In the Land of Milk and Honey (12 page)

“Was there an autopsy?” Glen asked.

“No.”

“Was she embalmed?”

“No.” Knepp shook his head impatiently. “That's not our way.”

I knew embalming was not mandatory in the state of Pennsylvania. All that was required was a death certificate by a licensed physician. Unless that doctor suspected foul play and insisted on an autopsy, that wasn't the Amish way either. They
prepared the body at home, built a coffin, held the funeral within three days, and interred the body in one of their own cemeteries. They pretty much sidestepped the death industry altogether. And that was their right, as far as I was concerned. But it wasn't particularly helpful in this case.

“Where did they take your wife?” Glen asked.

“We buried her that Saturday in the Amish cemetery down there on Ronks Road.”

I shared a look with Glen. His lips were set in a disappointed line. I shook my head minutely.
Nothing we can do about it now.

“Did you notice anything wrong with your cow around that time?” I asked.

Knepp stroked his long gray beard, his gaze turned inward, as if remembering. “Ja. She was a little off for a few days round about then. I jus' heard today there was a sickness passing from cows through the milk, and it made sense to me that's where we got it. At the time, though, just thought we all had the flu.”

“In what way was the cow ‘off'?” Glen leaned forward, elbows on his knees. A light breeze ruffled his hair making him look boyishly young. Then I thought that was a weird thing to notice.

“Well . . . she just stood by the barn all day, sort of head down, instead of goin' off in the pasture like usual. So I knew she wasn't quite herself. I kept an eye on her, and she was all right after a few days. Course, we was all sick by then. My son's family too, my grandkids. I'd given 'em a gallon of that milk,
and the whole family was sick as dogs. It only lasted a few days with them, though my daughter-in-law swears she still ain't right.”

“Hmm. Did you notice the cow trembling at all?” Glen suggested. “Or maybe walking stiffly?”

“She weren't walkin' much at all. Maybe she was shakin', as I recollect. I thought she'd eatin' somethin' that upset her. The spring grass can upset their stomachs 'cause they eat so much of it, and they're not used to how rich it is.”

Glen turned to me. “We should test the cow, and Mr. Knepp and his family too. I can get a team out here to examine the pasture and barn.”

“Absolutely.” I doubted they'd find much evidence in the barn, not this late, but we had to look. “Mr. Knepp, was there anyone around your cow in the day or two leading up to her sickness? Anyone you didn't know? Or even someone you did? A vet? A farrier? A tourist? Anyone?”

Knepp shook his shaggy head. “No. But I don't lock the barn, nor the house neither. Suppose someone could have gotten in at night while . . .” For the first time, I heard emotion in his voice. “. . . while the wife and I slept.”

“What about the dog?” Glen asked, looking at the old black Lab at Knepp's feet.

“Oh, she's an old girl and deaf as a post. Sleeps in the mud room too.” Knepp snapped his fingers, but the dog never looked at him. She continued to stare sleepily at me, head on her paws.

“One more thing, Mr. Knepp.” I took a breath, feel
ing
awkward. “I heard from Hannah Yoder that some people believe this sickness is a curse, a
hexerei
.”

Knepp stared at me for a long moment as if surprised to hear an outsider speak of it. “'Tis so. I thought it was a curse. Not so sure now. People like you—youse don't understand.”

“I'm hoping to,” I said with a sympathetic smile. I ignored the questioning look Glen was giving me. “Hannah mentioned a
brauche
man, Henry Stoltzfus. Has Henry been by your farm at all?”

“Not for years. But he don't need to come by to lay a hex.”

“I see. Well, is there bad blood between you and Henry Stoltzfus? Does he have reason to wish you, and maybe the Hershbergers and the Kindermans, any harm?”

“Guess you should ask him that. I can tell youse this—the bad blood's on his end.” Knepp's face darkened with anger.

“Can you tell me what it's about?”

Knepp's lips worked into a bitter pout as he considered it. He looked at me and at Glen. I knew he must be thinking that we were with the police and he didn't want to talk to us. But maybe he was also considering the impact on his community this was all having. I tried to tip the scale in our favor.

“Maybe it was an argument Henry had with the church?” Hannah had told me that much.

