When the Bishop Needs an Alibi Read online

  BOOKS BY VANNETTA CHAPMAN

  THE AMISH BISHOP MYSTERIES

  What the Bishop Saw

  When the Bishop Needs an Alibi

  PLAIN AND SIMPLE MIRACLES

  Brian’s Choice

  (ebook-only novella prequel)

  Anna’s Healing

  Joshua’s Mission

  Sarah’s Orphans

  THE PEBBLE CREEK AMISH SERIES

  A Promise for Miriam

  A Home for Lydia

  A Wedding for Julia

  “Home to Pebble Creek”

  (free short story e-romance)

  “Christmas at Pebble Creek”

  (free short story e-romance)

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture quotations are taken from

  The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  The King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Bryce Williams

  Cover Images © FooTToo, Bodhichita, soleg / iStock

  Published in association with the literary agency of the Steve Laube Agency, LLC, 24 W. Camelback Rd. A-635, Phoenix, Arizona 85013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  WHEN THE BISHOP NEEDS AN ALIBI

  Copyright © 2017 by Vannetta Chapman

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6649-8 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6650-4 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Chapman, Vannetta, author.

  Title: When the bishop needs an alibi / Vannetta Chapman.

  Description: Eugene, Oregon: Harvest House Publishers, [2017] | Series: The Amish bishop mysteries; 2 | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017016467 (print) | LCCN 2017022465 (ebook) | ISBN 9780736966504 (ebook) | ISBN 9780736966498 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Amish–Fiction. | Clergy–Fiction. | Murder–Investigation–Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Christian / Suspense. | FICTION / Christian / Romance. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.H3744 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.H3744 W49 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6–dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017016467

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  DEDICATION

  For Priscilla Wright

  Contents

  Books by Vannetta Chapman

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Discussion Questions

  Glossary

  Recipes

  Breakfast Casserole

  Cheese Soup

  Potato Casserole

  Shoo-Fly Pie

  Ginger Crisps

  Ham Salad Spread

  Potato Salad

  Mashed Potato Rolls

  Blueberry Oatmeal Muffins

  Chocolate Zucchini Bread

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Somewhere in the Embers Lies the Truth

  Find New Friends in the Women of Pebble Creek

  Discover Stories of God’s Unexpected Grace and Provision

  Ready to Discover More?

  About the Publisher

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is dedicated to Priscilla Wright, who has been a good friend and a constant source of encouragement. She meets me for breakfast, for lunch, even to exercise. What more could a girl ask from a friend?

  I’d also like to send a huge thank-you to the Harvest House staff, a truly wonderful group of folks to work with. My agent, Steve Laube, continues to provide insightful, timely, and extremely useful advice and direction. With each book I write, I realize how much I depend on my pre-readers, Kristy Kreymer and Janet Murphy. Thank you, ladies.

  My husband, mother, and son continue to support me through this journey as a professional writer. When I doubt myself, you fill me with confidence. When I need a break, you provide it. And when I begin to consume coffee in copious amounts, you never judge. I love you guys.

  If my math is correct, this is my nineteenth full-length novel. Some of you have been faithful readers since that first book in 2010, A Simple Amish Christmas.
Some of you are just finding me. To all of you, I want to offer thanks from the depths of my heart. The fact that you are willing and eager to put aside part of your day to step into my fictional world continues to amaze me. Thank you, and may God be an ever-present hope and comfort in your lives.

  And finally, “Always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:20).

  Those who hope in the LORD

  will renew their strength.

  They will soar on wings like eagles;

  they will run and not grow weary,

  they will walk and not be faint.

  ISAIAH 40:31

  In three words I can sum up everything

  I’ve learned about life: It goes on.

  ROBERT FROST

  One

  San Luis Valley, Colorado

  September 21

  Henry Lapp crouched in a sea of bulrushes and cattails.

  A light breeze tickled the hair at the nape of his neck as the distinctive rolling cry of cranes filled the morning. He recognized the call of a marsh wren, a night heron, and an ibis.

