Page 52 of The Hidden One

“He had that funny accent,” Mahlon puts in. “They both did, I guess, especially when they spoke Deitsch.”

“Said he was from Minnesota, but I have a cousin lives up there and they don’t talk that way.” Laura grabs another handful of beans from a bushel basket and tosses them onto the table.

“Where in Minnesota?” I ask.

“Harmony, I think. A lot of Amish up that way.”

The Amish Diener—the ministers, deacon, and bishop—are almost always lifelong members of the church district. It’s unusual that Ananias and his wife were from another state and yet Ananias was still nominated and elected.

“How long had they been living in Mifflin County?” I ask.

The couple exchange a puzzled look and then Mahlon shrugs. “They’d been here as long as I can remember.”

That’s when it occurs to me this couple are quite a bit younger than Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus. The bishop was eighty-six years old at the time of his death, and that was eighteen years ago. It’s going to be difficult to find someone closer to his age who knew him well.

“Is there anyone who’s still around who was close to either of them?” I ask.

“Mia used to work for a woman by the name of Amanda Garber,” Laura tells me. “Amanda and her husband owned a nice little bakeshop in town years ago.”

“Best cherry pie I ever ate,” Mahlon says.

Laura tosses a bean at him. “Amanda left the fold a while back. She’s Mennonite now. Lives down to Ramblewood if I’m not mistaken.”

I jot the name and town in my notebook. “Do either of you know anything about a threatening letter Jonas sent to Ananias shortly before he disappeared?”

“Never heard of a letter,” the minister says. “But I can tell you this: Jonas has a hot head. A hot head is the quickest shortcut to trouble I ever seen.”

CHAPTER 16

For the first time since I arrived in Belleville, I feel the utter coldness of the Stoltzfus case. The distance of it like miles separating loved ones. I think about the years that have passed and I wonder what else lies dormant beneath the decades.

Ramblewood is an unincorporated area thirty minutes northwest of Belleville. I pass through picturesque countryside, including the Rothrock State Forest, where I’m rewarded with stunning views of the valley below.

Amanda Garber lives in a small house in Meadows Park off of Whitehall Road. I knock twice, using the heel of my hand a third time, but no one comes. I’m about to go back to the rental car for pen and paper to write a note when the door creaks. At first, I think the door rolled open on its own. Then I look down and see a tiny, white-haired woman staring up at me.

“Takes me a while to get to the door these days,” she says in a voice that’s surprisingly robust. “Everyone’s in such a hurry.”

She’s barely four feet tall. Blue eyes filled with attitude take my measure. Her face is a mosaic of leather patches stitched together by capillaries. She’s wearing a blue print dress with a crocheted shawl over hunched shoulders, and a Mennonite-style head covering. She leans heavily on a four-prong cane.

“Mrs. Garber?” I say.

“It’s Ms. Garber now. And whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.” She starts to close the door.

“I’m not selling anything.” Quickly, I introduce myself. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Mia Stoltzfus.”

The door stops mid-close. Through the space, she looks at me with more interest. “Mia?” Her voice goes soft. “That girl’s been gone for years. Why on earth are you asking me about her?”

“I understand she worked for you.”

“Worked for me, my eye! I loved her like a sister.” She cackles. “She made being Amish all those years bearable and that ain’t no easy task.”

I switch to Deitsch, hoping the shared language will help convince her to invite me inside for a chat. “I’m looking into the death of Ananias Stoltzfus,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow. “You speak pretty good Deitsch for an Englischer.”

“I left, too,” I explain. “When I was a teenager.”

“I was almost seventy when I jumped ship,” she tells me. “Don’t know why I waited so long.” She pushes open the door and turns away. “Kumma.” Come.