Who the Bishop Knows

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Will she be okay?” Ellen Cunningham had been with the police force a little more than a year. Grayson had once shared that she was only twenty-five years old and still a bit wet behind the ears, but she was a good officer he hoped would stick around.

  “Someone will have already left her food and seen to her animals,” Henry said. “Hopefully, she’ll be able to get some rest, and later this afternoon some of the women will stop by to sit with her.”

  Officer Cunningham’s eyes sought his in the rearview mirror. “That’s good. No one should be alone after such a thing.”

  “Is this your first homicide, officer?”

  “It is, and I don’t mind saying I moved to Monte Vista because I didn’t want to be a cop in Denver, where I grew up.”

  “Are things bad there?” Emma asked.

  Cunningham shrugged. “Property crime is down, but violent crime is up.”

  “I can’t imagine such a thing,” Emma said.

  “Amish communities are usually in rural areas for several reasons—we can purchase the necessary farmland, we can watch out for one another, and we have a better chance of living a life separate from the rest of the world… as we feel called to do.”

  “You’re not too separate.” Cunningham nodded back toward the facility they’d just left. “Going to the rodeo and all.”

  “We try to be good neighbors, to involve ourselves in the community to the extent that seems healthy. But living in a city… no, that’s not the Amish way.” Henry let that sit between them for a moment, and then he added, “Are you enjoying life in the valley?”

  Cunningham gestured toward the mountains on the horizon. “Wide open spaces and the work are to my liking. Mainly we deal with domestic issues, speeding tickets, a few drunk and disorderlies—that’s enough action for me.”

  Emma smiled through her weariness. “And usually that’s all you’d find in Monte Vista.”

  “Maybe a few cows loose on the road,” Cunningham said.

  “Or a donkey munching the flowers on the town square.” Henry smiled at the memory. Oh, that their problems could always be so commonplace.

  Cunningham drove Emma home next. Henry stepped out of the cruiser in order to walk her to the porch steps.

  “Would you like to come in for breakfast?”

  “I would, but I should get home to Lexi.” He’d had the beagle for nearly two years and was still surprised by how attached he was to her.

  “Someone will have checked on her.”

  “Ya, but she gets anxious when I’m gone too long, especially if I haven’t warned her beforehand.”

  “Henry Lapp, you talk as if that dog understands what you say.”

  “At times I think she does.” Henry leaned forward, kissed Emma on the cheek, and promised to stop by the next day for Sunday dinner. It was their off week, so they had no church service. Instead, they would meet in small groups throughout the community—a few families that lived near one another gathered for a meal and fellowship.

  “We can drive over and check on Ruth after lunch.”

  When he went to climb into the back of the police cruiser, Cunningham motioned him to the front.

  “I didn’t know if it was proper,” Henry admitted.

  “At the officer’s discretion.” Cunningham grinned, revealing a small gap between her two front teeth. Henry liked her for that. She wasn’t so vain that she needed to have it cosmetically fixed. She didn’t take herself quite as seriously as many young Englisch women her age seemed to.

  “I appreciate your carting us around. I realize the Monte Vista police department isn’t a taxi service.”

  “And yet we’re here to serve.”

  Henry could have walked home. Emma often walked to his house, and he occasionally snapped a leash on Lexi’s collar and walked to hers. He yawned largely. Probably it was best to be grateful for the ride. It had been a long night, and he needed to conserve his energy for the days ahead.

  As soon as they’d pulled out on the two-lane road, Cunningham brought up Henry’s past. “Is it true? What they say you can do?”

  “You’re referring to the drawing?”

  “I am.”

  “Depends on what they’re saying.”

  “They’re like a photograph, only more detailed.”

  “True.”

  “They’re always accurate.”

  “Also true.”

  She hesitated, and then she added, “Some people say you can draw things that haven’t happened yet.”

