When the Bishop Needs an Alibi Page 3

  As for Bread 2 Go, Henry was right. The new Amish bakery didn’t serve dinner, or even lunch, for that matter. They served bread, pastries, cookies, cakes, cupcakes—basically anything Emma shouldn’t eat but loved to. The place had recently been opened by three widows from their community, though they weren’t all widows. Ruth Schwartz was and Nancy Kline was, but Franey Graber had been divorced by her husband, which was difficult if a woman was Amish.

  Regardless, the women were collectively referred to as the three widows, and the bakeshop they’d opened in town a few weeks ago, named Bread 2 Go, was already a smashing success. They had tables inside, but they also had a drive-through.

  Henry parked beside two other buggies and then reached for her hand as they walked to the diner’s front door. A brisk north wind was blowing, and Emma was glad she’d chosen to wear her outer bonnet over her kapp. Once they were inside, she took off the bonnet and stored it in her coat pocket.

  A thin young woman with shoulder-length hair picked up two menus and two sets of silverware.

  “Evening, Henry.”

  “Sophia. I wasn’t sure if you’d be working tonight.”

  “One of the other women called in sick, and I can use the money. Where would you like to sit?”

  “Corner booth will be fine,” Henry said.

  Once they’d sat down, and Sophia had handed them the menus, Emma introduced herself. “I’m Emma—Henry’s friend, old friend…”

  “Indeed, we go way back.”

  “That must be nice.” Sophia nodded toward a customer who was trying to catch her attention. “I need to take care of that table, and then I’ll be back to take your order. Do you both want coffee?”

  “Decaf please,” Emma said, and Henry nodded in agreement.

  Once she’d left, Emma leaned across the table.

  “I see what you mean.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s as if she’s working at being invisible.”

  “Why would you say that? How can you tell anything after one brief conversation?”

  Emma knew he was teasing her. Henry often seemed completely bewildered by women and their ways, but she was pretty sure it was an act. He enjoyed people and studying how they interacted with one another. It was one of several reasons he was a good bishop.

  “Her speech is very quiet, her smile timid. She wears no makeup, not even a hint of lipstick.”

  “You don’t wear either of those things.”

  “I’m Plain. And as you know, it’s forbidden.”

  Henry smiled, and then he moved his hand in a circle, indicating she should continue.

  “Most waitresses find some way to brighten their clothes or appearance, some little thing to encourage themselves throughout the day. It might be a ribbon in their hair, or a decorative pin on a shirt pocket. Something to help them through the long hours of their shifts.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Work is the same, Henry, whether in a diner or at home, whether Englisch or Plain. Remember the proverb our mothers quoted? Keeping a neat house is like threading beads on a string with no knot. I’m sure working in a diner is the same.”

  Henry nodded and removed his hat, setting it on the seat beside him. He was facing the wall and window, looking out at the darkness. Emma had a good view of the busy diner and everything going on there. She saw Nancy Kline’s grandson sitting with an Amish girl, though she couldn’t make out who it was. His buggy must have been one of the two parked outside. And the other? She craned her neck left and then right, finally spotting Abigail and Daniel Beiler on the far side of the restaurant. Abigail had mentioned it was their anniversary. No doubt they were celebrating.

  Henry closed his menu, and Emma realized she’d barely looked at hers. She glanced through the salads, decided she was too hungry for that, looked over and dismissed the sandwiches, and finally set to studying the dinner plates. When Sophia returned, Henry ordered the pot roast. Emma asked Sophia which was better—the chicken and dumplings or the grilled trout.

  Sophia shrugged and murmured, “Customers seem to like both.”

  “I’ll take the trout then, as Amish rarely grill their food.” She meant it as a joke, but Sophia didn’t seem to notice. She filled their coffee mugs, assuring them it was decaf, and hurried off to another table.

  “She’s busy,” Henry explained.

  “I can see that, but watch the other two waitresses.”

  Henry cornered himself in the booth so he could glance over the room. All three waitresses were quite busy. But the other two would laugh at a joke, stop to touch a customer on the shoulder, smile at a baby. Sophia was all business.

  “I hadn’t noticed it before,” Henry admitted, turning back toward her. “At least not consciously.”

  “But perhaps your subconscious did, or your heart did. Perhaps Gotte pricked your spirit. She certainly seems as if she could use a freind.”

  Emma tried to draw Sophia out when she returned with their meals, but to no avail. It was only when she said, “Henry told me he drew your picture,” that the cocoon around the girl seemed to fall away.

  “I still don’t understand how he’s able to do such a thing.”

  “None of us do, including Henry.”

  “It’s true,” he said.

  “I’ve known him for many years, my dear.” Emma picked up her knife and fork and cut into the trout, releasing steam and the scent of fish and lemon and garlic. “It’s only recently that Henry has embraced his talent and begun sharing what he draws. The picture you have? It’s a rare gift to receive.”

  “Now you’re embarrassing me,” Henry said.

  Emma kept her attention on Sophia. “I hope you took gut care of it.”

