It takes fifteen minutes for the team of horses to round the field. The second time around, Troyer hands the reins to his son and starts toward us.
Bishop Troyer is one of those people who always looks the same no matter how many years pass. He has a full head of thick gray hair, blunt cut above heavy brows and a full salt-and-pepper beard. He has the rounded belly of a well-fed man. As a kid, I remember asking my datt why his legs were so bowed. Datt replied that Bishop Troyer spent many hours as a young man training and riding horses. In hindsight, I think my datt was just trying to keep me off our old plow horse.
“Weigeth’s alleweil?” How goes it today? Removing his flat-brimmed hat, the bishop wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Ich bin Zimmlich gut,” I respond.
He looks up at the sky. “ We are trying to beat the storms.”
“Looks like a good harvest.”
“Best we’ve had in six years.” His gaze slides to Glock and then back to me. His expression sobers. “Reuben Zimmerman came by an hour ago. He told me about the Plank family.”
Word of a death spreads quickly in the Amish community. Word of murder travels even faster. Not for the sake of gossip, but because other families will drop everything and descend upon the injured or bereaved to help. In the case of the Planks, there’s no one left to help. I tell the bishop what happened, leaving out as many of the details as I can.
He places his hand over his chest. I see the veins standing out on his temple. Sweat forming on his brow. For a moment I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.
“Are you all right, Bishop Troyer?”
“It is the will of God.” He shakes his head, blinking away sweat. “Der Keenich muss mer erhehe.” One must exalt the King.
We spend the next ten minutes rehashing the same things Glock and I went over with the Zook family. The conversation shifts into new territory when I ask him if any of the Planks had come to him with a problem.
A shadow I can’t quite read passes over his expression. “Ja.” Wiping his face with the kerchief, he meets my gaze. “Bonnie approached me after worship with concerns about Mary.”
“The younger of the two girls?”
The bishop nods, his brows knitting. “Bonnie did not want to speak to me with her husband present.”
An uneasy ping sounds in my brain. The Amish are generally a patriarch-cal society. Secrets between a husband and wife are rare. What was Bonnie keeping from her husband? And what did that have to do with Mary?
“Do you know what she wanted to speak to you about?” I ask.
The bishop shakes his head. “We never got the chance to speak privately. I tried several times but Amos was always present.” He shrugs. “I took the buggy to the house last week, but she said it was not a good time. I even met her at the shop in town where Mary worked part-time.”
I didn’t know Mary had an outside job. “Which shop?”
“The Carriage Stop.”
One of Councilwoman Janine Fourman’s shops. I make a mental note to swing by and speak to the manager. “Do you know why Bonnie wouldn’t speak to you in front of her husband?”
“I do not know. Perhaps Amos is—was—a private man.”
Or he was into something he didn’t want anyone to know about. It’s a powerful, uncomfortable thought. I know being suspicious of Amos is cynical, especially since he is among the dead. But as a cop, I know sometimes victims play an unintended role in their own deaths. I’ve seen more than one innocent person get in over his head. And I’ve seen them pay the consequences, too.
“So you have no idea why Bonnie wanted to speak to you about Mary?”
“No.”
Beside me, Glock leans closer. “Did Bonnie or any of the Plank family seem upset lately?”
He considers the words and then nods. “Bonnie seemed upset sometimes, but she was a nervous woman.”
“Did she ever seem afraid?”
He shakes his head. “I had planned to pay them another visit, but with the harvest . . .” He looks down at his boots.
The bishop and I have had our moments of disagreement over the years. He can be a hard, judgmental man. But he can also be kind and fair and generous. At this moment, looking into his eyes, I know he blames himself for not forcing the issue with Bonnie.
“What can you tell us about Mary?” I ask.
“I did not know the family well, Katie. They were new to the area. They kept to themselves more than most. Mary seemed like a kind, happy girl. Generous. Smart in school. She helped care for her younger siblings.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.
“I do not know.”
“Do they have family in Lancaster?” Glock asks.
“I do not know.” His face darkens, and I realize he feels guilty for his lack of knowledge. “Will you let me know if they left behind family in Lancaster County, Katie? Perhaps I can be of some comfort to them.”
I touch his shoulder. “Of course.”