Who the Bishop Knows

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Then why are you here? No offense.”

  “None taken.” Grayson put his hat back on his head and sat forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “I’ve tried to talk to a few of your youth. They’re polite but not particularly forthcoming.”

  “Do you think they’re hiding something pertinent to the case?”

  “I think they could be. This young woman from Del Norte, the one who was apparently dating Jeremiah too, thinks he owed someone money or someone owed him money.”

  “You think he was killed for money?”

  “No. I doubt whatever was owed was all that much, but I have to follow every lead.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Sometimes one lead will take us to another. Pull on the right string and the entire thing will unravel.”

  Grayson stood as Lexi bounded across the field and toward the front steps, stopped to sniff his feet, and then collapsed on the porch.

  “She looks full.”

  “Scraps.”

  “There’s one more thing, Henry. This girl also suggested that some of the Amish boys were giving Jeremiah a hard time about leaving the faith.”

  “But they wouldn’t shoot him for wanting to leave.”

  “No. I agree that seems a little far-fetched.”

  “I’ll ask around. See what I can find out. Any other suspects?”

  “Yeah. I seem to add one or two each day.”

  As Grayson drove away, Henry remembered one of the proverbs his mother was fond of quoting. Go far from home, and you will have a long way back. It would seem that, for Jeremiah, that sentiment had proved fatally true.

  Nineteen

  Emma was pleased that the funeral for Jeremiah was well attended. The only person from the Plain community of Monte Vista who didn’t show up was Bethany Kauffmann, Leroy’s wife. The doctor had confined her to bed because of a cold threatening to turn into pneumonia. More Englischers than normally found at an Amish funeral also attended. Emma thought there were two reasons for that—Jeremiah’s involvement with the rodeo and the fact that Monte Vista was at its heart a close-knit community. Though Jeremiah hadn’t lived there long enough to know most people in the area, Ruth certainly had. The buggies and cars lined up and down her driveway were a testament to how well liked she was.

  Or perhaps people were curious.

  Usually a viewing lasted for three days, but because the authorities had kept Jeremiah’s body for an autopsy and his parents had traveled in from out of state, the family had made the decision to have the viewing in the morning with the actual funeral service after a brief lunch. Then they would all return to Ruth’s for a full dinner. Emma stood in Ruth’s kitchen, accepting dishes for the luncheon and separating casseroles from salads from desserts.

  Franey and Nancy had provided plenty of fresh bread, including their famous light-as-air biscuits, buttermilk whole wheat milk bread, and honey whole wheat bread.

  Emma was thinking that maybe she’d try just one slice of the honey bread when Franey nudged her with an elbow. “Here’s another one who has never seen a body laid out in a home before.”

  The young man who had reached the front of the line and stepped through the front door looked to be about Jeremiah’s age. He’d probably competed in the rodeo if the clothes he wore were any indication—starched blue jeans, a crisply ironed Western shirt, boots, and a large belt buckle. He glanced over at Jeremiah’s parents and grandmother, who were sitting in straight-back chairs that had been placed just inside the room. The person in front of him offered their condolences and then moved on.

  “At least he knows to remove his hat,” Emma said.

  “And he’s saying something to them, though from the look on Gideon’s face, it’s not the right thing.”

  “I’m not sure there is a right thing to say today.”

  The young man stepped farther into the room and glanced over at Jeremiah’s body laid out at the opposite end. Most of the furniture had been removed and placed in the barn. The benches they used in their church service lined the walls of the room and had also been placed on both the front and back porches. They were filled with people who came to sit with the Schwartz family, to be near to them in their hour of need.

  The women took turns escorting people over to Jeremiah’s body. When Susan Graber walked up to the Englisch teenager and said something to him, he blushed red but nodded in the affirmative. Then she walked him over to the coffin.

  Emma knew what he would see as she’d already been through the line, and she’d attended many funerals in her lifetime.

  The coffin was hinged, wooden, and simple.

  The top portion was open, and the bottom half was closed.

  Jeremiah’s body, which had been dressed in white clothes, was also covered with a white sheet. Susan said something to the teenaged boy, who nodded again, and then she pulled back the sheet. The funeral director in town had taken care of the body, though the process was abbreviated due to their customs.

  No makeup.

  No hair styling.

  No cosmetic reconstruction.

  Jeremiah looked in death as he had in life—Plain.

  The teenager began to sway on his feet and all color left his face. Emma feared he might keel over. Fortunately, Henry stepped forward, in between the young man and Jeremiah, and blocked the image of the body. Turning him toward the back door, he walked the young man out, talking to him as he went.

  “Leave it to Henry to show compassion,” Franey said.

  “And shouldn’t we?” Emma asked.

  “I suppose, though if Jeremiah hadn’t been involved with—”

  “We don’t know that. Don’t know that it was related to the rodeo at all.”

  “He was killed at the rodeo.” Franey looked at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.

  Nancy thanked an Englischer for a box of store-bought cookies and handed them to Franey. “She has something of a point. And don’t give me that look, Emma. Whoever killed Jeremiah did so at the rodeo for a reason.”

