It was difficult to understand at times, but it was true. God determined the length of a person’s life. As the bishop for their small Amish community, Henry presided over funerals, celebrated births, and led his flock. He would guide them through this.
He suddenly became aware of the firemen, all of them volunteer, rushing away from the building.
“It’s coming down!” Sam Beiler hollered. Sam had been on the volunteer crew for nearly ten years now, since he’d been baptized into the church at nineteen.
The smoke rolled away from the building—black and thick, like the worst of clouds descending over the San Juan Mountains. Henry couldn’t see those mountains in the dim light of the moon, but he could see the smoke thanks to the firefighters’ lights set up around the scene.
The crowd of onlookers stepped back, though they’d been huddled safely behind the line set by the fire captain. There was a collective gasp as the roof collapsed, sending out sparks. The fire roared, and as Henry instinctively held up his arm and felt the heat of the flames through his coat, he understood in his heart that Vernon could not have survived. Nothing could survive such an inferno.
The fire blazed hotter and brighter, grabbing at the timbers and greedily consuming them. The smoke that had been rolling out toward them turned up and evaporated into the inkiness of the night. The house groaned. Walls fell. Windows burst, showering glass onto the lawn.
Another fifteen minutes and the worst of it was over. The firemen again set to work with their ladders and hoses. Within the next hour, they had reduced the blaze to a few manageable hot spots.
The men from Henry’s congregation as well as a few Englischers offered to help, but the fire captain sent them home. As they were slowly dispersing, Captain Warren Johnson scanned the crowd. When he saw the bishop, he waved him over.
“Terrible thing,” Henry said.
“It is.” Warren Johnson still wore his heavy firefighting uniform, but he’d pulled off his gloves and now swiped a giant hand over his face. The man was over six feet and built like an ox.
“Vernon?”
“Pulled him out within five minutes of getting here. I’m sorry, Henry. He didn’t make it.”
It was then that Henry noticed the ambulance parked on the far side of the fire truck. Its lights were off, but the bay doors were open. He stepped to the left and saw a body on a stretcher, covered with a sheet.
“Paramedics decided to stay in case one of my men needed them.”
“I hope no one else was hurt.”
“No, though your guy Sam…” Johnson shook his head. “The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word danger.”
“I’d be surprised to hear he was careless.”
“Not at all. It’s only that he throws himself into fighting a fire. He insisted on being the one to go in after Vernon. He brought out his body.”
Henry didn’t know what to say to that. He’d known Sam Beiler since he was a young lad. The man was as generous and dedicated as a person could be. When Henry had talked to him about the dangers of firefighting, he’d smiled and said, “It’s my way of serving others, Henry.”
Chief Johnson barked some orders at a group of men, and then he turned his attention back to the bishop. “The reason I called you over is because I want to show you something.”
Henry nodded, and Johnson led him around to the front of the house. The fire had done less damage to this portion of the dwelling, though everything was wet and covered with ash and soot.
“Watch your step,” Johnson warned.
They stopped at the window to the right of the front door, their feet crunching against shattered glass.
Henry could see through to the sitting room and the charred destruction beyond.
“I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” he admitted.
“The window.”
“Looks like it exploded, same as the others.”
“Yeah, when the heat built up, it did.” Johnson shone his flashlight on the floor inside the home. “Shattered glass blows out, as you no doubt noticed when we walked around the house.”
“But there’s glass on the inside.”
“Exactly. That’s my point.”
Maybe it was fatigue catching up with him, or perhaps the smoke had messed with his reasoning abilities. “I guess I’m not seeing what’s important here.”
“This is where it started.”
“The fire?”
“Someone threw an incendiary device through this window, Henry. This fire wasn’t an accident. Someone started it. I have no doubt the arson team will find a homemade explosive of some sort. The person threw it through this window, busting the glass. The device slid across the room, came into contact with a couch or something flammable, and whoosh. The entire house went up in smoke and flames.”
Henry turned to study Johnson, to see if the man was serious, but he wasn’t known to joke around, especially at a fire. And the expression on his face was grim, determined.
“You think this was arson?”
“I do.” The captain refocused the beam of his flashlight on the glass inside the front window. “Can’t say if they meant to kill Vernon or only wanted to scare him. Whether the homicide was intentional or not, it looks like we have a crime on our hands.”
“Hard to imagine.”
“I’d like you to think about it and try to come up with a list of names for me.”
“What names?”
“People who would want to kill Vernon Frey.”
Three
Emma Fisher walked with her granddaughter in the early morning sunshine. The San Luis Valley stretched out around them—broad and flat and dry. Situated at an elevation of 7664 feet, their rainfall amounted to a whopping seven inches a year. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains rose to the east. The San Juan Mountains towered to the west. Both were capped with snow, though there hadn’t been any on the ground in the valley since the month before.
“So he… died?” Katie Ann asked. She had turned sixteen the previous summer, was finished with school, and could ask more questions than the average three-year-old. She was blond and pretty and still growing into her arms and legs.
