Blood of the Prodigal (Amish-Country Mystery Series #1)by P. L. Gaus
In the wooded Amish hill country, a professor at a small college, a local pastor, and the county sheriff are the only ones among the mainstream, or "English," who possess the instincts and skills to work the cases that impact all county residents, no/b>
Read P. L. Gaus's blogs and other content on the Penguin Community.Book 1 of the Amish-Country Mysteries
In the wooded Amish hill country, a professor at a small college, a local pastor, and the county sheriff are the only ones among the mainstream, or "English," who possess the instincts and skills to work the cases that impact all county residents, no matter their code of conduct or religious creed.
When an Amish boy is kidnapped, a bishop, fearful for the safety of his followers, plunges three outsiders into the traditionally closed society of the "Plain Ones."
"The charm of Gaus's first novel lies in its gently penetrating portrait of conflicts within the deceptively quiet contemporary Amish community."
“The Amish setting is as strange and intriguing as that of any foreign country, and the strong-willed characters challenge the reader’s prejudices and values. This novel, the first in a series, opens the door for further exploration of the nature of these characters and their culture.”
Wendy Foster Leigh, The King's English, Salt Lake City
"This story is written in the tradition of Tony Hillerman: Gaus presents a deeper understanding of an American subculture and whythough it interacts with mainstream American societyit stubbornly chooses to remain separate and follow its own unique doctrines. Enthusiasts of mysteries, American sub-cultures, or those interested in learning more about Amish ways will find much to glean from Gaus’ work."
"Gaus writes with authority and warmth about the mysterious Amish. This well-written, insightful first novel bodes well for Gaus' planned Professor Branden series."
"No one who enjoys a fresh approach to the mystery novel, plus an insider's look at Ohio's Old Order Amish culture, should miss Blood of the Prodigal. P. L. Gaus gives us a kind, gentle, and intriguing look at crime inside Ohio's famous Amish colony."
Read an Excerpt
Friday, May 22
LIKE all Amish children of ten, Jeremiah Miller had known his share of sunrises. Morning chores had long since taken care of that. Every day brought the same duties. His grandfather had made it clear. Children were for working. Life was supposed to be hard. Generally, for Jeremiah, it was.
But lately, Jeremiah had discovered something new and wonderful in his dawn chores. Something exhilarating. Also a bit frightening, because he suspected it was forbidden. It was so simple, he thought, who could object? If he arose before the others and slipped out quietly, he could be alone, drawn awake early by the allure of a solitary Ohio dawn.
It had begun last winter. None of the other children had understood. After all, who would choose to be alone? So he kept it to himself, now. Even Grossdaddy didn't know. It was Jeremiah Miller's little secret. At so young an age, he had already discovered that the dawn could give him a sense of identity separate from the others. And this was his first act of nonconformity. Among the Gemie, that was considered evidence of pridefulness. And pride was surely the worst of sins. He worried that it could eventually brand him a rebel. Like his father.
He'd dress quietly in the clothes his grandmother had madeclothes that were identical to those of other Amish children. Long underwear and denim trousers with a broadfall flap. A light-blue, long-sleeved shirt with no collar. A heavy denim jacket. Suspenders. And a dark blue knit skull cap. If he escaped the house before theothers awakened, Jeremiah Miller was free.
In the barns before sunrise, only the Coleman lantern kept him company, hissing softly as he drifted among the animals, in and out of the stalls. In winter, there was the enchanting, billowing steam his breath made in the crisp air. The delightful crunching of his boots in the snow. There was, especially, the peace and the solitude, and at only ten, Jeremiah Miller had come to reckon that dawn would always be his favorite part of the day.
Today, late in May, it was nearing the end of a season still often raw and bleak, the usual for a northern Ohio spring. Some days were almost entirely awash in gray. Yesterday, there had been only the barest hint of a sunrise, delicate shades of pink as he had worked alone at morning chores. Then an afternoon drizzle had developed into a steady, all-night rain as a storm front moved in off the great lake, a hundred miles to the north.