  Sophia hesitated, and then she admitted, “I did. It’s tucked away safely, where coffee can’t get spilled on it.”

  She smiled then, a genuinely beautiful and vulnerable thing. “Around here? We have the terrible three—grease, ketchup, and coffee. No matter what you wear or what you bring in, you’ll end up with one or more of those stains when you leave.”

  The door to the diner opened, and when Sophia glanced that way, she blanched.

  Emma followed her gaze, but only saw Scott Lawson, the newest addition to the Monte Vista Police Department. He was young, Irish, and well mannered. He’d recently given a talk at the library on scams in the area and how to avoid them. Emma had only listened because she’d been waiting on Rachel to check out her new books.

  When she turned back toward their waitress, Sophia was gone.

  “That was strange,” she said.

  “What was strange?” Henry finished spreading butter over a biscuit, broke off a good-sized chunk, and popped it into his mouth.

  “Sophia. That’s what.” Emma tried a forkful of fish. “Gut food.”

  “I told you so.”

  “Now I see why you come here so often.”

  “Only a few times a week.”

  “The rice is gut too, with fresh carrots and peas in it.”

  “Almost like Amish cooking.”

  “Henry Lapp, you are not going to distract me with talk of cooking.”

  “Why would I attempt such a thing?”

  “Sophia was starting to warm up when we were talking about stains. If you want a woman to talk, just ask her about laundry.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And then Scott Lawson came in.”

  “The new patrolman?”

  “The same. Weren’t you paying attention at all?”

  “I was. To my pot roast. Would you like to try some?”

  Emma knew Henry was trying to lighten the conversation, but when she leaned forward and lowered her voice, he suddenly looked serious.

  “She’s afraid, Henry. That’s why she tries to be invisible.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Henry set down his fork, wiped his mouth, and studied Emma for a moment. Finally he said, “What do you
think we should do?”

  “I’m not sure we should do anything.” She tried the corn and nodded in appreciation—fresh not canned. A woman could always tell. “There’s one thing, though. Maybe it has to do with her husband.”

  “Husband?”

  “It could. Often it does in these situations.”

  “These situations?”

  “Stop repeating what I say, Henry.”

  “How do you even know she’s married?”

  Emma tapped the fourth finger on her left hand. “Indentation. Plain as day if you look. She might not be married now, but she was. Maybe there was some problem, and maybe that’s why she’s hiding in Monte Vista.”

  Seven

  Sophia once again offered to stay past her shift and close the diner. She preferred waiting until the parking lot was empty before leaving. That way she could tell if anyone was following her.

  Caution was a good thing. Paranoia? Not so much.

  Keeping those two in balance was a constant struggle.

  She gave the tables a final wipe-down, made sure all of the salt and pepper shakers were filled, and was sweeping the floor when Travis Small walked in, whistling. Travis wasn’t a tall man, but he definitely wasn’t small. She guessed his height at five and a half feet, same as hers, but he had to weigh more than two hundred pounds. His skin was ebony, wrinkled and weathered, giving him a leathery look. His hair was cut close to his scalp and reminded Sophia of white cotton.

  He’d told Sophia he was seventy-eight years old, and that he cleaned the diner each night to stay active. Every indication was he was telling the truth. How could she know, though? People often weren’t who they appeared to be.

  “You keep doing my work, and they’re going to fire me.”

  “Sorry, Travis.” Sophia straightened up, stretching her back and glancing outside. “Guess I lost track of time.”

  “Every night? If you say so.”

  Sophia handed him the broom, pushed through the double doors to the employees’ area, and removed her purse and jacket from her locker. Walking back through the dining area, she paused near the cash register and waited for Travis to look up. “You know that new cop? The one with reddish hair?”

  “Guess I’ve seen him a couple of times.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Now, that’s an interesting question.” Travis leaned on his broom.

  Instead of looking at Sophia, he let his gaze drift over the diner. She tried to see what he must see. Travis had told her he’d grown up in Monte Vista. He often talked about the old days, when everyone knew everyone else. When no tourists traveled through and most folks were farmers.

  When the diner was empty and clean, Sophia thought the place took on a tranquil, almost holy atmosphere. Light reflected off the black vinyl of the stools lined up in front of the counter, and the black-and-white checkered floor nearly gleamed. How many people had fallen in love here? Severed relationships? Met new friends? Hidden from their enemies?

  It seemed to her that, even more so than town halls or community centers, diners were the heartbeat of a town. Her gut was telling her Monte Vista was a good place, a community filled with hardworking, decent people like Henry and Emma and Travis. More importantly, she needed to be here. Cooper had left her a journal, and those entries had pointed to the San Luis Valley. He wrote cryptically in a shorthand that made her laugh and brought tears to her eyes at the same time. The reason she was there, though—there and alone—never failed to stir an ache in her heart. She didn’t know exactly what her husband had uncovered, but it was big enough that he’d paid for it with his life.

  She fingered the scar on her neck, resolve flooding her system and wiping away all doubts. She wasn’t giving up until she figured out what story Cooper had been chasing.

  But she could no longer trust her instincts, and something about the new cop had struck her as off.

