In the Land of Milk and Honey (14 page)

“I'd like to go along for the search of Stoltzfus's place,” Glen said.

“If you have something more urgent to do, Doctor, I'm sure I can handle it.”

Glen flushed and glanced at his watch. “Hmm. I really should check in with DC and my team. Will you call me if you find anything interesting? I can drive over.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks . . . Elizabeth.” Glen gave me a lingering look before leaving the office.

I rolled my eyes. This was ridiculous. I had one man I was spending way too much time with and another I barely got to see. If only I could swap the two.

I checked the time. It was four already. It would be another late night. I'd hoped to get home a bit early tonight, see if I could get Ezra out of his funk, have some quiet time together. But that would have to be put off for another day.

I could only hope he was still there when I finally had time for him. For now, I had a property to search.

—

E
zra liked the little market down the road from their farm. He liked its gingham-lined shelves of health foods, bulk candy, and local produce. It was homey and far less overwhelming than the Giant market where Elizabeth preferred to shop. When she did shop. Not that he could remember the last time that had happened.

He didn't mind picking up the load when she was busy. He
liked to do things for her. She worked too hard. And there was only the two of them, so it wasn't like the household work was a bother, especially not with the dishwasher and the washer and dryer and all of those other time-saving devices he'd been getting used to. He was getting spoiled real fast.

No, it wasn't the work he minded. But he did mind doing it all by himself. He did mind that, right now, it felt like there was a space between he and Elizabeth like a crack in the earth, one that kept growing bigger.

Ezra had grown up in an Amish household with ten children. He'd never spent a single day of his life alone until his young wife, Mary, had died. But even then he'd had visitors three or four times a day during the grieving period. They had stopped by to check up on him or bring him food or just chat and “ease his sorrow.” Then his sister Martha had moved in with him two months after Mary's funeral. It just wasn't the way in the Amish community to live alone.

Now he worked on his own farm raising mules and keeping up with his carpentry business, so some days he didn't see a living soul. Elizabeth was gone such long hours. He was alone far more than he was not, and it wasn't good, wasn't healthy. He knew it, but he didn't know what to do about it.

In front of him in the checkout line was an older Mennonite woman. She took her time, placing each of the items on the counter with care, making sure nothing had gotten damaged nor any of the price tags miraculously changed since she'd put them in her cart. Ezra wasn't in a hurry, and the woman reminded him a
little of his grandmother. He smiled and met the eyes of the clerk at the register.

Huh.

Ezra knew him. The clerk was Amish, and he was Ezra's age. Ezra had seen him at sing-alongs and weddings here and there. They'd spoken but hadn't been particularly close.

For an instant, Ezra felt an ache of dread. His inner guard went up, and he steeled himself to be treated coldly or ignored. Then he realized that was unlikely. The man's beard was short, and his hair tapered in a modern style at his nape and was slicked back. He wore a store apron, but under that was a plain white shirt—with buttons. The man was no longer Amish.

When the older lady shuffled away, Ezra stepped up to the register.

The clerk smiled. “Ezra Beiler. Right?”

It felt good to be acknowledged. “Hello, Jacob.”

Jacob looked him over, taking in his light tan pants and denim jacket. “You left too?”

“Yup.”

Jacob started to scan Ezra's purchases, but he must have been doing this job for a while, because he was able to do it while chatting away. “I didn't know! How long has it been, then?”

“Since last April. You?”

“Comin' up on two years.” Jacob said it proudly, as if he was talking about kicking alcohol or staying out of prison.

A spark of Ezra's humor returned. “Huh. Do they give you an award for that?” he teased in his dry fashion.

Jacob looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “Ocht! Yeah, the ceremony is at the county courthouse and everythin'.”

“So you've met the president, then.”

Jacob laughed. “I remember that about you, Ezra. You had a way of makin' people smile. If you wanna know the truth, the ex-Amish group I belong to will celebrate my anniversary with a potluck. But you know how we are. Any excuse to eat, don't say?”

Ezra felt a hopeful stirring of interest. “There's an ex-Amish group?”

