I stand and extend my hand for a shake. “I appreciate your coming in to talk to me, Ms. Stelinski. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”

* * *

Willis and Miriam Fisher live off a dirt road a few miles east of Charm. The house and barn are plain, but picture pretty and well kept. A massive elm tree stands sentinel in the front yard. I park behind an Amish wagon loaded with hay, grab the evidence bags containing the rattle and quilt, and take the sidewalk to the front door. I knock and wait. Frustration presses into me when there’s no answer. I’m in the process of leaving a note when I hear the clip-clop of shod hooves against hard-packed dirt. I turn to see a black buggy pull into the gravel lane.

Tucking the half-written note into my pocket, I leave the porch and meet them in the driveway. “Guder nochmiddawks,” I tell them. Good afternoon.

An Amish man with a shaggy red beard slides from the buggy. He’s about fifty years of age, wearing a blue work shirt, dark trousers with suspenders, and a frayed black coat. His eyes are the color of a cornflower. As I draw closer, I sense those eyes had once been full of good humor and maybe a joke or two. Today, they’re shadowed with the grief of a parent who’s lost a child.

“Mr. Fisher?”

“That’s me,” he says.

I identify myself and offer my hand for a shake. He gives it two firm pumps, eyeing me, and I realize he’s just figured out I was one of the police officers here the day his son was killed.

The woman who’d been sitting beside him comes around the front of the horse and approaches. I nod and offer a smile. “You must be Mrs. Fisher?”

She smiles back. But I can tell it’s a habit borne of politeness. A sense of sorrow hangs in the air like a pall.

“Please call me Miriam,” the woman says.

“What can we do for you, Chief Burkholder?” Willis Fisher asks.

“I’m working on a case,” I begin. “Would you mind answering a few questions? It’s about your son.”

The Amish man’s eyes narrow. “What kind of questions could you possibly have about a dead boy? Did he do something wrong?”

His wife reaches out and pats his arm. “Willis.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I know it must be difficult for you.”

“We miss him every day,” Miriam tells me. “His voice. His smile. The way he used to slam the screen door in the kitchen.”

“We find comfort knowing Noah is with the Lord,” her husband says. But the Amish man looks anything but comforted.

I hold up the evidence bag containing the rattle. “Do either of you recognize this?”

Willis’s eyes flick to the rattle. His mouth opens slightly. A quiver runs the length of his body.

“Oh, my.” Miriam looks from the rattle to me. “May I?”

I hand her the bag. Removing a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket, she slides them onto her nose. “Noah made this.” She runs her fingers over the smooth wood. “I’m sure of it. He was a fine carver. He could make anything he set his mind to. Where did this come from?”