“He did.” Emma swiped at strands of her hair that insisted on escaping from her kapp. At sixty, she was slightly plumper and a bit grayer than she’d ever imagined she would be. Neither bothered her much, but the arthritis in her knees did. She considered the dry mountain air a blessing—it seemed to ease the ache in her bones. By noon she barely noticed it.
“From the fire?”
“Ya.”
“That would be terrible.”
“It would be indeed.”
Katie Ann switched the bucket of cleaning supplies to her left arm and slipped her right hand into her grandmother’s. It reminded Emma of when she was a little girl.
“I don’t want something like that to ever happen to you.”
“You don’t need to worry yourself about such, Katie Ann.”
“Because Gotte will take care of us.”
“He will.”
“But He didn’t take care of Vernon Frey.”
“Every person’s life is complete when the Lord calls them home.”
“Your reasoning goes round and round, Mammi. It reminds me of the math problems Teacher gave us.”
“Does it now?”
“See? Instead of denying it, you only smile at me.”
“I’ll admit some things are hard to understand.”
“That’s the truth.”
They’d reached the corner of Henry Lapp’s property. Katie Ann released her hand and ran forward to greet Oreo, Henry’s black-and-white buggy mare. Emma wasn’t a bit surprised when the girl pulled a slice of apple from her pocket and fed it to the horse.
“I thought you’d eaten that for breakfast.”
“I ate the rest.” Katie Ann rubbed Oreo along her nose and then hurried to catch up with Emma.
“Why do we clean Henry’s house each week?”
“You know why. He’s wid
owed and has no family here.”
“Why doesn’t he marry again?”
“I suppose the Lord hasn’t seen fit to send him a wife.”
“Maybe he could just meet one the way normal people do.”
“Maybe he will.”
“I’m not marrying until I’m old, like thirty.”
“Is that so?”
“You can laugh, but it’s true. I want to see the world first. Experience some stuff.”
“Sure you can postpone your plans long enough to help me with the bishop’s cleaning?”
“Of course. Henry always lets me ride Oreo when we’re done.”
Henry was standing on the porch waiting for them by the time they’d crossed the front yard. Emma thought he was a nice-looking man—his hair was brown going to gray and had a bit of a curl in it. His beard had turned nearly white in the last year, something he found amusing. “It’s as if I’m getting old from my chin up.” Laugh lines fanned out from eyes that were a warm brown. In his midsixties, he’d watched his weight, or maybe he had a naturally fast metabolism. He didn’t have the large belly many men his age did, even farmers who spent their time laboring in the fields. It came from eating too many carbohydrates. Henry was mostly at the mercy of his congregation’s casseroles, though he claimed he could fry an egg or make a sandwich as well as anyone.
“Morning, Emma.”
“Morning.”
“Katie Ann.”
“Morning, Henry. I fed Oreo an apple slice. She’s looking full of energy today.”
Henry rubbed a hand up and down his jawline, as if he were puzzled. “I suppose I should take her out more often. Haven’t needed to use the buggy as much lately because I’ve been working in my woodshop more.”
“I can ride her for you. That will settle her down.”
“A fine idea.”
“Thanks, Henry.” Katie Ann hurried inside, her step light and energetic. She’d have the sheets off the bed and in the washer before Emma started on the kitchen.
“The energy of youngies is a mystery to me.”
Henry smiled, held the door open, and then followed Emma inside.
She insisted he get out from underfoot. “I know you have orders to fill in your workshop.”
“Now that you mention it…” With a smile and a wink, he was gone.
Back in Goshen, Henry had made furniture from pine, oak, and cherrywood. Now he created smaller pieces.
When their group first moved to Colorado, they’d all had adjustments to make.
Neighbors were different. Farming was different. Hobbies often generated more income than crops.
Henry had begun scouring the area for rundown barns. There were plenty of those. Most of the time, the owners were happy to have some of the lumber hauled off. Occasionally Henry would pay a small fee for the wood. He took it into his workshop, sanded it, oiled it, put a finish on it, and hammered it into picture frames, shelves, and birdhouses. Downtown Monte Vista was an art haven, and several of the stores were happy to carry Henry’s creations.
For the next two hours, Emma and Katie Ann swept and mopped, cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, washed bedding, and attempted to banish the dust that seemed to return as soon as it was wiped away. Henry kept a clean house. Emma almost laughed out loud, thinking of her George and what his house would have looked like if she’d gone first. The man was a marvel in the field but rather helpless on the domestic front. He’d passed four years earlier, and she still found herself surprised and occasionally bereft to wake and discover herself alone in their queen-sized bed.
She didn’t speak to Henry about the fire until the housework was done. Katie Ann, excused from the last of it, had enjoyed her ride and led Oreo back into the barn to give her a thorough brushing. Emma and Henry sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the last of the coffee and a midmorning snack.
“She’s a gut girl,” Henry said, pushing the plate of oatmeal cookies toward her.
“These look like the work of Ruth Schwartz.”
Henry hid his smile behind his coffee mug. “Ya. She gave them to me after our church luncheon.”
