“Damn.” Shaking his head, he whistles. “Never would have pegged her for murdering her husband. I mean with her being Amish and all.”

“The Amish have all the same weaknesses as the rest of us,” I say. “Including the human capacity for violence.”

*   *   *

T.J. and I arrive at the Kline farm to find the place bustling with activity and a Coshocton County sheriff’s cruiser parked on the shoulder a few yards from the driveway. I recognize the deputy immediately as Fowler Hodges and pull up next to his car.

“Hi, Folly.”

“Hey, Chief. I just got dispatched. Sheriff said you’ve got a search warrant?”

I tell him about finding pokeweed in the wicker basket.

“So you think Mrs. Kline offed her old man?” he asks.

“I think it’s a possibility.”

“Well that’d be a shocker.” His eyes slide toward the house. “You expect any trouble from these people?”

“No.” I sigh. “Might be best if I serve the warrant, though. I’ll keep it as low-key as possible.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” He motions toward the gravel lane. “After you.”

Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull into the driveway. Ahead, four black, windowless buggies are parked in a row on the shoulder. The horses stand with their rear legs cocked and their heads down, grabbing a snooze while they have the chance. The teenage Amish boy tending them eyes me suspiciously as I park behind the buggies. I get out and give him a nod, but he looks away. I glance to my side to see Folly get out of his cruiser. He doesn’t approach the house but saunters to the front of the vehicle and leans against the hood.

T.J. and I start toward the house. Four young children play on the tractor tire hanging from a tree branch in the side yard. On the other side of the front porch, two twenty-something Amish women kneel, chattering and tossing freshly pulled weeds onto a growing pile of compost. Two Amish men stand at the barn door, one with a pitchfork in hand, the other puffing a pipe, gray smoke curling into the air. Their eyes are in shadow from their flat-brimmed hats, but I feel their gazes follow us as we take the sidewalk to the house.

On the porch, I find a tiny elderly woman vigorously sweeping dirt into a dustpan. Her hands are misshapen with arthritis, her knuckles a mass of purple and white knots.

“Guder mariye.” I wish her a good morning as I ascend the steps.

The old woman straightens and gives T.J. and me an unhurried once over. “Guder mariye.”

I spot the wicker basket beneath the chair. The pokeweed is still inside. I try not to look at it as I address the woman. “Is Abigail home?”

She looks at me as if I’m dense. “What do the English police want with her at a time like this?”