  As he waited, dawn’s light splashed over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the east, crossed the San Luis Valley, and settled against the base of the San Juan Mountains in the west. Sunrise turned the marshland into a sea of gold and warmed the brisk fall air. Henry moved behind a clump of bulrushes, the ripened seeds temporarily filling the lens of his Nikon binoculars.

  Henry again heard the flat, rattle call of a sandhill crane, a gar-oo-oo that never failed to quicken his pulse. He brought his binoculars around to the sound and adjusted his focus. Nearly four feet tall, with a wingspan of at least six feet, the male crane was a beauty to behold. Its gray color provided a perfect camouflage against the fall stalks, rendering the splash of red against its forehead all the more surprising.

  The crane took several steps east, and Henry did the same, barely noticing the way his boots sank in the mud.

  Lexi stuck close, quivering, eager to chase. He should have left her at home. Throughout most of the preserve, pets were not allowed. He’d chosen this spot so he could bring her. No doubt it was something akin to torture for the beagle to not be able to do what came so naturally, but Henry had been unable to deny her pleading brown eyes when he’d begun stuffing items into his day pack.

  With his left hand, he calmed his dog. With his right, he steadied the binoculars. Many people had abandoned binoculars altogether when bird-watching, opting for cameras instead. But Henry had no intention of taking photographs. Being Amish, he didn’t own a camera. No, for him the joy was in seeing the majestic creatures, observing them and appreciating the wonder of God’s hand in all things.

  The male croaked, spread its wings, and jumped, neck stretched long—all for the benefit of its mate. Although he couldn’t see her, Henry knew the female was close. She must be among the cattails, searching for breakfast.

  He crouched lower, continued to follow the male’s direction, and forgot about the arthritis in his knees or how he wished he’d eaten a bigger breakfast.

  And then she was there, filling up his lens, slightly smaller and staying close to the juvenile.

  “A family unit,” he muttered. He could have raised his gaze and seen hundreds, possibly thousands of the birds, but this chance to observe a family rewarded him more than watching an entire flock of birds ever could.

  He crept closer, eager to focus in on the juvenile, which must be nearly six months old. The young bird mimicked the male, jumping and dancing and attempting to imitate the unison call that rang out from the adult male and female. The male had flipped his head upward, the female mirroring him so that her neck was parallel to his. What a beautiful sight.

  Henry stepped forward, completely focused on the birds, and his foot struck against something. He lost his balance and began to fall. Lexi jumped out of his way, and Henry tried to focus on saving the binoculars, on not dropping them in the mud.

  He was thinking of that, of how precious the binoculars were to him, when he landed on his backside, scaring away the family of three and causing an entire flock of cranes to take flight. He shook his head at his clumsiness and called Lexi closer, but the beagle was now emitting a low, menacing growl.

  “Lexi, shush.”

  The dog paid him no mind. Her growl turned to high-pitched barks, and more cranes rose into the morning sky.

  Henry lurched for the dog’s collar, and he twisted, turning back in the direction he’d come. That was the moment he saw what made him trip, what Lexi was now backing away from, still alternately growling and yipping.

  Hidden among the bulrushes and the cattails lay a woman’s body, facedown in the brush.

  Stumbling forward, he knelt beside her, swept aside her hair, and placed two fingers to her neck. He couldn’t detect a pulse, and she certainly wasn’t moving. But then again, his own heartbeat was thundering in his ears, and his hands were shaking. He should get help, run to the visitor center, but first he had to be sure. Gently he rolled the body over, his heart sinking in recognition.

  She wouldn’t be needing help. That much was for certain. Henry uttered a prayer for her soul even as his gaze froze on the bruise marks around her neck. His tears didn’t begin to fall until he looked at her face—unmarred and unlined in death, as if the worries of her life had slipped away and sailed across the vast Colorado sky.

  Two

  Seven days earlier

  Henry directed Oreo to the parking area at the side of Maggie’s Diner. “Buggy Parking” was painted on the building above an artistic rendering of a horse and buggy. Henry couldn’t help chuckling at the mural every time he saw it. The horse resembled a draft horse, which would never be used to pull a buggy. And the buggy looked like a carriage from the 1800s. But at least the good folks of Monte Vista tried to incorporate Henry’s Plain community into their image of the town, which he supposed was a compliment.

