Instead of defending himself, Henry offered her a cookie.
As they walked home, Katie Ann collected a bouquet from the wildflowers blooming in the ditch, though she had a difficult time finding many. Much of the ditch was planted with asparagus, which was common in the area and grew well in the May weather. The temperature had risen to a pleasant sixty degrees or so.
Emma’s thoughts returned to Vernon’s death, Warren Johnson’s opinion that the fire had been intentionally set, and Henry’s list. They rounded the corner on their own property, a scant fifty-two acres—hardly large enough to make a living out of, even if they had sufficient rain to do so. When they’d arrived thirteen years earlier, they’d had such a different vision, thinking they could overcome the environment with hard work and dedication.
The land had humbled them in more than one way, but they’d endured. Now the flat acreage seemed like home. Her husband had been happy here, and her son had assured her he was content to stay. She was grateful. She would have gone back east if he’d asked, but she preferred the valley, rimmed in by the mountains. It was an oasis of sorts.
Katie Ann hurried ahead of her, up the steps of the front porch and into the house to tell her mother about the horse and the kittens and the flowers.
But Emma didn’t go inside right away.
She sat down on one of the porch rockers and thought about what Henry had said, about being able to talk to her person to person. It occurred to Emma that Henry probably missed her husband nearly as much as she did. George had been a simple man, and he had often sat where she was now—on the porch with their bishop, talking of fishing and farming and their life in the San Luis Valley.
And what would he think of the bishop’s list? Most likely he would have laughed and admitted that his own name could have been added there. Not that George would hurt a horsefly, let alone a man. Which was the heart of the problem. Vernon Frey had a way of bringing out the worst in folks, and apparently he had paid for that with his life.
Five
Henry had hoped the afternoon would pass peacefully.
He’d just spent an hour in the woodshop, working on three birdhouses. As he sanded the weathered wood, he thought of Emma’s question. He had not tried to draw the details of his visit to Vernon’s. What good would it do? What could he possibly have seen? And he wasn’t comfortable with his ability, his gift. Unless it became absolutely necessary, he would not pursue answers from that direction.
He pushed the thought from his mind, finished his projects, and made his way inside for lunch. He enjoyed a turkey sandwich, made from the fresh bread Franey Graber had brought by. Emma had laughed about the widows who pursued Henry with a surprising determination.
Ruth Schwartz had lost her husband the year before. She was a kind woman but a real talker. No, Henry couldn’t see himself marrying someone who wouldn’t allow quiet to seep into a room for even a moment. She did make fabulous desserts, though. In fact, Henry had spoken to her about opening a bakery, and she was considering doing so. It would certainly help her family financially.
Franey Graber wasn’t a widow, not in the legal sense of the word, though people still thought of her as such. Henry had heard the kids calling her Frowning Franey, and though he wanted to reprimand them and would have if it had been said directly to him, he understood why they called her that. He’d rarely seen her smile. She was Abe’s sister-in-law. Abe and Alvin were brothers. Since her divorce, Franey survived off Abe’s benevolence. She’d shared with Henry more than once that she had nothing to be happy about. She was another of the women who had showed a dogged interest in him. He wasn’t blind. He understood what the deluge of fresh bread and biscuits meant. Franey wasn’t one to talk much, but often when she did her words had a biting edge to them.
He could remember when Franey was a sweet, young newlywed back in Goshen. The move to Colorado had proven too much for her husband, but instead of suggesting they join another community in a different state, Alvin had moved over to Alamosa, fallen in love with an Englisch woman, and served Franey with divorce papers. Under their Ordnung there was no such thing as divorce, but Franey had signed the papers because Alvin wasn’t asking for divorce from the Amish church. In Englisch courts, divorce was common. Franey was not eligible to remarry per the Ordnung, but he supposed she was lonely and perhaps that was why she brought fresh baked goods to his door at least twice a week. The entire episode with Alvin had left her bitter. Who wouldn’t be? But it hadn’t affected her bread baking ability. Perhaps she should go into business with Ruth. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?
He found an old envelope next to the pile of junk mail he’d meant to throw away and proceeded to jot down the list of tasks he needed to accomplish for the week.
Speak to Franey about bakery
Visit Rebecca Yoder
Counsel with Albert again
Pick up more scrap lumber
Purchase seeds for garden
He hesitated, stared out the window for a moment, and prayed for wisdom in all things concerning his congregation. He petitioned the Lord to direct his path and supply his words. Finally, he again picked up the pencil and wrote…
Call meeting of elders
Satisfied with the list, he walked back to the table and set it under his salt shaker. Reaching for another one of the oatmeal cookies, his thoughts turned again to the widows. The third woman who regularly brought him food—casseroles, in this case—was Nancy Kline. Henry bit into his sandwich and stared out the window. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Nancy Kline. Well, truthfully there was nothing wrong with any of them. They simply were the way they were. Nancy was a kind, pleasant, patient woman, and even Henry, who had little experience in such things, would call her good looking.
No, the problem with the women wasn’t the women themselves. It was Henry.
