“I didn’t mean to startle you.” I reach her and show her my badge, nodding at the carefully staked tomato plants. “Looks like they’ll be ripe in a few weeks.”
“A month, probably. If the worms don’t get them first.” She smiles and then whispers conspiratorially, “And if I didn’t have such a weakness for fried green tomatoes.”
“You and me both.” Returning her smile, I offer my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police up in Painters Mill.”
“Hello, Kate Burkholder.” Her grip is firm. She’s got strong hands for a woman, and her palms are well callused from hours of manual labor.
I guess her to be in her late forties. She’s got a tanned, youthful face with freckles on her nose and the quick, contagious smile of a woman who’s comfortable with who she is and content with her life. She’s wearing a homemade navy dress, black apron, and black sneakers, with an organdy kapp. She’s a few inches taller than me. Despite the plainness of her clothes, I can see that her figure is trim and athletic.
“Do you have a few minutes to talk, Mrs. Kline?” I begin.
“Has something happened?” Her smile falters, pretty green eyes sharpening on mine. “One of my children? Has someone—”
“No one’s been hurt,” I assure her.
She breathes a sigh of relief. “I guess it’s a mother’s job to worry, even after they’ve grown up. Especially after they’ve grown up.” She laughs at herself again. “And Jeramy’s parents are getting up in years. I thought maybe…” She lets the words trail as if the notion is too unpleasant to utter aloud. “We’ve been trying to get them to sell their farm and move here with us, but—” She stops herself. “Here I am blabbing on, when you’ve driven all the way from Painters Mill.”
“I’m here about an old case I’m working on,” I tell her. “A young man who went missing back in 1985.”
“Who?”
“A local man by the name of Leroy Nolt.”
Abigail picks up the hem of her apron and begins to wring the material between her hands. “I can’t imagine what that would have to do with me.”
“Do you know him?” I ask.
Her hands go still. Her eyes remain level on mine. Her lips maintain the smile. There’s no flicker of recognition. No outward sign of emotion. It’s a completely normal and expected reaction of a woman who has no earthly idea who Leroy Nolt is or why I’m asking about him. But while everything about her is calm and relaxed, her white-knuckled grip on the hem of her apron gives me pause.
Her brows knit. She repeats the name, her eyes moving upward as if she’s searching her memory. “The name is familiar, but I don’t quite recall where I’ve heard it.”
“Maybe you knew him a long time ago? Before you were married?”
“I don’t think so,” she says simply.
I nod, take a moment to look around and admire the peacefulness of the farm. “You and your husband have a beautiful home here.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you a quilter, Mrs. Kline?”
Her mouth opens as if she’s wondering how I could know that, so I move to put her at ease. “I noticed the sign when I pulled in.”
“Oh.” She emits a chuckle. “I don’t know where my mind is today.”
“On the tomatoes, probably.”
My response seems to put her at ease. “I do enjoy making quilts. God blessed me with the gift, so I do my best to put it to good use.”
“Do you have any for sale?”
“I sold the last one a couple of days ago to a nice tourist from Cleveland. I hope to have another finished by the end of the month. Are you looking for a particular pattern?”
I shake my head. “Just something pretty. I’ll have to come back, then.” I wait a beat and then ask, “Your maiden name was Kaufman, is that correct?”
“Yes.” Her eyes narrow on mine. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you initial the quilts you make?”
Her expression goes wary. “Sometimes. A lot of the Amish do.”
“Did you ever make a quilt for Leroy Nolt?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but several seconds pass before the word comes. “No.”
“What about his mother? Sue Nolt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” She takes a deep breath, and I realize she’s making an effort to calm herself. “Why are you asking about people I don’t even know?” she asks in a low voice, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear.
I pull out the photo of the engagement ring and show it to her. “Have you ever seen this ring before, Mrs. Kline?”
She stares at the photo. Mouth open. Eyelids fluttering. Then she seems to gather herself and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can help you,” she tells me. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not sure I believe her, but I nod. “Is your husband home?”
“Yes, but he’s in the—”