There is a vibrancy in downtown Painters Mill on Saturday mornings. A pulse that beats a little faster. An energy that beckons motorists to roll down their windows as they idle down Main Street and drink in the sights of small-town USA. Or if they have time, plunk twenty-five cents into one of the vintage parking meters and spend the afternoon shopping.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of this charming little hamlet. I was born here and raised Amish, but left the fold when I was eighteen. I spent several years in nearby Columbus, Ohio, where I emerged from the mess I’d made of my life to earn my GED and a degree in criminal justice, and I eventually found my way into law enforcement. I spent years learning how to not be Amish. And though it was a time of profound personal and professional growth, it didn’t take long for me to realize I missed home.
When the position of chief became available, I came back. Though I’ve remained Anabaptist, I’ve never returned to my Amish roots. For a lot of reasons, some of which I still haven’t reconciled. I’m working on mending fences with my family. Some members of the Amish community still won’t speak to me, but I don’t let it get to me. Painters Mill is home, and like most relationships, it’s a work in progress.
As chief of police, I’m off duty the majority of weekends, unless there’s an emergency or I’m filling in for one of my officers. The only reason I’m in town this morning is to pick up a birdhouse for my significant other, John Tomasetti. He’s an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation, the best friend I’ve ever had, and the love of my life. His birthday is next week. I ordered the birdhouse from an Amish cabinetmaker who runs a workshop just off the main drag. He promised to have it ready this morning and I can’t wait to get it home.
I’m in the Explorer, inching down Main Street, when a call on my police radio snags my attention.
“Ten-six-A,” comes my weekend dispatcher’s voice, using the ten code for “parking obstruction.”
I reach for my mike. “What’s the twenty on that, Margaret?”
“Main Street, Chief. I just took a call from Joe Neely. Some kind of disturbance outside his shop.”
Joe Neely owns one of the newest businesses in town, a nice little upscale coffeehouse called Mocha Joe’s, a place I’ve ventured too many times to count.
“A fight?” I ask.
“Not yet, but he says there are a bunch of people in the street, arguing. Parking slots are blocked and someone is refusing to move.”
Painters Mill is a tourist town; gridlock on a Saturday morning is a serious offense. “I’m just down the street,” I tell her. “I’ll take it.”
“Roger that.”
Even as I rack the mike, I spot the disturbance ahead. Flipping on my overhead lights, I pass the vehicle directly in front of me, but traffic is at a standstill. I park where I am and start toward the crowd. The first vehicle I see is the Amish buggy. The harnessed Standardbred gelding looks uneasy being in the center of the throng. In the buggy, a woman wearing a gray dress and organdy kapp sits in the passenger seat, clutching a squirming toddler. I’m familiar with most of the buggies in the area and I recognize this one as belonging to Abner Nisley and his wife, Mary Jo. They’re Swartzentruber and the parents of nine children. For years, Abner eschewed the use of a slow-moving-vehicle sign, which is illegal according to Ohio Revised Code. I’ve pulled him over half a dozen times. When my warnings didn’t work, I issued a couple of tickets, the cost of which finally convinced him to add the signage to the back of his buggy, too ornate or not.
Parked at a cockeyed angle in front of the buggy is a silver Toyota RAV4. Ohio plates. A woman in blue jeans and a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves has her cell phone pressed to her ear. She’s shouting into her cell, gesturing angrily, glaring at the Amish man standing next to her. Several passersby are taking videos with their phones, probably hoping to post the next viral hit on social media.
I tilt my head to speak into my shoulder mike, but of course it’s not there. I’m out of uniform because it’s my day off. Sighing, I pull out my badge and make my way toward the kerfuffle.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I glance right to see Joe Neely trot toward me. I slow down, but I don’t stop. “What’s going on?” I ask him.
Wearing his usual coffee-spattered apron and Mocha Joe’s cap, Neely keeps pace with me. He’s usually an unshakable guy, keeps his cool even during the morning rush when caffeine-deprived customers are lined up at the door like zombies. This morning, he’s breathing hard, his shirt wet beneath his armpits, and a bead of sweat on his upper lip.
“Buggy horse took a crap in the street,” he tells me. “Lady in the RAV stepped in it.”
