Page 53 of The Hidden One

I follow her to a small living room cluttered with a sofa and two recliners, a coffee table strewn with magazines and books, and a TV the size of a boat. The air is stuffy and warm, despite the air conditioner wheezing in the window.

“Ananias Stoltzfus, huh? Haven’t heard that name in a blue moon.” She wobbles to one of the recliners, braces the cane against the floor, and plops onto the cushion, her feet flying up. “I might have something to say about him and it likely won’t be flattering.” She motions me into the other recliner. “Sit.”

I take a seat. “In all fairness, I should tell you I’m a friend of Jonas Bowman.”

She leans forward, looks left and right as if someone might be listening. “Ananias Stoltzfus was a son of a bitch. Far as I’m concerned, that boy did the world a favor. The man was drunk on power and had the conscience of a fox in a coop full of chickens.”

“Was there anyone in particular he had problems with?”

“Rubbed a lot of us the wrong way.” Her mouth curls. “Problem was, everyone was too scared of him to open their mouths.”

“What can you tell me about Mia?”

“She was a sweet thing. Worked at my bakery for four or five years. She was one heck of a baker. That woman and her desserts…” Her thoughts turn inward and some of the wrinkles on her face seem to smooth out. “I closed my shop going on ten years ago and I still miss her.”

“How long did you know her?”

Her face screws up as if she’s trying to remember. “They moved here in 1967 or so.” She shrugs. “Mia had her babies shortly thereafter. Wasn’t until her kids were older that she came to work for me. I think that was around 1982 or thereabouts.”

I put the timeline to memory. “I talked to Pastor Zimmerman earlier.”

She narrows her eyes. “So you know what happened to her.”

I nod. “Do you have any idea why?”

For the first time, Amanda Garber isn’t quite so keen to hit back with some colorful retort. “Why are you asking about her now? After all these years?”

“I’m not sure the police have the right man in jail.”

“I see.” But I can tell by the way her nose wrinkles that she doesn’t care one way or another. As long as the old man stays dead …

“Ms. Garber, I don’t have to tell you how unusual it was for an Amish woman to end her life in a Lutheran church.”

She looks down at hands that are dotted with brown spots. “Mia was a good girl with a soft heart. A kind heart. But she got the melancholy sometimes. She never complained, but I saw it. I always got the sense she’d … been through something she didn’t want to talk about.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs. “Something traumatized that girl.”

I nod. “Was her husband abusive?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t like the man. He was a tyrant and a bully and he sure didn’t pull any punches when it came time to dole out punishment. But I don’t believe he was beating her.”

“What about infidelity?”

The woman tightens her mouth. “I might’ve heard a thing or two. If you were Amish, then you know it isn’t the kind of thing to be talked about.”

“But women talk, don’t they?” When she doesn’t continue, I prod gently. “Friends talk.”

Her gaze meets mine and holds. For a moment, I see beyond the rheumy eyes and wrinkles and get my first glimpse of the young woman she once was. A spirit that was too strong to fit in, one that wouldn’t be quashed by propriety.

“He was two-timing her. Mia let it slip one day. Told me he went over to Lewistown every so often. Had himself a loose girl there. Worked at some dive called the Triangle. Serving liquor to drunk men.” She removes her glasses. “Mia made like it didn’t bother her. Let him have his little huah.” Whore. “But it broke her heart.” She tuts. “Kept him off her, I guess.”

“Do you know the woman’s name?”

“Rosemary, I think it was. Don’t know what became of her. Don’t much care.”

“Is that why Mia killed herself?”