“I promise not to leave anything out of place.”

Giving me a decisive nod, she gets to her feet. “I’ll fetch our coffee.”

* * *

I begin my search with the trousers hanging on the dowel next to the window, but the pockets are empty. I check the windowsill, behind the curtains, but it’s bare. I look beneath the cushion on the rocking chair in the corner. Next, I go to the neatly made bed. I peel back the vintage quilt and look beneath the pillow. I squeeze the stuffing, but there’s nothing inside, either. I look under the bed and randomly check for loose floorboards. There’s nothing there. Nothing tucked between the box springs and the frame. Finally, I slide my hands beneath the mattress. My fingertips brush something hard. At first I think it’s a board someone added to shore up the frame for support. But the object is small and plastic. I know it’s a cell phone even before I pull it out.

“What on earth is that?”

I look up to see Miriam standing at the door, a mug in each hand. “I found a cell phone,” I tell her. “Under the mattress.”

“Oh, my.” She bites her lip. “I didn’t know he had one.”

It’s an old-fashioned flip phone. The kind you can buy at any discount department or electronics store. “Any idea where it came from?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Too many Amish youngsters are using the phones these days.”

“Do you mind if I take it back to the station with me?” I ask. “I’d like to find out who he talked to.”

“I have no use for a phone. But since it belonged to Noah, I’d appreciate it if you brought it back.”

“Of course I will,” I assure her.

* * *

Back at the police station, I take the phone directly to my office and flip it open. The first thing I notice is that while it has the capability to send and receive texts, Noah Fisher didn’t utilize either. I page through the recent calls, sent and received, and I immediately notice nearly all the calls were to or from a local number, right here in Painters Mill.

Bingo.

If Noah Fisher were still alive and suspected of committing a crime, I’d have to secure a search warrant before looking through his cell phone to collect information. Since Noah is deceased and I received express permission from his mother, I’m free to use whatever information I find.

Picking up my desk phone, I dial the number in question. A girl’s voice picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

Young, I think. Teenager. Possibly pre-teen. “Hi,” I begin. “I’m trying to figure out if I dialed the correct number.” I recite the number back to her. “Who’s this?”

“Chloe,” she replies uncertainly. “Who are you trying to reach?”

“What’s your last name, Chloe?”

She makes a sound of annoyance. “Why are you asking me that? How did you get that phone?”