I trail Naomi to the kitchen, where she goes to the sink and hangs a towel on a hook set into the cabinet above. A cast iron Dutch oven sits atop the stove, the lid rattling as the steam escapes. A plastic glass filled with what looks like iced tea sits on the table, sweating droplets onto the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth. I open the back door and glance around the rear porch, but there’s no sign anyone has been there. Naomi follows me out of the kitchen and back to the living room. I go to the stairs, take them two at a time to the second level. The Amish woman calls out to me, but I don’t stop.

Something nags at me as I check the three upstairs bedrooms and the bathroom, as if I’ve missed something. I stop in the hall, trying to call forth the niggling sensation stuck in the corner of my brain, but nothing materializes. I go back to the bedrooms and check each closet. I look under the beds. I even check the linen closet, but there’s no one there.

Naomi is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. “I don’t know what you hoped to find up there,” she snaps. “Aside from all the laundry that needs doing.”

“Is it possible she’s on the property somewhere?” I reach the base of the stairs. “Maybe she needed some alone time?”

“If she came to our home,” Naomi says, “she’d come inside like a normal person.”

I give her only half an ear as I head toward the small bathroom off the living area. The shower curtain is closed, so I shove it aside. The tub is empty. The sense that I’ve overlooked something important jabs at me. Where is Abigail? What have I missed?

I stop in the living room. Naomi is in the kitchen, standing at the stove. I watch as she removes the lid on the Dutch oven. The aromas of bacon and cider vinegar and the green, mustardy scent of dandelion greens taunts my olfactory nerves. The dish has a distinctive aroma.…

I stride into the kitchen, look down at the pot. “What’s in that pot?”

Naomi looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Greens, for goodness sake. I can’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

I take the lid from her. “Where did you get these greens?”

“Abigail brought them over a few days ago. I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Has anyone eaten any of this food? Tasted it?”

“What? I might’ve sampled a green or two.”

“Mrs. Kaufman, I have reason to suspect this food is contaminated.”

“Contaminated? What are you talking—”

“Poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” She cackles. “That’s just pure horsefeathers.”