That loosened Knepp's tongue. “He has a daughter, Henry does. Feebleminded. 'N' she got herself in the family way. She was unmarried. 'N' our church elders went to see Henry, wanted him to do somethin' about it. He refused. So he left the church.
Hard words were spoken. Now I understand the girl has another child too, and she's still not married.” He shook his head in disgust. “Ungodly, they are. And Henry Stoltzfus practices
hexerei
. If he's not right with God, you can guess where that power is coming from.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Does Henry have any reason to dislike you specifically, Mr. Knepp?”

Knepp grunted. “You could say so. I'm one of the church elders, and so is Samuel Hershberger.”

We took a back road toward Manheim, where Henry Stoltzfus lived. I'd checked him out before but hadn't actually gone to see him. At this point, a talk with the
brauche
man was well past due. I could sense Glen's consternation as he drove. He opened his mouth to speak several times, then changed his mind. I held my tongue and waited for him to spit it out.

“So, uh . . . what's all this about hexes?” he finally asked. He seemed to be making an effort not to sound dubious.

“Stoltzfus has a grudge against the men whose cows were poisoned—at least Knepp and Hershberger. I'd say he's a suspect.”

“But the Hershberger boy saw a man with a car. Isn't Stoltzfus Amish?”

“He's ex-Amish. I don't know if he has a car or not, but we'll find out.”

Glen gave a “huh,” and the atmosphere in the car lightened. Now he was just plain curious. “So what is a
hexerei
? Is this an Amish thing?”

I told him what Ezra had explained about the practice of powwow.

“So it's basically like folk remedies and prayers, for good or ill?”

“Sounds like it to me. Honestly, I don't know much other than what I just told you, which is what Ezra told me. He made it sound like not many Amish practice it anymore.”

“That's more than I ever would have known,” Glen said appreciatively.

I turned my head to look out the passenger window in case my skin was stupid enough to blush. Glen wasn't exactly moving on from his interest in me. If anything, it was getting worse. There were a dozen tells. It was there in the way I'd find him looking at me when he should be looking at the person we were interviewing, the way his hand lingered on the center console of the car while he drove, and in the smiles, winks, and warm looks he graced me with that were one step to the left of camaraderie. It wouldn't be the first time I'd dealt with a male partner being attracted to me. In the case of Glen, though, it left me feeling off, wrong-footed. He was good-looking, a doctor, employed by a prestigious agency—and he wasn't just staring at my breasts. He seemed to appreciate my intelligence, my work. It was flattering.

But he's not Ezra.

Things were definitely not what they should have been at
home. Last night, Ezra hadn't come to bed until late and he'd lain with his back toward me. He'd been polite this morning but distant. I missed him, odd as that sounded. I wanted to get us back to where we'd been before, but I wasn't sure how to accomplish that. I couldn't afford to be distracted from this case. There were lives at stake. Didn't he understand that?

“If this man is into herbal remedies, he might know about white snakeroot.” Glen's voice was thoughtful.

“That's true.” A spark of interest brought my mind back to the case.

“What about the Kindermans? Or Levi Fisher and his family? Would this Henry Stoltzfus have a grudge against them too?”

“I doubt they go to the same church. The Knepps and Hershbergers live relatively close together in Paradise, but the Kindermans were in Willow Creek and the Fishers are in Bird-in-Hand. They both live too far away to travel easily by buggy. I'll find out for sure, though. And he could have known them from somewhere else. If he practices folk medicine in the community, he could have customers from all over.”

“See, I wouldn't have thought of that. I'm really glad to have you on this one,” Glen commented. He added, as if feeling self-conscious, “Professionally, that is. I mean—” He cut himself off, biting his lower lip. It was a boyish tic, and it softened him.

Yes, he was attractive. In another time, another place . . .

“I'm glad to have your expertise as well,” I said in a careful tone.

Please leave it at that
, I thought. He did.

H
enry Stoltzfus rented a house on a road outside of Manheim. It was a small bungalow in a neighborhood of similar homes that had probably been built in the forties or fifties. The house couldn't be more than twelve hundred square feet. There were children's toys scattered around the unkempt yard. The property was narrow but long, and it ran straight back behind the house. I could see a garden back there and a shed. In the gravel driveway was an old blue Ford sedan with a few rust spots on the sides.

