Abigail and Jeramy Kline live on County Road 19 just south of the Holmes County line. It’s a hilly, curvy road that cuts through farmland and forest and is bordered by a guardrail that’s seen more than its fair share of collisions. The house and barn are close to the road, by Amish standards anyway, and are set into a slope. At the mouth of the driveway, a hand-lettered sign tells me FRESH BROWN EGGS. AMISH QUILTS. (NO SUNDAY SALE!) Towering trees surround the plain farmhouse to my left. Ahead is a cornfield with razor-straight rows of corn that’s already hip high. In the yard, a tractor tire on a rope dangles from the branch of a maple. The barn is white with a cinder-block foundation lined with a profusion of hostas. In a small pen adjacent to a shedrow, a sleek Standardbred mare reaches through a broken rail to nibble grass already shorn to dirt. Beneath the overhang of the shedrow, a black windowless buggy with wood-and-steel wheels is parked, its twin shafts resting on concrete blocks, and I’m reminded that this family is Swartzentruber.

I park adjacent to the house and take the sidewalk to the porch. I’m about to knock, when I spot the Amish woman hoeing in the garden to my left. I leave the porch and start toward her. She’s so intent on her work she doesn’t notice me, so I call out to her. “It looks like you’re going to have a bumper crop of tomatoes this year.”

She startles and nearly drops the hoe, pressing her hand to her chest and then laughing at herself. “Oh my goodness! I didn’t see you pull up.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” I reach her and show her my badge, nodding at the carefully staked tomato plants. “Looks like they’ll be ripe in a few weeks.”

“A month, probably. If the worms don’t get them first.” She smiles and then whispers conspiratorially, “And if I didn’t have such a weakness for fried green tomatoes.”

“You and me both.” Returning her smile, I offer my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police up in Painters Mill.”

“Hello, Kate Burkholder.” Her grip is firm. She’s got strong hands for a woman, and her palms are well callused from hours of manual labor.

I guess her to be in her late forties. She’s got a tanned, youthful face with freckles on her nose and the quick, contagious smile of a woman who’s comfortable with who she is and content with her life. She’s wearing a homemade navy dress, black apron, and black sneakers, with an organdy kapp. She’s a few inches taller than me. Despite the plainness of her clothes, I can see that her figure is trim and athletic.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk, Mrs. Kline?” I begin.