Two minutes later, I’m midway through the pie and on my second cup of coffee. The waitress, whose badge tells me her name is Daisy, is several feet away, wiping down the pastry display case.

“How long have you lived here in Nicktown?” I ask.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “All my life.”

“You like it?”

“It gets kind of boring, but it’s a good place to raise a family.” She saunters to the counter where I’m sitting and, taking advantage of my company, begins refilling the containers of artificial sweeteners.

“Kids?” I ask.

“Four. Oldest is in high school now. Hard to believe. Seems like yesterday when he was running around here, filling the salt and pepper shakers for me.”

“They grow up fast.” I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill, Ohio.”

“Oh. A cop. Hi.” Grinning, she wipes her hand and we shake. “My husband and I were over that way couple of years ago. He photographs covered bridges. A lot of Amish there.”

“Are there many Amish in this area?”

“Used to be. Swartzentrubers, mostly. But they started moving out a couple of years ago. Didn’t like all the government rules and regulations and were always getting into trouble. You know, with zoning and such because they don’t use indoor plumbing and people were complaining about the sewage. Stuff like that.”

“I hear a lot of them are moving to Upstate New York.”

She nods. “Kind of hate to see them go, to tell you the truth. Nice Amish girl used to bring us pies, but she left with her family six months ago. And of course, the tourists always meant business for us here at the restaurant.”

“Are there any Amish left?”

“Two families that I know of.” She shrugs. “They keep to themselves, so I’m not really sure.”

I sip my coffee. “I’m looking for an Amish woman who went missing thirty-five years ago from Painters Mill. I believe she was injured and somehow ended up with a Swartzentruber family near here.”

“Oh gosh, thirty-five years is a long time. I was ten years old.”

“Do you remember hearing anything like that? Rumors, maybe?”

“Sorry, but I sure don’t.”

“Is there an Amish bishop or elder still around I could talk to?”

She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I don’t know about a bishop or elder, but there’s an Amish family lives down the road from my husband and me.”

“Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Sure.” She tears a sheet from her order pad and turns it over, sets it on the counter between us. “It’s not too far.” She grins. “Kind of hard to get lost in Nicktown.”