Page 85 of The Burning

“No.” He says the word adamantly. “Of course not.”

Another uncomfortable silence ensues. Both of us stare into our cups. Listen to the din of rain outside. I try in vain to settle my thoughts, but they roil, troubled and tossed.

“I’m glad James is okay,” I say.

“God was looking over him. I think He was looking over all of us that day, including me.”

“Jacob, why did you come here this morning?”

He raises his gaze to mine. “That Sunday, after worship, Irene came to me. She told me she’d talked to Bertha Swanz a while back. The subject of Milan came up and Bertha told her she thought something bad was going to happen to him.”

“What?” I sit up straighter. “Like what? Why would she say that?”

“She didn’t say, but Irene thought it was strange.”

“Did Bertha say what kind of bad thing?”

He shakes his head. “Irene didn’t ask. She thought Bertha was just talking, you know. Making gossip about a no-good ex-husband. Then Milan was killed and she came to me and told me what she’d heard.”

“Jacob, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“With everything that’s happened, Katie, I wish I had. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

I sit at the kitchen table for a long time after my brother leaves, troubled, thinking, trying to make sense of everything he’d said.

“The subject of Milan came up and Bertha told her she thought something bad was going to happen to him.”

Did Bertha Swanz know her ex-husband was going to be murdered? Did she have something to do with it? Did she plan it? Persuade her lover to kill him? The questions pound my brain like a fist.

I’ve questioned Bertha three times so far; each time I asked her specifically about her ex-husband’s life and death. Did she lie to me? She did, after all, have motive to want him gone. He abused her. Cheated on her. He broke their son’s arm. Not to mention her affair with her neighbor, Lester Yoder. All are compelling motives for murder.

I glance at the wall clock. Almost ten A.M. I look down at my sweatpants and ratty cardigan. I wonder where my counterparts are in terms of the investigation. Have they made any progress? Had any breakthroughs? Have they drawn any of the same conclusions that I have?

It doesn’t elude me that they haven’t kept me updated. Of course, I’m not officially off the case. But for all intents and purposes, I’ve been blacklisted.

… until we get a better handle on this, I’d like you to take a step back.

“Like hell,” I mutter.

I consider calling Tomasetti, but think better of it. Bertha Swanz will be much more likely to speak openly to me if I’m alone. If any new information emerges from the conversation, I can share it with the rest of the team then.

Holding that thought, I rise and make a beeline for the shower.

The only positive aspect of driving our old farm truck is that no one will recognize it. That’s particularly beneficial when I’m being stonewalled and about to approach an individual who doesn’t want to speak with me.

It’s a little after eleven A.M. when I park in the driveway of the Swanz house and take the flagstone path to the front porch. I hear the whine of an approaching train as I knock. The door opens and Bertha Swanz looks at me as if I’m the last person she expected to find. She saw the truck, I realize, and thought it was safe to answer the door.

Surprise.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” I begin.

Her mouth opens and then closes. “I’ve got to be at work in a bit,” she finally spits out. “Tomorrow would be better.”

“This won’t take long.”

When she doesn’t step aside, I offer her a polite smile and brush past her. As I enter the living room, I sense the irritation coming off her. A fire blazes in the fireplace and I feel the heat from ten feet away. The aromas of coffee and this morning’s breakfast float on the warm air. Light slants toward me from the kitchen, and through the doorway I see the table, upon which two steaming cups sit.

Interesting.