In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Jane Jensen

  Hernandez made a pfft sound, the barest possible laugh. “No, seriously. Like, what if the perp read it in a biography on Lincoln, or maybe heard about it in school?”

  “Yeah. I get it. Or even a TV documentary or something. Sounds like a pretty big haystack though.”

  “What else is new? I called around to a bunch of libraries in the area. Got their research librarians to do a check for books that might have that tidbit about Lincoln’s mother in it and send me a list of people who have checked them out.”

  “That’s really good.” I was impressed. It might not turn up anything, but it was worth a shot.

  Hernandez smiled at the compliment. “Yeah, and I also contacted all the high schools around here and talked to history teachers. Asked if they ever talked about milk sickness or Lincoln’s mother in class. ’Cause you discovered all that poisoner graffiti, and the profile says someone like that, he’s probably young. So I figured, schools, you know?”

  I’d been leaning one hip on the counter. I straightened up. That idea made the eddies in my mind stir in a new way.

  “And? Have you heard back from the high school teachers yet?” I asked.

  “Yup. Most of them said they don’t cover that. The general complaint seems to be too much material, too few school days. In fact, most of ’em had never even heard about it, which kind of surprised me. Hey, Harris, do you think the public school system is doing its job?”

  I could tell by the sparkle in his eye that Hernandez was yanking my chain. He must have something good to make me wait for it like this. I crossed my arms and gave him a glare. “But you did find a teacher who . . .” I prompted.

  He grinned. “Yeah, I did find a history teacher who covers it. At Donegal High School in Mount Joy. Said she does a section on the dangers faced by the pioneers moving into lands they didn’t know. She talks about milk sickness and Lincoln’s mother dying of it. She’s been teaching the section for a while too. Eleven years at that school.”

  My heart beat a little faster. Holy shit, this felt like a good lead. “Can we get a list of all the students who have been in her class during that time?”

  “Yeah. But I thought you might want to talk to her too.”

  “Can we go over there right after lunch?”

  Hernandez’s eyes twinkled at my eagerness. “Yes, ma’am. I thought you’d never ask.”

  We made it to Donegal High School just as the last bell of the day rang. I was with Hernandez. When we’d gotten back from the deli, Glen was on his cell phone in one of the police station’s conference rooms, and I decided not to disturb him. He’d been eager to be involved in every step of our investigation, but for now, this was a long shot.

  Except I hoped it really wasn’t.

  Besides, Hernandez was chomping at the bit to get away from the desk research and out on the street. I couldn’t blame him. Glen had been hogging shotgun on this case since it started.

  The lady at the school office told us where to find Mrs. Roberts, the history teacher. She was upstairs in room 203. Hernandez and I navigated the hallways, which were noisy with chatter and the clang of lockers and crowded with very animated teenagers. It felt bizarre to be in a high school again. At that age, I’d been quiet, focused on classes and my after-school job, and focused on getting the hell out of Pennsylvania. I hadn’t been unpopular or picked on. I was pretty enough to escape bullying. But I hadn’t been part of a big social circle either.

  “Dang, this place is gonna give me nightmares,” Hernandez muttered.

  “Worse than curry,” I agreed. I hoped I didn’t have one of those dreams where I went to class in a see-through Disney princess nightie.

  Hernandez looked around in awe. “Man, I thought my high school was nice.”

  It was a brand-new school building. Everything was fresh and new and of excellent quality. The classroom doors were heavy wood and had honest-to-God signs on them. It was certainly nicer than Solanco High School in Quarryville, where I’d graduated.

  “Where did you go to high school, Hernandez?”

  “McCaskey in Lancaster.”

  “Seriously? Didn’t realize you were such a homeboy.”

  “Been here all my life, ’cept when I was in the Marines,” Hernandez said proudly.

  We reached room 203. The door was closed. I knocked lightly and got a quick “Come in!”