Jeremiah slipped out from under the quilts and sat, wrapped in his down comforter, on the edge of the bed. He listened there a while for sounds of his family stirring. Hearing nothing, he drew the ornate quilt around his waist, eased lightly across the plain wooden floor to the window, pulled back the long purple curtains, and peered out. Yesterday's rain had slackened to a cold drizzle. He saw no hint of sunlight at his window, but as he was about to release the curtains, the headlights of a rare car flashed on the foggy lane in front of his house. He briefly thought it strange, and then, hitching up the comforter, he let the curtains go slack.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shirt and denim trousers. He glided down the hall, the wooden floor cool beneath his stocking feet. He passed the other bedrooms carefully and crept down the stairs. He eased through the kitchen unerringly in the dark, lifted his jacket from its peg, pulled the heavy oak door open, and slipped through the storm door onto the back porch.
There would be no supervisions on the rounds of his morning chores. No instructions if he worked alone. No corrections. No reminders to conform. The hours before dawn were his alone. The one time of each day when he owned himself entirely. Jeremiah had discovered that solitude was personal. More personal than anything else he had ever known.
On the back porch, he stuffed his feet into his cold boots and laced them, hooked his suspenders to the buttons on his plain denim trousers, and closed the hooks on his short, denim waist jacket. Reaching down for the green Coleman lantern, he gave the pump several adept strokes and lit the silk mantle with a wooden match. Then he rolled his thin collar up and stepped off the porch into the rain.
School would close soon for summer, he thought. He set the lantern on the muddy ground outside the massive sliding doors to the red bank barn. School wasn't so bad. And summers could be long. So why did Grossdaddy speak so bitterly of school?
He set his weight against the sliding door and forced it heavily sideways on its rollers. Grandfather would like the teachers, if only he'd come to visit the school. It was just down the gravel lane, less than a mile. Teacher stayed late every day, and they could talk. If only Grandfather would. The other men thought well of teachers, so why didn't Grandfather? Jeremiah only knew that something had happened long ago. Something that would never be discussed. He suspected it had something to do with his father.
A nervous black kitten launched itself through the crack between the sliding doors at his feet, and he sidestepped it superstitiously.
"Kommen Sie," he called gently after the cat, momentarily curious. He whistled for it softly, shrugged, picked up the lantern, and squeezed through the narrow opening between the doors.
The three-story bank barn was set into the side of a hill behind the big house. At the bottom of the hill, the sliding doors opened to the lowest level of the barn. The top of the hill gave access, on the other side of the barn, to the second level. There were nine stalls down the right side of the lower level, and eight down the left. The avenue down the middle was strewn with fresh straw. Five massive oak uprights stood in a line down the middle of the avenue, taking the weight of the roof. The crossbeams were made of walnut twelve-by-twelve's. The haylofts ran high above, on either side of the third level, planked out in rough-hewn maple and elm. Long runs of rope and chain looped through a large wooden block and tackle, which was hung from an iron wheel that ran high in the rafters on a rail the full length of the peak. Leather harnesses and collars hung in front of each of the stalls. At the far end, the rakes, mowers, and threshers stood silently in the wide avenue. Their iron wheels were easily a head taller than Jeremiah.
Inside, Jeremiah climbed onto a stepstool to hang the lantern against one of the upright beams, and hopped down in front of the first stall. He scaled the slats of the gate and made a clicking sound with the inside of his cheek against his teeth. He balanced on his toes near the top of the gate and reached up to stroke the nose of the Belgian draft horse, light chestnut brown with a creamy white mane. As it thumped ponderously in the straw, Jeremiah rubbed at its wet nose and bristling hairs, then jumped down with a laugh and took the tasseled whip from its hook beside the stall.
He snapped the black whip playfully overhead and grinned, mindful that his Grandfather's were the very finest of all the Belgians in Holmes County. That was good, not prideful, he thought. Not prideful to admire a good horse. After all, God had made them Himself. And hadn't Grandfather promised that his time would soon come to work a whip behind them? To learn to plow. To run a harrow. To handle a team of Belgians! A boy should not go to school forever, Grossdaddy had said. Why should a boy be smarter than a father?
As he played with the whip, the unexpected aroma of tobacco drifted Jeremiah's way. Startled, he remembered the skittish cat and the weird headlights earlier on the lane. He stood tip-toe on the stepstool, took down the glowing lantern, held it high overhead, hesitated a fateful moment, and moved apprehensively toward the far end of the barn.
