English Shade: The Amish-Country Mysteries, #11

By P.L. Gaus

Amish bishop Small Henry Rupp has the burden on his heart that the people of his congregation in Holmes County, Ohio, have become too complacent with English attitudes and culture, and he is especially worried about the corrosive impact that tourism and commerce are having on the religious separatism that his congregation is supposed to maintain. His desire is to erradicate all modern influences in the lives of his people, and the solution that he is devising will surprise everyone, Amish and English alike. The problem is, one of his parishoners has now been murdered, and her husband is lying in the hospital in a coma, keeping devastating secrets from his bishop, apparently in unrepentant fashion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul L. Gaus
• Release date: Sep 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393676157

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tuesday, June 2

Afternoon

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Big Henry Rupp and Small Henry Rupp were cousins of an equal age. Born just three days apart, they were readily distinguished in their families by their birth weights, Big Henry being the larger of the two infants, and over the years, the cousins came to be called simply Big and Small.

To outsiders, the names seemed strange, especially given the problem that, as adults, Big was a small man, and Small was a rather large one. But in their neighborhood congregation, the irony of their nicknames was seldom acknowledged, apart from the occasional smile, because the names had been used by the parents since the two Henrys’ births, and with the sort of repetition that arises over a lifetime, the names became quite natural to those who knew them.

In later years, the two Henrys found themselves separated, when Big was asked to move his family with a newly appointed bishop, who was leading nearly a hundred souls from the Becks Mills region in Holmes County’s Doughty Valley. They were to settle on cheaper farmland near the Finger Lakes of New York state.

Neither Henry saw the other again, but they corresponded quite extensively through the post, writing long letters to one another every week. The one would write a letter at the beginning of a week, and invariably he would have a reply by the end of the week. The correspondence was extensive enough that if Big’s granddaughter so much as skinned a knee, Small would be reading about it only a few days later.

But then, a letter came from New York, not from Big, but from his wife Ethel, and Small had the news that his cousin had died of a heart attack at the age of seventy-eight. People quite naturally inquired if Small would travel to New York for the service, but Small’s answer was always the same. No, there’s no need to travel. He’s not there anymore. Besides, now I can talk to him anytime I like. I know he’s listening.

Among the congregants at Clark Township’s Rupp’s Run Amish Church, this was taken seriously, because Small Rupp was the bishop. Small’s two preachers were his brothers James and Jonas Rupp, and the two Deacons of the congregation were William Coblentz and John Miller. The latter two, William and John, were also first cousins to one another, in another extended family line. Thus, the church was fastened tightly together by deep family ties, in the leadership especially, but also throughout the rest of the congregation, with practically everyone being related in some vine-and-branch manner to everyone else. And if Bishop Rupp chose to talk to his dead cousin Big Henry, then that’s just the way it would be. No one would be inclined to question a bishop.

Small was a serious man, with a Godly imprint on his life, and his strong leadership had held the congregation together in unity through the great cell phone crisis five years ago, and now it was settled. The Rupp’s Run Amish Church would not be using cell phones after all. Instead, they would keep track of one another with weekday face-to-face visitations - traveling about the Doughty Valley in their buggies - and with correspondences through the post. Afterall, Small had a decade’s proof in letters from Big that a deeper and more Godly relationship could be maintained over the years, especially on matters of the greatest importance, with pen and paper, rather than with impersonal text messages and abbreviated chats on cell phones.

But now, Small had a more insidious problem than cell phones. It was festering not only in his congregation, but throughout all the Amish colonies of eastern Holmes County. It had been growing like a cancer in size and strength for years, and Small wondered if cutting it out could be accomplished, at this late a date, without killing the patient. So, his prayer-like conversations with Big had been quite necessary lately.

This time, Small was in his buggy, driving his chestnut mare into Millersburg on Mechanic Township’s County Road 68. The journey over the rural blacktopped roads would be long and arduous. It would take him across the wide and pastoral Doughty Valley, and then northwest over the high ground at Saltillo, before turning west and dropping down toward Millersburg. Consequently, Small had many hours alone with himself, with quiet opportunities to pray. This he did fervently, calling the Lord’s protection on all of his congregation. Then when closer to Millersburg, while crossing over the trickling Upper Sand Run, Small began to whisper to his cousin.

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Do you still know your Old Testament, Big? Isaiah Chapter 30? That’s what I’m up against. Egypt’s Shade. Except it’s not Egypt, is it? It’s English. But, just the same, Big. Do you understand? They’ve taken refuge with the English Pharaohs. They’ve settled for comfort under English Shade. And if I can’t get my people to understand, Big, it is the English pharaohs themselves who will be the ruin of us all.

Chapter 2

Thursday, June 4

4:30 PM

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As gruffly as ever, the sheriff answered his cell phone. Robertson.

Hi, Bruce. Cal Troyer.

Pastor.

Are you and Missy doing OK down there?

Sun, sand, water, Cal. What’s not to like?

Good. Glad to hear it.

You getting along any better these days, Cal?

Slowly.

Still seeing the doctors?

Yes. I’m driving back from a follow-up at the Cleveland Clinic right now.