  “We know nothing about the person, or what his reasons might be.”

  “True. But we all know when the truth comes out, and it always does come out eventually, the rodeo is going to be smack-dab in the middle of it.”

  Emma wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t bother explaining that to her friends. Sometimes a thing happened that had nothing to do with another thing right next to it. Except now that she thought about it, the last murder they’d solved disproved her point. Sophia Brooks had been killed at the wildlife refuge, and her murder had everything to do with the area.

  She spied Charles and Mary Yoder sitting on the benches. “Say, did you know Lloyd Yutzy is staying with the Yoders?”

  Nancy nodded, her lips forming a tight line.

  “What is it?”

  “Not for me to stick my nose into other people’s business.” Nancy pulled an empty plate off the counter that had been filled with molasses nut cookies. She replaced it with a tray of cinnamon fans.

  “Franey, can you tell me what Nancy isn’t talking about?”

  “I’m not a gossip.”

  “No one said you were.” Emma pulled the two women away from the serving line. “What is it? What aren’t you two telling me?”

  “Only that Lloyd is taking advantage of Chester and Mary’s hospitality, if you ask me.” Franey moved to the right so she could see out the front kitchen window. “Look at him now. Standing out there sort of in between our youngies and the Englisch teens. There’s something about that boy that irks me.”

  “How is he taking advantage of Chester and Mary?”

  Nancy apparently couldn’t keep quiet a moment longer. She pulled them even farther back into the kitchen so they were standing right beside the oven. Maybe that’s why Emma’s brow was suddenly covered with sweat. “Lloyd called Mary and Chester—”

  “Out of the blue,” Franey added.

  “And asked if he could come and stay for a week or so—�
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  “Which normally would be no big deal—”

  “Though Mary thought it was a little odd.”

  Emma’s head felt dizzy from swiveling back and forth between Nancy and Franey. She wished they could sit down with a cup of coffee and talk this out, but now wasn’t the time for that.

  “They were neighbors in Goshen,” Franey explained.

  “But not close neighbors. Mary said they hardly exchanged more than a few words. Lloyd was several years younger than their boy and their girls, and Lloyd… well, they never clicked.”

  “Anyway… ” Franey took up the story with gusto. “Since he’s been here, he hasn’t helped a bit. Eats her cooking easily enough, but he hasn’t offered to spend even an hour in the fields—”

  “He doesn’t help with the buggy horses—”

  “Doesn’t even clean up the room he’s staying in. Just leaves his clothes on the floor and the bed unmade.”

  “I’m just glad Mary and Chester aren’t living there alone.”

  “Claudia and her husband are there.”

  “Expecting their first child,” Nancy reminded them, as if they would forget such a thing.

  “Between the four of them, maybe they can keep an eye on Lloyd. Make sure he doesn’t take off with the silver,” Franey said.

  “Didn’t know they had silver,” Emma commented, trying to lighten the mood. But it wasn’t happening. Now that she’d opened this particular Pandora’s box, Franey and Nancy were pouring out all their fears.

  “It’s also a gut thing their other daughter Sally’s gone to Pinecraft for the summer.” Franey held up a hand in protest. “I’m not saying she would have gotten in trouble, but it wouldn’t have been proper—Lloyd staying right in the midst of the house with a young unmarried woman there.”

  “Is that all you have?” Emma asked. “He doesn’t help with chores, he wasn’t close to Chester and Mary, and he didn’t really click with their children?”

  “He’s out late, going who knows where and doing who knows what. I’m telling you, I don’t like it.” Nancy frowned at a loaf of bread, and then she pulled a knife from the butcher block and began slicing it. “They need to ask him to leave, and hopefully after the funeral they will.”

  “I heard his mother thinks he came just for the rodeo,” Emma said.

  “Maybe, but he’s very… ” Nancy waved the knife back and forth. “Vague about things.”

  Emma peered back into the sitting room. The line of folks coming into the house had finally ended, or at least there’d been a break in the visitors. “Think I’ll go and speak with Jeremiah’s mamm.”

  “Do you know her?” Franey asked.

  “Not well, no, though I spent some time with her last night.”

  “Try to catch her when the father isn’t around. If he is, prepare yourself.” Without another word of explanation, Franey set about repositioning casseroles in the oven.

  Emma walked into the main room and stopped next to the pine-wood coffin. He’d looked peaceful, despite the fact he’d been shot in the chest with a high-powered rifle. Per their traditions, they only did minimal embalming, just what was required by law, but the mortician had done a good job of covering the damage. Jeremiah lay in the simple casket, dressed in the white clothes they’d sewn the day before, and looked even younger than his nineteen years. Emma was nearly overwhelmed with the tragedy of it, how unnecessary such a thing was.

  Jeremiah might have returned to the faith.

  He might have married a nice Plain girl, raised a large family, and lived a good life.

  And yet those thoughts ran smack into their belief and her conviction that each person’s days were numbered and that God knew that number from the moment a child was conceived. Didn’t the book of Job say as much? A person’s days are determined; you have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed. God had a complete plan for each life, and surely man could not distort that plan.