IN THE milky light of dawn, a small girl in a black bonnet stood on the elevated lawn in front of the Millers' white frame house. Her bonnet was tied close against her cheeks, with thin cloth strands under her chin. Her narrow shoulders were draped properly with a black shawl that was knotted loosely in front and covered her hands. In the delicate morning light, her long pleated skirt showed the barest hint of rich peacock blue. She was motionless except for her large, tranquil brown eyes as they followed the headlights of a car approaching on the lane.
The hollow sound of slow tires crushing loose gravel ground to a halt as the car rolled up to a mailbox mounted on the white picket fence. The driver's window rolled down, revealing police insignias on the sleeve of a blue jacket. The driver reached out and flipped an envelope into the mailbox. As the girl watched silently, the car sped off, throwing gravel, its taillights disappearing into the lingering fog.
Thursday, June 18
ON A clear summer morning, Bishop Eli Miller drove his top buggy into town along little-used township roads. The buggy was a one-seater, a boxy, covered affair of the typical Ohio Amish style. The large wooden wheels carried iron rims, not rubber, as was proper among the bishop's sect of the Old Order. The roll curtains on the side windows were tied up, as was the curtained windshield over the wide dash. The hooves of the horse swung left and right in front of the rig, and struck a steady gait of hollow clicks in the gravel. The horse was well-lathered and had started to tire, but the bishop, in a somber mood, kept after him with an unrelenting whip.
Bishop Miller was dressed in dark blue denim trousers with cloth suspenders, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a collarless black vest with hooks and eyes instead of buttons. He wore precisely the one type of white straw summer hat that was currently approved in his district. To the English who saw him that day, he seemed plain, Amish, nothing more. Certainly no different in dress and demeanor than any Amish man, on any particular day. In Bishop Miller's district, as for all Old Order Amish, that was the whole point. Look the same, live the same, stay the same. To live every day in tranquillity.
Today, only a few would be any the wiser. Those who, studying his face closely, could have discerned the weeks of anguish in his reddened eyes. Little else betrayed him. Neither his dress nor the buggy. Perhaps only the horse's unusually brisk pace and heavy lather.
The buggy was entirely flat black. It sported no frills. Nothing in the way of vain decorations, horns, mirrors, paint, shiny metal, or any other of the various ostentations of the more liberal Wayne County Amish congregations to the north. These, he thought, had compromised with the world. Surely in the north, the bishop mused, the Gemei had lost its way.
The narrow wheels of the buggy cut wispy lines into the berm. Miller worked the horse with the reins, staying carefully to the right. A car roared by, shaking the rig in its backdraft. The horse skittered, and he whistled softly and worked the reins to steady him. Another auto blared its horn and sped around. The impatience surprised Miller. Rather, it puzzled him. "English," he whispered disapprovingly, as a pickup blared behind and passed abruptly. A day spent among them was a trial. "Remember," his wife had said, "you have not chosen this." Wise, he thought. And righteous. "Thank you, Lord, for the counsel of a Godly woman," he prayed.
The deacons, too, had urged him. Use the pastor to approach the professor. If the professor wouldn't help, maybe the pastor would. Pastor Caleb "Cal" Troyer was known among the plain people. They would trust him, and Professor Branden, too, but no one else. Certainly not the law.
His grip on the reins went limp as he shook his head, lost in thought and prayer. Little Jeremiah had been taken nearly four weeks ago. The burden of his chores had fallen to the other children. And lately the bishop had begun to doubt. The deacons had sensed these doubts in his prayers. He hadn't spoken of it outright, but still they knew. Doubts about his outcast son bedeviled him endlessly, now, almost as much as the loss of his grandson.
It was the same for his wife, although she never spoke of it. He knew that she never would. That was their way. So it had always been. Es steht geschriebenit stands written. So it shall always be. From this, he assured himself, they drew strength for the life of separation. For the one true path to salvation.
Bishop Miller found himself staring down blankly at the reins. He forced himself upright and snapped the whip grimly. His son had been lost more than ten years ago. "Lord," he prayed today, "not my grandson too."
He had started out before dawn, carefully traveling the remote gravel roads and township lanes in southern Holmes County, heading up out of his Old Order Amish district, toward the city, where greater prosperity had enticed the brethren into easier lives. Into compromises with the world. It was the city that had drawn too many of the brethren away from the paths of righteousness.
