Page 32 of The Burning

“I’m afraid I’m here on official business,” I say to her, but I’m looking at Jacob. “Do you have a few minutes?”

He studies me intently, as if he discerns something in my eyes. He addresses his wife in Deitsch. “We’ll be in the big room,” he says.

I follow him into the living room, where a woodstove crackles and pops from its place next to the window. A gas-powered floor lamp shines brightly in the corner. All of it giving the room a cozy, well-used countenance.

“You look tired.” He motions me to the sofa. “And troubled.”

“Have you heard about what happened to Milan Swanz?” I ask as I take a seat.

He nods. “Heard about it down to the feedstore this morning. Everyone’s talking about it, especially the Amish.” Holding my gaze, he settles into the armchair. “Is it true?”

I nod. “How well did you know him?”

“Not well.” He shrugs, nonchalant, but looks away a little too quickly. “You know how it is when you’re Amish. Everyone knows everyone.”

I stare at him, not liking his answer—or his demeanor.

“Did you have any business with him?” I ask.

“Milan fell on hard times for a while. After he lost his job, you know. I hired him to help me with the cross fence. He helped me dig postholes, drive T-posts, and stretch wire.” He shrugs. “Three or four days of work. That’s it.”

I nod, watching him carefully. “Did you have any problems with him?”

“No.”

“Was he a good worker?”

“Milan liked his breaks. Smoked cigarettes.” He offers a half smile. “Not exactly a workhorse, but he got the job done.”

“Jacob, did you have any disagreements with him?” I ask. “Any arguments or misunderstandings?”

“No.”

“What about Irene?”

“Of course not.”

“When did he work for you?”

“A week or so ago, I think.”

“For how long?”

“Four days.” He raises a shoulder, lets it drop. “When the fence was finished, I had nothing else for him to do and he moved on.”

“Any problems with pay? Anything like that?”

His eyes narrow. “Why all of these questions?”

I look past him and through the fogged-up glass and see a dozen or so head of cattle gathered at the round bale of hay, their backs covered with snow. “I searched Milan Swanz’s residence this morning,” I tell him. “There was a list of addresses. Swanz had had disputes with almost everyone on the list.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Your address is on the list.”

For the first time he looks surprised. “I don’t see why that would be so surprising,” he says. “Milan worked for me.”

I nod, watching him closely. He gives me nothing. “You know Milan was excommunicated,” I say.