  Mrs. Roberts looked every inch the schoolteacher. She appeared to be in her forties and had a thick pageboy haircut that was dyed a deep brown. She wore glasses and had on a knitted Fair Isle vest over a striped button-down shirt and gray wool-blend trousers.

  “You must be the detectives!” she said with a big smile, like she was thrilled.

  “Hello, Mrs. Roberts. I’m Detective Harris and this is Detective Hernandez, Lancaster Police.” I reached out a hand and the teacher shook it, and then Hernandez’s, with vigor.

  “Wonderful! Well, as I told Detective Hernandez on the phone, I’m happy to help in any way I can. I’ve always been interested in criminal justice. Even sat on a murder trial jury once. That was really something!”

  “Good. Well, thank you for serving.”

  Mrs. Robert’s enthusiasm was a nice change. Most people I talked to were not happy to meet me. But the teacher’s high energy was a bit like a steamroller.

  “Now, you mentioned milk sickness on the phone,” Mrs. Roberts said briskly to Hernandez. “It’s so odd, you know. When I first heard about this recent outbreak on the news, that it was caused by tremetol, I could hardly believe it! I’ve been teaching about that in my history of the American West section for years! And here it is happening right in Lancaster County. My students have been very curious about it, I must say. And of course the whole school’s gone off milk!”

  “Mrs. Roberts,” I said, trying to get ahold of the conversation, “do you mind if I record this?”

  “Of course not! Be my guest.”

  I brought out my phone and started the recorder. “This is Detective Harris. I’m interviewing Mrs. Roberts, a history teacher at Donegal High School. With me is Detective Hernandez.”

  Mrs. Roberts was still smiling eagerly.

  “Mrs. Roberts, can you describe in more detail what you teach your students about milk sickness?”

  “Certainly. I have a section on the pioneer movement into the American West, the logistics of it, the Oregon Trail, the Mormon migration, all of that. Then the next section is about the difficulties the pioneers faced in their new homes. Now, that section ends with the dust bowl, which of course you know was caused by the fact that the farmers who moved into those plains states didn’t understand the land. They plowed up all that buffalo grass, which nature had put there for a good reason, and disturbed the natural ecosystem. That’s why the winds were able to just pick up all that freshly turned top soil and—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “Can you get to the part about the milk sickness, please?”

  “Oh, I do apologize.” Mrs. Roberts blushed. “Occupational hazard. Anyway. The point of that section is how the Native Americans knew the land because they’d been living there for centuries, but the pioneers and homesteaders tried to treat it like the land they were used to on the east coast, or even back in the old country. And that could be quite dangerous. They often let their cattle just roam, for example, and they’d end up eating toxic plants that the homesteaders didn’t even know existed. You know, thousands died of milk sickness before they figured out what was causing it. Lincoln’s mother was the most famous victim but, gosh, it wasn’t at all uncommon back then.”

  “I see. And how many students a year do you teach this section to?”

  Mrs. Roberts had to think about it. “Let’s see. I have about thirty students in a class and three history classes a day, plus two semesters . . . I guess about a hundred and eighty students a year.”

  “And you’ve
taught about milk sickness for how many years?”

  Mrs. Roberts looked a little abashed. “Well, of course, I do upgrade my class materials every single summer, but the core of it stays the same. I would say I’ve been discussing milk sickness in my American West unit since I came to this school, eleven years ago now.”

  That was quite a lot of students to follow up on, especially considering that it was only tangentially related to the case. Hernandez and I exchanged a hard look.

  “You said on the phone you had some class materials you could share with us?” Hernandez spoke, his voice soft.

  “Yes! I made copies for you.” Mrs. Roberts went over to her desk and picked up two manila folders. She passed them to Hernandez and me like she was passing out an assignment. It gave me an uneasy sense of déjà vu. “There you go! I won’t even make a crack about a pop quiz.” She tittered nervously.

  “Do you recall any particular student who had an interest in milk sickness?” I asked.