  “I’m not a prophet, only a bishop.” Henry said it lightly, but Cunningham’s brow crinkled as if there was something there she didn’t understand. “What I mean to say is I don’t have the gift of prophecy, of seeing the future. The drawings, that ability… well, it’s a result of a baseball accident when I was a young boy. I was only twelve years old.”

  “I read about that.”

  “Then I suppose you know I spent two weeks in ICU after Atlee Stolzfus smacked what would have been a home run if the ball hadn’t come into contact with my head.”

  “Are you still friends?”

  The question made Henry smile. He’d shared his story many times over the years—usually with families that thought they wanted to move into their district. He didn’t want anyone under his spiritual guidance who didn’t fully understand his past. He wasn’t ashamed of it, but he was aware that his ability made some people uncomfortable.

  “I’m not sure anyone has ever asked that before, but ya. We’ve remained friends through all these years. Atlee turned seventy last month, and we still occasionally exchange letters.”

  Henry indicated his small acreage coming up on the left. Cunningham slowed, flipped on her blinker, and then turned down his lane.

  “The article I read said you have a photographic memory because of the accident.”

  “Doctors assure me there is no such thing. Some refer to my condition as accidental or acquired savant syndrome.”

  “Either way it’s unusual.”

  “Very.”

  Cunningham stopped a few feet from his house and slipped the transmission into park. Henry had seen his Englisch friend Stuart do the same many times. He thought if he had to, he could drive an Englisch vehicle, but he preferred Oreo and his buggy.

  “The article said only a few others are like you, and that their abilities are different.”

  “Ya. Brain injuries affect different people in different ways.”

  “It must be hard, being different.” Cunningham’s tone told Henry she was speaking from experience.

  “Sometimes. I once thought of what I can do as a curse, an accident that happened while Gotte was distracted with other things.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I realize it’s a blessing.”

  Henry was reaching for the door handle and was about to thank her again for the ride, when she asked what had probably been on her mind all along. “Will you be able to help with the investigation? Like you did before?”

  “Nein. I can only draw what I’ve seen. I don’t actually remember the details, but my mind somehow records the images, and then my hand… well, my hand can draw them. Because I was in the food court when Jeremiah was shot, I didn’t see anything. Unfortunately, in this instance, my ability won’t be of use to anyone.”

  Ten

  Henry loved Sunday worship. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t enjoyed the gathering of everyone in the community, the hymns he could remember his grandparents singing. Everyone participated whether or not they had a good singing voice. And, of course, even as a youngster he had looked forward to the fellowship afterward, when they’d eat until it felt as if his suspenders would pop, play games, and temporarily forget the hard work living on a farm entailed. He also remembered thinking the sermons would go on forever, and that the sun might set before he had a chance to enjoy a game of baseball.

  After becoming a bishop, he’d learned to appreciate the off Sundays as much as the ones where they met
in worship. With smaller groups, he could spend more time with each of his congregants, and people sometimes opened up to him more in the casual setting. He tried to rotate which house he went to, but more and more often he went to Emma’s. Already he was thinking of the place as his home.

  He would move to the Fisher farm after they were wed. His place had very little land—only enough to pasture his horse, grow a small garden, keep a small barn, and have his workshop, where he made the wood items he sold in local stores. Keeping the land after he wed Emma would be an unnecessary expense when Clyde and Rachel had a good-sized piece of property that easily allowed for another small house, so he’d sell it. The walls of their dawdi haus were already up. Clyde, Silas, and Henry worked on the inside whenever they could. The home should be completed before the wedding—just a few weeks away—but if they ran into any problems, the congregation would schedule a workday.

  For the adults today, a somber pall hovered over the day’s luncheon because of Jeremiah’s death. The children had seemed to pick up on the melancholy mood throughout the meal, but once they were in the pasture, their youthful exuberance returned. It was good and right that it should be so. The young had a way of leading them forward, even when life’s path was full of obstacles.

