“I’m right here,” a deep male voice calls out.
Refolding the photo, I tuck it into my pocket and turn. Jeramy Kline is about twenty feet away, crossing the side yard, closing in on us with long, purposeful strides. He’s wearing black trousers and a gray work shirt. His beard is long, reaching nearly to his belly, thick and wiry, black shot with gray. He’s a large man, well over six feet tall and weighing in somewhere around two hundred pounds, with a muscular physique and hands the size of dinner plates. His eyes are shaded by the black, flat-brimmed hat. Though I can’t see them, I feel them on me.
“Is everything all right?” he asks as he reaches us.
“I was just asking your wife some routine questions about an old case I’m working on.” I extend my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill Police.”
He gives my hand a thorough shake. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m wondering if you know a man by the name of Leroy Nolt.”
“Leroy Nolt.” His eyes narrow, crow’s feet appearing at the corners. “The boy who disappeared way back. I remember the name.”
“Did you know him?”
“I know of him. But I don’t believe I ever met him. He was Mennischt.” Mennonite. He grimaces as if it pains him to say the word, and I’m reminded that many times in the Amish culture, the more liberal Anabaptists are frowned upon by the Old Order Swartzentruber Amish. “It was big news when he went missing all those years ago,” he says. “I remember reading about it in The Budget.”
Beside him, his wife has gone silent. I glance at her to see that she’s fingering her apron again, looking over at the tomato plants as if she’s wishing she were anywhere but standing here talking to me.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Of course I’m sure.” He tips his head. I can see his eyes now. They’re blue and glinting with keen intelligence. “I’m wondering why you drove all the way down here to ask us about Nolt.”
I consider telling him about the remains and the quilt emblazoned with initials the same as his wife’s, but I decide not to. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case yet, Mr. Kline. I hope to be able to do that soon.”
Before either of them can respond, I offer my hand for another shake. “I appreciate your time.” I glance at Abigail and motion toward the garden. “Good luck with those tomatoes.”
*
Ten minutes later I’m northbound on Ohio 83 just east of Lake Buckhorn, my mind going over my odd exchange with Abigail Kline. I’m pretty sure she was lying about Leroy Nolt. I think she knew him. I believe she made that quilt for him. And I’m damn sure she knew something about the ring. But why would she lie about any of those things? Does she know what happened to him? Was she somehow involved in his death? Has she been keeping the knowledge to herself for thirty years?
The questions tap at my brain like a reflex hammer against bone. There’s something there—secrets, I think. But I don’t know what they are or how they relate to the case.
Tugging on my headset, I call dispatch. “Jodie, can you get me the names of Jeramy Kline’s parents?” I think about that a moment. “Abigail Kline’s, too. Her maiden name was Kaufman.” I spell the last names for her. “Get me addresses. Run them through LEADS, including Jeramy and Abigail. And check to see if any of the elders are on the hog-raisers list.”
“You got it.” She pauses. “You on your way in?”
I glance to my left, where Lake Buckhorn shimmers silver and green. Beyond, I see the lush rise of trees through the haze of humidity coming off the water. And I find myself thinking about Tomasetti.
“I’m going to call it a day,” I tell her. “Just leave everything in the file, and I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”
*