Big Valley Lutheran Church is a nondescript redbrick building with a crisp white spire, steep dormers, and arched stained-glass windows. A stately-looking sign in front proclaims ALL ARE WELCOME in big block letters.
It took me most of the morning to get the Explorer to the repair shop in Lewistown for a replacement windshield and four new tires. The work will take a couple of days, so the manager drove me over to the car rental agency, where I picked up a midsize sedan.
I’m feeling cranky and sore as I park in the lot behind the church and take the pavestone walkway to a side door marked OFFICE. The interior is hushed and smells of paper dust and lemon oil. I pass by the restrooms, spot another sign for the office, and head that way.
The reception desk is vacant, but I hear someone in a back room. “Hello?” I call out.
A silver-haired woman wearing a skirt, blouse, and cardigan, her arms piled high with padded envelopes and a few small cardboard boxes, comes through the door, and looks at me over the tops of her bifocals. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Pastor Zimmerman,” I tell her.
Two boxes slip off the stack in her arms and thump against the floor. “Oh, dear.”
“I’ve got it.” I round the desk and pick them up. “Where would you like them?”
“My office. This way.” She marches past me and makes a right into an adjoining office. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.
“No, but I just need a few minutes of his time.” Taking in her rigid posture, I suspect she’s hall monitor and visitor screener rolled into a single formidable package.
“I’m guessing he’s in the courtyard out back.” She motions to a folding table. “You can put the packages there.” Then she jabs a finger toward another door. “Take the hall to the courtyard. Last door on the right.”
I thank her and make my exit. The courtyard is an outdoor patio that’s crowded with planters and greenery. Containers of geraniums and petunias burst with color. Hanging planters overflow with feathery asparagus ferns. There’s a birdbath ahead and a row of birdhouses secured to the brick wall at the back. Half a dozen hummingbird feeders dangle from the eave. It’s a pretty, calming place that smells of growing things and earth.
A scholarly-looking man with white hair and a neatly trimmed goatee tips a watering can into a terra-cotta planter the size of a barrel. Clad in khaki slacks and a blue shirt with a clergy collar, he looks serene and focused as he pinches off an unwanted stem.
“I like the snapdragons,” I say by way of greeting.
He looks up from his watering and smiles. “You know your flowers.”
“A few. My mom was a gardener.”
“Everyone thinks I spend too much time with my plants.” He chuckles. “I do. But then I’m of a certain age. Seems like it’s either flowers or birds. I chose both.”
I smile, liking him.
He sets down the watering can. “I’m Pastor Zimmerman.” He gives me a curious once-over as he approaches. “You seem troubled this morning.” He sends a pointed look to the bruises blooming on my throat. “Can I help?”
We shake hands and I introduce myself. “I’m looking into the Ananias Stoltzfus case.”
“You’re a private detective?”
“I’m a police chief. From Ohio. And a friend of the Bowman family.”
“Ah.” He grimaces. “I heard they found the bishop’s remains. God rest his soul.” Some of the good humor leaves his eyes. “Hard to believe an Amish person is responsible, isn’t it?”
“I think his guilt is still to be determined.”
He picks up the can and tips it to an exotic-looking fern. “It doesn’t bode well for Mr. Bowman that they found his rifle at the scene.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
For a moment, the only sound comes from the chatter of barn swallows in a nest beneath the eave. Then he asks, “Are you a churchgoing woman, Chief Burkholder?”
“I’m thinking about it,” I say honestly.
“Lutheran?”
“Anabaptist.”
His brows shoot up. “Mennonite?”
“Formerly Amish,” I tell him. “I left when I was eighteen.”
He smiles. “You should find a church that you like and go.” He says the words without judgment. “God takes on so many of our burdens. As I’m sure you know, we live in troubled times.”
“Yes, we do.”
He looks out across the courtyard, taking in the dozens of plants, but not quite seeing them now or appreciating their beauty. “You’re here because you heard about what happened to Mia Stoltzfus.”
