At least the weather has improved. The endless blue sky boosts my spirits, and though the temperature hovers somewhere around freezing, I feel the warmth of the sun on my back. I walk at a steady clip and it takes me just ten minutes to reach Roaring Springs.

The downtown area comprises a dozen or so two- and three-story brick buildings, some with interesting architecture. Most were built at the turn of the century; a few are marked with historical plaques. Despite both of those things, many are vacant, with the front windows boarded up and brick marred with graffiti. The main thoroughfare is cobblestone, but in desperate need of repair.

I’m midway down the first block when I spot the sign for The Dutch Kitchen. It might’ve been quaint in its heyday. Those glory days are long past, evidenced by a cracked front window, an antique door in need of restoration, and a crumbling sidewalk. I recall Suggs telling me this is where Mary Gingerich works. The woman Rachel Esh had been living with when she died.

I jaywalk and stop to read the whiteboard that has been set up on a tripod displaying the day’s breakfast special, which is biscuits and gravy. The coffee of the day is Colombian dark roast. Hefting the bag onto my shoulder, I go inside.

I’m met with the pleasant aromas of sage sausage and freshly brewed coffee. The restaurant is a narrow space with a black-and-white-checked tile floor. A row of red booths lines the wall to my left. To my right, a long counter with old-fashioned stools separates the dining area from the kitchen. There’s a smattering of tables at the rear and a battered door marked RESTROOM. The place is doing a decent business this morning. Locals, farmers, and merchants alike sit at the counter. A family of four shares a table at the rear. The waitress is a heavyset blond woman with pink cheeks and a harried expression. The second woman behind the bar is Amish. Wine-colored dress. Dark hair tucked into an organdy kapp. Hazel eyes. Her nametag tells me her name is Mary.

I climb onto the nearest stool and set the canvas bag at my feet. The Amish woman glances my way; her eyes brighten at the sight of me, telling me she’s pleased to be in the company of another Amish woman.

She works her way over to me. Before she can speak, I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder mariye.” Good morning.

“Wei geth’s alleweil?” she asks. How goes it now?

I offer a grin, continue the conversation in Deitsch. “Good, because I know if there’s an Amish woman in the kitchen, the food will be good.”

“And if she’s behind the counter, the service will be even better.”

Snagging a glass from beneath the bar, she scoops ice, fills it with water, and sets it in front of me. For the first time I notice the pass-through window and kitchen behind her. A young Amish man wearing a white cook’s apron, with a bowl haircut and gaunt features, watches me through the opening.