When the Bishop Needs an Alibi Page 10

  She turned and hurried out of the house before she had to answer any more questions about Henry. It wasn’t until she was halfway to his place that she realized she’d completely forgotten about the leftover casserole she’d intended to bring.

  When Lexi greeted her in the lane, Emma reached into her pocket for the dog biscuit she kept there in case Henry stopped by with his little friend. The beagle accepted it with a yip, carrying it in her mouth as she darted off toward Henry’s workshop. She would sometimes carry a biscuit around in her mouth for the entire duration of a visit, as if it was a gift to be treasured rather than a treat to be eaten.

  Henry was in the back, working in the shade afforded by the workshop, sanding an old Adirondack chair that looked as if it had seen much better days. He’d taken to fixing old furniture, refinishing it, and then selling it in his shop. Henry once told her giving life to old things reminded him of his work as a bishop, where he hoped to share God’s abundant life with his congregation—old and young alike.

  Often he whistled or hummed an old hymn as he worked, but today he wasn’t whistling. His back was to her, and it seemed that his shoulders were bunched up and tense. As she stood there, watching, he stopped and rubbed his right arm with his left hand before picking up the sandpaper and going back to work.

  She called out so as not to startle him.

  In the instant he turned and looked at her, the lines between his eyes smoothed and his frown turned into a small smile.

  “Emma, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “I brought you a casserole for dinner.”

  “That was most thoughtful.”

  “But I forgot it.”

  Henry nodded as if that made sense. “I still have plenty of fresh bread and some leftover ham. I’d been planning on sandwiches. Care to stay for dinner? I could take you back in the buggy.”

  Emma noticed his right hand shook as he set down the piece of sandpaper.

  “Dinner sounds tempting. I’d love to, actually. But I promised to finish sewing a new pair of pants for Silas. He’s taking Hannah Schwartz out tomorrow night.”

  “Thought he was dating Sally Yoder.”

  “I did too.”

  But they weren’t concerned about Emma’s grandson. Silas was a good boy. It was only that at nineteen he still hadn’t decided he wanted to settle down. Emma had a suspicion he was also dating an Englisch girl occasionally, but she didn’t bring that up now. No doubt Henry had bigger things on his mind. Bigger than who the youngies dated or how the chair he was working on turned out.

  Emma had never been one to dance around a subject, and now didn’t seem like the time to start. “Tell me if it’s true that you found a dead body.”

  “Ya. I did.”

  “And?”

  “You’d better sit down.”

  Twenty-Seven

  It took twenty minutes for Henry to explain everything that happened. By the time he was finished, they’d moved onto the little porch of his workshop, which was just big enough to hold two rockers. The afternoon light stretched across the front half of the porch, so they sat with their bodies in the shade but their legs stuck out in the sun, which was satisfyingly warm. Lexi dozed at their feet.

  “I’m sorry, Henry. She seemed like a sweet, if somewhat lost, young woman.”

  “She did.”

  “I’m sorry for Sophia and for you.”

  Henry didn’t answer that, and Emma thought she knew why.

  “It’s normal to be disturbed by it.”

  “What makes you think I’m disturbed?”

  “You’re a bishop. You’re not a saint.”

  “True enough.”

  “These things are upsetting.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Your right hand is shaking as if you have the palsy.”

  Henry stared down at the offending hand, turning it over and looking at the back and then again at the palm as if he could find an answer there. “Strangest thing. Started after I made the 9-1-1 phone call, or maybe before that.”

  “But it started this morning?”

  “Ya.”

  “You’re in shock, that’s what it is. Watching for birds and literally stumbling upon a corpse would do that to a body. Stumbling upon the corpse of someone you knew… And don’t argue with me. We did know her, Henry. It’s not as if she were a complete stranger. You’re bound to be in shock. Perhaps you should see Doc Wilson.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “But I appreciate your concern.”

  Emma set her chair to rocking. She waited for a minute and then brought up the topic they were both avoiding.

  “Do you think you should…” She made the motion of drawing on a page.

  “Funny you should mention that. When I came home, the first thing I did was walk to the drawer to pull out a pad of paper.”

  “That’s gut. It’s gut you’re embracing your gift.”

  “I put the paper back. Decided it wasn’t my place to become involved in this.”

  “But you already are.”

  “Doesn’t mean it will do any gut.”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  Henry stood and repositioned his rocker so he was facing her. “Emma, you’ve been a wunderbaar help to me. At one time, as you know, I thought I should hide this strange ability of mine.”

  “And I’m glad you’re no longer doing so. The drawings you’ve made in the last year since Vernon’s death have been a real blessing to people.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Take the one you drew of the Kings’ new baby. They mailed it back east to their family, and Deborah told me her mother was thrilled to be able to see the child. She passed it around to the entire family and then mailed it back so Deborah could put it in her keepsake box.”

  “She said the same thing to me just the other day.”

  “And what of the one for Doc Berry?”