“Bet that didn’t go over very well,” I mutter as I squeeze between two teenage boys who’ve stopped to see what all the excitement is about.
Joe’s mouth twitches. “She’s pissed, Chief. Went over to confront him. Just about tore my head off when I told her to move her car.”
“Anyone get hit?” I ask.
“Not yet, but I sure wouldn’t want to be that Amish dude.”
“Let me see if I can calm things down.” I leave Joe and make my way through the crowd.
I spot Abner Nisley first. The Amish man is standing in the street, leg cocked, his eyes fastened to the asphalt. He’s wearing his usual straw hat and dark trousers, work shirt, and suspenders. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his trousers. The woman in the white blouse and blue jeans is standing a foot away from him, shouting something I can’t yet hear. Judging from her frothing-at-the-mouth expression, it isn’t very nice.
She’s about thirty years old with blond hair, blue eyes, and cheeks infused with color.
I reach the edge of the crowd and approach her. “Ma’am?” I hold up my badge. “I’m with the Painters Mill PD. What’s the problem this morning?”
The woman turns to me, motions toward the horse. “That horse shit all over the place! Right in my parking spot!” She jabs a finger down at her sandal-clad feet. “Look at that! All over my shoe! That’s against the law.”
I glance down at the shoe in question and try not to wince. She must have kicked the pile of manure, which ended up between her toes, and got beneath her artfully pedicured toenails.
“I just bought these shoes.” Mouth taut, she shakes her head. “It’s disgusting. Don’t you people require them Amish to clean up after themselves? Why don’t they use bags or whatever to catch the shit! I mean, think of the diseases!”
The Ohio Revised Code does not require manure bags for horse-drawn vehicles. Some townships and villages with an Amish population have enacted ordinances. Painters Mill is not one of them. Because this woman is visibly upset, I opt not to point any of that out to her and take a more diplomatic route.
“Look, I’ve got a couple bottles of water and paper towels in my trunk,” I say calmly. “Let’s walk over to my vehicle, and we’ll rinse those shoes off for you.” I look around, take in the blocked traffic. “If you’d pull your vehicle back into that parking spot.” I offer her a smile. “Coffee’s on me this morning.”
She doesn’t return the smile. “A bottle of water? Are you kidding me? I’ve got a luncheon to get to. I can’t go smelling like crap.” She stabs a shaking finger at Abner Nisley. “You. Hose it off! Right now!”
Abner catches my gaze and shrugs. “See is weenich ad.” She’s a little off in the head.
The woman looks at him as if he’s hurled a slur in her direction and she’s thinking about slugging him. A motorist in the line of cars that have piled up behind the RAV4 lays on the horn. That’s my cue to end this before it escalates.
I look at the woman. “Pull your car into that parking spot while we sort this out. Now. You’re blocking traffic.”
“Chief Burkholder! Katie!”
I turn at the sound of the familiar voice to see the owner of the flower shop next door striding toward us. Beatrice Graeff is a downtown Painters Mill fixture—all ninety-two pounds of her. White-haired and petite, she’s dressed to the nines this morning in a Dior pantsuit and her trademark cloche hat. The crowd parts for her as she approaches and I notice the hand broom and dustpan in her hands.
“I’ve been picking up after those horses all summer,” she says to no one in particular. “Let me tell you, it’s pure gold. I got a composter out back and a boatload of tea roses just waiting for another dose of nitrogen.”
The three of us fall silent when the tiny woman reaches us. She thrusts the dustpan and broom to Abner. “If you don’t mind, young man, my knees aren’t as flexible as they used to be.”
Nodding, the Amish man kneels and sweeps the manure into the dustpan. Beatrice produces a plastic bag. “Dump it in. I’ll take it all.” She glances down at the woman’s shoes and her brows furrow. “Honey, you might want to take those to the cobbler down the street. Mr. Shook’ll get those cleaned up for you pronto.”
It takes ten minutes for the buggy and car to disperse and the traffic to start moving along Main Street. I’m standing on the sidewalk outside Mocha Joe’s, sipping a cup of dark roast when my cell erupts. I glance down to see DISPATCH on the display and pick up.
“Did you get that stinky situation taken care of, Chief?” Margaret asks, a snicker in her voice. “I heard that lady really stepped in it.”
I smile. “Disaster averted.”
