Page 48 of The Hidden One

CHAPTER 15

Big Valley Lutheran Church is a nondescript redbrick building with a crisp white spire, steep dormers, and arched stained-glass windows. A stately-looking sign in front proclaims ALL ARE WELCOME in big block letters.

It took me most of the morning to get the Explorer to the repair shop in Lewistown for a replacement windshield and four new tires. The work will take a couple of days, so the manager drove me over to the car rental agency, where I picked up a midsize sedan.

I’m feeling cranky and sore as I park in the lot behind the church and take the pavestone walkway to a side door marked OFFICE. The interior is hushed and smells of paper dust and lemon oil. I pass by the restrooms, spot another sign for the office, and head that way.

The reception desk is vacant, but I hear someone in a back room. “Hello?” I call out.

A silver-haired woman wearing a skirt, blouse, and cardigan, her arms piled high with padded envelopes and a few small cardboard boxes, comes through the door, and looks at me over the tops of her bifocals. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Pastor Zimmerman,” I tell her.

Two boxes slip off the stack in her arms and thump against the floor. “Oh, dear.”

“I’ve got it.” I round the desk and pick them up. “Where would you like them?”

“My office. This way.” She marches past me and makes a right into an adjoining office. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

“No, but I just need a few minutes of his time.” Taking in her rigid posture, I suspect she’s hall monitor and visitor screener rolled into a single formidable package.

“I’m guessing he’s in the courtyard out back.” She motions to a folding table. “You can put the packages there.” Then she jabs a finger toward another door. “Take the hall to the courtyard. Last door on the right.”

I thank her and make my exit. The courtyard is an outdoor patio that’s crowded with planters and greenery. Containers of geraniums and petunias burst with color. Hanging planters overflow with feathery asparagus ferns. There’s a birdbath ahead and a row of birdhouses secured to the brick wall at the back. Half a dozen hummingbird feeders dangle from the eave. It’s a pretty, calming place that smells of growing things and earth.

A scholarly-looking man with white hair and a neatly trimmed goatee tips a watering can into a terra-cotta planter the size of a barrel. Clad in khaki slacks and a blue shirt with a clergy collar, he looks serene and focused as he pinches off an unwanted stem.

“I like the snapdragons,” I say by way of greeting.

He looks up from his watering and smiles. “You know your flowers.”

“A few. My mom was a gardener.”

“Everyone thinks I spend too much time with my plants.” He chuckles. “I do. But then I’m of a certain age. Seems like it’s either flowers or birds. I chose both.”

I smile, liking him.

He sets down the watering can. “I’m Pastor Zimmerman.” He gives me a curious once-over as he approaches. “You seem troubled this morning.” He sends a pointed look to the bruises blooming on my throat. “Can I help?”

We shake hands and I introduce myself. “I’m looking into the Ananias Stoltzfus case.”

“You’re a private detective?”

“I’m a police chief. From Ohio. And a friend of the Bowman family.”

“Ah.” He grimaces. “I heard they found the bishop’s remains. God rest his soul.” Some of the good humor leaves his eyes. “Hard to believe an Amish person is responsible, isn’t it?”

“I think his guilt is still to be determined.”

He picks up the can and tips it to an exotic-looking fern. “It doesn’t bode well for Mr. Bowman that they found his rifle at the scene.”

“That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

For a moment, the only sound comes from the chatter of barn swallows in a nest beneath the eave. Then he asks, “Are you a churchgoing woman, Chief Burkholder?”

“I’m thinking about it,” I say honestly.

“Lutheran?”