Today was Thursday, a day for labor. He'd not normally have forsaken the chores of the farm for a journey into town. But the deacons had agreed. In point of fact, they had urged him to go.
After days of prayer, he had relented. The child had shown promise with the Word. Jeremiah's gift was to speak of the Book. He'd surely be called, in his day, to be a Diener zum Bucha preacher. An interpreter of God's character in the scriptures. And he must not be sacrificed to the world. Not for so much as a single summer.
On the south edge of town, Bishop Miller watered his horse at the buckets set out in front of the Wal-Mart store and pulled the buggy into the parking lot of the Pizza Hut on the other side of the street. He stepped down and around to the back, lifted a faded green canvas feed bag out of the buggy, and walked to the front to hang the bag over the horse's ears. He tied the reins around a light pole next to a telephone booth, and then he ran his hand along the rump of the horse, reached up into the seat of the buggy, and lifted out his black metal lunch pail.
As he lunched with the horse, a teenage girl came out of the Pizza Hut and sauntered over to the phone booth. She looked him over disdainfully, made a quick call, and then stood impatiently beside the phone until a rusty truck arrived, driven by an older man in a ragged tee-shirt. As she got in, he gunned the engine, popped the clutch, sprayed gravel toward the bishop's buggy, and drove away shouting vulgarly out the window.
The bishop shook his head, took down the feed bag and carried it wearily around to the back. Then he tightened the lathered hip straps at the breeching, dried his calloused hands on his trousers, climbed back into the buggy, dropped the plain black curtains on the buggy's windows, and teased the horse into awkward back steps. Once clear of the phone booth, he snapped his whip, brought the horse to a determined pace, drove further north into town, and turned onto a side street in a working-class neighborhood. He traveled several steep blocks through the hills of Millersburg and pulled into the gravel parking lot of a white frame church. Out front there was a plain white sign that read: "Church of Christ, Christian. Pastor Caleb Troyer." It gave the times of the Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night services. A color poster planted on the lawn announced the details of this year's Vacation Bible School.
The bishop entered a side door of the small church and remained inside for nearly an hour. When he emerged, he turned around on the steps of the church to study the pastor's face. Cal Troyer was a short man with a round, leathered face that marked him in those parts of Ohio as likely descended from the Amish. He had flowing white hair and a heavy, tangled white beard with no hint whatsoever of its original color. He was dressed in workman's blue jeans and a denim shirt. He had a carpenter's belt strapped to his waist. A ladder stood against the gutters of the church house, where he had been working earlier that morning.
The bishop took his hand and shook it firmly, gratitude showing openly on his face. He gazed an extra moment into Pastor Troyer's eyes. With proper grooming, once shaved around the mouth, Cal Troyer would easily pass anywhere for Amish. Perhaps his hair was too long, but that was easily remedied. The deep tan on his face and the powerful muscles in his short arms had always brought him respect with the Gemei. Troyer was a preacher, but he earned his way in life as a carpenter. And the way the bishop figured things in these perverse times, that was not far at all from the true calling.
In truth, it was Troyer the bishop had wanted, but he was resigned now to the fact that, with the preacher leaving in a few days for a missions conference, that wouldn't be possible. But Troyer had vouched solidly for the professor, and the bishop had taken him at his word. The deacons had agreed. They would place their trust in Professor Branden if Troyer would assure them that they could do so. If not for that, the Bishop would have driven home and closed his doors, resolved to ride it out alone, without the aid of any English at all.
But, as he walked to his buggy, the bishop's hopefulness began to fade. Whatever else, wasn't Cal Troyer still one of de Hochen, the high ones, the "English"? Wasn't he of the proud people, not the plain? Not of our people, unser Leut. And if not plain, then perhaps not entirely trustworthy. He turned at his buggy and glanced back at Troyer on the steps of the small meeting house. A line from the Liedersammlung song book came to the bishop's mind. "Demut ist de schönste Tugend"; humility is the most beautiful virtue. He gazed a moment longer at Troyer and was reassured by what he saw. Cal Troyer was not schtolz, not proud. Rather, he was possessed of deep humility. Staring at Troyer from the seat of his buggy, Bishop Miller resolved finally to rest his hopes in the hands of Professor Michael Branden, on the word of this humble country preacher, the least prideful of all de Hochen the bishop had knowna fitting resolution of their dilemma, considering that all of their trials had begun, nine years ago, with the death of little Jeremiah's mother, the most profane of all de Hochen the bishop had ever known.