“I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, but there are three gentlemen here to see you. Apparently, they’ve traveled all the way from Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania? Any idea what they want?”
“They wouldn’t say, Chief. Just that it’s important and they’d prefer not to wait until Monday.” She lowers her voice. “They seem kind of serious about something.”
I sigh, thinking about the birdhouse, and decide to pick it up later this afternoon. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”
I toss the empty to-go cup into the trash and head toward the Explorer.
The Painters Mill Police Department is housed in a one-hundred-year-old building dressed in red brick and sandstone. It lacks the character inherent in most of the town’s historic structures. It’s drafty in the winter, sweltering in the summer, and fraught with an array of inexplicable sounds and smells, most of which are not pleasant. Despite its shortcomings, it’s my home away from home, and when I walk through the door, I don’t see the cracks in the plaster, the battered dark molding, the outdated furniture, or the century of wear on the floor. Instead, I absorb a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature, but with the percept that I’m surrounded by people I admire and respect.
I enter reception to find my off-hours dispatcher, Margaret, sitting at her station, headset clamped over her head, fingers flying over a keyboard that’s so well-used the letters are worn off. To my right, three Amish men—elders by the looks of them—sit on the sofa, looking out of place and uncomfortable.
“Guder mariye,” I say to them. Good morning.
The three men get to their feet, each of them showing some level of stiff knees and achy joints. Judging by the varying degrees of silver hair and stooped postures, I guess all of them to be in their seventies or older. They wear full salt-and-pepper beards and are clad mostly in black. Felt, flat-brimmed hats. White shirts. Black jackets and trousers. Nondescript dark shoes. Their expressions are as somber as their clothes.
The tallest of the group steps forward, his eyes meeting mine. “My name is Nelson Yoder. I’m the bishop over in Belleville, Pennsylvania.”
I take his hand and we shake. “Lancaster County?” I ask, wondering why these men would travel so far to talk to me without so much as a call.
“The Kish Valley,” he tells me.
My knowledge of the Kish Valley is limited to a vague perception that it’s somewhere in central Pennsylvania and home to a small but diverse group of Amish. My expression must reflect as much, because the short man with bright blue eyes and fifty pounds of extra weight wrapped around his middle ducks his head and extends his hand. “That’s the Kishacoquillas Valley,” he says in a gravelly voice. “In the central part of the state. I’m Nathan Kempf, the deacon.”
I shake his hand. His palm is cool to the touch, with the calluses of a man who still partakes in a fair amount of physical labor. “I’ve been to Lancaster,” I tell him, “but never the valley.”
He grins. “We won’t hold it against you, Kate Burkholder.”
I smile back, liking him.
The third man shuffles closer. He’s thin, with the angular frame of a scarecrow, a beard the shape of a wet sock, and two missing eyeteeth. “I’m Mahlon Barkman,” he says. “One of the ministers in the valley.”
We shake hands.
“We are the Diener of die alt gemee,” Yoder tells me.
“Diener” is the Deitsch term for “servants,” which means these men are, indeed, the elected officials of their church district. “Die alt gemee” translates to “the old church.” While I’m able to translate the Pennsylvania Dutch, I’m not exactly sure what the words mean in terms of which sect they’re part of.
“You gentlemen are a long way from home,” I tell them.
The men nod in unison. Hands are shoved into pockets. Legs cocked. Eyes lowered to the floor, the occasional flick going to Margaret, who’s covertly listening to every word, even as she burns up the computer keys.
“We have a problem,” the bishop says solemnly. “We need your help.”
He’s the leader of the group. Their collective body language tells me they are in agreement about their mission, how they will accomplish it, and that I am somehow central to their goal.
“Let’s go into my office.” I motion toward the hall, and cast a glance at Margaret.
She raises her brows and gives me a what-the-hell-is-going-on shrug.
“Would you mind making coffee?” I ask.
“Are you sure you want to subject these nice gentlemen to that?” she whispers.
I can’t tell if she’s serious, but I’m smiling as I unlock the door to my cubbyhole office and usher the men inside. “Have a seat.”
A few minutes later, having dragged in an extra chair, I’m sitting at my desk. The three men have settled in with their coffees.
I sip, try not to wince at the acrid bite that comes back at me. “What brings you to Painters Mill?”
