Page 20 of The Burning

“Well, he didn’t get along with the other guys.” Stutzman shrugs. “I mean, there were no fights or any such thing. He just hit people the wrong way.” He pauses as if he’s getting warmed up. “And while Milan was good with his hands and all, he didn’t have a very good work ethic. He missed a lot of work. Came in late. He was a drinker, I think. That’s the one thing I can’t abide. I put up with it for a time, thinking he might pull out of it. But you got to be able to count on people. I got a business to run.”

“Is that why you fired him?” Tomasetti asks.

Stutzman gives him a steady look. “Final straw came the day I sent him out to deliver cabinets to a builder down to Coshocton County. Milan got into an argument with the customer, if you can believe it. Almost cost me that sale and it was a big one. I fired him the next day.”

“How did he take it?” I ask.

He tightens his mouth, reluctant to answer, but acquiesces. “Cussed me up one side and down the other. Demanded his check. I know a man’s job is a serious thing and getting fired like that can hurt his pride, but I never seen anyone get so riled up. Milan had a temper on him.”

“Did things get physical?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did he threaten you?” Tomasetti asks.

“He might’ve said a thing or two.” It’s a typical Amish answer when they don’t want to make a negative comment.

“Like what?” Tomasetti asks.

The Amish man shrugs. “Aw, he said I wouldn’t get away with it. Said it would come back on me. I didn’t think too much about it at the time.”

A pregnant silence ensues, goes on too long. Stutzman fidgets, looks down at his hands.

“I understand there was a fire,” I say.

“A year ago. Our workshop was in a hundred-year-old barn back then. A lot of dry old wood and she went up like kindling. Took the tools. Equipment. Everything.”

“You think Swanz had something to do with it?” Tomasetti asks.

Expression grim, Stutzman looks from Tomasetti to me. “I’ll not speak poorly of an Amish brother. Not one who’s died. Even an excommunicated one.”

Another typical Amish response. One that’s drilled into the heads of children from the time they’re old enough to understand. “If you don’t have anything good to say about someone, don’t say anything at all.”

Especially to an Englischer.

“All we need is the truth, Mr. Stutzman,” I say quietly. “We’re not looking for gossip or anything like that.”

“Well.” Shaking his head, he continues with a reluctance that’s palpable. “After the fire, the Amish came, like they always do. They built this here building. Put their money together and paid for some of the equipment we’d lost. God saw us through.”

“Did you go to the police with your suspicions about Swanz?” I ask.

“I didn’t have any kind of proof.” His eyes skate away from mine. “Fire marshal said a kerosene heater started the fire. Someone left a jacket on the back of their chair, which was left too close to the heater. Fabric caught and there you go.”

I hear the door latch click. I glance over my shoulder to see the man Stutzman had whistled at earlier standing in the doorway, looking at us. He’s wearing a blue work shirt, dark trousers, and suspenders. Sawdust covers the brim of his hat.

“This is my son, Noah.”

Noah Stutzman is as large as his father is small. I guess him to be about six four, two fifty, with biceps the size of Christmas hams.

Brown eyes land on me and Tomasetti and then flick to Stutzman. “Was der schinner is letz?” he says. What in the world is wrong?

“Kumma inseid,” the elder Stutzman says patiently. “Close the door.”

Noah does as he’s told. There’s no chair for him, so he goes to the wall, leans against it, and folds his arms at his chest while his father makes introductions and fills him in on the death of Milan Swanz.

I watch the younger Stutzman carefully as his father speaks, looking for any indication that he already knows what happened, but the younger man gives nothing away.

“I wish I could say I’m surprised,” he says when his father finishes.