horses, and a real talent with them, for a reason.”

  For her answer, Katie Ann sighed deeply and turned to stare out the buggy window.

  They stopped at the library first, arriving as the doors opened.

  Emma waited for the librarian, an older woman named Betty, to fetch the books that were on hold for Rachel. Katie Ann had also asked about books that had to do with horses. Five minutes later she returned with a book by James Herriot—All Creatures Great and Small.

  “I remember Silas reading that one.”

  “Silas read a book?” Katie Ann squirreled her nose in disbelief.

  “He did, and he liked it. I imagine you will too.”

  “Mostly I don’t care for reading, but Mamm says that’s because I have to find books that appeal to my interests. When I told her I couldn’t find any books about horses, at least none that I hadn’t read in school, she told me to try harder.”

  “You’ll enjoy that one,” Betty assured them. “It’s the story of a young veterinarian.”

  They both thanked the woman and then headed back out to the buggy.

  “Walk or ride?” Emma asked.

  “Let’s walk. Cinnamon looks like she’s dozing here in the shade.”

  Next they went to the market and purchased the items on Emma’s list, returning to place the bags in the small box attached to the back of the buggy.

  “Our last errand is to the newspaper.” Katie Ann pulled out a map, which they’d slipped between the pages of one of Rachel’s books. “I still can’t believe Silas drew this.”

  “Your brother is gut at drawing.”

  “Like Henry?”

  “Henry’s drawing is a bit… different.”

  “Do you think this will bring more people to our produce stand?”

  “Ours and others as well.”

  Katie Ann traced the route through the outskirts of Monte Vista. It passed practically every farm in their community—or at least the ones with items they wanted to sell.

  Most would not have produce yet, but they’d all made things throughout the winter, and now that the summer tourists were beginning to arrive, it was a good way to direct people to their places. The map was titled Plain & Simple Living, which Emma thought was putting it on rather thick. It had a picture of a horse and buggy in the bottom right corner, and it showed a produce stand at the end of the lane of each farm. Most were labeled with words such as “Birdhouses,” “Quilts,” “Popcorn,” and “Jams.”

  “Ours should say ‘Blankets.’ We sell more of your knitted baby blankets than anything else.”

  “But we also sell the painted gourds your father and brothers make.”

  “And the quilted items from Mamm.” Rachel was not one to quilt full-sized bed quilts, but she loved making table runners and crib quilts.

  “Who pays for the ad?” Katie Ann asked as they walked across to the parking lot of the newspaper office.

  “Everyone pitches in.” In Emma’s purse was an envelope with the cash to pay for a full summer’s worth of advertising. She couldn’t have imagined doing this in Goshen, where the Chamber of Commerce tended to promote the Amish shops. Amish and Englischers alike benefited from the Amish tourist traffic. And although they preferred their privacy, these sales provided needed money to help them through the summer until the crops could be sold.

  Once they arrived in Monte Vista, they realized selling the items they made were as crucial to the family budget as the crops they grew.

  They walked to the front
door and Katie Ann pointed out the rusted car that had passed them on the road.

  “This is what he was in a hurry for? To get to the newspaper?”

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

  “Do you have a proverb for everything?” Katie Ann nudged Emma’s shoulder, and they both laughed as they walked toward the door.

  Forty-Three

  As they pushed through the front door, Emma was surprised to see Abe walking out. He nodded, said good afternoon, and then rushed past them.

  “He’s in a hurry too,” Katie Ann remarked.

  “Perhaps he’s late for something.”

  Inside, people filled out forms and such at a counter along a wall. As she and Katie Ann got in line to place their ad, Emma noticed Lewis Glick standing there, frowning as he jotted something down on a sheet of paper. She considered speaking to him, but then the line moved forward and she thought better of it. Lewis struck her as a private person. It would embarrass him if she called out to him.

  Finally, Emma and Katie Ann were third in line. She’d never imagined such a rush of people at the newspaper office. Maybe there was a deadline to have things run in the paper, and it was today.

  The man working behind this counter wore wire frame glasses and looked rather harried. Emma thought she heard him say something sharp to the man he was talking to, who responded in a soft voice. As the man accepted his change and turned away, he saw Emma and stopped suddenly.

  “Mrs. Fisher.”

  “Hello, Douglas. How are you today?”

  “Okay, I suppose.” He shrugged as if there was no more to say, glanced at Katie Ann, and then without another word he hurried to the door.

  “Who was that?”

  “Someone Sam and a few others went to school with. He was driving the car outside—the one that passed us on the road.”

  Katie Ann wrinkled her nose, glanced around, and lowered her voice. “How do you know him?”

  “Occasionally he stops by the produce stand. And it seems that he used to live out our way, though I can hardly remember.”