Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

John Tomasetti signed his name on the dotted line.

CHAPTER 7

The October sun has burned through the clouds by the time Glock and I leave the Zook place. As I speed down the lane, I glance toward the Plank farm a mile to the north. The barn roof and the top of the grain silo are visible, but the hedge apple trees growing along the fence line block my view of the yard, house and outbuildings.

“Witness would have been nice,” Glock says.

“Murder’s never that easy.”

He looks around. “We going back to the Plank place?”

“I thought we’d swing by David Troyer’s farm first.”

“Neighbor?”

“Bishop.”

Glock arches a brow.

“Amish version of a priest.”

“Gotcha.” He pauses. “You think he might know something?”

“The Amish talk to their bishops. They confess. If there was something going on with the Planks—some kind of problem or crisis—there’s a good chance he knows about it.”

“Let’s hope he’s a good bishop.”

“He is.” I know this because he was my family’s bishop. He was instrumental in placing me under the bann when I refused to confess my sins, but I never held it against him.

We find Troyer in the cornfield in front of his house, astride an antique corn thresher, driving his team of gray Percheron geldings. The thresher is an awkward-looking contraption that cuts and bundles cornstalks. A few yards behind the binder, the bishop’s three grown sons stack the bundles into neat rows. Farther back, dozens of bundles of dry yellow cornstalks litter the field, and I know they’ve been at it since the wee hours of morning.

“They’re trying to beat the rain,” I say.

Glock looks up at the cloudless sky. “How do you know it’s going to rain?”

“Checked the weather online this morning.”

“For a second I thought you were going to reveal some ancient Amish secret for weather predicting.”

We both grin. It’s the first semblance of humor I’ve felt all morning, and it’s a welcome diversion.

I park on the shoulder and we traverse the bar ditch. Standing at the fence, we watch the men work. Autumn harvest is a busy time for an Amish farmer. The days are long and the work is backbreaking. Though female chores most often take place inside the house—canning, cleaning, sewing and baking—I always managed to end up outside with my datt. I never told anyone, but I secretly enjoyed the sweat and dirt and physical labor. It was one of many ways I didn’t fit in.

Spotting us, Bishop Troyer waves, letting us know he’ll hand the reins over to one of his sons and stop to speak to us next time around.

“Is he bound by any kind of confidentiality?” Glock asks after a moment. “I mean like a priest and the confessional?”

I shake my head. “If he knows something, he’ll talk.”

It takes fifteen minutes for the team of horses to round the field. The second time around, Troyer hands the reins to his son and starts toward us.

Bishop Troyer is one of those people who always looks the same no matter how many years pass. He has a full head of thick gray hair, blunt cut above heavy brows and a full salt-and-pepper beard. He has the rounded belly of a well-fed man. As a kid, I remember asking my datt why his legs were so bowed. Datt replied that Bishop Troyer spent many hours as a young man training and riding horses. In hindsight, I think my datt was just trying to keep me off our old plow horse.

“Weigeth’s alleweil?” How goes it today? Removing his flat-brimmed hat, the bishop wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Ich bin Zimmlich gut,” I respond.

He looks up at the sky. “ We are trying to beat the storms.”

“Looks like a good harvest.”

“Best we’ve had in six years.” His gaze slides to Glock and then back to me. His expression sobers. “Reuben Zimmerman came by an hour ago. He told me about the Plank family.”

Word of a death spreads quickly in the Amish community. Word of murder travels even faster. Not for the sake of gossip, but because other families will drop everything and descend upon the injured or bereaved to help. In the case of the Planks, there’s no one left to help. I tell the bishop what happened, leaving out as many of the details as I can.

He places his hand over his chest. I see the veins standing out on his temple. Sweat forming on his brow. For a moment I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.

“Are you all right, Bishop Troyer?”

“It is the will of God.” He shakes his head, blinking away sweat. “Der Keenich muss mer erhehe.” One must exalt the King.

We spend the next ten minutes rehashing the same things Glock and I went over with the Zook family. The conversation shifts into new territory when I ask him if any of the Planks had come to him with a problem.

A shadow I can’t quite read passes over his expression. “Ja.” Wiping his face with the kerchief, he meets my gaze. “Bonnie approached me after worship with concerns about Mary.”

“The younger of the two girls?”

The bishop nods, his brows knitting. “Bonnie did not want to speak to me with her husband present.”

An uneasy ping sounds in my brain. The Amish are generally a patriarch-cal society. Secrets between a husband and wife are rare. What was Bonnie keeping from her husband? And what did that have to do with Mary?

“Do you know what she wanted to speak to you about?” I ask.

The bishop shakes his head. “We never got the chance to speak privately. I tried several times but Amos was always present.” He shrugs. “I took the buggy to the house last week, but she said it was not a good time. I even met her at the shop in town where Mary worked part-time.”

I didn’t know Mary had an outside job. “Which shop?”

“The Carriage Stop.”

One of Councilwoman Janine Fourman’s shops. I make a mental note to swing by and speak to the manager. “Do you know why Bonnie wouldn’t speak to you in front of her husband?”

“I do not know. Perhaps Amos is—was—a private man.”

Or he was into something he didn’t want anyone to know about. It’s a powerful, uncomfortable thought. I know being suspicious of Amos is cynical, especially since he is among the dead. But as a cop, I know sometimes victims play an unintended role in their own deaths. I’ve seen more than one innocent person get in over his head. And I’ve seen them pay the consequences, too.

“So you have no idea why Bonnie wanted to speak to you about Mary?”

“No.”

Beside me, Glock leans closer. “Did Bonnie or any of the Plank family seem upset lately?”

He considers the words and then nods. “Bonnie seemed upset sometimes, but she was a nervous woman.”

“Did she ever seem afraid?”

He shakes his head. “I had planned to pay them another visit, but with the harvest . . .” He looks down at his boots.

The bishop and I have had our moments of disagreement over the years. He can be a hard, judgmental man. But he can also be kind and fair and generous. At this moment, looking into his eyes, I know he blames himself for not forcing the issue with Bonnie.

“What can you tell us about Mary?” I ask.

“I did not know the family well, Katie. They were new to the area. They kept to themselves more than most. Mary seemed like a kind, happy girl. Generous. Smart in school. She helped care for her younger siblings.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

“I do not know.”

“Do they have family in Lancaster?” Glock asks.

“I do not know.” His face darkens, and I realize he feels guilty for his lack of knowledge. “Will you let me know if they left behind family in Lancaster County, Katie? Perhaps I can be of some comfort to them.”