I nod. “I don’t know if her death is relevant to what happened to her husband, but it’s enough of an anomaly to make me curious.”
“A lot of people have asked me about that day, Chief Burkholder. Still do. Most are just nosy, you know. One gal drove all the way from Philadelphia, claiming she was writing a book of all things.” He shakes his head. “I don’t like talking about it. One thing I can’t abide is morbid curiosity.”
He turns to me, his gaze meeting mine, assessing. For the first time, I see the weight of his profession reflected back at me, and I’m reminded of the Amish Diener, the men who devote their lives to serving their community. I see the same burden of responsibility in this man’s eyes, too.
“It sounds like you have a legitimate reason for asking,” he says quietly.
“I’m trying to find the truth. Figure out what happened and why. A man’s life depends on it.”
“In that case, come on.” He motions to the pavestone path that winds through the courtyard. “I’ll finish my watering while we chat.”
We take the path to a concrete-and-stone trough filled with a brilliant array of flowers, zinnias and daisies and a dozen other varieties I couldn’t begin to name. I stand back and watch while he puts the watering can to use. “I never used to garden. Never had a green thumb. But after that day … those few minutes I spent with Mia, I suppose the Lord knew I needed healing and, as He always does, He showed me the way and gave me this gift of growing beautiful things.”
We move to a row of wire baskets lined with coconut husk hanging from the rafter of a pergola. “I’d only been pastor a couple of years when it happened. I came in early that day. Worked in my office for a time and then I went into the chancel. I found her lying on the floor, near the altar.” He makes a sound I can only describe as grief. “Poor child of God. She looked so alone. Blood everywhere.”
“Was she already gone when you arrived?”
“She was alive, actually.” He grimaces. “Barely. We weren’t chained to our cell phones back in those days, so I covered her with my jacket and ran to my office and called the sheriff’s department. Then I came back … to see if I could help. So she wouldn’t be alone.” As if lost in the memory, he pauses. “I did what I could. Applied pressure. Spoke to her. Held her hand. Stayed with her until help arrived.”
“Did she say anything, Pastor?” I ask.
He pulls a small pruner from his pocket and snips a stem from a hibiscus. “We Lutherans practice confession and absolution. We put much emphasis on the holy absolution. The pastor, of course, is pledged to keep the confessed in confidence because those sins have been removed. That seal cannot be broken.”
“Are you telling me she asked for confession and absolution?”
“Make of that what you will, Chief Burkholder. I’m bound by the seal of the confessional.”
“Had you ever met her before?”
“No.”
“Do you think it’s odd that an Amish woman, an Anabaptist, would come to a Lutheran church and ask the minister for confession?”
“I do. As you well know, the Amish have their own ways. That said, we’re all the children of God. Mia Stoltzfus was obviously in a dark place. Did she come here seeking comfort?” His expression tells me that while he has learned to live with what happened that day, the unanswered questions still bother him. “Do you have an opinion on that, Ms. Burkholder? I mean, you were Amish. Is there some scenario in which an Anabaptist woman would eschew her own religion for another?”
I think about my own community, growing up. How the Amish as a whole view the preachers, the deacon, and the bishop. How we view our English neighbors. “One of the most basic Amish tenets is that of separation from the rest of the world.”
He nods, as if he’d already drawn the same conclusion. “I can only hope that in her final minutes, she found peace.”
“Pastor, was there a note?”
“There was a little scrap of notebook paper on the altar next to her. I was so shaken up I didn’t even notice it at first. But while I was sitting with her, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I found it.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“It was in Deitsch, so I’ve no clue.” His brows draw together. “She had a little journal with her, too.”
“A devotional?” I ask.
“More like a diary, I think. Just some writings. Also in Deitsch.”
“Do you know what happened to the journal?”
“I pointed it out to the police and they took it.”
I consider the tragedy and strangeness of the situation, but for the life of me I can’t fathom any sort of link to the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus.
“Do you remember how she was dressed?” I ask.