  Henry was leaning against the pasture fence, thinking about the impending move and changes in his life and watching the youngies engage in a game of baseball, when his new neighbor, Seth Hoschstetler, walked over and joined him. Seth and his wife, Roseann, were in their late forties, childless, and had come to Colorado because they felt hemmed in by the growth in Indiana. He was a big man at over six feet and a hard worker. In two months he’d managed to plant and tend to all of his crops, as well as shore up his barn and make repairs to his house. Moreover, he was a good neighbor with a pleasant outlook.

  “Fine day for a luncheon,” Seth said.

  “You’ll find most days in the valley are. We have wunderbaar weather all year long.”

  “You’re forgetting we moved here in late May. We still had lows in the twenties.”

  Henry smiled as he crossed both arms on the top rail of the fence. “Ya, May was unusual.”

  “Actually, Roseann and I don’t mind the temperatures. I am relieved that she’s no longer having the headaches.”

  “It can take some time to adjust to the elevation, for sure and certain. Remember, our valley sits at an elevation of 7664 feet, which is a wee bit higher than Shipshewana, Indiana.”

  Lexi had been playing with the children, but when she spied Seth, she headed toward him.

  “What’s up with the vest?”

  “Purchased it a week or so ago, and I’m trying it out. I like it better than clipping a leash to her collar. One book said choke collars can be hard on their necks, and she just slips out of a regular collar.”

  “Well, she looks quite proper in it.”

  Lexi was sniffing at Seth’s feet. She dropped into a seated position and gave him a beseeching look.

  “I think my dog has taken a liking to you.”

  “Roseann keeps a piece of leftover bacon or sausage for her every morning.”

  “That explains it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I was worried she was bothering you. I found the hole in our fence line where she’s getting through. I’ve been thinking about mending it, but I keep putting it off.”

  “Don’t bother. We enjoy her visits. I might get a little one for Roseann next time Abe’s dog has a litter.” Seth slapped him on the back. “We’re headed home, but I wanted to come over and speak. Though we live side by side, we don’t see each other often enough.”

  “We need to remedy that. Take the girls out to eat or something.”

  “After your wedding. But maybe you can come over for dinner much sooner than that.”

  As Seth walked away to say his goodbyes to the rest of the group, Katie Ann and Naomi approached the bishop.

  “Henry, could we talk to you for a minute?” Katie Ann asked.

  “If you’re not busy,” Naomi quickly added.

  Henry studied them curiously. Katie Ann seemed nervous, and Naomi had none of her usual energy. Normally the girl couldn’t tolerate sitting still unless she was writing in one of her tablets. They’d all celebrated when Naomi was accepted as a scribe for the Budget, a distinctly Amish publication. Now she stood beside Katie Ann, clasping her hands at her waist and staring at the ground.

  Something was definitely up.

  “I’m not busy,” Henry said. “Only full from all the luncheon foods and needing to walk about a bit.”

  “We could go to the barn,” Katie Ann suggested.

  Katie Ann worked for their local veterinarian, Georgia Berry. Henry wasn’t sure how God would use Katie Ann’s love for animals, but he had no doubt she would settle into an important role in their community. At eighteen, she was growing in her faith, more mature each time he saw her, and a real joy in Emma’s life. It startled Henry to realize she would soon be his granddaughter.

  The thought filled his heart with joy, and he found himself wishing the time until his wedding to Emma would pass more quickly.

  They walked in silence toward the barn, Lexi dashing in front of them and then falling behind to stop and investigate something. A tricolored beagle, she was no longer a puppy, but Henry still thought of her that way. Her coat was white with large black and brown patches. She was smallish for a hound, both because of her breed and because she’d been the runt of the litter. But her sense of smell was great, she’d become fiercely protective of Henry, and she’d proved her worth on more than one occasion.

  Henry watched her dash past them. She’d reached a height of fifteen inches and weighed twenty pounds at her last checkup. Large, dark-brown eyes matched her floppy ears. Both girls laughed when she stuck her nose under a clump of wildflowers and then jumped backward to bark at it.

