In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Jane Jensen

  This time only about five people raised their hands, but I found myself speaking before Turner could call on anyone. “Excuse me, but what about the milk?”

  Dr. Turner blinked at me. “I’m sorry. What’s the question, exactly?”

  “What about all the other local farmers and their families who are still drinking their cows’ milk? Not to mention selling it? Shouldn’t we be warning people?”

  A man in the front row stood up. He was definitely a state agency man, probably in his sixties. He wore a navy suit that somehow fit around his extremely wide middle, and he had the thick white hair and pleasant face of a character actor—or a politician. He shook his head ponderously, his hands making a “no, no” gesture. “I’d like to speak to that, if I may. Miss—?”

  “Detective Harris,” I said firmly.

  “Right. Thank you for your service, Detective Harris.”

  Patronizing much? I folded my arms across my chest and waited.

  “I’m Mitch Franklin, Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture. The situation here is that we only have one farm, the Kindermans’, where this problem has occurred—”

  “But there have been at least two other Amish families who’ve had unknown illnesses, and a boy named William Hershberger died of it. Isn’t it possible that was tremetol poisoning too?” I pointed out.

  The man made that same refuting gesture. “I was only aware of one other family, the Hershbergers, but so far there’s no evidence they were exposed to this tremetol toxin. The boy’s death certificate lists influenza, and he’s already been interred.”

  I struggled to keep my voice reasonably pitched. “There was no influenza virus. I had the doctor culture Samuel and Aaron Hershberger to check.”

  “I read their file. The attending physician noted that the virus had likely already run its course before they did that test. Now, having said that . . .” He changed on a dime to a placating tone. “I know Dr. Turner and the CDC won’t stop until they’ve traced down every single remotely possible case. But as of this moment, the situation is that we’ve got forty-five hundred farms in Lancaster County and over ninety-five thousand dairy cows. We can’t stop the flow of the ocean because of a single bad drop. So far the only confirmed victims drank the milk from their own infected cows, and they didn’t sell that milk to outsiders. The CDC is going to resolve this thing as fast as they can. Once they’ve found the source of the tremetol, we’ll have a good idea if any other farms might have been exposed to it. In the meantime, we’re not going to overreact.”

  A few men in the audience murmured in agreement. I shut my mouth tight and didn’t respond. Mitch Franklin sat back down.

  Dr. Turner glanced at me curiously. “Any more questions?” he asked the room.

  —

  Amber Kruger pulled her truck onto the wide shoulder of Route 30 and slowed down, then stopped. The cars and trucks whizzing by her driver’s-side window caused her to jerk and wince. They were too loud, too close, too fast. She wiped the back of her hand over her forehead and encountered clammy moisture. Her ears were ringing loudly.

  “Amber? Are you okay?”

  Rob’s voice sounded distant through the cacophony of white noise in her head. She was so tired it felt like an effort to open her mouth and answer. “Not feeling great.”

  Rob’s concerned, boyishly plump face came into focus as he leaned in to study her. “Christ, you don’t look good.” He felt her forehead. A chill racked her body at the touch of his warm fingers.

  “I’m okay. Just woozy. Shouldn’t be driving.”

  “No shit. I can drive.”

  Amber had never let Rob drive her truck, but she nodded and opened the driver’s-side door to switch places.

  The fresh air revived her a bit as she walked around the truck. But then the diesel fumes of a passing semi hit her and turned her stomach. She put a hand on the back of the truck to steady herself. As the nausea faded, she yawned hugely.

  Rob’s hand was on her shoulder. “Okay?”

  “Yeah. Wow. Really tired.”

  “Come on.” He steered her around to the passenger side and opened the door.

  She snorted. “How gallant.”

  “You must not feel too bad if you can still pick on me,” he teased. He closed the door and went around to the driver’s side.

  He started the truck but hesitated before pulling out. “Um . . . what should I do? Do you need to go to the ER? I can take you to the one in Lancaster. We could be there in half an hour.”

