When the Bishop Needs an Alibi Read online

  Emma shrugged. There was so much she didn’t know about Sophia. It was quite odd that their paths had even crossed, but then Henry was one to reach out to a person in need—whether Amish or Englisch. Never like this, though. She’d never had an Englischer, a total stranger, stay in their home before. They’d given her shelter for one night, but that wasn’t much help in the greater scheme of things.

  “If she won’t tell you…”

  “That’s the thing, though. Sometimes when you’re in trouble so deep you don’t see a way out, you feel as if you can’t share it with anyone. You feel as if you have to deal with it yourself. And yet those times are when you need help the most.”

  “We’ll pray, then.” Rachel pulled a dish out of the rinse water, dried it, and placed it on the shelf. “We might not know what Sophia’s troubles are, but Gotte does.”

  Wise words, and ones Emma fully intended to heed.

  After she’d spoken with Henry.

  As much as she wanted to believe Sophia would be fine, a desperation about the woman bothered her. What could have frightened her so badly that she would roam the streets of Monte Vista, stay with a near stranger, and refuse to talk about what was wrong? Why was she so convinced no one could or would help her?

  And what could they possibly do to earn Sophia Brooks’s trust?

  Fifteen

  Henry’s duties as bishop didn’t pause simply because he had a mystery on his hands. Sophia’s problems would have to wait, at least until he visited a few folks in his congregation. Fortunately, everyone on today’s list was dog friendly. He whistled for Lexi, who bounded toward the buggy.

  She stopped long enough to rub noses with Oreo. Henry had wondered how the old mare would get along with the dog. She’d never been around one before, except maybe in passing. But Oreo had taken to Lexi, even going so far as to lick her clean when she bounded through the mud. In the Monday morning sunshine, the two were a sight to behold, and it occurred to Henry that he wouldn’t mind drawing them.

  The mare extended her neck forward and down, nuzzling the beagle.

  As for Lexi, she sniffed back, and then she rolled over on her belly, which produced more nuzzling from the mare.

  “As much as I’m enjoying this, we have people to see.”

  He hurried to his workshop to retrieve the double-decker birdhouse he’d made from old window shutters. Deborah King had a new baby who was suffering with colic. She also loved gardening and especially the birds that visited her flowers for seed and insects. He thought the birdhouse might be just the thing to lift her spirits.

  Twenty minutes later he was standing in her front room, offering it to her.

  Deborah’s eyes were red—either from allergies or crying. Her prayer kapp sat at an awkward angle on her head, her apron was splattered with something from the kitchen, and the room was a bit of a mess, but she managed a halfhearted smile.

  “Danki, Henry.” She ran a hand over the birdhouse. “When Adam comes in from the fields, I go for a walk outside. I always end up in the garden, sitting on the bench he made. It helps to calm my nerves.”

  Baby Chloe was finally asleep, but Henry had heard her cries from his buggy when he first drove up.

  “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you, Deborah, since I’ve never had a child of my own.” Henry ran his fingers through his beard as he gazed out at the fall flowers bordering the vegetable garden. “I suppose the women in our church have given you plenty of advice.”

  “They have, and we’ve tried it all—placing a warm towel on her tummy, taking her for rides in the buggy, and of course rocking her more often.”

  “She’s two months now?”

  “Just.”

  “Most colic resolves itself at four months.”

  “We’ll all be crazy by then, or deaf.”

  “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “Of course. And Henry, danki for the drawing you did of Chloe and me.”

  “The drawing was no trouble. In fact, I enjoyed it.”

  “I don’t mind the rule against photographs. I even understand it—our need to remain humble, to not allow pride a toe step into our lives.” She pulled out a dust rag from her pocket and swiped at the coffee table. “It’s hard when family members live apart, though. We sent your drawing to our families in Pennsylvania, and they passed it from one house to the next. Mamm had been terribly upset she couldn’t come for a visit when Chloe was first born. She didn’t want to miss out on her first month. She especially appreciated being able to see Chloe through your drawing.”

  “Your mother is coming next month?”

  “Ya. I can hardly wait.”

  “Are you sure I can’t hang this birdhouse for you?”

  “Leave it for me. I’ll look forward to spending some time outside this afternoon and finding the perfect spot.”

  Once back in his buggy, Henry pulled out a scrap of paper. Using the pen he kept in his jacket pocket, he made a note about the King family. Perhaps some of the women in the congregation could come by and spell Deborah a bit—enough time for her to go to town, take a walk, or nap.

  Next he visited with Mary Yoder, who had broken her foot when stepping down off the porch the wrong way.

  “I’ve no one to blame but myself. I was in a hurry and not paying attention.”

  “These things happen, Mary. I don’t think placing blame is necessary. Now tell me about the grandkinner.”

  Mary had twelve grandkinner so far, though most of them lived back east. She received circle letters from the family, and she had recently learned that two of her grandkinner were now expecting children. She also had two grown children in the area—both girls, one married, one not. Sally was twenty. She was one of those change-of-life babies women joked about. Mary had been forty when she was born. Both Mary and her husband, Chester, had shared with Henry their worry that the girl hadn’t settled down. Henry assured them twenty wasn’t so old and that they would all pray for Sally to meet the person she was destined to marry.