I took pictures of the car with my iPhone and then nodded at Glen. We approached the front door and knocked.

A girl of about eight answered. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and her My Little Pony shirt was too small and stained with what looked like spaghetti sauce.

“Hi. What do you want?” she prompted smartly.

I smiled. “Hello. We're here to see Henry Stoltzfus.”

“Pa-pa! Customer!” The girl disappeared, leaving the front door open, and Glen and I standing on the cracked cement slab of the front stoop.

Henry Stoltzfus came into the living room wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He was not what I'd expected. He wasn't terribly old, sixties at most. His thick hair was silver, and it was combed straight back with some kind of gel. His salt-and-pepper beard was closely trimmed, and his blue eyes were sharp. His face was still handsome and broad with Germanic strength. He was
dressed in a worn brown work shirt and thick black pants that might have been Amish once upon a time. Otherwise, he didn't look particularly Amish now.

“Mr. Stoltzfus?” I held up my badge. “I'm Detective Harris with the Lancaster Police, and this is Dr. Turner from the Centers for Disease Control. We'd like to ask you some questions.”

Henry hesitated, then tossed the dishcloth over one shoulder. “Youse are not here for remedying, I take it. In that case, we can talk in the house. Come on in.”

He encouraged us to step inside the living room and shut the door, but he didn't invite us to sit down. He put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow, his face wary. “What can I do for the police?”

“Do you mind if I record this?” I asked, pulling my iPhone from my jacket pocket.

Henry frowned, as if not sure why I would want to record our conversation, but he gave a terse nod. I started the recorder. I preferred to be sitting, but I wasn't going to ask.

“This is Detective Elizabeth Harris. I'm with Dr. Glen Turner of the CDC. We're interviewing Henry Stoltzfus at his home on Power Road in Manheim, April eighteenth, 2015. Mr. Stoltzfus, do you know Samuel Hershberger of Paradise?”

Henry's mouth tightened into an unhappy line. “Know him to speak of.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Hershberger?”

“Relationship? There ain't a relationship.”

“Mr. Hershberger and his family went to the Amish church you used to attend in Paradise. Is that correct?”

“'Tis so.”

“Do you still attend that church?”

“I do not.” Henry straightened his back and folded his arms over his chest.

“Can you tell me why you left the church?”

Henry huffed and looked at the wall, his face darkening. “Do I have to answer your questions? Ain't done a thing wrong.”

“You don't have to speak to us today, Mr. Stoltzfus. But if you refuse, it may raise questions later. And we can get a subpoena for an interview if need be.”

Henry let out an angry breath. “God's sake, I got nothin' to hide.” He met my gaze, his face stern. “I left the church because they're a lot of hypocrites. They wanted me to abandon my daughter. I would never do that.”

“Why did they want you to abandon her?”

He grimaced. “My daughter, Rachel . . . she was born damaged in the head. She gets along well now, but she don't see things the way most people do. She don't understand why it's wrong to . . . to be with men. Got pregnant at sixteen. The church elders wanted me to shun her or lock her away. I've never penned up a dog in my life, and I sure as hell ain't gonna chain my daughter in her room—or send her to some damn asylum.”

I felt Henry's passion and sympathized with him. But I'd been a police officer long enough not to take anyone's story at face value.

“The girl who answered the door? Was that your granddaughter?”

“Yes, and there's nothin' wrong with her,” he said defensively. “What happened to my Rachel had to do with the way she was born, cord stuck around her neck for too long. It's not somethin' to be passed along from mother to child.”

“I see.”

“I have a grandson too. He's five years old. Won't be havin' no more now.”

His words were both brusque and apologetic, as if justifying himself and not liking feeling that he had to do so. I wondered how he could be so sure there'd be no more grandchildren. Had Rachel had her tubes tied? Was she on the pill? The Amish didn't use birth control, but clearly Henry had divorced himself from those beliefs in plenty of other ways.

“How is Rachel doing now?” I asked.

His eyes softened. “She's doin' all right. Lives here with me, her and the children.”

“Since your falling out with the church, have you been in contact with Samuel Hershberger or Aaron Knepp?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

Henry looked confused. “No. Why? Why are you here? If they said something, they're lying. I haven't had naught to do with them.”