Thursday, June 18
A MILE or so south of Millersburg, in the wooded hill country sheltering the largest Amish settlements of Ohio, Cal Troyer eased his truck over the berm onto an isolated lane and dropped into a hidden glade near a long forgotten farm pond. Tranquil glens tucked away in nearly every corner of Holmes County hold spectacular bass ponds, made available to only a select few, and those few almost exclusively Amish. This particular pond, stocked years ago with fingerlings, had been fished by only Pastor Caleb Troyer and Professor Michael Branden.
They had acquired the privilege while working for a farmer who could not otherwise have paid them. "Working a case," as the professor's wife Caroline liked to tease. It had concerned a chemical problem with fertilizers used on a nearby English farm, plus runoff disputes, and the EPA. Children had taken sick. Farmers in the valley had been blamed. The EPA, it developed, had been wrong, at the cost of several livelihoods.
The bass pond had been Branden's idea. He and Cal Troyer would accept no fees. But, in return for their help, they would fish the pond for life. The land would never be sold without provision for this.
Cal dropped the truck into low and chuckled, thinking it no surprise to find Mike Branden fishing here, today, working the far edges of the pond with a spinner bait. Troyer parked in tall weeds at the tree line, eased himself out of his rusty truck, and leaned back against the hood, watching, his short arms folded across his chest. His thoughts drifted to the first summer they had spent here, and his eyes turned up to the dilapidated farm house on the hill.
Branden cast into the shallows at the opposite edge of the pond and retrieved the spinner quickly, churning its blade just beneath the surface. At a point where the color suggested deeper water, a surge erupted under the spinner, and the bait jerked sideways under the impact of a strike. He played the bass on his arching rod, brought it steadily to him, lipped it with his thumb and forefinger, and held it up for Troyer, who acknowledged it with a wave, as Branden extracted the hook with a quick twist and tossed the fish back into the pond.
As Cal watched, Branden worked around the pond toward him, casting into each irregularity at the bank. He cast over weeds, tree roots, and stumps, the sport completely absorbing him. Here, nothing of Branden's academic life could reach into his mind. Neither the petty politics of academia nor the inflated egos of his colleagues. No pressure from the administration for speeches to rich alumni groups. No endowment headaches. No urgent phone calls from the dean. No manuscripts to review. No campus mail. No committees.
Today, he had nearly managed to forget the Federal Express envelope that lay unopened on his desk. A phone call yesterday from a southern university had prepared him. He was to be offered an endowed chair in the history department. Prestige and money he'd never known. Reduced classroom duties. "An escape from the small college arena" was how they had worded it. Now Branden wondered if he was obliged even to open the envelope.
To open it would, perhaps, prove altogether too complicated. Caroline was strong again. They had buried two children, now, each miscarried without warning, and he and Caroline had sunk their roots deep into Millersburg during their grieving. People like Cal Troyer and Sheriff Bruce Robertson, both childhood friends of Branden, had helped them carry their burden of sorrow and loss, and slowly the void in their lives had filled somewhat, and healed over. So the question for him wasn't about prestige and money, anymore. At one time it might have been. Not now. Still the offer lay on his desk, and sooner or later Caroline would hear of it. Then the question would be, would it matter to her?
Branden glanced with a smile across the small pond at Cal Troyer. Branden knew that Cal would have his gear out soon. But not too soon. First Cal'd simply watch. See how they were hitting. Then, when he was ready, he'd have a go. They had fished summers together since they were boys, and, over the years, they had developed an abiding competition. Biggest bass. Most bass. First bass. Last bass. In this, at middle age, they were still precious little more than boys.
How long till Cal noticed that the strikes were falling short today, Branden wondered. Short strikes that hit only the trailing skirts of his lures. The first hour had brought him no luck. Then he had solved the puzzle. The bass were on an early spawn and striking territorially, not feeding. So he had trimmed the skirts back, added a stinger hook, and scored half a dozen in as many minutes. As he worked toward Cal, he bagged two more and released them.
At the pastor's truck, Branden leaned against the hood next to Cal. "I thought maybe you weren't coming," Branden said.