  “I happened to be at Daniel Beiler’s place when Doc Berry arrived to try to save Daniel’s workhorse. The horse had caught his hoof in a hole in the field, and he went down hard. If you could have seen Daniel that day, tears streaming down his face as he waited for Doc’s verdict. He feared she would recommend putting the horse down. Instead she used her portable X-ray machine, found out it was only a sprain, and showed Daniel how to wrap it.”

  “She’s a gut doc.”

  “That she is. She went back every day for a week to check on that horse. Daniel shared with me how appreciative he was and how he wished he could have paid her more.”

  “She takes what we can afford, and somehow it’s enough.” Emma stared out across Henry’s place and saw Oreo chomping grass in the pasture. It was the same with all the Amish. Their horses were an important part of their way of life, and they often lived twenty years or more. They became a part of each family. “I saw the drawing you did, of Doc kneeling next to the horse and Daniel in the background. There was so much emotion in the drawing. It’s truly amazing what you are able to do.”

  “My hope was that the drawing might express our gratitude for Doc Berry’s commitment to our community.”

  “And it did. Katie Ann told me it’s now framed and hanging in Doc’s office.”

  Henry sighed and reached down to scratch Lexi between the ears.

  “What you’re able to draw… They’re real works of art.”

  But they all knew Henry’s drawings were more than that. They were a miracle.

  Since he’d been hit by a baseball at the young age of twelve, Henry had been able to render anything he saw in photographic detail. No one understood exactly how that worked, but no one in their community doubted it, either. The doctors claimed Henry was an accidental savant, but Emma only knew he was their bishop and a good man.

  For years he’d refused to use his gift, certain that it was a curse. But then Vernon Frey had died in a horrible fire, and one of their own had been jailed for the murder. Henry’s drawing had led
to the arson investigator solving the case.

  The last picture he’d drawn, as far as Emma knew, was of Rebecca Yoder just days before her passing. Emma had seen it, and the details Henry included were moving—the woman’s hand upon a quilt, her thumb caressing the old stitching, sunlight streaming through the window and landing on a patch of Rebecca’s white hair, the expression of complete acceptance and faith on her face. The sketch had seemed more real than any Englisch photograph. Emma knew for a fact that Mary and Chester Yoder treasured the drawing.

  Then she remembered he’d drawn one other scene since. “You drew Sophia.”

  Henry nodded.

  “But she kept it.”

  “Ya. She told us she put it in a safe place.”

  “Could you draw it again?”

  “I suppose.” He tapped his forehead with a finger. “I suppose it’s still in here. It would seem that nothing slips away from that portion of my brain.”

  “Maybe you should.” The words were practically a whisper.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  She knew he still struggled with how his ability was perceived by others.

  “The families in our district appreciate the special talent you have.”

  “I’m grateful to be surrounded by kind, compassionate people.”

  “And we are blessed to have you as our bishop.”

  “Some more conservative Amish districts might have said—”

  “What? That your ability is a curse, Henry? Or that it’s vain?”

  “You know they would have.” He smiled now, and Emma suspected it was because her hackles were up. He could always tell.

  “There’s nothing in our Ordnung that speaks against it,” she said.

  “I happen to agree with you.”

  “We prayed on it and agreed that, for our district, drawings are fine.”

  “Some say we’ll be carrying smartphones next, snapping photos right and left.”

  Emma made a tsk sound. She pressed her fingers to her lips, certain she could break the habit. “What did you hope to draw when you arrived home this morning?”

  “I’m not sure. It was more of a reflex. I can’t see how it would help at all.”

  “Maybe it would help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You saw a terrible thing, Henry. Perhaps your mind needs to express what it captured, to give your heart, and your soul, peace. Perhaps then your trembling will stop.”

  Henry stood, walked to the edge of the porch, and stared out across his small acreage. Unlike most Amish, Henry didn’t have a place big enough for plowing and planting a marketable crop. His farm consisted of a good-sized garden, where he raised vegetables for his own meals, sufficient pasture to allow his mare, Oreo, to exercise, and his home and workshop. His needs were simple, and his woodwork was well liked by the shops in town, well enough to provide what income he needed.

  Emma knew all of these things. She understood he was now feeling as though the peaceful life he enjoyed had been torn in two. She appreciated how important it was to him to have a quiet haven where he could recharge. He’d shared those thoughts with her often. They’d become quite close over the last two years.

  Now he turned to her, a smile playing across his lips. “You’re a wise woman, Emma.”

  “Is that so?” Heat crept up her neck, causing her to feel like a young girl.

  “I’ll give what you’ve said some thought.”

  “Which is all I can ask. Now I’d best get home and start working on those pants for Silas.”

  “Sure I can’t drive you?”

  “On an afternoon like this?” The day had warmed so that she no longer needed her sweater. The slightest of breezes rustled the leaves on the surrounding trees, occasionally sending down a shower of red, gold, and orange. “I might decide to go home the long way, just as an excuse to be outside longer.”

  He walked with her to the end of the lane. When she was about to turn and go, he said, “Sophia was a gut girl and only a little lost, as you said. We spoke just the day before yesterday, on Tuesday.” He paused. “She wore the ‘Serenity Prayer’ on a dog tag hanging from a simple chain around her neck. Do you know it?”

