For a full minute, I sit with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what it means that the bishop in Minnesota has never heard of Ananias Stoltzfus. If he’s not from Minnesota, where is he from?
I can’t speak for Ananias, but Mia was from Germany. Bavaria, I think it was.
Amanda Garber’s words float uneasily in the back of my mind. If the couple were from Germany, why would they lie about it? Who were they? What are they hiding? Most importantly, does it have anything to do with the murder?
Of course, it’s possible that all of this is a benign comedy of errors. Maybe Ananias Stoltzfus was from another part of Minnesota, the southeastern part of the state, for example, where most of the Amish live. Or maybe Bishop Hostetler is simply mistaken. I make a mental note to pay Deacon Kempf a visit to see if I can get my hands on a copy of Raber’s New American Almanac. Even if I do, without DNA or fingerprints, a driver’s license or some kind of ID, there’s no way I can get the definitive answer I need.
My only other obvious source of information is Stoltzfus’s children. Do they know anything about their parents’ pasts? Their roots? Relatives? Mary Elizabeth wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to talk to me. Henry Stoltzfus was downright hostile.
Facing a dead end—and the prospect of going back to Ohio without accomplishing what I set out to do—I opt to take my chances with Henry Stoltzfus. Putting the Explorer in gear, I pull back onto the road. I’m on the west side of Yeagertown and heading toward the highway when a battered metal sign hanging off the side of a building snags my attention. THE TRIANGLE BAR AND GRILL. My memory tings. I slow, trying to remember where I’ve heard it.
The car behind me honks, so I pull into the parking lot. I sit there a moment, staring at the peeling paint and hail-damaged sign. The place is a dump. There’s no meaningful connection to anything I’ve been working on with regard to Ananias Stoltzfus. What the hell?
Amanda Garber’s voice comes at me from the recesses of my memory. Worked at some dive called the Triangle. Serving liquor to drunk men.
She’d asserted that Ananias had a lover in Lewistown. She’d even remembered the woman’s name. Rosemary, I think it was. Don’t know what became of her. Don’t much care.
I park next to an old Chevy truck and get out. As I head toward the entrance, I acknowledge this is probably a waste. If my timeline is correct, Rosemary has been dead and buried for a long time. What are the odds anyone will remember a woman who worked here two or three decades ago?
The Triangle is like a hundred other bars I’ve frequented over the years—dank, dark, and not quite clean. Eddie Money belts out “Two Tickets to Paradise.” The window unit air conditioner blasts a cold blanket over my arms as I walk by, probably to disperse the smells of marijuana and grease that’s gone rancid. A man the size of a woolly mammoth stands behind the bar, drying restaurant-style mugs. He’s bearded and heavyset, wearing bib overalls, a white T-shirt, and staring at the TV mounted in the corner.
He spots me as I slide onto a stool, snaps up a cardboard coaster, and heads my way. “What can I get you?”
I want a beer, but I’ve got to drive so I settle for coffee.
“Coming right up.”
There are three other patrons. A man wearing a mechanic’s uniform sits in a booth against the wall, talking quietly into his phone. Two younger men in jeans and T-shirts are engaged in a game of pool near the back door, which stands open. The place is a dive and yet in an odd way, there’s a certain character here, too. Or maybe I just want that beer.…
“Here you go.” He upends the cup in front of me and pours from a carafe. “I got milk and sugar if you need it.”
“Black’s fine,” I tell him.
He glances at the dozen or so cups he has yet to dry, but doesn’t move toward them. He’s bored and would rather talk to me, which is probably a good thing since he’s the only person around I can ask about the mysterious Rosemary.
“Ain’t seen you in here before,” he says.
“First time.” I make a show of looking around. I want to tell him he has a nice place but it would be such an obvious lie, I don’t.
As if reading my thoughts, he says, “I’ve got some remodeling planned. Thinking about installing central heating and air.”
“You the owner?”
“Me and my two sisters.” He grins. “I do all the work. They get all the money.”
I sip the coffee, find it good and strong. “I’m told there was a woman who used to work here by the name of Rosemary.”
He tilts his head, gives me a closer look. “Well, that would be Grams. She passed away … gosh, musta been eight years ago now.” He hefts a laugh. “Raised me and my sisters since we were little, after my mom died. Woman never missed a day of work. She was in her nineties and still going strong. She was serving up a beer and collapsed right here at the bar. Dead before she hit the floor. Heart attack. Left the place to us three grandkids.” He looks around and shrugs. “Beats the hell out of being laid off. Back in the day this was a hopping place. Before they shut down the mill, anyway.” He shakes his head. “Hate to close up shop for good, but I can’t keep her open without customers.”
“How long has this place been here?” I ask.
“Grams opened it back in the 1940s. Bank next door was still open. This was a steel town back then. Folks had money.”
“Bar must have a lot of history.”
He laughs. “A little shady history, I guess.”
I sip coffee, listening as Eddie Money gives way to an old Pink Floyd number. I miss Tomasetti. Wish he were here. I miss the farm. Mona and Glock and Pickles. I’m still craving that beer.…
What the hell are you doing here, Kate?
