Material Witness
Authors: Vannetta Chapman
WITNESS
VANNETTA CHAPMAN
In memory of my grandparents:
John and Rose Allen
T
HIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
to my grandparents John and Rose Allen. My grandfather was raised on a Choctaw reservation in Oklahoma. He met my grandmother just across the Texas border. They married and raised their family in the town of Paris. Grandmother Rose had one brother, Walter Vernon, and three sisters: Daisy, Lily, and Gertrude. When I was in grade school, we lived a few blocks away from my grandparents. Those were precious years. They let me sleep over often, cook my own eggs in the morning, and spoil their old dog. They even had a rusty barrel they burned trash in out back, and I was allowed to help. We watched
HeeHaw
and the nightly news together. I loved them dearly.
I would like to thank my team at Zondervan, including Becky Philpott, Tonya Osterhouse, Alicia Mey, and Sue Brower. This book also wouldn’t be possible without the help of my agent, Mary Sue Seymour.
Cindy Barkley helped with equestrian matters. Suzanne Woods Fisher and
The Budget
freely provided Amish proverbs. Many folks from Shipshewana were willing to answer questions, including Lynn Bontrager and Kris Stutzman. You have made me feel like a welcome citizen of Shipshe!
My pre-readers have been with me through this entire series. Thank you to Donna, Kristy, and Dorsey. We need to visit Ship-she together. Family — I love you. Enough said, right? William, Kylie, Yale, and Jordyn, you make me very proud. Bobby, you know I adore you.
And finally …
always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ
(Ephesians 5:20).
Prologue: S
HIPSHEWANA
, I
NDIANA
M
ID
-S
EPTEMBER
Chapter 1: L
ATE
S
EPTEMBER
T
HURSDAY EVENING
W
HILE THIS NOVEL
is set against the real backdrop of Shipshewana, Indiana, the characters are fictional. There is no intended resemblance between the characters in this book and any real members of the Amish and Mennonite communities. As with any work of fiction, I’ve taken license in some areas of research as a means of creating the necessary circumstances for my characters. My research was thorough; however, it would be impossible to be completely accurate in details and descriptions, since each and every community differs. Therefore, any inaccuracies in the Amish and Mennonite lifestyles portrayed in this book are completely due to fictional license.
S
HIPSHEWANA,
I
NDIANA
M
ID-
S
EPTEMBER
“A
M
I
LATE?”
Callie pushed the door closed against the September wind, grateful to see her three best friends waiting for her.
Deborah, Melinda, and Esther surrounded her like the fall flowers in her garden circled the pavestone walk.
“Bishop Elam wouldn’t have started without you,” Deborah said. Thirty-three years old, three inches taller than Callie’s five foot, three inches, and weighing somewhere around 140 pounds, Deborah was healthy and beautiful. Her blondish-brown hair was neatly tucked into her prayer
kapp
, and her amber eyes nearly always expressed her calm, pleasant character.
Callie had begun to think of Deborah as her sister, but she understood they looked like complete opposites. Callie tried to gain weight but couldn’t, had dark hair that refused to behave — especially now that she was growing it past her collar — and large eyes such a deep brown someone had once told her they looked black. No amount of makeup could minimize Callie’s eyes — she’d tried. They still dominated her face.
She often found herself glancing at Deborah, wishing she could be like her. She’d confessed that once, and Deborah had reminded her God had a reason for making each person exactly as they were. Perhaps one day he’d let her in on the secret.
“Did you have trouble finding the place?” Melinda reached forward and patted down Callie’s hair, which Callie imagined now resembled something out of a punk-rock video. Melinda was small and precious like a bird — a bird who wore glasses that always managed to slip down her nose.
“No. No problem. Your directions were good. Max treed a squirrel and refused to come inside. I finally left him in the side yard barking as if he hadn’t a brain cell in his head.”
