She cocks her head. “What does this have to do with us? We’re not missing any family members.”
“I heard your daughter, Abigail, used to see a young man by the name of Leroy Nolt.” I don’t know that to be fact, but I put it out there to see if it conjures a response.
“I don’t know where you heard that, Chief Burkholder, but Abby never had eyes for anyone but Jeramy Kline.”
I shrug. “Sometimes children do things without their parents’ knowledge.”
“Not Abby. She was a good girl.” She looks at her husband. “In fact, I don’t know anyone by the name of Nolt. That’s a Mennonite name, isn’t it, Reuben?”
He gives a barely discernible nod. But the old man’s eyes are sharp on mine, and for the first time I realize that while his body was devastated by the stroke, his mind is crystal clear.
Naomi sips her tea, studying me over the rim of her glass. “What makes you think our Abigail knew this Nolt boy?”
“Since this is an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Kaufman, I can’t get into the details just yet.”
She laughs and pats her husband’s hand. “Well, that’s the police for you. Not as forthcoming as they should be.” She cocks her head and her expression turns knowing. “I remember you now. You’re the one who left.” Nodding, she touches her temple. “Takes me a while these days, but I never forget a name.”
I don’t take the bait, instead, I turn my attention to Reuben. “What about you, Mr. Kaufman? Did you know Leroy Nolt? Did he ever do any work for you? Around the farm, maybe?”
The man gives a minute shake of his head and mouths a single word: No.
Naomi looks at me, triumphant. “See?”
CHAPTER 17
I take the long way back to Painters Mill and cruise past Abigail Kline’s farm. I’m only mildly surprised when I see three Amish quilts hanging on the old-fashioned clothesline in the front yard. When I spoke to her yesterday, she denied having any quilts on hand. Did she think I wouldn’t drive past and notice them? Is she selling them for someone else? Or did she make them? If so, why would she lie about something so seemingly benign?
I pull into the driveway and park in the same spot I did the day before. Instead of going to the front door, I start toward the quilts flapping in the breeze. The first is a traditional broken-star pattern with a striking color combination of sage green, teal, and purple on a backdrop of taupe. Even with my unqualified eye, I can see the required seven stitches per inch and the kind of intricate piercing that achieves perfect points.
I turn up corners of the quilt until I find what I’m looking for. The letters “A.K.” embroidered in the fabric. The initials of the quilter. The initials of Abigail Kline. The same initials on the quilt I saw hanging on the wall in Sue and Vern Nolt’s house. Abigail Kaufman. Are they one and the same?
“Are you looking to buy a quilt, Chief Burkholder?”
I turn at the sound of Abigail Kline’s voice. She’s standing between me and the Crown Vic, a bushel basket propped on her hip.
“I suspect they’re probably out of my price range,” I tell her.
“They do bring a pretty penny.” After a brief hesitation, she starts toward me. She’s dressed much the same as she was last time we spoke. Drab gray dress. Black sneakers. Head covered with an organdy kapp.
“My mamm taught me to quilt. Started when I was all of six years old. She told me I was born with the gift.” She runs her hand over the quilt as if she’s touching her firstborn child and gives a wistful smile. “I’ve had a needle in my hand since before I can even remember.”
“I made one or two when I was younger,” I tell her, “but I was never very good at it.”
“It takes patience.”
“And talent,” I point out.
She smiles at the compliment. “By the time I was twelve, my mamm was telling all the women I was a better quilter than her.” She laughs. “I was, too, though I’d never admit to it. I guess it’s a good thing I love to sew. Keeps the hands busy and a little cash in the cookie jar.”
She sets the basket on the ground at her feet. I look down to see it’s full of dandelion greens with a few weeds mixed in. I motion toward it. “Now that brings back memories,” I tell her.
“They’re at their best in early spring, but still good now.”
“My mamm used to make them with bacon and vinegar.”
“Good on a salad, too, if you like them raw.”
“I do.”
We stand there a moment, admiring the quilts in silence, enjoying the breeze. “You told me yesterday you didn’t have any quilts,” I say.
She looks over her shoulder toward the house but doesn’t respond.
I follow her gaze, and for the first time I notice the buggy is gone. “Your husband is away?”
“He went up to Keim Lumber for some wood.” She laughs. “I suspect he’ll come back with more goats.”