I take the long way back to Painters Mill and cruise past Abigail Kline’s farm. I’m only mildly surprised when I see three Amish quilts hanging on the old-fashioned clothesline in the front yard. When I spoke to her yesterday, she denied having any quilts on hand. Did she think I wouldn’t drive past and notice them? Is she selling them for someone else? Or did she make them? If so, why would she lie about something so seemingly benign?

I pull into the driveway and park in the same spot I did the day before. Instead of going to the front door, I start toward the quilts flapping in the breeze. The first is a traditional broken-star pattern with a striking color combination of sage green, teal, and purple on a backdrop of taupe. Even with my unqualified eye, I can see the required seven stitches per inch and the kind of intricate piercing that achieves perfect points.

I turn up corners of the quilt until I find what I’m looking for. The letters “A.K.” embroidered in the fabric. The initials of the quilter. The initials of Abigail Kline. The same initials on the quilt I saw hanging on the wall in Sue and Vern Nolt’s house. Abigail Kaufman. Are they one and the same?

“Are you looking to buy a quilt, Chief Burkholder?”

I turn at the sound of Abigail Kline’s voice. She’s standing between me and the Crown Vic, a bushel basket propped on her hip.

“I suspect they’re probably out of my price range,” I tell her.

“They do bring a pretty penny.” After a brief hesitation, she starts toward me. She’s dressed much the same as she was last time we spoke. Drab gray dress. Black sneakers. Head covered with an organdy kapp.

“My mamm taught me to quilt. Started when I was all of six years old. She told me I was born with the gift.” She runs her hand over the quilt as if she’s touching her firstborn child and gives a wistful smile. “I’ve had a needle in my hand since before I can even remember.”

“I made one or two when I was younger,” I tell her, “but I was never very good at it.”

“It takes patience.”

“And talent,” I point out.

She smiles at the compliment. “By the time I was twelve, my mamm was telling all the women I was a better quilter than her.” She laughs. “I was, too, though I’d never admit to it. I guess it’s a good thing I love to sew. Keeps the hands busy and a little cash in the cookie jar.”

She sets the basket on the ground at her feet. I look down to see it’s full of dandelion greens with a few weeds mixed in. I motion toward it. “Now that brings back memories,” I tell her.