  “No!” Now that Amber was back in the car, she mainly just felt tired. Tired and weak. Rob was driving, so she could close her eyes and not have to worry about the way her vision was blurring. She yawned again. “Just go back to my place.”

  “If you say so,” Rob said doubtfully. “But if you feel worse on the drive, I’ll be happy to take you in.”

  “’Kay,” Amber said. It was the last conscious thought she had before falling asleep.

  —

  After the debriefing, I was left feeling restless. I had six other open cases on my plate right now—but most of them were pretty much open-and-shut, needing routine paperwork, reports verified, and facts triple-checked. It was hard for me to focus on any of them. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Kindermans, Will Hershberger, and Hannah’s family.

  Giving in, I pulled out a book of detailed maps of the county and compared the locations of the Kindermans’ farm, the Hershbergers’, and that of another family Hannah mentioned, the Knepps. The Hershbergers and the Knepps were both in Paradise and not too far apart. But the Kinderman farm was south of Lancaster near Willow Street, not close at all to the other two geographically. It didn’t make sense.

  “Hello, Detective.”

  I looked up to find Dr. Turner standing at my desk. “Oh. Dr. Turner. Hello.” I felt self-conscious and stood up from my ungainly position leaning over the maps on my desk. I tugged down my suit jacket.

  “Call me Glen.” He smiled.

  “All right. Glen.”

  “Listen, I just wanted to follow up on what you said in the meeting.”

  “Okay.”

  “You mentioned the Hershberger family, and we’ve already reviewed their records. I was wondering if you have any specific reason to believe their case is related to the Kinderman family? And you said there were others.”

  I told him what I’d learned from Hannah. “The Knepp family was also sick with what they thought was the flu. But it was supposedly much like the illness the Hershbergers had. An older woman died. It seems like an obvious connection to me.”

  “I understand.” Glen looked serious. “It’s part of our protocol to check out any and all similar cases and verify or eliminate them. So absolutely, we’ll check into it. As far as the Hershbergers go, it’s not as straightforward as I’d like. Most of the family didn’t have blood work done, and there was no autopsy on the boy due to the family’s wishes. The tests we do have on the father and his other son from the hospital, well, they certainly didn’t test for tremetol, and the blood samples they did take weren’t saved.”

  I folded my arms and half sat on my desk. “Would tremetol show up in blood work if you took it again now?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, we don’t have any experience with tremetol poisoning. It’s rare, to say the least. But I do know it’s usually fatal, so if most of the people in these other families had it and survived, they’d have to have ingested a pretty small dose. I do want to check their blood again, just to be thorough. Assuming we can get the Hershbergers to cooperate.”

  I stood and pushed the open map book closer to Glen. “Take a look at this. Let’s say the Hershbergers and Knepps did have low-level tremetol poisoning. What doesn’t make sense to me is that their farms are so spread out. The Knepps and Hershbergers aren’t that far apart, but neither are close to the Kindermans.” I showed him w
here I’d marked the farms on the map. “That’s gotta be at least ten miles as the crow flies. If this is caused by an invasive plant, why didn’t it show up at the farms in between? And even if the Kindermans are the only ones who actually had tremetol poisoning, why them? Their farm is in the middle of dozens of other farms on all sides. How could a dangerous plant show up there and nowhere else?”

  Glen leaned over the map with interest. “Well, first, it is possible for a bird to drop a seed miles from where it ate a plant. So it’s possible a nonindigenous plant could show up on one landlocked farm. But also, we haven’t ruled out the possibility the tremetol was in some product or hay bales or feed the farms were using and not a plant on the farm itself. We need to locate the source. We’re going to be combing the Kindermans’ pasture for the plant today and checking everything in the barn and farmhouse too.”

  “I suppose some of these other farms might have had sicknesses and not reported them,” I admitted, skimming my hand over the map page. “In fact, that wouldn’t at all be unusual with the Amish. They’re not the type to run to the doctor at the first sign of a sniffle.”