The pastor uses the last of the water and sets down the can. “She was wearing typical Amish clothes. A dress. Head covering. She’d removed her shoes. Seeing her lying there bleeding and all alone was one of the most profoundly heartbreaking sights I’ve ever seen.” His voice quavers with the final word, but he covers it with a cough and glances at his watch. “Ah, Betsy’s probably wondering where I am.…”
I extend my hand to him for a second shake. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“I hope the information is helpful in some way.”
He walks me to the door and opens it for me. I’m midway down the hall and heading toward the exit when a final question occurs to me.
“Pastor Zimmerman?”
He stops before making the turn into his office and raises his brows.
“Do you know what happened to the note?”
“I supposed the police picked it up. Perhaps they passed it along to the family. I don’t know.”
I thank him and make my exit.
Puzzlement nibbles at the periphery of my brain as I take the sidewalk to my rental car. I’m not sure what to make of the story Pastor Zimmerman relayed about Mia Stoltzfus. One of the most important Amish charters is separation from the unbelieving world. In terms of religion, they are sectarian. Why then would the wife of an Amish bishop—a devout Anabaptist—end her life in a Lutheran church and ask a Lutheran minister for confession and absolution?
My best source of information is going to be the Stoltzfus family. The problem is that neither Mary Elizabeth nor Henry is particularly inclined to speak with me. Amish families can be protective of their own, especially when it comes to outsiders asking unpleasant questions. If there was some sort of scandal or indiscretion, they’ll likely take the silent route.
A second source of information is the Diener, the three men who traveled to Painters Mill and asked for my help. The only physical address I have on hand is for Mahlon Barkman, the minister, who lives northeast of Belleville, so I head that way.
Barrville is a pretty area crisscrossed with meandering country roads and dotted with Amish farms. I pass two buggies on the way and get waves from both drivers, which bolsters my mood. The Barkman farm is small, with a hint of dilapidation that adds an interesting layer of character. The two-story house is set close to the road, with a massive weeping willow tree just off the front porch. I turn in to the gravel driveway and idle toward the rear. A garden the size of an Olympic swimming pool takes up the entire side yard, close enough that I can make out half a dozen rows of corn, staked tomato plants weighted down with fruit, and a lower growth of peppers and some type of melon. An older woman sits at a picnic table that’s heaped with a variety of produce, bushel baskets, a cook pot, and crates.
I pull over and start toward her. “Wie geht’s alleweil?” I say. How goes it now?
“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. She’s snapping green beans and placing them in a big Dutch oven.
“I’m looking for Mr. Barkman,” I tell her.
She doesn’t stop what she’s doing, doesn’t even look at me. “Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil.” Set yourself there and stay awhile.
It’s a pleasant late afternoon. Humid, but with a breeze coming down off the mountain. I take the bench seat across from her and start snapping green beans.
She eyes my technique. “You must be that police from Ohio.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Kate.”
“He told me you’d probably stop by.” She’s a fast snapper—faster than me—despite fingers that are twisted with arthritis.
When she runs out of green beans, she looks at me. “I’m Laura.” Her eyes flick to my hands. “You’ve done this before.”
“Too many times to count.”
Her mouth twitches. “Well, you just keep on snapping. He’ll be up shortly.”
We’ve worked in silence for a few minutes when the barn door rolls open and Mahlon Barkman appears. I see him do a quick double take upon spotting me, and then he hobbles toward us.
“It’s good to see you, Kate Burkholder.” He offers his hand for a quick shake and settles in next to his wife. “How do you like our neck of the woods here in Big Valley?” he asks.
I pick up another bean. “It’s beautiful.”
“A beautiful valley full of good people.” He looks at the beans, like a card shark intent on choosing just the right one, and he begins to snap. “You’ve talked to Jonas?”
“Yes.”
“He made bail,” he informs me. “This morning.”
“I’m glad.” Though it would have been nice for someone to let me know.
“The Amish pulled together, the way we do,” Mahlon says. “Nathan took the money to the bondsman first thing this morning. Jonas was out in a couple of hours.”