  “Can’t say as I really know him,” Travis added.

  “He arrived in town a few weeks ago.”

  “I guess.”

  Sophia shrugged, acted as if the topic no longer interested her, and pushed open the front door. A cold wind nearly pulled it from her hands, and she was thinking of hanging on to the door so it wouldn’t bang when Travis’s words pulled her back inside. He appeared to be completely focused on cleaning underneath a table, but his tone had taken on a heaviness that sounded almost like a warning.

  “Lots of good officers, and I wouldn’t want their job. No, sir. This old man is happy cleaning floors and washing windows. An officer’s job requires quick reactions, a knack for reading people, and the ability to make quick decisions. Sometimes life-or-death decisions.” He moved over to the next table.

  “But then in every group you have the potential to get a bad apple, and that can be a truly terrible thing with someone who is supposed to have our trust.” He studied her for a moment and then returned to his sweeping. “As for Officer Lawson, I expect time will tell.”

  It wasn’t only that Lawson stopped by the diner every day. That in itself wasn’t so odd. But he often came in on Sophia’s shift, and several times she’d caught him watching her. He wasn’t the only one. Officer Anderson, who according to the diner’s manager, Julie, had been in Monte Vista for years and years, did the same thing. Perhaps they knew something Sophia didn’t. Maybe they were protecting her, or they were part of the group that had killed her husband. There was even a chance she was imagining the whole thing.

  Sophia turned to look out at the cooling September night. She didn’t have time to figure out which side Lawson or Anderson was on, or if they were involved at all. Misreading—and underestimating—either man’s intentions could be costly. She’d already made one mistake when it came to the police. She wouldn’t again.

  She needed to check out of the motel where she’d been staying since coming to Monte Vista. It would be safer to spend the night somewhere else—somewhere they couldn’t find her. If people were following her, they wouldn’t make a move at the diner, but they might catch her while she was sleeping—if they knew where she was sleeping. The weather wasn’t so cold that she couldn’t sleep outside, or maybe it would be enough to move to one of the other motels in town. But if the manager there was compromised…

  She looked back at the diner, at Travis working on the next section of floor. She felt safe at Maggie’s. Maggie herself wasn’t around much, having retired. But her niece, Julie, who was the manager, and the other waitresses had taken Sophia under their collective wing, as if she were a young girl who needed protection. They’d managed to help her feel safe during working hours when the booths were full and the bell over the door rang constantly. She could continue to work there a few more days, a week at the most. Her window for finding any evidence was shrinking.

  “You okay?” Travis asked.

  Sophia realized she’d been standing there, staring at him, her hand on the door.

  “Maybe,” she answered honestly.

  Travis nodded as if that made sense. “Some people you have to watch out for, but never forget every community has good people too.”

  “How do I know the difference?”

  “Listen to your heart. What you see or hear might fool you, but your instincts? If you listen, they will guide you correctly.”

  “Thank you, Travis.”

  “For what? Talking to a pretty girl as I clean this floor? That’s no hardship at all. Now you be careful, hear?”

  As she stepped out into the night, she tried to zone in on her instincts, to discern whatever her subconscious was trying to tell her. Her thoughts and doubts and fears tumbled round, always landing on the same tender spot. The problem was she didn’t trust her instincts anymore. Sometime in the middle of everything that had happened, they had gone askew. The scar on her neck was proof of that.

  She supposed it didn’t matter who was or wasn’t watching her.

  She knew what she was doing would be dangerous before she stepped onto that Greyhound bus. Nothi
ng had changed in that regard. She also realized the odds of success were slim. But that hadn’t stopped her before, and it wasn’t going to now.

  Eight

  She checked out of her motel.

  Why?

  I didn’t ask.

  Do your job and find out.

  I think she’s spooked.

  Any indication she spotted you?

  No.

  Who else has she been talking to?

  How would I know?

  I can’t stay on her 24/7.

  Where is she now?

  Leaving the motel.

  Follow her.

  Intercept?

  Not yet.

  Nine

  Their Sunday service was held at the Graber home.

  As Henry walked to the house from his buggy, he realized for probably the thousandth time how grateful he was that he had good people to support him in guiding their church. Their leadership consisted of Abe Graber, Clyde Fisher, and Leroy Kauffmann. Each one was selected by lot as the positions became available, which was the Amish way. He’d overseen all three selections.

  When a position became open, members—both men and women—nominated a man to fill the position. Henry understood Englischers found this to be sexist, but the Plain faith was based on Anabaptist teaching, which, in their opinion, called for a strict interpretation of the Scriptures. He fully understood how much influence women had on the church, and that as a believing body, they could not exist without them. But the official positions of deacon and bishop were always filled by men.

  Henry took great pleasure in the process. Bibles were stacked at the back of the church, one for each person nominated. Henry prayerfully slipped a bookmark into one of them. Each man, nominated by at least three other members, was invited into the meeting, where he picked up one of the Bibles. After a prayer and introduction, Henry instructed them to open their Bibles. The one with a bookmark in it was considered chosen by God to serve, and to serve for life.