  Oreo didn’t seem to mind the mural’s incorrect details. The buggy parking area was unpaved, which was better for standing, and there was grass to crop. Nearby trees provided a fair amount of shade when the sun took a westerly dip.

  Only one other buggy was there—Leroy Kauffmann’s, by the looks of it. Leroy was a deacon in their church and the wealthiest member in their small community. He was probably meeting someone about selling his fall crops.

  Tourists often looked surprised to see an Amish person at a diner, but the truth was Plain folks enjoyed a meal out as much as anyone. Most Amish families had eight to ten children, so for them eating at restaurants was usually reserved for special occasions, such as birthdays or anniversaries. But because Henry was a widower, and a childless one at that, he frequented Maggie’s much more often.

  “Back in a few, old girl.” He tucked his large drawing pad under his arm, patted the mare on her neck, fed her a piece of carrot from his pocket, and turned to enter the diner.

  Several people nodded hello as he walked in. Leroy sat at one of the two-seat tables with a man in a cowboy hat. He waved a hand in greeting to Henry, and then he returned to his conversation.

  The place was fairly packed with a late-lunch crowd, so Henry was especially pleased his favorite booth was available. It was in the back corner, and he always sat facing away from the front door and toward the window so he could see the mountains to the west. He enjoyed eating there several days a week, and he believed it was one way he could build bridges between the Amish and the Englisch.

  Though his community strove to remain separate in many of their ways—no electricity, no telephones, and their own parochial school—he also understood it was wise to foster relations when two such different groups lived in close proximity. He could be a good neighbor by supporting local businesses, and certainly that was one reason he came to the diner. But if he were honest, he’d have to admit he also grew tired of eating alone three meals a day. Plus, he liked Maggie’s made-from-scratch biscuits and the fact that they served breakfast a
ll day long.

  “Coffee with biscuits and gravy, Henry?” The waitress, Sophia Brooks, had started working at Maggie’s a little over a month ago, and they’d been on a first-name basis for weeks. It seemed she rarely took a day off. Henry had never seen her at the grocer or the library or the town’s park. Work appeared to be her entire life.

  She was young and capable, but an almost constant hooded expression on her face spoke of loss and pain—or so it seemed to Henry. As a bishop, he’d dealt with plenty of both in his congregation, as well as in his own life.

  “Maggie’s biscuits are nearly as gut as my mamm’s.” Henry readily accepted the mug of hot coffee. “But I’m here for the meat loaf special.”

  “Good choice.” Sophia wrote down the details of his order. “I could add biscuits on the side.”

  “A wunderbaar idea.”

  Sophia nodded and hurried off to check on her other tables.

  Business at the diner was brisk, probably because the fall migration of sandhill cranes had begun. Monte Vista was a natural place for folks to stop since it was situated in the middle of the San Luis Valley. Henry sipped his coffee and stared out the window. It was a beautiful area. Fourteen years ago, the Amish here decided to revitalize their dying Plain community by inviting families from Indiana who were ready for a change. Henry didn’t realize then how much he would grow to love the place, how right it would feel to be there.

  The valley was fifty miles across and one hundred and fifty miles from north to south. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains boasted peaks of ten thousand feet to the east. The San Juan Mountains to the west were a high and rugged portion of the Rockies, some of those peaks topping fourteen thousand feet. Yet the valley itself was flat and filled with farms, which made it a natural resting spot for migratory birds. Since moving to the valley, Henry had become quite the birder—a hobby that brought him great joy and cost practically nothing.

  Henry enjoyed his meat loaf, mashed potatoes, okra, and coffee, plus two biscuits on the side. When he’d pushed away his empty plate, he stood to go outside.

  “Leaving so soon?” Sophia had a coffeepot in one hand and an order pad in the other. She looked rather harried, and in that moment Henry realized she wasn’t as young as he’d first assumed. She was probably closer to thirty than twenty.