Nelson Yoder grimaces. “Two months ago, human bones were discovered by one of our brethren while he was cutting hay. The police came. They took the bones and they did what they do with their machines and chemicals and such. A few weeks later, those bones were identified as belonging to Ananias Stoltzfus.”
I’m not familiar with the name or the case, so I wait.
Deacon Kempf picks it up from there. “Ananias was bishop for many years. He was a good bishop and performed many communions, baptisms, marriages, and excommunications.”
Mahlon, the minister, shakes his head. “Ananias disappeared eighteen years ago. Vanished without a trace.” He grimaces. “It was a terrible time. For all of us. As you can imagine, his children and grandchildren were beside themselves with worry—and heartache—because no one knew what had happened to him. Of course, the Amish stepped in. We did what we could. We searched. We helped the family. Mostly we prayed, but…” The old man offers another shrug. “His safe return was not to be.”
The men fall silent. I look from face to face, seeing the remnants of grief, not the kind that dulls with age, but a sharper, newer angst that comes with more recent news.
“Did the police determine what happened to him?” I ask.
The bishop raises rheumy eyes to mine and gives a single nod. “The sheriff told us Ananias had been shot.”
“Twice,” Mahlon adds.
“So it wasn’t a hunting accident or suicide,” I say slowly, knowing there’s more coming. That I’m not going to like it.
Nathan raises his hand and strokes his beard, thoughtful. “There was a rifle found with the bones. A muzzleloader. A rusty thing that was half buried.”
“The muzzleloader belongs to one of our own.” The bishop offers me a sympathetic look. “Jonas Bowman.”
The name strikes me like a stick of dynamite igniting in my chest, unexpected and painful. For a moment, I’m so surprised, I think I misheard. “Jonas Bowman?” I repeat the name, even as I feel the rise of heat in my cheeks. “Are you sure?”
Glances are exchanged, the kind that make me wonder if they know more about me and Jonas and the past we share than I’m comfortable with.
Mahlon grimaces. “Brother Jonas was arrested two weeks ago. For murder.”
The bishop stares down at his hands and sighs. “You didn’t know?”
The Amish grapevine has a surprisingly long reach. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I don’t want to tell him I’m not privy to Amish gossip. That some in the community prefer not to deal with me because I left the fold. So I simply shake my head.
I knew Jonas Bowman growing up. His father, Ezra, was minister of our church district here in Painters Mill. When I was a kid, Jonas was a minor character in the periphery of my life. I saw him during worship. He helped my datt a few times on the farm. As I grew older, we played the occasional game of baseball and hockey, went swimming in the creek. All of that changed when I was fifteen and he drove me home after a singing. It was the first time I’d ridden in a boy’s buggy without a chaperone. Or a sibling or parent or girlfriend. It was the first time I’d been alone with a boy. There were a lot of firsts for both of us that summer. Some good. Some … not so much. Jonas was nineteen and we were at an age in which four years might as well have been twenty. Of course, we were too young to care.
My composure snaps back into place. I stare at the men, aware that the cup has gone cold in my hands, that my pulse is thrumming a little too fast.
“Jonas has denied any involvement?” I ask.
“He says he did not do it,” the bishop tells me.
“He is a man of his word,” the deacon adds.
I think about the dynamics involved in the identification of a muzzleloader, especially one that’s been exposed to the elements for eighteen years. Most black-powder rifles have serial numbers, but some do not, especially if they’re old, which may very well have been the case for an Amish hunting rifle.
“Did the police find the spent bullets?” I ask.
The three men seem to consider the question, but it is Mahlon Barkman who replies. “One of the round balls was found, I think.”
“What about motive?” I ask.
The three men exchange looks, but it is Nathan Kempf who speaks. “There were hard feelings between Jonas and Ananias.”
The minister takes it from there. “His father, Ezra, was a minister, you know. There was a disagreement about a tractor Ezra bought when his two horses died unexpectedly of the sleeping sickness. Ananias would not have it and put Ezra under the bann.”
It’s an all-too-common theme among the Amish. Ezra Bowman broke the rules and Ananias Stoltzfus punished him for it.
“Silenced him, too,” the bishop adds.