What did they tell you?

Cancer’s gone, so that’s good.

You lost some colon. Is that gonna work out for you?

I’ve had to make some changes, of course. Mostly dietary.

But you’re OK?

Pretty much. Now, it’s just a matter of watching to see if it comes back.

You ought to come down here, Cal.  We’ve bought Ray Lee Orton’s place, right out on the sand. Long Boat Key.

He’s the Bradenton policeman who helped Mike a few years ago?

Yes, but he’s a detective, now, Cal. Everybody moves on. How’s Ricky Niell doing?

Struggling, I guess. It’s not like there’s a handbook on how to be a good sheriff. Do you like retirement?

It’s the leisure time that’s hard to adjust to.  I’ve got too much idle time on my hands.

So, take up surfing, Sheriff.

Oh, right! That’d be just great, wouldn’t it! Drown myself with a young man’s sport.

So, you’ve got some extra time these days?

What do you need, Pastor?

Well, do you remember Ivan Coblentz, with his furniture?

Sure. I used to own one of his desks. When we moved down here, I sold it for three times what I paid for it.

They’re selling his furniture in Sarasota, now.

And?

And, I was hoping you could take a stroll through the showroom down there.

To do what, exactly?

To tell me what you notice.

That’s it? What’s this all about, Cal?

I’ve had a visit from Ivan’s bishop.

OK.

It’s Small Henry Rupp. He’s a fairly guarded conservative. Usually keeps his distance from English folk.

Robertson held a pause, thinking, and then he said, He’d have to be pretty upset about something, Cal, to have asked for my help.

It’s me, Bruce, who he asked. I’m the one who’s asking you.

You just want me to look at some furniture?

Yes, and tell me what you think.

Think about what?

I don’t want to lead you too far into what I’m after, Sheriff. I just want you to call me back, once you’ve seen it.

This is a little bit obtuse, Cal.

OK, look. Trust me, here. I’m driving home from Cleveland, now. I’ve already made it down past Wooster, and I still need to call Mike before I stop to see him.

The professor’s OK?

Fine.

And Caroline?

Fine, too. Can you do this for me yet today? Or tomorrow at the latest?

"Of course. You know I can. But it’ll have to be tomorrow. Now really, can you please tell me how Ricky’s doing?

Not right at the moment, Sheriff. I need to clear off. But be sure to call me just as soon as you’ve seen the Coblentz goods.

That’s it?

Pretty much.

You going to explain to me what this is all about, Cal?

Like I said. Small Henry Rupp came to me with a problem, and I’m gonna need your help on this one little question. And, I want you to go about this as gently as possible, for now.

"Ha! You want me to handle this gently?"

"I know, right? Gentle Bruce Robertson? But, don’t laugh. That’s what I need right now. A gentle touch. At lease at this preliminary stage of things."

Chapter 3

Thursday, June 4

5:15 PM

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With a pleasant, Hi, Cal, Caroline Branden answered Troyer’s call. Did they say you’re OK, now?

I am for now, Cal said with a chuckle. But it could always come back.

It won’t, Caroline predicted. It just can’t.

Now, Caroline.

No now nothing, Cal Troyer, she said, laughing. You keep a positive thought.

Prayerful. I’ll keep a prayerful thought.

Even better. What’s up? Are you done with the Cleveland Clinic today?

I’m driving back, now, Cal said. I’m on 83, just north of the village.

Gonna stop here?

Yes, I’d like to. Is the professor home?

Michael’s out mowing the lawn. He’ll be glad for an excuse to stop.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

With a soft summer breeze blowing through the screens, Caroline and the professor settled themselves with Cal, in white wicker chairs, on the Branden’s long back porch. Half of the back yard had been mowed, and the professor’s lawn mower stood silent and idle in an unfinished row.

Cal was content, it seemed, to sit quietly with his glass of iced tea, but the professor let that peacefulness prevail for a scant two minutes, before demanding of Cal, What? Spill. Everything, Cal.

Cal smiled with obvious satisfaction, and said, They got it all, Mike. They say I’m cancer-free. They said that it might return, but they don’t expect it will. Not anytime soon.

Have you told Rachel? Caroline asked.

Cal nodded. "I called her from the car. She wants to throw her old man a huge party."

If she doesn’t, Caroline sang, I will. Right, Michael?

Oh, I don’t know, Branden drawled out, eyeing mischief at Cal.

Knock it off, Caroline scolded.

Cal laughed and shook his head. I guess I’d be happy to celebrate. I’d be very happy indeed.

I’ll call Rachel, Caroline said, pulling her phone and rising partly from her chair.

But Cal motioned her back down. First, I need a favor.

Name it, Professor Branden said.

Anything, Caroline concurred.

Cal nodded thoughtfully. I want you to look at some furniture.

Easy enough, Branden said. Where?

Ivan Coblentz has a shop in the Rupp’s Run district. It’s on Township 119, right beside Rupp’s Run.

Branden said, I know it. West of Flat Ridge School.

Right. Do you know Ivan?

No.

No matter, Mike. Jeremiah Miller works there, now.

Caroline cocked an eyebrow. I thought he was farming his grandfather’s land in the Doughty Valley.

