I turn my attention to the field beyond the pasture, hoping to see someone cutting hay, but there’s no thresher or wagon or team of horses. The Masts aren’t home, and now I’m going to have to hang around before heading to Buck Creek.

“Damn,” I say with a sigh, knowing the day is going to be a bust.

I leave the barn. I’m closing the door behind me when I notice the greenhouse to my right. Some Amish use them to get a head start on their seedlings until the soil is warm enough to plant. I head that way on the outside chance someone’s there, but I know it’s wishful thinking. I’ve already decided that instead of waiting here for the Masts to return, I would be better off speaking to someone at the sheriff’s office and, if I can find him, to the Amish bishop. Hopefully, someone will be able to shed some light on the death of Rebecca Mast.

Midway to the greenhouse, I pass by a fire pit surrounded by a low stone retaining wall. A steel fifty-gallon drum vented with bullet holes stands upright in the center of the pit. Growing up, we handled our trash much the same way, by putting everything that couldn’t be composted into a big drum and burning it. If we were lucky, Datt would let Jacob and Sarah and me roast marshmallows.

Thunder rumbles like the long, low growl of a cross dog. The wind has picked up just enough to turn the maple leaves silver side up, their shimmering surfaces contrasting sharply against the black sky. I smell the acrid scent of ash and something else that gives me pause.

I breathe in deeply, trying to place the smell. It’s earthy and spicy and slightly exotic. It reminds me of Christmas ham at the farm. Clove, I realize, and my heart begins to pound. Turning, I walk back to the fire pit, step down off the retaining wall, cross to the drum, and peer inside. It’s half-full of partially burned trash. I see part of a cereal box, a melted bread wrapper. The smell of clove is stronger, definitely emanating from inside the barrel.

Using my foot, I shove the drum onto its side. Ash flies as the contents spill out on the ground. Looking around, I spot a charred branch and use it to poke through the ashes. I uncover an old piece of garden hose, a plastic flowerpot. Bending, I upend the barrel. That’s when I notice the partially burned pack of cigarettes.

Clove cigarettes.