Harmless as Doves (10 page)

Burkholder stood beside her and asked, “Glenn Spiegle was beaten pretty badly?”

Pensive, Hart answered, “Right.”

“Why aren’t my knuckles bruised?”

“I don’t know. They should be.”

Crist said, “The sheriff said I probably beat him, and I just don’t remember it.”

“I know,” Hart said. “That’s what I’d say, if I were the sheriff.”

“Maybe that’s what I did, then,” Crist said. “I just didn’t hurt myself very much. You know—tough skin, strong hands.”

“You don’t really believe that anymore, do you, Crist?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Well, I do, Crist. And I know what to do about it, too.”

“What?”

“Talk to the prosecutor.”

“Is he a woman, too?”

Hart laughed and gave Burkholder a bear hug.

14

Wednesday, October 7

3:00
P.M.

ANNIE MILLER stood at her end of the long kitchen table with the coffeepot ready in her hand, in case the bishop asked for more. If it appeared he didn’t like it, she was prepared to brew a fresh pot. Her daughter Anna Mae stood at the woodstove, prepared to cook whatever the bishop desired. Ham, bacon, eggs, fried mush, whatever he requested. Beef, pork, potatoes. Maybe a sandwich. Anna Mae was ready. She knew her duties well.

Both women stood motionless while the bishop took his first sips to test the brew. Too hot? Too cold? Annie worried that something would be wrong with it. So many times her Jacob had taught her that a woman couldn’t be expected to be perfect, but one could always be expected to improve. Too cold? Warm it up, and next time be more attentive. Too hot? Have some cold water at hand. And, if a woman couldn’t be expected to be perfect, she could at least be ready to compensate with a heart to serve. And if the brew wasn’t proper, wasn’t that an opportunity to learn? Yes, as her Jacob had said many times, she was lucky that he was so patient with her. And today, she hoped the bishop would be patient with her, too.

“Is it too hot, Bischoff?” she asked. “Or, should I warm it up?” Her heart really was prepared to serve. Her daughters were the same; the bishop would approve. They had all been taught well, too. Anyway, most all of them. All except maybe Vesta.

But of all the others, her Anna Mae was surely the best cook. She knew just how her father liked his breakfast bacon. She knew just how to cook his eggs. And he had praised her repeatedly for this skill. The other children had their special duties, too. Each one chosen and taught. The whole family working together. Not as individuals, but as a whole, a properly working body of the
whole.
They practiced the proper
oneness
of the family, with its head the father and husband, and all of it a reflection on him. Yes, Annie Miller and the children knew their places in the body of the family. Surely the bishop would see that. Surely he would approve.

“Anna Mae is such a fine cook, Bischoff,” Annie said. “She’ll make such a fine wife.”

Leon Shetler sat at the head of the long plank table and knew that he was expected to admire the coffee. He could see plainly that Annie Miller was anxious to please him. But coffee really wasn’t all that important to him. Fresh-brewed or instant, it didn’t much matter to him. It was a good, hot drink on cold mornings, but instant coffee was all he bothered to make for himself.

But here, clearly, Annie Miller was anxious about her coffee. He was supposed to enjoy the afternoon cup she had served him. He’d drink some to be polite, but to him it was only a device to allow conversation. He’d drink a bit and try to talk to Annie. Yes, she was anxious about it, the bishop thought. Or was it more than that?

He glanced around the room, trying to see if there was another reason why the women were nervous. The red linoleum floor was waxed to a shiny brightness, and swept as clean as a dinner plate. The purple curtains in the window had recently been washed and pressed, and they hung straight and neat from their rods. The dishes were all put up in careful stacks on the open shelves, above spotless countertops. Even the hand towels, which should see everyday use, were hung neatly in place at the sink. No, the bishop thought, everything here is perfect. Perhaps too perfect.

And the girl Anna Mae, standing so still at the stove, made him nervous because she was so attentive. “Anna Mae,” he said, “I’m fine. I’m really not hungry.”

Stepping forward, Anna Mae asked, “Maybe some cheese, Bischoff? With tomato slices?”

“No, Anna Mae, thank you. Why don’t you try to enjoy some of the afternoon, while I speak with your mother?”

Fingers knotting into her apron in front, Anna Mae glanced at her mother and turned earnestly back to the bishop. “I do have my chores, Bischoff, but I’ll gladly prepare anything you might like.”