He is, Cal said. With his uncles. They do most of the work, and that keeps Jeremiah free to earn a paycheck. A pretty good paycheck, really. They’re actually renting half of the homestead lands to their neighbors.

His father built our curly maple kitchen set, the professor said. Jonah.

That’s why I thought of you two, Cal said with a pause. You’d be perfect for what I have in mind. Bruce Robertson is doing something similar for me, down in Sarasota.

What’s got you started on this? Caroline asked.

Cal finished his glass of tea, and he rattled the ice in the glass. I got a visit from Bishop Small Henry Rupp. He asked for my help on something a bit delicate.

We’re to look at furniture in the Coblentz shop? Branden asked.

Cal shrugged. A bit more than that, Mike. I want you to spend some time watching and studying their operation. That’s the Jeremiah Miller connection. He’ll remember you fondly. And that’ll give you a chance to study how they are making their furniture. Visit with him for a good long time, and see how they’re working.

For instance? Branden led.

Are they dovetailing their drawers, or just nailing the joints together? Is it still one carpenter making one desk at a time, or have they put in electricity so they can turn them out faster? Are they still using the best stains and finishes, or just the consumer-grade stuff from box stores?

You’re asking for an inspection, Caroline said.

Yes. While you visit with Jeremiah.

Why, Cal? the professor asked.

Cal shrugged again. Small Henry needs some answers. We need to keep a discrete distance from this, so I’ve asked some people to look into a few things. Your part is just to see how well Ivan Coblentz is doing at making his furniture these days.

And Jeremiah can’t know what we’re really doing? the professor asked.

No one can know, Mike. Not just yet.

Chapter 4

Friday, June 5

11:20 AM

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Bruce and Missy Robertson drove over the short, high-arching span at New Pass, from Longboat Key to Lido Key, on the barrier islands west of Sarasota Bay, and at the signal at the base of the bridge, the sheriff swung his white Escalade left, to park on the narrow gravel patch in front of the New Pass Grill and Bait Shop, an Old Florida establishment of fancifully painted, weathered gray wood, that sat with its docks perched over the sparkling blue-green waters of the pass. It was still before noon, but the summer heat was already rather oppressive. So was the humidity, and the large sheriff still hadn’t adjusted to either.  He ran almost always with the SUV’s air conditioner maxed out, and he routinely started the Escalade’s engine remotely, to make sure that the cabin had cooled down before he drove. At times, even, he left the engine running as he dashed in and out of a store.

Once her husband had turned off the engine, Missy climbed down from the big SUV. She straightened the front of her green- and aqua-flowered summer dress, and she adjusted the wide, floppy brim on her white sun hat. Then she climbed the four battered wooden steps up to the ordering window on the water-side porch of the grill. In the warm and humid climate, Missy was faring much better than her husband. Her brown and gray hair was a little longer, now, and with the leisure lifestyle of retirement, Missy kept it pulled back in a ponytail most of the time. She had taken to the sun and heat better than her husband, and she had a decent tan to show for it.

The lumbering sheriff followed her up the steps and paused at the side wall, in front of the hand-painted menu board, which was now announcing Wine by the Glass, as well as the usual assortment of paper-wrapped burgers and fries that could easily be cooked on griddles and in fryers, to be assembled by teenagers in hair nets.

The sheriff chuckled at the new offering of wine, and he called out, Get wine, Missy. I’ve got to see this.

Under the shade of the side porch, he took off his Salt Life ballcap to let the air cool his white flat-topped bristles. But there wasn’t anything cooling or comforting to him about Florida air in summer, and grumbling softly, he popped the cap back into place.

Missy, who had already turned the corner onto the front porch, leaned back around the corner to her husband. She lifted the wide and drooping brim of her hat to gaze back at him, saying, Why are you staring at that menu, there, Sheriff? Really? You know very well what you’re going to order.

Bruce stepped around the corner to join Missy at the ordering window, and he nudged her elbow playfully. Order wine, Missy, he whispered, smiling, and Missy shoved gently back on his arm to say, You order it, Bruce, if you’re so interested.

The sheriff grumbled briefly and waited for Missy to clear the window. Then he stepped forward and placed his usual order. Double cheeseburger, deluxe, and a Coke.

While punching prices into her cash register, the window girl handed him a plastic cup for his Coke.

Robertson said, Thanks. And wine, too.

Red or white?

Don’t know, he said with a teasing smile. What goes better with your Deluxe?

Without looking up, she said, Red. Anything else?

Robertson nodded sideways toward Missy, who was dispensing her iced tea, and he told the window girl, I’m paying for her, too. He was still smiling about the wine, but when he noticed that the girl wasn’t paying it any attention, he let the smile slump, unappreciated.

At the railing overlooking the water, the Robertsons ate under the shade of a wide, yellow sun umbrella, and neither of them spoke. It was a companionable silence during a lunch-time routine that they had established whenever driving down to Sarasota. Stop at New Pass bait shop. Get hamburgers at the Grill. Watch the sleek sport fishing boats that were pulling up to the docks after their private morning charters.

It was the very kind of soft and warm