“Joe had no use for English doctors.” She says the words as if they explain everything. “Joe and his wife knew she wasn’t from around here—the clothes and such, you know. Still, she was Amish, so they took care of her.”

“Did he call the police?”

“He didn’t have much use for the English police, either. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard the woman was slow in the head. Didn’t know where she was from. Joe and his wife took her in to their home. Clothed her. Fed her. Did their best to teach her the Swartzentruber ways.”

“Didn’t they worry that she had a family somewhere?” I ask. “Someone who was worried about her?”

“I wouldn’t know the answer to that.”

“What became of her?”

“She left the Amish a few months after they took her in. Stole some money from Joe. It was a bad thing.”

“Is she still around? Would it be possible for me to talk to her?”

“She passed a couple of months ago.”

The words hit me like a cold, buffeting wind. All I can think is that I’ve come all this way for nothing. “So she stayed in the area all these years?” I ask.

“Last I heard, she lived over in Nanty Glo, south of here. There’s a trailer home park off of Blacklick Creek.”

“What name did she go by?” I ask.

“They called her Becky. Used the last name of Weaver.” Her expression darkens. “I’m no friend to the gossipmongers or busybodies. But there was talk about that woman.”

“What kind of talk?”

“That she wasn’t as nice as she wanted everyone to think, and she remembered a lot more than she let on.” The old woman looks at her grandson. “Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.” Where there’s smoke, there is fire. “That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.”

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

One of the things that separates a good cop from a great cop is the ability to sift through the bullshit you’re fed in the course of your job and get to the usable information sprinkled throughout. I’ve always had a pretty good handle on that particular skill set, some of which is old-fashioned common sense. As I turn onto the highway, I’m forced to admit I’m not sure what to make of the story Zook’s grandmother relayed about Wanetta Hochstetler. Is it possible she lived out her days here and never made her way back to Painters Mill?