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Roberts looked thoughtful. “It is a popular lecture. You know, I find that anything death-related perks teenagers right up. But that’s natural for kids. In fact, there’s a paper due at the end of that section, and several of my students wrote theirs on milk sickness. It does grab the imagination.”

  I sat up straighter. “Do you keep those papers, Mrs. Roberts?” I tried not to sound too eager.

  “Well, no. Once they’re graded, and the grades entered into my computer, I hand them back to the students.”

  Damn it.

  “Any chance you remember the students who did a paper on milk sickness?”

  “Yes, let’s see. . . . I’m pretty good with students’ names. And of course, some of them you never forget!” she said warmly. Then she muttered in a drier tone, “Even if you’d want to.” She laughed at her own joke, and I smiled. “But let’s see . . . milk sickness. As I recall, a boy named James Westley did a very good paper on milk sickness. A bit morbid, but well researched. He was a straight-A student, James was.”

  “Do you know what year that was?”

  “Yes, he was a senior two years ago. I suspect he’s off to college somewhere now.”

  “And what did he write about milk sickness, do you remember?”

  Mrs. Roberts sighed. “I read so many. Let me think. . . .” She went quiet, her eyes turning inward. A minute later, she smiled. “Yes, I remember now. James Westley wrote that the Native Americans could have used white snakeroot to poison whole pioneer communities, by deliberately feeding it to their cows, and the settlers would have been none the wiser. In fact, there were some deaths he’d researched that had unknown causes that he attributed to just that—deliberate poisoning by the local Indian tribes. Very imaginative boy, James! He did take care to separate fact from speculation. It was an excellent paper, especially considering the grading curve here. We have a lot of students who—”

  I clicked off my phone and stood abruptly. “Mrs. Roberts, thank you so much for your time. If you remember anything else, any other student who expressed a strong interest in milk sickness, or wrote a paper on it, will you please give Detective Hernandez a call?”

  Mrs. Roberts looked a little taken aback. “Ah . . . of course.”

  “Thank you. I imagine the office has records of past students and their contact information?”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “You’ve been very helpful.” I took her hand again and pressed it warmly. “Thank you again.”

  Mrs. Roberts nodded, but her brow furrowed in a worried frown.

  CHAPTER 16

  On Saturday morning, I dragged myself from bed at eight A.M., which was late enough but still far too early. My body wanted more sleep. I’d gotten home at eleven the night before, which wasn’t too bad. But it had taken hours to wind down, and for a long time I’d lain next to Ezra in the darkness of the bedroom unable to shut off my internal dialogue. I’d considered waking him and making love—that would have hopefully been diversion enough for my case-soaked brain. But he was sleeping deeply, and it felt like a selfish thing to do. I was also not entirely sure I’d be welcome.

  There was coffee on in the kitchen, but Ezra wasn’t there. The sun was shining in through the windows, and the sky was a clear blue. I decided to wander out to the barn in my robe. I found Ezra mucking out stalls. I didn’t dare leave the central aisle in my bare feet.

  “Mornin’,” Ezra said, taking in my robe with a slight smile. “Glad you slept in. You worked such a long day yesterday.”

  “Too long.” I stepped up to the half wall of the stall and leaned against it, pursing my lips.

  Ezra came over and gave me a kiss, but he leaned into it warily. “I’m a mess from muckin’.”

  “Your mouth looks very presentable, if you ask me.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He kissed me again, still leaning forward so the only part of us touching were our lips. But at least he lingered this time, kissed me with tongue and with heart. My toes curled on the rough wooden floor.

  He broke the kiss, a twinkle in his eye. “Give me forty minutes, and I’ll come in and take a shower. Make you some breakfast if you like. Or provide some other useful service.”

  I smiled at his sexy tone, feeling a trickle of delight in my tired body. “God, I’d love that. But I have to work to—”

  “Damn it, Elizabeth!”

