I watch her draw a crude map. “It’s only about five miles from here. Take Castine Road and then make a right at the flashing caution light.” She looks through the window toward the parking lot. “What are you driving?”

“Explorer.”

“Four-wheel drive?”

I nod.

“Good, ’cause you’re going to need it. The Swartzentrubers don’t use gravel. Their lane is dirt, and with all this rain, you’re going to sink in something awful.” She slides the map toward me. “There you go.”

“Thanks for the map.” I look at my empty plate. “And the pie.”

She smiles. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Kate Burkholder.”

*   *   *

I’m feeling a little more optimistic when I leave Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen and head north on the main drag. It’s four thirty now; I’ve devoted half the day working a hunch that has a high probability of turning into a wild goose chase. But the coffee and sugar helped, and my cop’s gut urges me to keep going.

Daisy’s directions are perfect right down to the distances. I make the turn on Castine Road and then hit the flashing caution light just a few miles down and make a right onto a dirt road. She was right about the mud, too. I encounter deep ruts and standing water, and twenty feet in, the Explorer bogs. I throw it into four-wheel drive and muscle through. Half a mile down, I come to a dirt lane. There’s no name on the mailbox, but the plainness of the house and outbuildings beyond tells me it’s an Amish home, so I turn in.

The house is white with a tin roof that’s striped with rust. It looks as if the place originally had a wraparound front porch, but over the years—probably due to a growing family or the addition of elderly parents—the porch was transformed into an extra room. The barn is also white, but in need of paint. A rail fence surrounds a muddy paddock, where several Jersey cows chew their cud, watching me.

Growing up Amish, I never thought twice about living on a farm. I’ve always been an animal lover, and having livestock was one of the things I enjoyed most. The only thing about rural life I hated was the spring mud, which was always made worse by manure. I park behind a windowless black buggy with steel-clad wooden wheels, telling me this is, indeed, a Swartzentruber farm.

Resigning myself to muddy shoes and wet feet, I get out and tromp through several inches of mud toward the side door. Despite my best effort to keep my shoes clean, I leave clods of mud on the concrete steps as I ascend to the porch. I knock on the door and wait.