I see him studying the bruises on my neck. His eyes are sober when they meet mine. “You’ve been hurt. Here in Big Valley?”
As if sensing the rise of tension, his wife stops snapping and gives me her full attention.
I give them a condensed version of the ambush. “He suggested I leave town.”
“That’s worrisome.” The old man picks up a bean, his expression troubled. “Does it have something to do with your looking into the death of Ananias Stoltzfus?”
“I think someone doesn’t want me poking around.”
Husband and wife exchange worried looks.
“I spoke to Pastor Zimmerman at the Lutheran church this morning.” I grab a handful of beans and set it on the table in front of me. “How well did you know Mia Stoltzfus?”
“Well enough to know she was a good woman,” Mahlon tells me.
“She was a quiet thing,” Laura adds. “Worked hard.”
“Do either of you have any idea why she committed suicide?” I ask.
The Amish woman shakes her head. “It was such a bad time. For all of us. Mia was part of our sewing circle for a while. A sweet lady.” She looks down as if remembering and smiles sadly. “Wasn’t much good at sewing for a woman her age. Of course, no one ever said so. It was just one of those odd things.”
Having grown up Amish—and being resistant to the expected skill of sewing myself—I’m well aware that it’s held in high esteem by the women.
“Was Mia depressed or unhappy?” I ask. “Was she having any problems?”
“The woman never spoke a negative word in her life,” Laura says. “Mia had a smile and a kind word for everyone. Enjoyed her baking.”
“Did she get along with her husband?” I ask.
“Never complained,” Laura tells me. “But then Amish women don’t, even when they have cause.”
“Ananias was a good husband, I think.” Mahlon scoops up a pile of snapped beans and drops them into the Dutch oven. “Strict with the congregation, but he always let her have her say. He made a good living. Provided well. Worked hard.”
“Did you ever hear any rumors about them?” I ask. “Maybe some problem between them or a family issue? Anything like that?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” The Amish man chuckles. “Ananias messed up his preaching service a time or two. Once, during ‘Es schwere Deel’ he forgot to close with a reading from the Bible.”
It’s not the kind of information I’m looking for; a preaching misstep certainly doesn’t rise to the level of offending someone enough for them to commit a violent act.
Laura stops snapping, sets her gaze on mine. “There was always something a little odd about the bishop. I don’t mean that in an unkind way. It’s just that he was different is all.”
“How so?” I ask.
“He had that funny accent,” Mahlon puts in. “They both did, I guess, especially when they spoke Deitsch.”
“Said he was from Minnesota, but I have a cousin lives up there and they don’t talk that way.” Laura grabs another handful of beans from a bushel basket and tosses them onto the table.
“Where in Minnesota?” I ask.
“Harmony, I think. A lot of Amish up that way.”
The Amish Diener—the ministers, deacon, and bishop—are almost always lifelong members of the church district. It’s unusual that Ananias and his wife were from another state and yet Ananias was still nominated and elected.
“How long had they been living in Mifflin County?” I ask.
The couple exchange a puzzled look and then Mahlon shrugs. “They’d been here as long as I can remember.”
That’s when it occurs to me this couple are quite a bit younger than Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus. The bishop was eighty-six years old at the time of his death, and that was eighteen years ago. It’s going to be difficult to find someone closer to his age who knew him well.
“Is there anyone who’s still around who was close to either of them?” I ask.
“Mia used to work for a woman by the name of Amanda Garber,” Laura tells me. “Amanda and her husband owned a nice little bakeshop in town years ago.”
“Best cherry pie I ever ate,” Mahlon says.
Laura tosses a bean at him. “Amanda left the fold a while back. She’s Mennonite now. Lives down to Ramblewood if I’m not mistaken.”
I jot the name and town in my notebook. “Do either of you know anything about a threatening letter Jonas sent to Ananias shortly before he disappeared?”
“Never heard of a letter,” the minister says. “But I can tell you this: Jonas has a hot head. A hot head is the quickest shortcut to trouble I ever seen.”