Page 40 of The Burning

“I think you should ask him about that. That’s all I can tell you.”

I stare at him, wondering what he knows and why he won’t reveal it. “Bishop, if you had information that might help me find out who’s responsible for the death of Milan Swanz, you’d share it with me, wouldn’t you?”

The old man stares at me for a long time before answering. “Talk to your brother,” he says. “That’s all I have to say to you.”

“You know something and you’re withholding it from me,” I say. “Why is that?”

“No more questions.” Grunting, the old man sets his arthritic hands on the walker and heaves himself to his feet. Instead of turning away, he faces me, looks down at me. “I think we may be in for some bad weather, Kate Burkholder. You should be careful out there, on the road. Do you understand?”

I look past him to see Freda standing in the doorway, watching us from the shadows of the living room, and for the first time in my life, I feel as if the bishop isn’t being completely truthful with me.

“Who are you protecting?” I ask quietly.

“Give your brother my best,” the old man says, and then he’s gone.

There are times in the course of an interrogation when an individual’s evading a question is as telling as an outright lie. Had my conversation with Bishop Troyer gone differently, I would have waited until morning before approaching Monroe Hershberger. When I initially discovered the list of addresses at Swanz’s home, I honestly didn’t feel it was important or relevant to the case. Now, I’m not so sure.

Monroe Hershberger and his wife live on a small farm off of Township Road 102 between Painters Mill and Millersburg. The clock on my dash tells me it’s after 8 P.M. when I make the turn into the rutted lane. As I near the house, I discern the golden light in the windows, and I’m relieved at least one of the elderly couple is still awake.

I park in a circular turnaround in front and wade through snow to the porch. Before I can knock, the door squeaks open and I find myself looking at a tall, rail-thin man wearing typical Amish garb sans the hat. I recognize him as Monroe Hershberger, though I don’t recall the circumstances of our meeting. Such is the way of small-town life.

“Mr. Hershberger?” I have my badge at the ready and introduce myself.

“Yes?” He looks past me as if expecting a horde of cops to converge.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m working on the Milan Swanz case and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh. Milan.” His eyes widen and for a moment he seems tongue-tied. “Just heard about what happened this afternoon. Awful thing.”

“I thought I heard voices down here.” A female voice interrupts.

I look past him to see a short Amish woman push past her husband. Ada Hershberger is as rotund as her husband is tall, with ruddy cheeks, and her green eyes look at me with suspicion.

“Katie Burkholder. I thought that was you.” She slants a sideways look at her husband and frowns. “I see you’ve rendered him speechless already and he hasn’t even invited you inside.”

“Hi, Ada.” I know her from the gift shop in town where she works. I bought a knitted afghan from her a couple of months ago. She’s a talker. Amicable. And funny. She’s also a little on the ornery side when she gets riled up. She’s one of the reasons I go to that particular shop when I need a gift.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” I tell her.

“Think nothing of it.” She nudges Monroe with her elbow. “Where are your manners, Old Man?” She uses the nickname fondly and then motions me in. “I reckon we know why you’re here.” Taking her husband’s arm, she ushers me into the living room. “Come on now. I just made tea. Let’s drink it while it’s still hot.”

A few minutes later, the three of us are settled in the small, dimly lit living room. Ada and Monroe sit on a love seat–size sofa, the backrest of which is draped with a quilted throw. I settle into an overstuffed chair across from them, trying not to notice the broken spring poking my backside. An old gas lamp hisses at us from its place in the corner.

“Da tay is goot,” I say, unable to place the unusual flavors. The tea is good.

She waves away the compliment. “It’s an old recipe my mamm used to make for my datt. Chamomile for sleep. Heregraut for the things that worry you.” St. John’s wort. “And hollerbier for that nice flavor.” Elderberry.

I sip again, let my eyes slide to Monroe. “I understand you were involved in Milan’s excommunication.”

The couple exchanges a look. Ada pats her husband’s hand, which seems to relax him, and he speaks. “Well, we took the vote and it was done. Milan was excommunicated.”

“How did he react?” I ask.

“As you can imagine, he was none too pleased.” The old man picks up his mug and takes a long drink, as if for fortification. “He was a troubled man, you know, constantly struggling with one problem or another. If it wasn’t his wife, it was his employer. If not his employer, then the children or maybe fate. It was a sad thing to witness, time and time again. And as is always the case, the excommunication made everything worse for him.”

“Tell me about the excommunication,” I say.

Monroe heaves a sigh. “Milan had been under the bann on and off for years. He was making cabinets at the time, and doing woodworking on the side. Course, once he was put under the bann, no one would do business with him and he lost his Amish customers. His relationships suffered, especially with his wife. His reputation suffered, too, and Milan became angry.”