  I drew back from his anger. “I’m sorry, babe! But we have a big lead. We found this kid yesterday who wrote a paper on milk sickness and how it could be used to poison people. We tracked him down last night. He goes to college at PSU. This morning we’re going to drive up to State College to talk to him face-to-face.”

  Ezra leaned against the pitchfork he was holding and let out a long sigh. “You shoulda told me. I could at least have had breakfast with you this morning, made sure you got something to eat. Now I’m . . .” He looked down at his filthy clothes.

  “It’s all right. I don’t have much time anyway. I’ll just grab some toast. And I’ll try not to be late tonight. Okay?”

  Before Ezra could answer, I leaned forward over the stall to give him another quick kiss. I turned back for the house.

  Twenty minutes later, I banged out the front door with a thermos coffee mug in one hand. I wore a gray suit and my hair, still wet from the shower, was up in its policewoman bun. Glen was waiting for me in the driveway, leaning against the passenger’s-side door of his car. We’d decided last night that we didn’t need to drive two cars up to State College, which made total sense. But as we pulled out of the farm, I noticed Ezra in the barn’s doorway watching us, hands folded over his chest. He did not look happy. At all. Maybe having Glen pick me up wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.

  I’ll make it up to him tonight, I thought, but I felt a stab of guilt knowing I’d probably get wrapped up at work again. I’ll make it up to him as soon as this case is done, I told myself more firmly. And I damn well meant it.

  —

  “Guy’s name is James Westley. He has no criminal record. His dad works in management for Westinghouse, mom is a homemaker, two younger siblings, good student. He came in third place in a state-level competition for science projects when he was a senior. Guess what his science project was on?”

  Glen glanced at me curiously as he drove. “Um . . . milk sickness?”

  I huffed. “Wouldn’t that be nice? No, sorry to get you excited. It was about digging for Native American artifacts in Pennsylvania, which apparently is something James did regularly. Sounds like he’s really into Native American history, given how he suggested that they could have poisoned the settlers using white snakeroot.”

  “Sounds pretty on-target to me. Our guy has to be smart. So do you plan to arrest this James Westley today?”

  “No. All we have right now is proof that he would have known how to do it. I just want to feel the guy out
, in person. And I want to see what he’s got in the way of alibis for the times those cows were poisoned.”

  The CDC had continued to refine the windows when they thought the cows had been fed the white snakeroot. Unfortunately, the windows were pretty wide open with the Hershbergers and Kindermans, over twenty-four hours. But with the Levi Fisher case we were in luck. They’d been able to get dated milk containers for every milking from the day of the Philadelphia outbreak moving backward. The first appearance of the tremetol, and also its heaviest concentration, was in the milk from Tuesday morning the fourteenth. Based on the research the CDC did on how long it took substances to go from a cow’s stomach to her milk supply, they’d narrowed down the ingestion to Monday the thirteenth, sometime between eight P.M. and midnight.

  That time frame made sense with the traffic at the farm too. It would be easiest for the perp to avoid getting caught if he did it after sunset. It was over a two-and-a-half hour drive each way from the town of State College to the Fisher farm in Bird-in-Hand. If James Westley had driven it that evening in order to poison the Fisher cows, he would have been gone for hours. Someone might have seen him leave or come back.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll do a runner,” Glen said. “Or you could offer him a glass of milk and get him to confess.”

  I tsked. “Black humor from you, Doctor? I’m shocked.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Glen smiled at me slyly. “I’ll have to strive to achieve that more often. I like shocking you.”

  It was only a mildly flirtatious comment, easy enough to ignore. But maybe I’d been ignoring Glen’s little forays too much. I remembered Ezra’s face as he watched us pull out of the driveway this morning. It was time to remind my temporary partner that I was in a committed relationship. “Glen—”

  As if he knew what I was going to say, he cut me off. “So has Hernandez had any luck tracking down plant sources?”