Page 65 of The Burning

My smile feels halfhearted.

“Keep your chin up, Chief. We’ve got a couple of things going for us.”

“For the life of me I can’t imagine what they might be.”

He shrugs. “For one thing, you can probably count on the Amish to not tattle on you to the English police.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. “What else?”

He glances at the clock. “What time does an Amish bishop get up?”

“About four A.M.”

Grinning, he reaches for his keys. “Anyone ever tell you you have excellent timing?”

“No one has ever told me that.”

Half an hour later, Tomasetti and I are standing on the front porch of the farmhouse Bishop Troyer shares with his wife, Freda. This time, she doesn’t keep me waiting. The hinges squeak and the door rolls open a few inches.

The Amish woman squints at me through the gap, thick-lensed glasses making her eyes look huge. “Ach du lieva,” she says in a gravelly voice. Oh my goodness. “You again.”

Her eyes travel to Tomasetti and her upper lip curls. “Was der Schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?

She may be a tiny thing, but the force of her personality more than makes up for her lack of physical stature. No one, Amish or English—maybe not even the bishop himself—speaks out of turn to Freda Troyer without risking a verbal beatdown—or a smack with the horsewhip she purportedly keeps on her kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early this morning, Mrs. Troyer,” I say in Deitsch. “I need to speak with the bishop.”

She doesn’t open the door any wider; she doesn’t give up any ground, literally or figuratively. Her stare flicks from Tomasetti and back to me. “If you think he’s got anything else to say about a dead man, I reckon you have another thing coming.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I say.

A flash of annoyance, an instant of hesitation, and the door creaks open. Without speaking, she turns and trundles toward the kitchen.

Tomasetti and I exchange looks and follow. In the kitchen, the aromas of pancakes and some kind of breakfast meat lace the air.

“Sitz dich anne.” Sit yourself there. “Witt du kaffi?” Would you like coffee?

“Dank.” I take one of six chairs at the rectangular table that’s draped with a checkered cloth. Tomasetti takes the chair across from me. Between us, a lantern flickers next to salt and pepper shakers in the shape of cats.

Freda is pouring from an old-fashioned percolator when the back door swings open. Bishop Troyer enters with a gust of wind, a flurry of snow, and glares at me.

“I thought I saw a car come up the lane.” His voice is like a dog growling through wool.

“Guder mariye,” I say to him. Good morning.

He looks at his wife and responds, “Never a good sign when trouble comes to your door before you’ve fed the cows.”

“I had no say in the matter.” Huffing, she brings our cups to the table and sets them down. “Now come on over here and talk to this druvvel-machah before she gets too comfortable.” Troublemaker.

CHAPTER 17

“What’s so important that you’ve come to our home at four o’clock in the morning?”

Bishop Troyer sits at the head of the kitchen table. Tomasetti and I are across from each other. Freda Troyer busies herself at the counter, clanging the occasional dish, listening.

“Last time I was here, I asked you specifically if you’d had any problems with Milan Swanz,” I say. “You lied to me.”

He takes the accusation in stride. “Milan Swanz is gone. He met a bad end. I’ll not speak ill of him. Nor should you.”