“Two weeks ago,” she says.

Kerry glowers at his wife and she swallows hard. I raise my brows and wait.

“I had a few words with him a couple of weeks ago,” he admits.

“About what?”

“In addition to his bogus trash complaint, he said our dogs were barking and keeping him awake at night.”

“They sleep inside with us,” Mary Ellen says quickly.

I ignore her. “Did any of these confrontations ever get physical?”

His wife laughs. “Of course not.”

I don’t take my eyes off Kerry.

He tosses me an I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this smile that isn’t friendly. I’ve met plenty of cop-haters in my time. People who, for whatever reason, detest anyone in law enforcement, and Kerry Seymour fits the mold to a T. “You got something to say, just say it,” he says.

“I’d appreciate it if you just answered my question.”

“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.

I’ve always been aware that William was the lone survivor of a violent crime. I knew his father and four siblings had been killed, that his mother had disappeared, and the perpetrators were never apprehended. I didn’t, however, know the details until I read the file. Those details haunt me as I turn into the gravel lane bordered on either side by razor-straight rows of McIntosh apple trees.

A colorful sign welcomes me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm, where the BEST CIDER IN OHIO is one dollar a glass. I park adjacent the large produce stand. The small frame building is nestled between two maple trees that offer welcome shade in summer. Through the open window that runs the length of the structure’s facade, I see shelves filled with jars of apple butter, applesauce, and spiced apples. A dozen or more jugs of cider take up an entire lower shelf. Beyond, more shelves are dedicated to embroidered doilies, canvas tote bags, and bird feeders designed to look like Amish buggies. At the rear, handmade quilts hang on wooden arms set into the wall, the bold colors and geometric designs beckoning one to stop and browse.

I’m midway to the produce stand when a female voice calls out. “Here for another quilt, are you?”

I glance up to see Hannah Yoder standing just inside, her elbows on the counter, looking at me through the front window. She’s in her mid-thirties with a fresh, pretty face and an infectious smile. She’s wearing a dark blue dress, black apron, and a black winter head covering.

“I wouldn’t rule that out.” I return her smile. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” How’s it going?

“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. She arches a brow at my Pennsylvania Dutch. “’Sis kald heit.” It’s cold today.

I look up at the sky. “More rain on the way, too.”

“The apples will be sweet and plentiful this year.”

I enter through the side door and extend my hand. “You remember me.”

She nods, giving my fingers a firm squeeze. “Of course. I sold you my favorite quilt.”

I look around and my eyes are drawn to the quilts. Winter colors. Maroon and cream and brown. My fingers itch with the urge to touch, but I resist. They’re not cheap, and on the salary of a police chief, I can’t afford another.

“Is your husband home?” I ask.

A male voice calls out. “That depends.”

I glance to my left to see William “Hoch” Yoder emerge from a small storeroom. He’s a tall, thin man clad in typical Amish garb—black trousers, blue work shirt with suspenders and a flat-brimmed hat. This morning, he’s wearing a black barn coat.

“Hi.” I approach him and offer my hand. “Mr. Yoder.”

“Call me Hoch.”

The story behind the nickname is well known among the Amish. After William’s family was murdered, an Amish couple with the last name of Yoder adopted him. Rumor has it that fourteen-year-old William resisted changing his name from Hochstetler to Yoder, and in the months that followed, the Amish fell to calling him Hoch, honoring his wish to keep at least part of his name.

“Hoch,” I begin, “if you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about what happened to you and your family back in 1979.”

His eyes widen. “Did you find them?” he asks. “The men responsible?”

“No.” I let my eyes slide to his wife. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

“Let’s go inside,” he tells me. “Hannah will make us some hot cider.”

A few minutes later, Hoch and I are seated at opposite sides of a large kitchen table. Behind us, his wife is at the stove, heating cider in a kettle. I detect a hint of kerosene in the air from a space heater, and cinnamon from something recently baked. To my right, a fire blazes in the hearth, chasing the chill from the room. The place smells very much like my childhood home, and fingertips of nostalgia press into me.