“Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

“You know it.”

*   *   *

The rolling hills, farm fields, and woodlands between Painters Mill and Nicktown make for beautiful scenery, even if the weather doesn’t cooperate. But I barely notice the countryside as I head east and push the speedometer over the limit. I can’t stop thinking about Wanetta Hochstetler and what it could mean if she’s alive. I have no idea if she’s perpetrator or victim or somewhere in between, but if I can find her, she might be able to shed some light on exactly what went down that night thirty-five years ago—or the more recent murders.

But it’s been over thirty years since Bishop Schweider spoke to her; there’s a possibility I won’t find her. She may have died of natural causes or left Cambria County for Upstate New York with the other Swartzentruber Amish. If I was dealing with any other group of people, it might have been wiser for me to call ahead, try to get someone on the phone or, perhaps, speak to the local PD. But I know the Swartzentruber Amish would not speak to me by phone. While this trip and the hours I’ll sink into it may be a long shot, I have to try.

I hit construction east of Pittsburgh and a thunderstorm as I enter Cambria County. By the time I pull into the town limits of Nicktown, it’s after 4 P.M. and I’m in dire need of coffee. The town is a postcard-pretty village with large homes and a main street lined with spruce and maples that will be budding in a few weeks. Since I have no clue where to begin my search, I pull in to the gravel lot of the first restaurant I come to, Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen.

The dinner hour hasn’t yet begun, so the place isn’t crowded. An older couple sits at a table near the window. A man in a DeKalb cap broods over a mug of coffee in the corner booth. Leaving my umbrella at the coatrack near the door, I walk to the counter and take a stool. A middle-aged woman in a pink golf shirt, black pants, and a black apron approaches me from behind the counter.

“What can I get for you?” she begins, giving me only half her attention.

“Coffee, please.”

“You’re in luck. Just made a pot.”

There’s a pass-through window that opens to the kitchen behind her. Beyond, a cook clad in white scrapes the grill to Zac Brown Band’s “Free.”

“You want cream with that?” The waitress sets a ceramic mug in front of me.

“Sure.”

She pulls two containers of half-and-half from her pocket and drops them on the counter.

I smile at her. “Any chance I could get a piece of that cherry pie to go with the coffee?”

“You bet.”