  They were nearly to the barn when Katie Ann glanced at the horse pasture and was quickly distracted by the sight of a young colt feeding next to Clyde’s newest mare. They changed their course and stood appreciating the beauty of the foal on this sunny July afternoon.

  “She’s a beauty,” Henry said, crossing his arms and leaning on the fence.

  “We named her Ginger because she’s such a pretty, soft brown.”

  Henry waited, but Katie Ann continued to stare at the colt, and Naomi had taken to picking at her fingernails.

  “Who would like to begin?”

  The girls looked at each other and then at him.

  “Naomi wants to speak to you because she’s worried that she knows something about Jeremiah.”

  “Possibly I know something. It could be that I don’t.”

  “And if she does, she wouldn’t want to keep it to herself and hinder Sheriff Grayson’s investigation.”

  “I’d thought of going to him directly, but Katie Ann suggested I speak with you first.”

  They fell silent, waiting.

  “Well. All right. I appreciate your trusting me with your concerns. You were Jeremiah’s freind?”

  “Ya, and possibly… possibly more.”

  “You were courting?”

  “We went out a few times. I don’t know that it was officially courting.” Naomi’s words tumbled over one another like a river stream headed downhill. “He’d come from Goshen less than two months ago, and you know my aenti and onkel live in Goshen, so we had a lot to talk about. We knew the same kids from when I’ve been to visit there. I let him walk me home from a few of the singings.”

  “I thought Jeremiah seemed quite taken with you,” Katie Ann said. “Though sometimes you’d go a few days without hearing from him.”

  Henry considered carefully whether he should ask Naomi the question bouncing around in his mind. He brushed away any reticence because, in the end, he decided it might make a difference to what else she’d say. “Naomi, did you love Jeremiah? Did you plan on marrying?”

  “He mentioned marriage a f
ew times, but sort of in a laughing way. I wasn’t sure how I felt.” Her face reddened at the confession. “I cared about him, I did, but Jeremiah was a little… well, a little wild. And while that can be fun for a time, I knew that in the end I wanted to settle down, raise bopplis, and write for the Budget. I didn’t want to move to the West Coast.”

  Henry stared at her in shock. Finally, he asked, just to make sure he’d heard correctly, “The West Coast?”

  Naomi nodded mutely, her confession spent.

  “Why would he do that, Naomi? Was Jeremiah thinking of leaving the faith? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Tears spilled down Naomi’s cheeks, and Katie Ann quickly moved closer and took her hand.

  “He said he was going and that he’d take me with him, or that he’d come back and get me. I tried telling him I didn’t want to go, but he wouldn’t listen, and we… we argued about it more than once, and then… then… then he was shot.”

  Henry gave her a moment to compose herself, and then he asked, “Where, Naomi? Where was Jeremiah planning to go?”

  When she finally managed to find her voice, her answer wasn’t what Henry would have guessed if he’d had a hundred years to do so.

  “Hollywood. Jeremiah was determined to go to Hollywood.”

  Eleven

  Emma sat at her kitchen table with Henry, Sheriff Grayson, and Ruth Schwartz. The sheriff had picked Ruth up on his way over, after Silas had run to the phone shack to call the police department.

  Naomi had answered all of the sheriff’s questions, and then she and Katie Ann had asked to be excused. One look at Ruth told Emma the poor woman was in a state of shock. She’d gone from disbelief, to grief, to surprise, and now to amazement.

  “Jeremiah… on an Englisch television show. I can’t imagine why he’d want to do such a thing.”

  “Most of the reality shows have some sort of monetary prize,” Grayson explained. “I’ve never heard of Boots, Buckles, and Broncos, but new shows pop up all the time. Some barely make it through a season.”

  “Why would they want an Amish person?” Emma asked. She honestly couldn’t imagine. Their life was so simple—the same from day to day, nothing anyone would want to watch unless they found milking a cow or doing laundry exciting. She did lots of laundry.