  “So I gather. I didn’t have much luck questioning the Kindermans’ neighbors. ‘Stoic’ doesn’t begin to cover it.” Glen studied my face in a way that made me uncomfortable. “I, um, hear your boyfriend is Amish.”

  I was surprised at the mention of my personal life. Had he asked about me? “Yes. Well . . . Ezra is ex-Amish anyway.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to have that confirmed.”

  I looked up at Dr. Turner to find that our heads were close together over the map. I straightened up abruptly. What did he mean? Why would he be sorry Ezra was ex-Amish?

  Glen blushed a little, his cheeks going rosy. It was a strangely boyish look on a mature man. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just meant . . . I’m sorry to have it confirmed that you have a boyfriend. That’s a stupid thing to say, and I apologize.”

  “Fairly stupid, yes,” I said coolly. Actually—and I’d never admit this—I felt a little flattered. I glanced at his left hand and found the ring finger bare. Dr. Turner was an accomplished man and apparently not married, so at least he wasn’t a jerk on top of being overly friendly.

  “You just seem . . . dedicated to the work. And bright. I admire that. And, well, obviously you’re attractive. You can probably tell I don’t get out much.” Glen laughed self-consciously. But I didn’t think he was as shy as he was pretending to be. “Um . . . anyway, back to the point—too late. Since you do know the local Amish, do you think your boss would object to you checking in on some of these farms? Say, specifically, the ones between the Kindermans’ and the Hershbergers’?” He tapped the map. “Ask if they’ve had any illness in the family or with their animals, and maybe if they’ve seen the plant we’re looking for? I can get you photos. I really need to be supervising at the Kinderman farm today, but if you’re willing to do some legwork . . .”

  “I’d love to,” I said without hesitation. “If you put in a word with Grady, I’m sure he won’t mind. To be honest, I’m really worried about this. And . . . I sort of promised a friend.”

  Glen nodded grimly. “I don’t blame you for being worried. But hopefully we can figure this out quickly, and it won’t cause any more trouble.”

  Those sounded suspiciously like famous last words.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time I got home from work on Wednesday night, I was deeply out of sorts. I walked into our kitchen just after eight to find Ezra reading a local paper, the Lancaster Farmer. He closed it and smiled.

  “Glad you’re home. Got some grilled chicken and potatoes on.”

  The table was already set. Ezra went to the stove where there was a cast iron skillet and several pots covered and awaiting my arrival.

  “You’re the best. Just let me change.” I felt exhausted.

  I went into our bedroom and took off the charcoal gray suit and white silky blouse that was part of my detective wardrobe. I put on oversized flannel pj bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. Although it was April, the nights were chilly and I preferred to wear warm, comfy clothes until the summer heat made them unbearable.

  Back in the kitchen, Ezra had dinner on the table. He cooked simple things like grilled chicken and baked or mashed potatoes and steamed veggies. But the food was from local farms, if not raised by Ezra himself, and it was always delicious. Right now, though, I needed a hug more than I needed to eat. Sighing contentedly, I put my arms around his waist. I loved the sense of strength and security I felt when his arms closed around me. He rubbed my back.

  “All right?” he asked after a moment.

  I shook my head.

  “Bad day, then?”

  “People expect me to be some sort of Amish whisperer, and I’m so not.”

  He chuckled. “Well, you do pretty gut with me.”

  I smiled against his chest. “You, yes. And I’ve gotten to know a few people in the community. But most of the Amish still treat me like I’m a scarlet woman.”

  “You are a scarlet woman. That’s part of your charm.”

  I laughed at his teasing and pulled away. “Well this scarlet woman is hungry. Anyway, I could have wings and be glowing and I’m not sure I’d fare much better when it comes to interviewing the Amish.” I plopped down in my chair and picked up my fork, then hesitated.

  Ezra sat down and looked at me. “Go on and eat.”

