“Yes.” Her eyes narrow on mine. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you initial the quilts you make?”

Her expression goes wary. “Sometimes. A lot of the Amish do.”

“Did you ever make a quilt for Leroy Nolt?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but several seconds pass before the word comes. “No.”

“What about his mother? Sue Nolt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She takes a deep breath, and I realize she’s making an effort to calm herself. “Why are you asking about people I don’t even know?” she asks in a low voice, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear.

I pull out the photo of the engagement ring and show it to her. “Have you ever seen this ring before, Mrs. Kline?”

She stares at the photo. Mouth open. Eyelids fluttering. Then she seems to gather herself and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can help you,” she tells me. “I’m sorry.”

I’m not sure I believe her, but I nod. “Is your husband home?”

“Yes, but he’s in the—”

“I’m right here,” a deep male voice calls out.

Refolding the photo, I tuck it into my pocket and turn. Jeramy Kline is about twenty feet away, crossing the side yard, closing in on us with long, purposeful strides. He’s wearing black trousers and a gray work shirt. His beard is long, reaching nearly to his belly, thick and wiry, black shot with gray. He’s a large man, well over six feet tall and weighing in somewhere around two hundred pounds, with a muscular physique and hands the size of dinner plates. His eyes are shaded by the black, flat-brimmed hat. Though I can’t see them, I feel them on me.

“Is everything all right?” he asks as he reaches us.

“I was just asking your wife some routine questions about an old case I’m working on.” I extend my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill Police.”

He gives my hand a thorough shake. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m wondering if you know a man by the name of Leroy Nolt.”

“Leroy Nolt.” His eyes narrow, crow’s feet appearing at the corners. “The boy who disappeared way back. I remember the name.”

“Did you know him?”

“I know of him. But I don’t believe I ever met him. He was Mennischt.” Mennonite. He grimaces as if it pains him to say the word, and I’m reminded that many times in the Amish culture, the more liberal Anabaptists are frowned upon by the Old Order Swartzentruber Amish. “It was big news when he went missing all those years ago,” he says. “I remember reading about it in The Budget.”