“Two weeks later, Ezra passed unexpectedly.” Mahlon heaves a heavy sigh. “Jonas blamed Ananias for his death. Said the stress killed him.”
“Jonas held Ananias responsible,” Nathan tells me. “He was angry. They argued. Publicly.”
“Jonas behaved badly,” Nathan adds. “He was young. Hotheaded. Just twenty-one. He did some things.”
“Some things like what?” I ask.
“He damaged Ananias’s buggy.” Nathan shrugs. “He got caught. Had some trouble with the police.”
“It was a minor thing,” Mahlon puts in.
“Two months later, Ananias disappeared,” Nelson finishes.
“Did the police positively link the muzzleloader to Jonas?” I ask.
“The sheriff took the gun to Jonas,” the deacon tells me. “Jonas admitted it was his.” Nathan shrugs. “They arrested him the next day. Put him in jail.”
“Jonas would never commit such a sin,” Mahlon says. “He would never take the life of another man.”
“He asked for my help?” I ask.
The bishop shakes his head. “Jonas would not ask such a thing for himself,” he tells me. “He would not impose.”
“He understands that this hardship is part of God’s plan.” Deacon Kempf looks at the other two men. “It is not Jonas who is asking for your help, Kate Burkholder. It is us.”
I feel myself blinking, a jumble of denials and excuses tumbling through my brain in disarray.
“Jonas has a family to care for,” Nathan tells me. “Children and a wife. A woodworking business to manage. And yet he sits in jail for a sin he did not commit.”
“The English police do not understand our ways. They do not know Jonas the way we do.” Mahlon tightens his mouth. “They will not listen to us.”
“You are a police, Kate Burkholder,” Nathan says. “You understand our ways. You understand the law of the land, too.”
“More importantly, you know Jonas Bowman.” The bishop’s eyes burn into mine. In their depths I see discernment. An awareness that puts me on edge. And questions that, because of Amish decorum, will never be voiced.
I break eye contact first, look down at the notebook in front of me, and I scribble something meaningless. All the while I assure myself Jonas would never breach the tacit boundary of privacy that had been set.
“We read about the cases you’ve solved here in Painters Mill. You are a good police.” Nathan gives a decisive nod. “We are asking for your help.”
“We have money,” Mahlon adds. “We will pay you for your time and travel.”
The men fall silent, as if all of their persuasive energies are spent. For the span of a full minute no one speaks, the only sound coming from the occasional ring of the phone in reception and tap-tap of Margaret’s fingers against the keyboard.
Everything that’s been said churns in my brain. I can’t stop thinking about Jonas. The boy I knew. The man he became. The time we spent together that last summer. The profound impression he made on my life. All at a time when I was vulnerable and confused and too young to realize some emotions cannot be contained. And some actions can’t be taken back.
Jonas was charismatic, charming, and persuasive. When he wanted something, he was relentless. He gave his all whether it was baseball or woodworking—or something a hell of a lot more personal. He was a force to be reckoned with and touched my life in ways I could never have imagined at such a tender age. Was he flawed? Without a doubt—just like the rest of us. But those human imperfections were tempered by a keen sense of right and wrong—and zero tolerance for injustice. How is it that a man with such black-and-white views could be involved in or suspected of murder?
As these men stated their case, I wondered how much they know about me and Jonas. If they know we got into a lot of trouble the last summer he was here. That it cost his family their relationship with the Amish community here in Painters Mill. That I am the reason his family left for Pennsylvania.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I have no jurisdiction in the state of Pennsylvania,” I tell them.
“Even so, there are things you can do to help, no?” This from Bishop Yoder.
I look from man to man to man. “What I can do, is make some calls and find out what’s going on in terms of the case.”
Another round of looks is exchanged, and this time there’s an air of disappointment laced with an unmistakable I-told-you-so sentiment.
Deacon Kempf sits up straighter. “We’re spending the night at the motel here in Painters Mill. Tomorrow, we will be returning to the valley.”
“We’d appreciate it if you’d sleep on it, Kate Burkholder, before making your decision.” The bishop gets to his feet and slowly straightens. “At this point, we’ve nowhere else to turn.”
I watch the men shuffle out of my office, aware that I’ve broken a sweat beneath my shirt and there’s a weight in my gut that wasn’t there when they entered.