“Have you ever heard of milk sickness, Mr. Stoltzfus?” Glen asked. “It's sometimes called the trembles or the slows.”

Henry nodded warily. “Heard of it.”

I found that interesting. Not many people had a clue. “You mentioned ‘remedying.' Is that what you do for a living? Remedy people? How do you do that exactly?”

Henry looked between Glen and me as if he wasn't sure what he could or should say. His face paled, and I could see the pieces clicking together in his mind, that this had something to do with sickness, and maybe something to do with his powwow practice, and the two of those things combined couldn't be good. He spoke hesitantly. “We make folk remedies. I work full-time at construction now. Mostly it's Rachel what does the remedying these days.”

“Rachel does?” I repeated, surprised.

“Ja, she's a natural at it. She's not book smart, but she knows plants the way dogs know bones. It's a gift from God. She's got to earn her bread somehow.”

Glen and I exchanged a look.

“I'd like to see your garden, Mr. Stoltzfus,” Glen said in a polite but firm voice. “And also where you make your folk medicine. Please.”

Henry wiped his brow nervously. “We ain't regulated. It's our own garden. And we make herbal treatments for friends is all.”

I refrained from commenting on how quickly Stoltzfus had changed his tune. From Rachel “earning her bread” by remedying people to only treating “friends.” But I wasn't with the FDA, and all I cared about was murder. “We're not here to fine you, Mr. Stoltzfus. We're looking into a different matter. I really would
appreciate it if you showed Dr. Turner and me your garden and workroom, please.”

With some grousing, Henry led us out the front door again and around the side of the house. The April garden was just getting going, much like Ezra's garden at home. I wasn't a gardener, but I recognized the young heads of lettuce and the tall, straight stalks of green onions. I left Glen to pore over the small plot of land with intense focus while Henry took me to the shed.

The shed was set back on the far end of the property, a worn old building of brown planks that was about the size of a one-car garage. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as we drew near. There were wooden flaps that served as windows, and they were propped open. Over the door and lintel were carved words and symbols. The words looked like German, and the symbols were odd, mystical-looking marks—a eye in a cloud, lightning bolts, symbols that looked almost like hieroglyphs, a sun with jagged lines, various types of crosses. It gave the little shed an ominous air, even in the bright light of day.

Henry pushed open the door, and I stepped inside. The air was redolent with sweet-smelling smoke as something dry and leafy burned in a stone chafing dish set over a flame. The ceiling was hung with bundles of dried plants and flowers, ropes of garlic, feathers, chicken feet, and other things I couldn't identify and didn't really want to. There was a huge wooden worktable that occupied the middle of the shed. A boy of about five was sitting perched up on a bare part of the table and focused on an
electronic game in his hands, his tongue out as he worked. He barely glanced at me before going back to his game. A woman in her late twenties was working at the table, putting teaspoons of green stuff in little plastic bags.

“Rachel, this is Detective . . .”

“Harris.”

“Sorry. My memory's not what it used to be.”

“No problem.”

Rachel finished filling and closing one of the little bags very deliberately and carefully before turning her attention to me. It was obvious at first look that Rachel was mentally handicapped. Her mouth hung open slightly, showing a gap between her front teeth. A bit of saliva lingered at one corner of her lips, and her eyes were dull. She wore a loose green print dress that went to mid-calf and rubber shoes. She wrung her hands and stepped from foot to foot, as if my presence made her excited. Despite all this, her black hair and pale skin gave the impression that she might have been a very beautiful girl, if not for the accident of birth Henry had described.

I smiled. “Hello, Rachel.”

“'Lo.” Rachel gave me a sunny smile. “Pretty.” She reached out to touch a wisp of my hair that had come loose from my bun.

Henry intercepted Rachel's hand as if he were quite used to doing so. He held it gently in his. “Detective Harris wanted to see the shed, to see your work, Rachel.”

“My work,” Rachel repeated in a thick voice. She looked around and, pulling away from her father, snatched one of the
filled baggies off the table. “Good tea. Good for sleep and—” Rachel waved at her nose and mouth with the hand that wasn't holding the baggie. “For a cold! If you have a cold.”