I don’t think there’s any information to be had here at this bar. Too much time has passed. Even if the woman in question were still alive and willing to talk to me, it’s doubtful she’d have anything to say that would help solve the case. I’ve reached a dead end. Nowhere else to go. Time to call it quits and go home.
Good luck, Jonas. You’re on your own.
I tell him my name. “I’m looking into a cold case out of Belleville. A homicide. I was told your grandmother had a relationship with the victim. I’m wondering if you could answer a few questions.”
“Wow. Murder, huh?” He looks intrigued. “I’m Bob, by the way. Who was the victim?”
I tell him, adding what little I know about the purported relationship between his grandmother and Ananias Stoltzfus. “I hope I’m not putting a black mark on your grandmother’s reputation.”
A surprising amount of color infuses his cheeks. He chortles to cover his embarrassment. “Well, Grams was a little ahead of her time, if you know what I mean.” He looks around and lowers his voice. “From what I hear, she liked her men. Almost as much as she liked her booze.”
Smiling, I look down at my coffee. “I know you must have been a kid, but do you recall any of the men she was seeing? Anyone talking about it?” I comb my memory for the timeline. “I’m guessing it would have been back in the late 1980s or early nineties.”
“Dang, that is a cold case.” He makes a face. “Gramps died in 1970. Grams was here a lot after that. I don’t recall hearing about a boyfriend. Never heard any talk about one.”
“Did your grandmother happen to leave behind any letters? Old photos? Anything like that?”
“Grams didn’t have much. Some crappy furniture. A few knickknacks. We didn’t keep any of it. Just the bar. I know it ain’t much, but this place was her life, I guess.” He motions toward a couple of beat-up café doors behind the bar. “Only thing I got left is the memorabilia case in the office. It’s old and dusty, but you’re welcome to take a look.”
I round the bar and follow him through the café doors, past a galley-type kitchen with a sink, an industrial-size grill glazed with a brown film, and a refrigerator that looks nearly as old as the building. Using a key, he opens the door to a small office. There’s a metal desk piled high with paper and files. A 1980s-type calculator with tape. A bookcase. Framed photos on the wall to my left. Ahead, a glass-front memorabilia display case is mounted on the wall.
I look at the pictures first. Most are faded black-and-white prints. Old. People laughing and drinking, probably from the fifties and sixties. I see a small woman in a snug red dress. Curly brown hair spilling out of a wide-brimmed hat. A smile that speaks of attitude and confidence. I pull out my cell and snap a photo.
“That’s Grams there,” Bob tells me, motioning. “Nineteen sixty-five or so.”
I can’t help but think she really was ahead of her time. I look at the remaining photos, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just a woman who owned her own business enjoying her customers and success.
I move on to the memorabilia display case.
Bob flips a switch and light rains down on a hodgepodge of items. “That antique microphone belonged to Joseph Campanella. The actor, you know. He was a radio broadcaster here in Lewistown before he got famous. That ball cap belonged to Jack Palance. He was born over in Lattimer Mines.” He motions. “See that shot glass? Rumor has it crime boss John Sciandra drank whiskey out of it when he got stranded here in a snowstorm back in 1940. Grams collected stuff like that. No one cares now, but back in the day it was some interesting shit.”
I snap a couple of photos from different angles. “You guys have had some colorful clientele,” I say.
“I’ll say. Grams told me Jimmy Stewart came in for a drink and left her a hundred-dollar tip. That was a lot of money back in the day.” He grins. “She needed the cash, so it didn’t get added to the case.”
At the top right side of the display case, I spot an unusual-looking badge or shield attached to a square of fabric. It’s metal with a flat top and rounded base. There’s an eagle at the top. The impression of a map, the geography of which I don’t recognize. Directly below is the word “LAPPLAND” in capital letters.
I set my finger against the glass. “Do you know what that is?”
“No idea. Been there for as long as I can remember.” He fishes in his pocket and brings out a ring of keys. “Let’s take a look.”
I watch as he unlocks the display case. Dust motes fly when he opens the door. The fabric base is attached to the display-case backing with a safety pin. He struggles with it a moment, then plucks it off and hands it to me.
“Looks pretty old,” he says.
The badge is metal, but lightweight in my hand and slightly tarnished. I turn it over in my hand, but there’s no other inscription. “Some sort of military decoration?”
“Looks foreign,” he murmurs.
“Do you have any idea where your grandmother got this?” I ask.
“No clue.” He gestures toward the case. “Chances are, if it’s here, someone gave it to her.”
That the old badge shares a display cabinet with items that obviously had some meaning to the woman who owned it niggles at me. “Do you mind if I take a photo?”
“Knock your socks off.”
I set it on the desktop and snap the shot.
“Do you think a patron here at the bar gave it to her?” I ask. “Or a friend?”
He laughs. “Only thing I can tell you is that nothing went into that display case that didn’t mean something to Grams.” He jabs a thumb at the display case. “If it didn’t have some sentimental value, she’d have pawned it.”