Beside him, his wife has gone silent. I glance at her to see that she’s fingering her apron again, looking over at the tomato plants as if she’s wishing she were anywhere but standing here talking to me.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Of course I’m sure.” He tips his head. I can see his eyes now. They’re blue and glinting with keen intelligence. “I’m wondering why you drove all the way down here to ask us about Nolt.”

I consider telling him about the remains and the quilt emblazoned with initials the same as his wife’s, but I decide not to. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case yet, Mr. Kline. I hope to be able to do that soon.”

Before either of them can respond, I offer my hand for another shake. “I appreciate your time.” I glance at Abigail and motion toward the garden. “Good luck with those tomatoes.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later I’m northbound on Ohio 83 just east of Lake Buckhorn, my mind going over my odd exchange with Abigail Kline. I’m pretty sure she was lying about Leroy Nolt. I think she knew him. I believe she made that quilt for him. And I’m damn sure she knew something about the ring. But why would she lie about any of those things? Does she know what happened to him? Was she somehow involved in his death? Has she been keeping the knowledge to herself for thirty years?

The questions tap at my brain like a reflex hammer against bone. There’s something there—secrets, I think. But I don’t know what they are or how they relate to the case.

Tugging on my headset, I call dispatch. “Jodie, can you get me the names of Jeramy Kline’s parents?” I think about that a moment. “Abigail Kline’s, too. Her maiden name was Kaufman.” I spell the last names for her. “Get me addresses. Run them through LEADS, including Jeramy and Abigail. And check to see if any of the elders are on the hog-raisers list.”

“You got it.” She pauses. “You on your way in?”

I glance to my left, where Lake Buckhorn shimmers silver and green. Beyond, I see the lush rise of trees through the haze of humidity coming off the water. And I find myself thinking about Tomasetti.

“I’m going to call it a day,” I tell her. “Just leave everything in the file, and I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”

*   *   *