  Their other daughter, Claudia, had been married for two years and was expecting her first child. Claudia had been diagnosed with uterine tumors when she was only sixteen. She’d had two surgeries to remove them before she married.

  “We worried that Claudia wouldn’t be able to have children because of the problems she had when she was younger.”

  “Gotte is gut.”

  “All the time,” Mary agreed. “The baby’s due around Christmas. Since I’m supposed to stay off this foot, I have plenty of time to work on a new project. I’ll have a baby quilt, receiving blankets, and even some clothes finished in plenty of time before the birth.”

  Mary’s husband, Chester, was in a less optimistic mood. “We’ll starve before she’s back on her feet again.”

  “Aren’t Claudia and Sally helping?” Henry asked.

  “Of course they are, but those girls never could cook. Not like Mary does.”

  Henry patted Chester on the shoulder and assured him they would pray for Mary’s speedy recovery.

  “Pray for my patience. Between my wife, the cranes that keep landing in my fields, and the boys intent on courting Sally, though she continues to find reasons to turn them down…” Chester shook his head, unwilling or unable to finish the thought.

  “A kite rises only against the wind,” Henry reminded him.

  “This kite is worn out, and that proverb never was much help.”

  Last on his list was a visit with Albert Bontrager. Albert’s parents had moved to Kentucky the year before when the Monte Vista arsonist had been frightening families in their community. Albert was supposed to join them after the farm sold. It had surprised everyone when he decided to stay. Because his parents were now living with his uncle, they didn’t immediately need the money from the sale of the farm. They’d agreed to give him three years to see if he could make it profitable. At that point he could go to the bank for a loan if he still wanted to remain in the valley. Henry tho
ught Albert’s interest in staying had something to do with one of the young ladies in the congregation, but neither had made their intentions public yet.

  Albert raised a hand when Henry pulled up next to the barn.

  “Morning, Henry. Lexi.”

  The beagle ran to Albert, sniffed his feet, and then took off for the barn.

  “Lots of energy.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Come take a look at this, Henry.” Albert was bent over a large, shiny panel set on a workbench he’d pulled out into the sun.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Solar panel.”

  “Ah.”

  “Now, before you tell me it’s forbidden, know that I haven’t taken it anywhere near the house.”

  “Can you explain to me how it works?”

  “Certainly.”

  He spent the next ten minutes going on about the contraption, tracing the path from the modules to the inverter.

  “So the power is stored here?” Henry pointed to the inverter, both fascinated and concerned about it. Their Ordnung expressed in no uncertain terms that there was to be no electrical power to homes, though barns could have generators when a person’s business required them.

  “Ya. This panel simply converts the sun’s power. No electrical lines, as you can see. But if you have something like a power tool or small lantern with a battery, you can recharge the battery here. And the best part? It’s free. No one can charge us for Gotte’s sunshine.”

  “I’ve heard of other districts allowing solar panels, but I didn’t think we’d have to make a decision so soon.”

  “Some of the communities in New York are allowing it. Seems to me the real issue is not the use of the solar panels, but what we use that power for.”

  “Explain that to me.” Henry crossed his arms and studied the young man in front of him. Albert had always been one to push the limits. Since he’d taken over running the farm, he’d had less time to immerse himself in foolishness. This, though…it seemed Albert had thought it through.

  “Well, if we’re using it to power a radio that brings the Englisch world into our home, then it’s not in accordance with our Plain ways—twenty-four-hour news, advertisements, rock and roll.” He grinned at this last item, as if he might have an electric guitar hidden somewhere. “But if we use it to charge a weather radio or a flashlight, think how much better it is not to purchase batteries.”

  “They’re expensive.”

  “And they can’t be easily recycled.” Albert scratched his clean-shaven jaw. The woman who married Albert Bontrager would have her hands full, but then she’d always be provided for. Albert was a hard worker. “Some batteries can be recharged, though. Have you seen them in the store?”

  “Nein.”

  “Same as any other battery, but Englischers plug a doohickey into the wall and recharge them. They can last years that way.”

  “And you could recharge them with this?”

  “Ya. Absolutely you could. It’s what the panels are designed to do.”

  “Albert, it occurs to me that you’ve thought this through, unlike in the past.”

  “Now you’re referring to my battery-powered bicycle.”

  “And the golf cart.”

  “It’s not as if I were playing golf.”

  Henry wiggled his hand back and forth. This was the line Albert had danced on for years. Yet it seemed the man before him was maturing.

  “Make me a list of acceptable devices that could be powered by this, as well as a chart of basic costs. I’ll take it to the elders at our next meeting.”

  The last stop on Henry’s list was the Fishers’ house. He’d wanted to give Sophia time to rest and maybe even relax into her surroundings, but it was nearly ten. Surely she’d be up and ready to talk now.

  He called out to Lexi, who jumped into the buggy, and then he directed Oreo down the lane and toward Emma’s house. Perhaps they could find a way to help the young waitress from Maggie’s Diner.