“Just the coffee,” Shetler said, raising his cup with a smile.

Anna Mae glanced again at her mother. Annie gave a nod, and the girl turned to leave.

Intending encouragement, Shetler said, “Thank you, Anna Mae,” and with puzzlement showing on her face, Anna Mae left through the door to the back porch.

Annie Miller—wide at the hips and thick through her shoulders—stood at the far end of the table, wearing a plain navy blue dress with a white apron. Her black bonnet covered her ears and lay flat against her cheeks. Her plain white kitchen apron hung to full length in front, with black hose and shoes showing below the hem.

“Bischoff,” she said, “Jacob is not home right now. Wouldn’t you prefer to speak with him?”

“No, Annie,” the bishop said. “Please sit down.”

“Perhaps pie, Bischoff. I have ground cherry pie.”

Allowing an edge of authority to sharpen his tone, Shetler said, “Please sit down, Annie.” He knew he was regularly shown a degree of deference, because he served as bishop, but he judged that he was seeing something more troubling than simple deference in Annie’s awkward response to him. “Please sit down,” he said again. “We need to talk.”

Hesitating, Annie said, “I am sorry about Vesta, Bischoff. Is this about her?”

Shetler shook his head. “I want to talk with you about Jacob.”

Annie set the coffee pot on a trivet on the counter behind her, and took a seat opposite the bishop, at the far end of the table, saying, “Vesta is such a trial for Jacob, Bischoff. She tries his patience at every turn.”

Shetler considered everything that had happened that day, and he judged that Vesta’s being a “trial” for her father should have been the least of Annie Miller’s concerns. He knew it was the least of his. “Annie,” he said. “Do you know that Crist Burkholder and Vesta had made plans to elope?”

Nodding, she said, “But I didn’t tell that to Jacob, Bischoff.”

“You knew she was leaving?”

Another nod. “Vesta has her ‘talks’ with me. I don’t tell Jacob, because it would only put him out of sorts.”

“What does she tell you, Annie?”

Annie hesitated, so Shetler added, “I am your Bishop, Annie. I won’t tell Jacob that we have talked, unless you want me to.”

“You wouldn’t tell him that we talked about Vesta, Bischoff?”

“No. Or that we talked about you.”

Carefully, Annie led, “Vesta always has her ‘talks’ with me when Jacob is away.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Oh, I just listen, Bischoff. I don’t encourage this type of modern thinking.”

“Does Vesta think her father is too stern?”

“Yes,” Annie said, showing a degree of shame. “She says we women should be treated better. She says that we
are
better.”

“Better than what?”

“Better than Jacob teaches, Bischoff.”

“Is Jacob abusive, Annie? I am asking as your bishop.”

“Vesta says he abuses his authority.”

“Do
you
think he does that?”

“He is the husband, Bischoff. And the father.”

“And?”

“Jacob says that the Bible teaches that he is the rightful head of the wife. The rightful head of the family.”

Shetler sighed. “Does he
rule,
Annie, or does he
serve?
”

“Bischoff?”

“The Bible teaches the
service
of leadership, Annie, not the
hierarchy.
”

“Jacob teaches that a husband needs to rule as the head of his wife.”

Shetler sighed and shook his head. “This is not what the Bible teaches, Annie. This is not the mature intent of the Word.”

“Is the husband not the head?”

“Annie, please,” Shetler said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have heard me preach about this many times.”

Confused and near tears, Annie said, “I have tried so hard, Bischoff. I have tried so hard to serve him.”

“I wish you had chosen a different word, Annie,” the bishop said. “For Vesta’s sake, I wish you had chosen a different word than
serve.
”

“Bischoff, I do not understand.”

“I know,” Shetler said, weary. “But I have told Jacob that I want to see him when he gets back. I want to see him at my house, before he comes home.”

Tears fell, now, onto Annie’s cheeks.

Gentle in his tone, because he wanted Annie to understand, Shetler said, “A lot is happening right now, Annie. Katie needs to help with Darba. Vesta is mending at the Peacheys’. Crist Burkholder is in jail, because Glenn Spiegle is dead. The sheriff’s people are going through his house right now. And your husband is on an airplane to Florida. But when it has all been straightened out, Jacob is going to stay with me for several days.”

“But, what about his family, Bischoff? What are we to do if he stays with you?”

Shetler ignored the question for the moment. “Has he gone to Pinecraft before, Annie?”

“Several times, Bischoff.”

