“I never laid a hand on the guy.”

I nod. “When’s the last time either of you saw Mr. Michaels?”

“Last week,” Mary Ellen blurts. “Wednesday morning. I was on my way into town to see the eye doctor in Painters Mill—Dr. Driver—and Dale was getting his mail at the end of his lane.”

I turn my attention to her husband. “And you?”

“I don’t recall. Couple of weeks, probably.”

“Can both of you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”

“Kerry was at work.” Mary Ellen fingers her coffee cup nervously. “He works for the railroad. Eight to four thirty.”

“Do you work, ma’am?”

“I’m the gardener, maid, and cook.”

“What about the last couple of evenings?” I ask.

“We were here. Both nights.”

“Can anyone else vouch for that?” I ask.

“Well, no,” she admits. “But he was here.”

The dogs have inched their way over to us. Feeling a cold, wet nose against my hand, I reach down and stroke the head of the nearest Labrador, which is sitting at my feet. “Pretty dogs.”

“Thank you.” She beams, and I’m instantly forgiven for asking such impolite questions.

Her husband isn’t quite so magnanimous. “So am I a suspect?”

“I’m still in the information-gathering stage of the case, Mr. Seymour.” I pet the other dog to give the couple a moment to consider everything that’s been said, everything they’ve learned about their now-deceased neighbor. “Is there anything else you can add that might help us figure out who might’ve done this?”

Kerry sighs. “Look, I barely spoke to the man. Didn’t know him.”

“Did either of you ever see or hear him arguing with anyone?” I ask. “Or do you know of any arguments or disputes?”

Mary Ellen shakes her head. “As far as I know, the only people he yelled at was us. Cussed me out once because Greta pooped in his yard. Shook me up something awful.”

CHAPTER 5

Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm is located on a pretty tract of land that includes a thirty-acre orchard where hundreds of McIntosh apple trees flourish. When I was a girl, my datt brought my siblings and me here, where we were given bushel baskets and spent entire afternoons picking apples for pies, apple butter, and of course, cider. It was hot, buggy work but we always found a way to make it fun. Not only did I get to eat my fill—which I usually regretted later—but it was a prime opportunity for unsupervised playtime. Jacob and I would duck into the rows of trees and play hide-and-seek. He’d climb the tallest trees and then laugh when I couldn’t reach him. He was older and stronger, but I was a determined child and once took him out with a well-placed rock. Jacob never ratted on me for that; I think he was secretly proud of me, and Datt was never the wiser.

Four years ago, after moving back to Painters Mill and spending several weekends scouring the local tourist shops for the perfect Amish quilt, I was told that Hannah Yoder was one of the best quilters in the county. I stopped by their fruit stand and spotted a lovely gray geometric with the requisite seven stitches per inch and black detailing. I ended up paying too much, but I walked away with the knowledge that it was money well spent.