I withhold a smile. Bishop Troyer may be old, but he’s got a keen mind and a sharp tongue. He’s clad in black trousers. Black jacket. White shirt. Flat-brimmed black hat. His long beard is wiry and gray with small bits of alfalfa hay in it. I stop two feet away from him. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Bishop, but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

“I’ve not heard those names in a long time,” he says. “Such a terrible thing. So many young lives lost. It makes the heart hurt.” His gaze meets mine. “Why do you ask of them now?”

“I’m working on another case that may be related.” I pause. “Were you bishop back then?”

He shakes his head. “Eli Schweider was.”

“Is he still around?”

“Eli lives in the house next to his son’s farm out on Rockridge Road.”

“I know the one,” I tell him. “Not too far from Miller’s Pond.”

“He’s very old now, Katie. Ninety years old, I think. His fluss is bad and he’s frail.” Fluss is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for “rheumatism.”

“Danki,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.

“You watch your manners with him, Katie Burkholder,” he calls out after me.

“Don’t worry, Bishop. I’ll behave myself.”

I leave him standing on the sidewalk with his walking stick in his hand, a frown on his face.

*   *   *

Minutes later, I turn onto Rockridge Road. Half a mile in, I pass by a plain metal mailbox with the name SCHWEIDER finger-painted in black on the side. I turn into the gravel lane and bounce over potholes as I head toward the big white farmhouse. I crest the hill only to notice the smaller cottage-style home on my left, and I realize it’s probably the original farmhouse, where the elders would live now.

I drive past the larger house and park near the cottage. Though it’s midday, the sky is low and dark and spitting rain. As I pass by a mullioned window, I see the glow of lantern light inside, telling me someone is there. I step onto the porch, knock, and wait. I’m about to knock a second time in case Eli Schweider is hard of hearing, when the door creaks open.

I find myself looking at a bent, white-haired man who’s at least a foot shorter than me. Tiny eyes peer out at me from the folded-leather creases of eyes set into a face that’s brown from the sun and mottled with age spots. Wire-rimmed glasses sit on a lumpy nose, and he tilts his head back to look at me through Coke-bottle lenses.

“Who’s there?” comes a crushed-gravel voice.

“I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police of Painters Mill.”