“How many, Annie?”

“Maybe five.”

“Why does he go?”

“I don’t know, really.”

“Does he have family down there?”

“No.”

Embarrassed for her, Shetler studied the backs of his hands. “Annie, until Jacob is allowed to come home, I want you to run the farm just as you would if he were here.”

“Bischoff?”

“I want
you
to take charge, Annie. And run the farm. Bring in the feed corn. Raise your children. Keep the family.”

Annie seemed confused, so he added, “After we get this all sorted out, I will send Katie to help you.”

“Help me with what, Bischoff?”

Everything,
the bishop thought. “Your family,” the bishop said.

15

Wednesday, October 7

4:00
P.M.

AS THE afternoon sun cast shadows across the blacktop of 601, Bishop Shetler wheeled his buggy up the lane at Glenn Spiegle’s house and found two sheriff’s deputy’s cruisers parked in front of the long porch. He parked off to the side, tied his buggy horse to a fence post, and mounted the steps to the front porch just as Stan Armbruster came out of the front door carrying an open crate of papers and books. On the top of the stack in the crate was Glenn Spiegle’s Bible, an English/German side-by-side, which the bishop had given Spiegle on the day he was baptized into the church.

Armbruster stepped to the side to let the bishop come up the steps, and he said to Chief Deputy Dan Wilsher, “This is all there was, Chief.”

Wilsher looked into the crate and said, “OK, it all goes in, Stan,” and Armbruster carried the crate down to one of the cruisers.

Dan Wilsher was dressed in his usual plain gray business suit, with white shirt and red tie. His hair was gray, just long enough to be parted, and his gray eyes broadcast the pleasant features of down-home honesty. He carried more weight than his doctor thought ideal, but he was not overweight like the sheriff. He had come up through the ranks, starting young as a deputy out of college, and he was now Robertson’s chief of deputies, happy to serve as number two in command, letting Robertson sweat out all the political dilemmas of elected office, while Wilsher handled the
command details, supervising the day-to-day law enforcement routines for three duty shifts.

Bishop Shetler came up to the chief on the porch, offered his hand, and introduced himself. Then he glanced back at the deputy loading the crate into the trunk of his cruiser, and said, “Do you have to take everything? Even his Bible?”

“For the time being,” Wilsher said. “His heirs can have it back, once this is settled.”

“Sadly, Chief,” Shetler said, “I am his only heir.”

Wilsher framed a skeptical expression. “He doesn’t have any family?”

“Only his church,” Shetler said.

Wilsher nodded. “I understand he came up here from Florida.”

“Yes. Two years ago.”

“And he had no one down there?”

“No. His mother died several years ago. She was his last relative.”

Wilsher studied the short Amishman and wondered how much Shetler knew about Spiegle’s Florida past. “Bishop, can you walk through the house with me?”

“Not much to see,” Shetler said.

“I know,” Wilsher said, leading through the front door. “That’s what surprises me.”

In the front hallway, there was no entryway furniture. The hallway walls were painted flat white, like the ceiling, and the red cherry trim was of plain, bare wood, not yet stained or varnished. The wide floorboards were painted flat gray. At the front end of the hall, there were doorways to a small parlor to the left and a living room to the right, each room bare and unfurnished, with no lamps, no wall adornments, and no curtains.

Wilsher pointed out the two rooms and said, “He didn’t really have much furniture, Bishop.”

“No,” Shetler said. “Not yet, anyway.”

Farther down the hall, there was a staircase leading up to the second floor, and as he passed it, Wilsher said, “Only one of the bedrooms upstairs has any furniture.”

The bishop nodded as he followed. “He had no family, Chief Deputy. That was all to come, later.”

In the kitchen at the back end of the hallway, Wilsher said, “This is all new, but it’s all old-fashioned.”

“Sure. You’d expect that,” Shetler said. “I helped him buy it all. At Lehman’s, in Kidron.”

Along one wall, Spiegle had an iron wood-fired cooking stove, with shiny silver metal features and black, cast-iron trim. Beside the stove stood a wooden chopping-block table with several chef’s knives laid out in a neat row. An icebox—thick wood with black iron strapping—stood on the other side of the wooden table. Along the other three walls there was gray Formica countertop over cabinetry painted white. Above that, open pantry shelves held bulk foods packaged in plastic bags, canned foods, fruit jars, store bread, and several bags of chips and snack food.