He’d lived alone for more than twenty years. He still missed Claire, but now he could smile at the memories. She’d been a joy, a real blessing in his life. He wished they’d had children, wished she was still with him, but it was not to be. Unlike Job, he wouldn’t question God, though he certainly had in the first few years without her. It was true that some nights he found himself lonely, wishing he was surrounded by the noise and energy of grandchildren. But more often he found himself relieved when he returned home from some event, happy to step into his quiet, orderly world.
What was it Emma had said? You’re too stubborn. You’re set in your ways, and we both know it. Emma Fisher was tough stuff. She called things as she saw them, and she always did so with a smile on her lips and a kindness in her voice. And she was right. He was stubborn and set in his ways. Perhaps that wasn’t such a sin.
He had finished the cookie, drained his glass of milk, and was looking forward to an hour of reading, when there was a knock at the front door.
He was surprised he hadn’t heard anyone drive up. That’s what came of daydreaming about widows.
He opened the door to find Sheriff Roy Grayson standing there in full uniform. Beside him was a woman Henry had never seen before.
“Afternoon, Henry.”
“Sheriff.”
“This is Meg Allen. She’s the arson investigator sent over from County.”
Sheriff Grayson was in his forties, balding, tall, and thin. He’d always been respectful to Henry, though their paths had crossed relatively few times and never more than casually. The woman beside him had bright red hair, cut short. She was Henry’s height, which was tall for a woman and muscular in ways most Amish women weren’t. She looked to be quite young.
As if reading his thoughts, Grayson said, “Meg is one of the best arson investigators in the state. We’re lucky to have her on this.”
“Would you like to come inside?”
“That might be better.”
They settled in the sitting room—Allen and Grayson on the couch. Henry took the rocker.
Henry waited. He wasn’t one to jump into a conversation.
“Meg wanted to ask you some questions, and she wanted to see the list, the one Warren Johnson asked you to compile.”
“I expected that Warren might come by to pick it up.”
“He turned his report over to us because this is a criminal matter now. I’ll be in charge, working in conjunction with Meg. Do you have the list?”
“Ya. I’ve spent a fair amount of time working on it,” Henry admitted.
“May I see it?”
“Of course, but before we get to that, are you certain this was a case of arson?”
Allen glanced at Grayson, who nodded once.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re sure.”
“How sure?” When she glared at him, Henry said calmly, “Are you reasonably sure, as in it isn’t likely that an accident caused the fire? Or are you completely sure? Have you found evidence that can’t be refuted?”
“I’m not accustomed to sharing the details of an ongoing investigation, a barely begun investigation, with friends of the deceased—”
“Now, hang on, Meg.” Grayson sat forward, his forearms resting on his knees, and clasped his hands together. “Henry is the bishop for this group of folks. We’ve had no trouble in all the years—”
“Thirteen.”
“In the thirteen years they’ve been here.” Grayson scrubbed a hand across his face. “And we are asking him to give us a list of names that probably includes more than a few of the people in his church.”
“Is that what this is about? Clergy privilege? It doesn’t apply here. Not in a case of felony murder. Regardless, I don’t see it. Unless you counseled an individual, specifically about his or her propensity to start fires.”
Henry shook his head.
“Or unless the person has confessed to you, which I have to say would be a record confession since it’s been only twelve hours since the fire and subsequent death of Mr. Frey.”
“Nein. I haven’t received a confession.”
“Then I’d like to see the list.”
“And I’d like to know why you’re certain this is arson. I’m aware of the broken glass inside the room and Captain Johnson’s suspicions, but a person can’t be convicted on those two things alone. Is there even a small possibility this was an accident? Certainly it wouldn’t be the first time a person has been careless with a fire or a candle or a lantern.” Allen began shaking her head, but Henry felt duty bound to continue. “Maybe Vernon left the oven on or the burner lit. Once a family in Goshen left a dish towel too near a burner, and the whole house went up in flames. Real tragedy.”
Her reply was curt, choppy, and to the point. “We found evidence of three Molotov cocktails.”
“Bottle-based improvised incendiary devices,” Grayson offered, sitting back. “Whoever did this had done their research. They knew what type of bottle worked best—to be efficient the bottle must be breakable. A heavy glass, like an old Coke bottle, wouldn’t work well.”
“And you found proof of this?”
Allen picked up the explanation. “We’re waiting for results from the lab, but from the fire pattern and the speed at which the blaze grew, yes. Both Captain Johnson and I are quite certain. In all likelihood, our perpetrator used a mixture of petrol and motor oil. The cloth wick could have been soaked in alcohol or kerosene.”
When Henry still hesitated, Allen leaned forward again. “We found evidence of at least three of these devices. This wasn’t someone who was angry and hoped to scare Mr. Frey. This was someone bound and determined to kill him. Based on my experience, once a person kills via arson, they can’t stop. Instead, they become obsessed with a driving compulsion to do so again.”
“We’re looking at felony arson, Henry. Damages certainly exceeded five hundred dollars. Frey’s death means there will also be a charge of felony murder. That’s the same as first-degree murder, and Meg is right. The statutory privilege between patient and physician, and hence clergy privilege, does not apply. Whoever did this is looking at one of two sentences—death or life without the possibility of parole.”