“You would think the widows in our church would have given up on turning your head, Henry Lapp.”
“You’re suggesting I’m too old?”
“I’m suggesting you’re too stubborn. You’re set in your ways, and we both know it.”
“Hard to turn down a plate of cookies.” Henry reached for another.
Emma shrugged and chose one from the plate. “Now tell me about the fire.”
Four
He wants you to make a list?” Emma had been leaning forward during Henry’s brief recital of Sunday night’s events. Now she sat back, her hands folded in her lap, and stared at him incredulously.
“Ya.”
“Where would you begin?”
“Unfortunately, starting the list wasn’t a problem. The real issue came when I realized I was jotting down the names of nearly everyone I know.”
“You’re saying we could all be murderers?” Emma’s voice squeaked as she reached for another cookie.
“Of course not. Captain Johnson asked for a list of names that included anyone who would want to kill Vernon. That doesn’t mean I think they’d do it.”
“I see your problem.”
“The man wasn’t well liked.”
“And yet he was a member of our community. He was Plain.” Emma tapped the table. “Each person agrees to abide by the rules of the Ordnung. We all do—Vernon Frey as well as those who disagreed with him. We are Amish. We turn the other cheek.”
“The doctrine of nonresistance is strong in our faith and our culture. I’ll agree with you there, but you know as well as I do… it doesn’t make us perfect.”
“I never said—”
“Plain folk have tempers, same as anyone else.”
“Of course we do.”
“We’re human, Emma. We make mistakes. Whoever did this could be a member of our community.”
“Or it could have been an Englischer.” Emma stood, refilled her coffee mug, and waved the pot toward Henry, who shook his head. “Vernon was known to pick a fight over the smallest things—in a passive, non-resistant way, of course.”
“It’s true.” Henry rested his forearms on the table and frowned into his cup. “I spoke to Vernon many times about his attitude toward others. In fact, Clyde and I met with him last month, and I stopped by again recently.”
“Clyde told me he visited, although he didn’t share any particulars.” When George died, that left the district with only one other minister—Abe Graber. The congregation had nominated a half dozen of the married men from their midst, but no one was surprised when the lot fell to her son, Clyde.
“Gotte is using your family,” Henry had said to her more than once. She’d wanted to laugh. She’d never imagined herself as a minister’s wife, and now she was a widow and the mother of a minister. Gotte had a sense of humor indeed, as her family was far from perfect. They cared, though. She never doubted how much they cared for one another.
She refocused her attention on Henry. “You did your best, I’m sure.”
“The Ordnung does not allow us to discipline a member because he has a sour disposition.”
“Nor should it.”
“And yet if it did, if I had, perhaps Vernon would be alive today.”
“Don’t go blaming yourself for this, Henry.” Emma stood again, cleaned off their dishes, rinsed the mugs and put them in the drain, and covered the cookies with a clean kitchen towel. “You make the list, exactly as Warren Johnson asked. He’s a gut man, and he’ll know where to take the investigation from there. If your list is several pages long and includes every name in Monte Vista, then so be it.”
“I suppose, though I hate to cast suspicion on innocent people.”
“When was the last time you saw Vernon?” Emma picked up a dish towel and swiped at the already clean counter.
“Sunday afternoon.”
“Di
d you notice anything that seemed out of place or suspicious?”
“Not that I can remember.”
Emma put the dish towel on a hook and turned to look directly at Henry. Her next question wasn’t one he would be comfortable with, but it was important that she ask.
“Have you tried…” She mimicked drawing on paper.
Henry shook his head, met her gaze for a second, and then glanced away.
“When will the funeral be?”
“Depends on when the morgue can release the body. Vernon had no family in the area. He had a few cousins back east. I stopped at the phone shack on the way home early this morning and called the bishops in Lancaster. Both expressed their condolences but were sure the families would not be able to make it out to attend the funeral. His relatives are older, older even than Vernon was, and not in gut health.”
The back screen door banged against its frame, and they heard the sound of Katie Ann stomping dirt off her shoes. Emma began gathering the cleaning supplies they’d brought. She didn’t want to speak of such things in front of the teenager. Her granddaughter was impressionable, not to mention unsettled enough about the fire.
Henry was standing with his back against the counter, arms crossed, with a smile playing on the corner of his lips. “Danki, Emma.”
“For the cleaning?” She made a pshaw sound that reminded her of her mother.
“Not just the cleaning. You can’t know how much it helps to be able to talk to someone… person to person, not bishop to congregant.”
Emma would have told him he was welcome and assured him he could speak to anyone in their community in the same way. But she didn’t say either of those things because Katie Ann walked into the room talking of horses and spring and the fact that Henry had a litter of newborn kittens in his barn.
“Do I?”
“Well, ya. They’re in the back corner stall, in a box with a blanket…” She glanced at Emma and then again at Henry. “Oh. That’s a joke. You knew already.”
“I might have heard a meow or two.”
“And you took the blanket out.”
“It was old and torn.”
“That explains why there’s a bowl of cat food for the mother, and some water as well.”
What the Bishop Saw Page 2