"Just held up, is all," Cal replied. He studied Branden's lure with unconvincing disinterest, saw the trimmed skirt, tapped the hemostat clamped to Branden's vest, and asked, "Short strikes?" as if it'd be obvious to anyone.
"Not at all," Branden said. Then he shrugged a smile and ambled over to the water.
"You're not fishing, yet," Branden offered. "I know you too well, Cal. Something's on your mind."
Troyer picked up a stone from among the tall weeds that had overgrown the lane next to the pond. He tossed it absently into the water and answered, "It's a missing child."
"About a month."
Branden wound slack line onto his reel. He thought for a moment and then said, "Police aren't involved?"
"It's Old Order Amish," Cal said. "Bishop Eli Miller. One of the strictest in Holmes County, though his sect isn't the most backward in the county. His grandson has turned up missing. He knows who has the boy, just doesn't know where. He wants to meet you."
"How would he know anything about me?"
"I reckon word gets around."
"I reckon you'll have told him something."
"Told him you're a mostly harmless, absent-minded professor who has little better to do in summers than wet an occasional line."
"He'll think me a shirker," Branden complained with a laugh.
"He did say something about idle hands doing the devil's work. So I told him of the various people you've helped over the years."
"All right, we've helped. I could have told him more, but he seemed satisfied."
"I'm supposed to have used my summers to think deep thoughts, write papers, attend conferences, that sort of thing," Branden offered. Then he grinned, held up his pole, and said, "Tenure does have its benefits."
"I leave Tuesday for the missions conference. I can help you get started locally, but that's about it." Cal shrugged and smiled apologetically.
"A missing Amish boy?" Branden asked.
"Moderate Old Order. Weaver branch. One of the strictest bishops."
Branden's gaze drifted to the long-deserted farmhouse on the hill. Gutters sagging, paint chipped, shutters fallen down. "Remember the summer we worked here, Cal?"
Cal nodded silently.
"That case was also tangled up with the Old Order."
Cal held his silence, waited.
Branden mulled it over. After a few minutes, he asked, "And I'm to talk with the bishop?"
Cal nodded. "He'll be at Becks Mills. At the general store in the Doughty Valley, about an hour from now. I'm to bring you there, and then he'll want you to ride with him a spell. He said something cryptic like `in a month, none of this will matter,' so we've only got that much time to find the boy. But, still, the bishop will want to take some time to get to know you, sound you out. It may take a day or two, I don't know. He explained the whole thing to me as if time was short, but I gather he's already sat on his hands a good while, as it is."
Branden thought about that while toying absently with the line on his pole.
Cal explained a little further. "Look, Mike. We've known it was like this with the Old Order since we were kids. It's just the Amish, that's all. He came to me, but he'll accept you. And you know it's flat-out amazing that he's come into town to ask for anyone's help. So I imagine there's more to this case than he's told me. It'll take time before he trusts us enough to bring us all the way in. For now, we're going to have to handle this the Amish way. Say little. Listen a lot."
"And what'll you do while I clatter around in his buggy?"
Cal reached down to Branden's lure, lifted it on the tips of two short fingers, noted where the skirt had been cut, and then grinned and helped himself to the hemostat clipped to Branden's fishing vest.
Meet the Author
Retired college professor P. L. GAUS lives with his wife, Madonna, in Wooster, Ohio.
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Any book you cannot lay down deservea a rating of 5. I thought this book was going one way showing a dark side of the Amish. But it didn't. You like murder, suspense, mystery, then you will want to read this book. This book covers murder of an Amish person who has left the community. Like all parents, Eli, the Bishop, wants his son to return to the Community and prays he does. The grandson - son of Jonah - has been living with his grandfather. But one day the grandson is kidnapped and there is more to the story than you suspect at first. I won't spoil it by giving any away. Jonah has been gone 10 years. He is returning home when he is murdered. The investigation will keep you on your seats. Not what you think. Way more. Ranson, kidnapping, murder, and investigation will keep you reading way into the night. The person who done the murder will be a mystery until clear toward the end. Great read.
Rather than review each of the 7 books in the series, This will be for all of them.. The books are very good, the characters are believable and the mysteries are intriguing. I read the 7 books in 5 days..... ONLY Problem was that two of the books had page problems. They would reach a page and not go any further by swiping the page... I would have to use the "GO TO PAGE" prompt and skip at least one page in order to continue reading.