  “Ya. I do.”

  “A bad person…I don’t think a bad person would wear such a thing.”

  “Sometimes it’s not a matter of whether we’re gut or bad, though. Sometimes the things we suffer through are related more to or possibly even caused by the people we become involved with.”

  Henry nodded in agreement, stepped closer, and kissed her cheek. Then he turned back toward his workshop. Emma walked home, the kiss a pleasant reminder of their friendship. Or was it more? She’d yet to completely accept her feelings for Henry Lapp. They were taking their time and getting to know one another, which was quite funny because they’d known each other nearly all their lives. But always as friends, never as a potential spouse. Was that what Henry was? If he asked, would she marry him? She’d accepted that she loved Henry, but did she love him in the way that a woman should love a man she hoped to marry?

  She honestly didn’t know. Her life was fine exactly as it was. Why risk the chance of spoiling what they had, which at this point was a very dear friendship?

  Life was messy enough on its own.

  Then again, how often did you find someone to love, someone you’d want to grow old with, someone who shared your attitudes toward and beliefs about life? In her experience, only twice, and that wasn’t a thing to squander. It was a wonderful gift.

  But as she walked home, her thoughts turned away from what she was grateful for, and she barely saw the glorious fall day around her. Instead her mind remained focus on the young waitress who had worn a prayer on a chain around her neck.

  Twenty-Eight

  Henry finished sanding the Adirondack chair, checked on his mare, fed himself as well as Lexi, and spent an hour in Bible study and prayer. When there was little else to do, he pulled out the pad of paper and pencils and sat down at the kitchen table.

  At some point he noticed the room was growing dark, so he lit the lantern on the table and then continued drawing. When he was done, he’d produced four detailed scenes and was so exhausted that he didn’t bother to look at them or analyze them in any way. He drank a glass of water, prepared for bed, and turned off the lantern. He fell asleep with Lexi curled up at the foot of his bed. Henry was normally a sound sleeper, but he woke hours later, certain he had missed something.

  The little dog didn’t move as he reached for his battery lantern. He preferred it to a gas lantern in the middle of the night. It was easier to turn on, and there was less chance of an accident when he was still drowsy. It cast a soft beam of light across the floor. Henry pulled on his trousers and padded into the kitchen. The clock on the wall said it was twelve minutes past three. He’d been asleep for six hours.

  He sat down and pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him. He drew until his fingers had begun to cramp and dawn pushed at the eastern sky. He’d made three more drawings, which he stacked upon the previous four after looking at them all. Then he went to his room, finished dressing, and let Lexi outside. He’d had his first cup of coffee and simple breakfast of an egg and a piece of the widows’ sourdough bread when his dog began to bark. He’d at least managed to train her to stay on the porch when someone was approaching. He glanced out the front window to see Grayson’s official sheriff’s vehicle bumping down his lane.

  Henry walked out the front door and stood waiting.

  “Easy, girl.” One hand, palm open at his side, and Lexi flopped onto the porch. Amazing how smart the little dog was and how much she longed to please him.

  The cruiser came to a stop three feet from the porch. Sheriff Grayson and a man Henry didn’t know stepped out of the vehicle.

  “Morning, Henry.” Grayson nodded to the man beside him. “This is Agent Roscoe Delaney. He’s with the FBI.”

  Delaney glanced around as if he’d never seen a farm before, and perhap
s he hadn’t. Henry knew almost nothing about the FBI, but he did know their agents usually worked out of larger cities. Delaney stepped forward to shake his hand. The man had pale skin, icy blue eyes, and dark-black hair cut close to his scalp. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Hate to bother you so early in the morning.” The day before Grayson had been clean-shaven, but now he sported the shadow of a beard. He also appeared to be wearing the same uniform, now rumpled, same coffee stain on the front of his shirt. “Could we come inside?”

  “Of course.” Henry led them into the house, motioning for Lexi to stay where she lay. The little dog threw him a reproving look but sighed and rested her head across her paws. Henry thought of suggesting the kitchen and suddenly remembered the stack of drawings on his table.

  Drawings of Sophia.

  Something Grayson might understand, given their history, but Delaney most certainly wouldn’t.

  Henry walked across the sitting room, settled into a rocker, and motioned for the two men to take the couch. They sat on opposite ends, leaving a conspicuous space in the middle. Delaney gave Grayson a pointed look.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Grayson said, pulling out the same small pad of paper he’d taken notes on at the wildlife refuge.

  “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

  Grayson was nodding, but Delaney seemed almost uninterested, glancing around the room and assessing what he saw. Perhaps it was the first time he’d been in an Amish home. Maybe he was looking for the electrical outlets or the television.

  “How would you characterize your relationship with Sophia Brooks?”

  “I knew her, but casually.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  “I eat at Maggie’s Diner a few times a week, and Sophia was a waitress there.”

  Grayson consulted the notes on his pad. “She started at Maggie’s six weeks ago.”