Esther cradled her infant in her arms. Tall, dark blonde, with beautiful blue eyes, she looked happier than Callie had ever seen her.
“May I?” Callie reached for baby Simon before Esther had time to answer. Six weeks old, he smelled of powder and warm blankets and love. She wanted to find a chair and stare at the miracle of his little face.
“We should move to the kitchen.” Esther nudged her toward the dining room table.
“
Ya
, Bishop Elam is gathering everyone,” Deborah agreed.
Callie barely heard, she was so focused on the infant. Truthfully she didn’t know why she’d even been included in the reading of Mrs. Hochstetler’s will.
Melinda was closest to the elderly woman. Glancing over at her friend, Callie noticed that her eyes seemed misty behind her glasses. She didn’t know the entire story behind Melinda and Mrs. Hochstetler’s friendship; when she’d asked, Melinda had only said, “She was special — very special to me.”
Callie had known Mrs. Hochstetler, though not well. The elderly Amish woman was nearly ninety, but she’d still stopped by the shop regularly, purchasing fabric and thread — never kits. She claimed that the day she needed a kit to piece together a quilt, she’d stop sewing.
Personally Callie liked the quilting kits. She was now working on her second quilt, and she’d chosen one of the new baby quilt
kits that had appliqués of farm animals. It was to be a present for Simon. With a little luck she’d finish it before he got too old.
Somehow everyone fit around the table — all seven of Mrs. Hochstetler’s grown children; Deborah, Esther, Melinda, and Callie; the banker, Mrs. Barnwell; and the bishop. To Callie, it seemed they made an odd group. The bishop was saying a few words about Mrs. Hochstetler, so Callie used the time to glance around the house.
Like most Amish homes it was clean and unadorned — the countertops free of clutter. No curtains hung on the windows, but there were shades that could be pulled down against the night. A big cast-iron stove sat between the sitting room and the kitchen, no doubt used for heating the rooms. A newer gas-powered stove sat against the east wall of the kitchen, opposite the gas-powered refrigerator.
Callie was so busy admiring the rooms, thinking of how little she knew about her customers, she didn’t realize Bishop Elam had begun reading the final will and testament. But she did notice everyone around her sit up straighter.
The bishop read from a single sheet of paper.
Mrs. Hochstetler had left simple and direct instructions — the house to one son, the animals to another, some money to a third. No one was left out. As the bishop continued in his soft German accent, Callie found herself focusing again on the infant in her arms. She forgot about dying and wills and stopped wondering why she was there. She focused on the miracle of life in her arms. For a moment.
Until she was suddenly jarred from the tranquil place she had slipped into by the sound of her name.
“Daisy Powell’s niece, Miss Callie Harper, is to receive the three quilts in the chest next to my bed. Once restored, they may be sold at Callie’s discretion. Money from the sale of the quilts will be split five ways — one portion each to Esther Fisher, Deborah
Yoder, and Melinda Byer, who will each help with the restoration, and one part to Callie, who will oversee the sales. The final portion of money will be deposited in the previously established account at First Bank Shipshewana to be used as arranged with my banker, Mrs. Barnwell.”
Bishop Elam removed his reading glasses and set them on top of the single sheet of paper on the table. “If there are no questions, I suggest we all share a cup of tea.”
Chairs were scooted way from the table, and conversations slowly started back up again.
Callie glanced from Deborah to Esther to Melinda. “Quilt restorations?”
“It’s hard work,” Esther admitted.
Deborah reached for the baby. “And not always worth the time.”
“She never mentioned old quilts to me.” Melinda pushed up her glasses. “I’ve been to see her many times, but I never —”
“What type of quilt could possibly require its own bank account for a mere twenty percent?” Callie gazed around at her friends, wondering for the first time if perhaps Mrs. Hochstetler had suffered from a touch of dementia. Before she could think of a way to tactfully raise the question, Sadie Hochstetler, the wife of Levi Hochstetler, walked over to their group.