In "Blood of the Prodigal", P.L. Gaus spends a lot of time in the details. What stands out first is his eye for the setting. He makes the countryside of Holmes county and the plain people who inhabit it genuine, authentic for the reader. For me, the perspective of the book was unique from any I have read before. Written from various points of view from outsiders looking in at the Amish, as the reader I quickly learned these voices were not the main characters.or, at least, I didn't think so. It was through the eyes or voice of a preacher and a professor, outsiders, that the Amish Bishop, his son and grandson came to life. Myself, I have never known much about the culture of the Amish, but interweaved into the mystery were amazing insights into them. The book was obviously well researched and reading about the author, a lot of his knowledge came from living in the area himself. The writing advice to write what you know seems to have paid off in spades for P.L. Gaus. Again, it is the details that shows through, gives the story its real, honest depth. Yet, aside from the elaborate settings and insights into Amish ways this story if definitely a mystery which trickles the details, keeping you turning the pages to know more. I struggled between reading faster to know more and not wanting to miss any of the descriptive writing. The plot was intricate, but not so much that you had trouble keeping up. Gaus did well, created a nice balance between giving me enough new information and withholding enough of the mystery to keep me interested. Great hints were dropped slowly, the pace perfect with the idea created of the fires and frustrations which can be ignited by a simple, but strong faith.
Just discovered this author. Great read, kept me guessing. Hard to put down. Hooked on the entire series.
Blood of the Prodigal by P.L. Gaus is the latest book in the Amish Country mystery series featuring Professor Michael Branden, Pastor Cal Troyer and Sheriff Bruce Robertson. These three childhood friends have remained close in their lives in Millersburg, Ohio, within Amish country. They have used their friendship and various skills in the past to solve mysteries within the area, but they area all tested to their limits when Bishop Eli Miller requests that Cal and Branden locate his grandson Jeremiah who has been taken away by his father Jonah who was put under the ban over ten years ago. The bishop puts several restrictions on their investigation, especially that they not include the police in their search. But when Jonah turns up dead, the investigation is stopped dead, yet Bishop Miller wants them to continue to search for Jeremiah, again without the police. This nearly impossible task is hindered further by the lack of cooperation from the Amish community. Gaus has written a tightly paced mystery that keeps both the readers and the characters guessing. He uses the seclusion of the Amish to good effect, giving their reaction to an FBI agent a touch of humor while keeping it very real. Branden, Cal, and Robertson are all very real characters with fully fleshed personalities and backgrounds. I wish that I had read the previous books in the series, not because they are necessary to enjoy Blood of the Prodigal, but because I want to know the characters better. When the truth behind the mystery is finally exposed, it reveals a terrible tragedy that made my heart ache. This is a terrific series I fully intend to revisit soon.
It began in a small town of Millsburg in the Amish Community of Holmes County. Here the Old Order Amish still reign amid the local English people in keeping their separate lives as they can. Until today. Jonah Miller was part of the Old Order, but what some would call a dreamer of a young student who puts too tight of a roll on his trouser cuffs and ended up living a life of smoking, drinking, fast-living scoundrel who deserted his pregnant girl friend, drove her to suicide, kidnapped his own son ten years later, and is being hunted by his father who shunned him, and by the girl's brother, who has vowed to kill him. The only person who seems to have a clue to what is going on is Bishop Eli Miller who has hired an English professor to find his grandson. His only beginning to his search is a letter that the Bishop has handed him with the promise not to involve the local police and respect the Amish custom for privacy. The note reads: Dear Father. I want my boy to see some of the world. You'll have him back in time for harvest. Do not try to find us. Jonah. Will the Professor be able to locate the Jonah and return his grandson back to the Bishop? Has the boy truly been kidnapped? Who has something to gain by taking Jeremiah from the Bishop? To find out, read the latest novel, Blood of the Prodigal by P.L. Gaus, an Amish Country Mystery. I received this book, compliments of Christian Fiction Blog Alliance for my honest review and must say, I did not see how this one would turn out. I was pleasantly surprises when a great Christian Amish mystery can hold you captive until the very last suspense-filled moment. You'll love this book if you're a fan of Christian, Amish or Mystery Books. This one rates 5 out of 5 stars. This book is the first in a new series of Amish-Country Mystery's and is available in paperback format.