Henry had heard enough. He wouldn’t have withheld the list, but he wanted to be sure the Englisch authorities knew what they were doing. The last thing he needed was a new recruit looking for trouble to pad his or her résumé. A world of difference lay between an accidental fire and arson.
But Allen seemed convinced. The woman was pushy and somewhat arrogant, but she appeared to know what she was talking about. More importantly, Grayson trusted her.
Henry walked into the kitchen, pulled a pad of paper from the drawer where he’d stored it, and tore off the top sheet. Walking back into the sitting room, he handed it to the investigator.
She studied it top to bottom, glanced at him, and then she went over it again.
Beside each name, Henry had listed the person’s association to Vernon.
Finally, she handed the paper to Grayson, who had been reading over her shoulder, and said, “Maybe you could explain to me why Mr. Frey had so many enemies.”
Six
He passed the Monte Vista Sheriff’s cruiser as it pulled out of the bishop’s lane.
So they were interviewing Henry Lapp. Well, they wouldn’t learn anything there.
He’d been extremely careful and was sure he’d left no evidence pointing to himself. The bottles, if they hadn’t been destroyed, would provide no fingerprints. Roy Grayson could bring in as many outside investigators as he wanted. They would find nothing, and they certainly wouldn’t catch him.
What bothered him was not the authorities. What bothered him—irked him, actually—was that they might get in the way. He had a plan—a specific schedule. He had five targets in mind, and he knew in what order he wanted to hit them. He would exact his revenge. These people had been responsible for destroying his life, and he would make them pay. He refused to be derailed by a group of amateurs. Once he was finished, they could do whatever they wanted. He didn’t plan to stick around for that.
His mind skittered off in a dozen directions. He could play this out in countless possible ways given the investigation and what he’d read in the paper about “investigative procedures.” But he could tell from the article that the authorities were clueless. It would take them a while to even come up with a list of suspects, and he could be finished by then.
He thought of his mother and father and brother. He thought of all that had happened to them, all the tragedy they had endured. Once again, he vowed in his heart to fulfill the promise he’d made to his brother.
Soon he would strike again, and he’d continue to do so until he accomplished what he’d set out to do.
Vernon Frey was only the beginning.
Seven
Emma helped her daughter-in-law, Rachel, put together dinner—a baked chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits, and salad. There had been a time when Emma worried her son might starve after marrying Rachel. The girl had been raised Mennonite, and with her sights set on college to become a literature professor, she barely knew how to make toast. But all of that was twenty years earlier, and now Rachel was a fine cook, though she still tended to take peeks at whatever book she was reading while she cooked—which had occasionally resulted in a burned meal.
“Mmm. Smells gut. Mamm must have finished her book.” Silas slid into his seat and smiled at his mother. He was the oldest, having recently turned seventeen, and felt he had the right to tease his mother now that he was no longer in school.
Katie Ann followed the year after.
The two younger boys had been born later. Thomas had recently turned ten, and Stephen was nine. They’d each been a pleasant surprise to the entire family. Rachel was a fine mother to the four children, and the family was constantly bustling and busy.
Emma had only had the one child—Clyde. They were the odd family of three in a community where families usually had eight to ten children. She’d always been close to her only son. When Clyde and Rachel expressed an interest in moving to Colorado, leaving their established community in Goshen
, Indiana, Emma and George had readily agreed to pull up roots and go with them.
Rachel finished setting the food on the table and sat down, each person paused for a moment of silent prayer, and then Clyde said, “Amen.” A flurry of activity commenced. Emma loved the sounds of serving platters being passed, silverware scraping against plates, the boys jostling for the largest biscuit. To her, mealtimes encompassed the most basic moments of family life. She thought of Vernon Frey, eating alone all his days. Why had he never married? Why had he moved west? What had gone so terribly wrong with his life that it ended in such a drastic fashion?
“Everyone on the construction crew was talking about the fire today,” Silas said, his words garbled by a mouthful of potatoes. He’d recently taken a job in town working on the building of a large new discount store.
“It’s a real tragedy, for sure and for certain.” Rachel jumped up from the table to get the butter from the refrigerator. The appliance was small and gas operated. There had been talk within their district of converting to solar power, but it was still being discussed by the church elders.
“They say someone did it on purpose.”
Emma glanced at her son. Clyde didn’t seem perturbed by the statement. He wasn’t one for shielding the children from bad news.
“That’s stupid,” Stephen said.
“It’s smart if you ask me.” Thomas studiously cut his piece of chicken with a fork and knife. The boys preferred fried chicken, which they could pick up and eat. They weren’t as keen on baked chicken, which required the use of silverware.
“Nothing smart about killing a man,” Clyde said.
“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean if you did it, and if there was a fire, then any evidence would be burned up.” Thomas twirled his hand in the air, mimicking smoke spiraling away.
“There’s always evidence, though.” Silas reached for another piece of chicken. “Guys on the construction site say whoever did it wrote with red paint on the wall—one of the walls that didn’t burn.”
What the Bishop Saw Page 3
