“Has something happened?” Her smile falters, pretty green eyes sharpening on mine. “One of my children? Has someone—”

“No one’s been hurt,” I assure her.

She breathes a sigh of relief. “I guess it’s a mother’s job to worry, even after they’ve grown up. Especially after they’ve grown up.” She laughs at herself again. “And Jeramy’s parents are getting up in years. I thought maybe…” She lets the words trail as if the notion is too unpleasant to utter aloud. “We’ve been trying to get them to sell their farm and move here with us, but—” She stops herself. “Here I am blabbing on, when you’ve driven all the way from Painters Mill.”

“I’m here about an old case I’m working on,” I tell her. “A young man who went missing back in 1985.”

“Who?”

“A local man by the name of Leroy Nolt.”

Abigail picks up the hem of her apron and begins to wring the material between her hands. “I can’t imagine what that would have to do with me.”

“Do you know him?” I ask.

Her hands go still. Her eyes remain level on mine. Her lips maintain the smile. There’s no flicker of recognition. No outward sign of emotion. It’s a completely normal and expected reaction of a woman who has no earthly idea who Leroy Nolt is or why I’m asking about him. But while everything about her is calm and relaxed, her white-knuckled grip on the hem of her apron gives me pause.

Her brows knit. She repeats the name, her eyes moving upward as if she’s searching her memory. “The name is familiar, but I don’t quite recall where I’ve heard it.”

“Maybe you knew him a long time ago? Before you were married?”

“I don’t think so,” she says simply.

I nod, take a moment to look around and admire the peacefulness of the farm. “You and your husband have a beautiful home here.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you a quilter, Mrs. Kline?”

Her mouth opens as if she’s wondering how I could know that, so I move to put her at ease. “I noticed the sign when I pulled in.”

“Oh.” She emits a chuckle. “I don’t know where my mind is today.”

“On the tomatoes, probably.”

My response seems to put her at ease. “I do enjoy making quilts. God blessed me with the gift, so I do my best to put it to good use.”

“Do you have any for sale?”

“I sold the last one a couple of days ago to a nice tourist from Cleveland. I hope to have another finished by the end of the month. Are you looking for a particular pattern?”

I shake my head. “Just something pretty. I’ll have to come back, then.” I wait a beat and then ask, “Your maiden name was Kaufman, is that correct?”