  “Did you . . . want to say grace?” There was always an awkward moment when we started a meal. I knew Ezra was used to saying grace, and I wasn’t. I sensed he missed it. It was in the way he always hesitated at the start of each meal. “It’s fine with me if you want to.”

  “Not sure what I’d say.” Ezra shrugged and frowned down at his food. As if to prove a point, he cut off a piece of chicken and took a bite. “Who were you interviewing today?”

  I sighed and let it go. “I stopped at about thirty farms between the Kindermans’ and the Hershbergers’.”

  “What’d you learn?”

  “Not much. No one else has been sick, and that’s great. That’s a relief. But when I, or Glen, ask to see their animals, or suggest they lay off the raw milk for a bit—”

  “Glen?”

  Ezra’s tone was merely curious, but I felt a guilty heat flush my neck. Damn it. I had nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, Dr. Turner was interested in me, but I hadn’t encouraged him. “Dr. Glen Turner. He’s, um, with the CDC. He met up with me this afternoon to help interview. Do you know they’ve scoured every bit of the Kindermans’ farm and haven’t found any trace of white snakeroot? Or any other source of the toxin, tremetol?”

  Ezra watched me with calm interest. “That’s good news. Not so?”

  “Well . . . yes. But that means we still don’t know where the toxin came from. And until we know that, it could show up somewhere else. It’s frustrating that nobody is taking this seriously. I mean, when we go to these farms and say we’re there to look at their animals and make sure they’re not sick, you’d think we were threatening to shoot their cows or something.”

  “A man’s protective of his animals. He doesn’t like people thinkin’ he’s not taking good care of them,” Ezra pointed out. “And they don’t know you.”

  “But people have died! And when I suggest they refrain from drinking their cows’ milk, just until we’ve figured out what’s going on, they get angry!”

  “Elizabeth.”

  Ezra’s voice was calm but pointed. I realized I probably sounded a wee bit too intense. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. I’d felt like such an idiot this afternoon. It was one thing when the Amish farmers treated me like a strange and threatening creature, because I was not only English—an outsider—but a female and a police officer as well. But it was particularly embarrassing to be treated like a pariah on my home turf in front of a government agent like Dr. Turner.

 
And that wasn’t even what really bugged me. I was frustrated about the case. My gut was telling me something was wrong. Hell, I’d walked through a farmhouse full of corpses, an entire Amish family dead after having no doubt suffered horribly. And most of the Amish acted like it had nothing to do with them. It was tragic but somehow “God’s will.” They would rather pray about it than take easy steps for their own protection. At least, that’s how it seemed to me.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  Ezra picked up his glass of milk and held it up. “You don’t know how it is. To the Amish, a man, his family . . . they don’t just buy this at market. They raise their animals like they raise their gardens. Eating the fruits of that labor is a blessing and a responsibility. You don’t let it go to waste. You don’t turn your nose up at it. You thank God for it. Anything less would be the worst kind of blasphemy.”

  “But it’s just milk!”

  The gulf between me and Ezra rarely felt this wide, but he was looking at me with his brow wrinkled in confusion. He gave a frustrated grunt. “No such thing as ‘just milk.’ When you have a family cow, you drink milk at every meal, and between meals too. It’s free and it’s gut for the body. If you’re feeling peaky, you drink milk. If you can’t sleep, you drink milk. If the milk jug is empty, you go milk the cow. If the cow is dry, you go milk the neighbor’s cow. And if the neighbor’s cow is dry, well . . . in that case it’s time for a general meetin’.”

  He was trying to be funny in that laconic way of his, but I wasn’t in the mood to be amused. “I’m not asking them to give up milk forever. It’s just until we’ve figured out where the toxin is coming from. You’d think parents would worry about their children. Hannah poured out her milk.”

  Ezra shook his head. “Hannah knows you. And she knows the Hershbergers gut too. You won’t convince most Amish that there’s somethin’ poison in the animal he raised on his own land, and milks with his own hands.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “They’d damn well better hope I’m wrong then.”