  Sixteen

  It never occurred to Sophia to worry about how she would get out to the Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge. She’d stopped giving any thought to such mundane details weeks ago. The refuge was where she needed to be, so she would find a way to get there. Sometimes the manager at work gave her a ride, but today she was on her own.

  She walked the first few miles, and then she hitched a ride with a nice elderly couple.

  “We’re headed to the refuge ourselves,” the woman said, raising her binoculars and grinning. She had short white hair that clung to her scalp like a swimming cap, skin wrinkled and pale, and blue eyes that sparkled whenever she spoke. “We go every year, don’t we, Burt?”

  “That we do, Gloria.” Glancing at Sophia in the rearview mirror, he said, “Those are our names—Burt and Gloria Danson.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Sophia said, though she had no intention of sharing any information about herself.

  “Been coming here since it first opened in ’53.”

  “We were newlyweds then.” Burt cackled, grinned at his wife, and then gripped the wheel of the old sedan all the more tightly. While his wife was tall and thin, Burt was nearly as round as he was tall—or at least that was how they seemed sitting in the front of the vehicle.

  “Place has changed more than I would have thought possible.” Gloria faced the front again, though she was still talking to Sophia. “When we first came, only normal folks like us were there. Now fancy photographers and people from those nature channels come, and they have food trailers and souvenir stands. Nearly got whacked by one of those drone thingamajigs last year.”

  “Knocked my hat off my head,” Burt confirmed.

  “We used to come in the spring, during the crane festival. Now we come in the fall, when there aren’t any crowds.”

  “Or drones.”

  “Or drones. The trip means a lot to us. It’s worth the drive from Colorado Springs to see the cranes.” Gloria twisted in her seat to pin Sophia with an inquisitive look. “You’re out here alone?”

  Sophia nodded.

  “When I was your age, women didn’t travel alone, but I understand the millennial generation is more independent. We have a granddaughter who went to Europe for three months. Don’t we, Burt?”

  “Yup. She wanted to see the sights.”

  “We even had one of those video chats with her. Couldn’t figure out how to set it up, but our son came over and showed us. She was standing outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Can you imagine that?”

  Sophia closed her eyes, resisting the urge to put her head down and weep. Fortunately, Gloria was again facing the front of the vehicle and didn’t notice.

  “Is this your first time to see the cranes?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “It won’t be your last.” Gloria patted down her hair, though it was too short to be out of place. She wore dangly purple earrings that matched her purple track suit.

  Gloria and Burt parked outside the visitor center. Sophia thanked them for the ride and then slipped away before they could ask about her plans for the day.

  She didn’t need to look at her husband’s notes to know which direction she wanted to go. The San Luis Valley stretched one hundred miles from north to south and half that distance from east to west. The area had three refuge centers in all. Alamosa and Monte Vista were in the south-central end of the valley. Baca Refuge was to the north. She’d visited Baca the week before, and Alamosa the week before that. Neither had the landmarks Cooper described.

  She figured out his code easily enough. Why had he used it? Why hadn’t he shared any of this information with her? Had he known, even then, that what he was uncovering was dangerous?

  She appreciated the way he protected his source as well as his information, but the first hadn’t helped him—he was, after all, dead. The second wasn’t helping her. She needed to find the location of the next op, and she needed to do it well before Wednesday. It was her only chance to catch the r
uthless people responsible for Cooper’s murder, and she had no doubt at all that the group operating in Monte Vista was the same group that had killed her husband.

  The height of the migration was predicted for the next week, but already the sound of birds filled the air. The parking lot was two-thirds full, and everywhere she looked, Sophia saw folks with backpacks and binoculars. Some, as Gloria had indicated, were also carrying large, expensive cameras. If this was not crowded, she didn’t want to be around to see the throngs of people in the spring. The refuge was huge, though, and she imagined that once you moved away from the visitor center, you could find a relatively isolated spot.

  The people she was looking for would be a good distance from any witnesses.

  Sophia slipped into a group of birders, but when they took the paved trail to the right, she exited left, away from the crowds. The paved road turned east and then branched off to the south in several locations. Sophia did not turn south. Instead she continued another twenty minutes, and then she turned north, hopping over the chain with the sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” Keeping to the side, she hiked down the gravel road, which soon turned to hard-packed dirt.

  She listened for the sound of shots or helicopter blades or off-road vehicles. She heard none of those things, and what she could hear—the cry of birds—didn’t pique her curiosity. But the open meadow in front of her did. It exactly matched what Cooper had drawn in his notes.

  Seventeen

  Where could she have possibly gone?”

  “I don’t know, Henry.”

  A large pot of macaroni and cheese had boiled over on the stove, the washing machine in the mudroom had a busted hose, and Rachel was trying to chase a bird out of the house with a broom. Mornings could be a bit chaotic at the Fisher household, but usually more people were there to help manage things.

  “Where’s Clyde?” Henry asked, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of Rachel whacking the broom against a cabinet.

  “South field.”

  “Would you like me to get him?”