Set in Holmes County, Ohio, we are introduced to a group of "Old Order Amish" or "plain people" who only trust a precious few "English people". When one of the Amish boys disappears the Amish Bishop meets with Professor Michael Branden and Pastor Caleb Troyer, two "English" men he feels he can help locate the boy. The Bishop believes that the boy was taken by his father, the Bishop's son, who had been exiled from the Amish community 10 years ago. The Bishop begs the men to not involve any police as he hopes to get the boy back and settle the matter quickly and quietly. When the man suspected of taking the boy is found dead right down the road from the Bishop's home, the local sheriff starts to investigate the death but is not made aware of the missing boy until 3 days later at the bequest of the Bishop. When the sheriff is given all the information many secrets that the Bishop hoped would remain in the past are revealed. Time then becomes a matter of urgency to try to find the boy before it is too late. I LIKED IT!!!! This story is written by a man with over 30 years of research into the Amish lifestyle and in fact lives just a few miles away from one of the world's largest and most varied settlements of Amish and Mennonite communities and it shows throughout his writing. Just reading this first book in this series I understand so much more about a culture I have found fascinating for years. We have small communities of Amish in Wisconsin but aside from seeing them out shopping from time to time, hearing some stories, reading romance type books featuring "plain people" and seeing the buggies along the highway I really know very little about their lifestyle. This book not only educates us about the Amish culture, it also contains not only one but two mysteries. One who killed the Bishop's son and two who actually has the Bishop's grandson. The author blends the dangers of America today with the Amish way of life totally respecting their values and attitudes. It is truly different from any other book I have read that tries to mesh these two worlds together. I am really looking forward to the next book in the series "Broken English" and if it draws me in like this edition the reading will be a true pleasure. Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Plume Books, A Division of Penguin Publishing. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 : "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
njoyed this quite a bit. Although a quick read, it's an exceptionally smart mystery, and it certainly does an effective job in telling a sound story full of absorbing insights into the Amish way of life. There are intelligent layers within this story, of both the personal lives of the Professor and his wife, but also of the Amish community and the politics of the English living side by side with the Plain People. The characters were exceedingly interesting with each scene (my personal favorites: the Professor, his wife, and Sheriff Robertson), and I was caught up in the mystery of it all. I had no idea who did the kidnapping, who committed murder, until the scenes unfolded before me. P.L. Gaus has combined the surrounding Amish countryside and charming characters into a developed and well-researched journey of a mystery. This is book one in the Amish-Country Mystery series, so there's no doubt that I'm interested to pick up the next one. I also must admit that there were times, especially towards the end, when my throat closed up as I read, and I'm pretty sure if someone asked me a question at that exact moment, or tried to talk with me, I'd have to blink back some tears and collect myself before trying to speak.
In Holmes County, Ohio, the Old Order Amish do not trust the "vain" English neighbors. So it is very surprising to see "plain" folk Bishop Eli Miller asks outsider academic Professor Michael Brandon and Pastor Caleb Troyer for help. A decade ago, Miller excommunicated his son Jonah for leaving an outsider addicted teen pregnant. Jonah's illegitimate son Jeremiah remained in the Amish community living with his paternal grandfather. Now Jonah has abducted his ten year old son Jeremiah and Miller is very worried about the lad. Jonah sends a note to his father that he will return the child by the harvest. Meanwhile Joshua's maternal Uncle Jeff Hostettler, whose sister committed suicide, has vowed to murder Jonah who he blames for his sibling's death. Someone kills Jonah, who was dressed in Amish clothing that seemed to imply he was going to ask for a second chance. The police suspect Hostettler, who threatened to murder the victim, but Brandon is more concerned with where is the missing Jeremiah? The key to the reprint of the first Amish Country Mystery (hopefully the others will follow) is the comparison of various faiths in which Paul L. Gaus displays a strong respect for all. The twin mysteries of the murder and the missing grandson enhance the overall look at modern day (circa 1999) the Amish lifestyle compared with those of the Mennonites and English living side by side sharing a county in Ohio. Readers will relish this entertaining amateur sleuth. Harriet Klausner
very good read!!
This is a well written book that develops the story quite well. It is a mystery that keeps one guessing right up to the end. P L Gaus has written more books with some of these main characters and they are most interesting.