  She was wrestling with those two opposing thoughts when she glanced up and saw Jeremiah’s mother staring at her. Emma had spoken to Clara twice that morning, but both times the woman had barely nodded and answered in monosyllables. Now she sat beside her husband, whose face was frozen in a stoic mask. Emma couldn’t help thinking Clara’s look was a plea for rescue.

  She gave one last glance at the coffin, uttered a prayer for Jeremiah’s family, and walked over to his parents.

  Twenty

  I want to again express my sympathy,” Emma said. “We didn’t know Jeremiah all that well, but he seemed to be liked among the youngies here.”

  “He’d left the faith. I doubt he had much to do with your community.” The father’s expression never changed. He stared straight ahead, not glancing at Emma, not glancing around at all.

  Clara didn’t speak, but her eyes seemed to implore Emma, or perhaps she was merely tired.

  “It’s a bit warm in here, ya? Would you like to step out onto the back porch for a moment?”

  Clara glanced at her husband, who didn’t acknowledge her at all, and then she looked across the room toward where her son lay.

  “It’s okay to step away for a moment,” Emma assured her.

  Clara stood, smoothing out the apron covering her dress. Instead of leading her directly out the back door, Emma took her through the kitchen and the mudroom and onto a portion of the porch that curved around the side of the house. No benches had been placed there, and so they could have a bit of privacy.

  The funeral was being held at Ruth’s because she was family, but the actual service would be at their small cemetery on Leroy’s property. They would leave for it in a few minutes.

  Clara crossed her arms against her chest, as if she needed to protect herself from something. “This valley is so… vast.”

  “It is,” Emma admitted. “It’s easy to get used to being able to see so far. See those clouds to the west? Rain in Del Norte.”

  “Will it reach here?”

  “It’s unlikely. July and August are our rainiest months, but that only adds up to about an inch and a half per month. Clyde checked the weather radio, and no rain is predicted for us today.”

  “Tell me about Leroy’s place. About where Jeremiah will be laid to rest.”

  “It’s a large piece of land. Leroy is by and far the most successful farmer in our community.”

  “Your place is smaller?”

  “About half.”

  “And Ruth’s?”

  “About the same as ours if I remember correctly.”

  “It’s so different from Goshen.”

  “That it is.” Emma hesitated, and then she added, “We planted trees there, on the corner of Leroy’s lot, so there would be shade when folks go to clean around the gravesites. It’s a pleasant spot, Clara. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  The valley stretched out in front of them, and Emma saw the beauty in it—the mountains in the distance, the vista that ran for miles, the lack of buildings and roads and development. But she wasn’t sure Clara saw any of those things.

  “Jeremiah was always precocious as a child, always asking why, always trying things that made no sense to me.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Clara was still staring out at the valley, but Emma realized that, as she spoke, she was seeing something far different, something from the past. “When he was only four or five years old, we had a swing set, a metal one. You know the kind.”

  Emma nodded, though the woman still hadn’t turned to glance at her.

  “I looked out the kitchen window, just to check on the children while I was preparing lunch, and Jeremiah was on top of the swing set, walking across it.”

  “Oh my.”

  “His little feet were so sure as he placed them on the metal beam, but my heart? It stopped.” She rubbed a fist against her chest as if she could feel the fear still. “I was sure he’d fall and break his neck. I was afraid if I called out I’d startle him, so I stood there, my heart hammering in my che
st, waiting and praying.”

  “That must have been terrifying.”

  “It was. Even though he was my youngest, I was still so young at the time.”

  “Amish experience motherhood earlier than most.”

  “I remember feeling old at the time—feeling tired. Now I look back and realize I was practically a child myself.”

  “Doing the best you knew how.”

  “I didn’t realize having children would tear at your heart so, that there would be so many dangers you’d want to protect them from.”

  “We can only pray and love them to the best of our ability. I’m sure you did both of those things.”

  Tears slipped down Clara’s cheeks, but she quickly brushed them away. “Jeremiah was a good boy, only curious.”

  Now she turned to Emma, as if she needed to convince someone, perhaps herself, of the truth of what she was saying.

  “He’d bring me flowers when he was little, and then as he grew older, once he started leaving for days at a time to participate in the rodeo, he’d always bring me some small thing—a postcard or a cookbook or something.”

  “I really am very sorry for your loss.”

  She thought Clara might break down then, which probably would have been healthy and certainly understandable. But she didn’t. Instead, she stood straighter, squared her shoulders, and again smoothed out the wrinkles in her apron. “He sent us money. Every few weeks a letter would come, and in it would be a cashier’s check. Gideon may have forgotten that, but I haven’t. I won’t. Jeremiah might have been involved in some things he shouldn’t have been, but he never forgot his family.”

  “Those are precious memories, good memories, and you need to hold on to them during this time.”

  “Was he… was he happy here? Do you know?”

  Emma thought about Naomi and the television show in Hollywood. She thought about Jeremiah having two girlfriends, news Henry had shared with her that morning, and the possibility that he might have owed someone money. She thought of him at the rodeo, before it had begun, waving at the group of Amish folks who were there to watch him, smiling and setting his hat back on his head.

  “I think he was.”