The young woman bursts out laughing, catches herself, and puts her hand over her mouth. But I can tell by the way her eyes are lit up that she appreciates good Amish humor.

“How can I help you, Kate Burkholder?” she asks.

“I probably need to speak with one of the other ladies, if they’re not too busy,” I say loud enough for the women to hear.

A plump woman of about forty anchors her needle and sets her fabric on the table in front of her. Scooting back her chair, she rises, her eyes holding mine as she starts toward me. She’s a large, solidly built woman and moves like a battleship, shoulders back, chin up, her practical shoes clomping against the wood-plank floor.

“Wei geth’s alleweil, Katie Burkholder?” How goes it now?

She’s got a voice like a chainsaw. I’ve seen her around town, but I feel as if I’m at a slight disadvantage because I don’t remember her name. “Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good.

She dismisses the younger woman with a cool look. The girl slinks from behind the counter and walks to the table, where she goes back to her stitching.

“I’m Martha Yoder,” she says, sizing me up, not sure if she likes what she sees. “We met at the Carriage Stop a couple of years back.”

“Good to see you again, Martha.” We shake hands. “I’m working on a case,” I begin, speaking loudly enough for the other women to hear. “I’m looking for an Amish woman, a quilter or seamstress with the initials ‘A.K.’ She made an heirloom-quality quilt back in 1985 and embroidered her initials in the corner.”

“What’d she do?” whispers the young woman who’d been behind the counter when I walked in.

The question earns her a sneer from the woman sitting next to her.

“What was the pattern?” one of the other women asks.

“Center star,” I tell her. “The colors are unusual, mauve and cream and black.”

“A.K.” Martha’s brows knit. “Hmm. Let me think.” She glances over her shoulder at the women and asks in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Who was it that used to use all that pink the Englischer tourists like so much? Anna? Ada? She’s from down south, I think. Always got a pretty penny for her quilts.”

A tiny woman with silver hair and rheumy blue eyes looks up from her needlework. “Little Abby Kline used to use a lot of pink. Been known to add her initials to her work, too. I’ve known her since the day the Lord brought her into this world. That girl’s been making quilts since she was nine years old.”

A second woman straightens and levels her gaze on me. “Almost forgot about little Abby. I made a wedding quilt for her when she married Jeramy Kline. Gosh, that’s been thirty years ago now.”