His answer is consistent with the absence of a milking machine and generator in the barn. Without refrigeration, there’s no way to keep the milk cold, therefore it cannot be sold as grade A for drinking. Stored temporarily in old-fashioned milk cans, it can only be sold as grade B for cheese-making, which would require a buggy trip to the local cheese-maker in the next county.

I tilt my head and snag his gaze. “Reuben.” I say his name firmly, letting him know I want his undivided attention. “I need you to tell me everything you saw when you arrived this morning.”

He nods. “I arrived early, so I sat on the back stoop for a few minutes. Usually, there is lantern light inside. Amos and I have coffee. Sometimes Bonnie fries scrapple. This morning the house was dark.”

“So you went inside?”

“I knocked, but no one answered.” He gives a small smile. “I thought, Er hot sich wider verschlofe.” He overslept again. “So I went inside.”

“How did you get in?”

“The back door was not locked.”

My brain files that away for later. Many Amish don’t lock their doors at night. It’s not that locks go against the Ordnung in any way; most simply don’t see the need. And it’s not just the Amish who are lax. I’d estimate half the folks in this county don’t lock up before going to bed. Having been a cop in a large, metropolitan city for six years, I don’t share the mind-set. I snap my dead bolts into place every night with the glee of a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Did you see anyone else inside the house?” I ask.

“Just Amos . . . and the two boys.”

“What about outside? In the yard? Or the barn?”

“I saw no one.”

“Any vehicles or buggies?”

“No.”

“Have you noticed any unusual behavior from Amos? Has he been under any pressure? Or talked to you about any problems?”

“Amos?” The Amish man shakes his head. “No.”

“Was there any disharmony within the household?”

“No.”

“Were there any problems between Amos and Bonnie? Or between Amos and the children? Problems with outside friends? Money problems, maybe?”

He shakes his head so vehemently, his beard flops from side to side. “Why do you ask these things, Katie?”

“I’m just trying to find out what happened.”

Zimmerman stares hard at me. “Amos lived his life in the spirit of Gelassenheit. He was a good Amish man. He was modest and yielded to God’s will. He worked hard. And he loved his family.”

“Did the Planks have any enemies?” I ask. “Were they involved in any kind of dispute?”

Another emphatic shake. “The Planks loved their Amish brethren. They were generous. If you needed something, Amos and Bonnie would give it to you and were happy to go without themselves.”

But I know that even decent, God-loving Amish families keep secrets.