“Oh, ja. Good-sized too. Maybe fifty people all told, though not all come at the same time. You know the Strausses from Soudersburg? Big family, all as redheaded as they come? Well, two of the Strauss brothers left the Amish. They're doin' carpentry for an RV company in Lititz. And you remember Leah Helmuth? She came up with you and me, and she's in the group. I'm datin' her now.”

Jacob looked smug about that. Ezra did remember Leah. And the Strauss family sounded familiar too.

“You should come,” Jacob said. “At least to say hello. Everyone'd be sure glad to see ya. There's a meetin' tonight.”

“I'd like that.” Ezra felt a wave of happiness, and he realized he really
would
like it. In fact, he looked forward to it more than he'd looked forward to anything in a long time.

And perhaps he revealed something in his tone or expression, because Jacob put Ezra's last purchase in the bag and looked him in the eye. He reached out a hand, steady and firm, and when
Ezra shook it, Jacob held it tight, his eyes warm. “It's real good seein' you, Ezra Beiler.”

“It's good seein' you, Jacob Zook.”

They held each other's gaze until Ezra, feeling self-conscious, released Jacob's hand.

“Lemme give you my number. Call or text me and I can give you the time and place.” Jacob tore off Ezra's receipt and wrote it on the back.

—

Over the next week, the urgent desperation of a new case turned into the methodical clockwork of long hours, endless interviews, daily reports, and sifting through crumbs of evidence. The search of Henry Stoltzfus's property came up with nothing to tie him to any of the victims nor any trace of white snakeroot plant. The only thing we found that contained tremetol on the property was the tall boneset oil, which, according to tests of the bottle by forensics, did appear to be relatively old. Without further evidence with which to charge him, Stoltzfus, the
brauche
man, was released.

We spoke to all the affected families again, and their neighbors, but got no new insight into the saboteur. We rounded up and interviewed anyone we could think of to question. Amber Kruger came in as soon as she was discharged from the hospital. She'd have minor kidney damage and persistent weakness in her leg muscles for the rest of her life, but she was alive. She was a lucky woman.

I took Amber into a room at the station where we could do an official taped interview. The room was decorated in soothing blues and it was not particularly foreboding, but Amber seemed to find the process upsetting.

“Will I be charged with manslaughter? Will I go to jail?” she asked me as soon as she was seated. Her youthful, freckled face was pale, and she looked ready to faint from anxiety.

“Amber, you didn't know there was anything wrong with the milk, and neither did Levi Fisher. We're not looking to charge you at this time. However, the state is still reviewing the case, so I can't make any guarantees. And . . . you should probably get a lawyer. It wouldn't be unusual for relatives of the victims to file a civil suit even if there are no criminal charges.” I explained this as gently as I could.

“Oh God.” Amber put her hands over her face. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed hard.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Amber shook her head and lowered her hands. Her eyes were dry, but somehow that was worse than tears, as if she'd already cried them all out days ago. “I was trying to do something good. I still believe in natural, local food. I do. My friends keep telling me this could happen to any food, that there's been lots of cases of processed food causing illness, like that spinach problem a few years ago. And I know that's true but . . . this is
me
and this is something
I
did. Children are dead because of the milk I sold in Philadelphia. How do I live with that?”

Amber looked so lost. I couldn't resist giving a squeeze to her
cold, trembling hand. I knew something about living with guilt. “You do what you can to make it right and then you forgive yourself and let it go. It's not your fault, Amber.”

She nodded, but she didn't seem to really take it to heart. She was rattled to her core, like a child who adored Santa Claus only to find the jolly old elf wielding a chainsaw in the living room.

“Can we begin? Maybe you know something that could help us.”

“Yes,” Amber said. “Anything.”

She gave me a list of every Amish farm she'd ever been to in her quest to find products for her business. I was hoping to find some connection between Amber and all the farms where the poison had appeared. But Levi Fisher's farm was the only one Amber had ever had any interaction with. She knew nothing about the other victims or Henry Stoltzfus.

“Have you come across anyone who's passionately against raw milk? Maybe at the farmers' market?” I asked.

Amber appeared to mull it over. She took a shaky breath. “No. I've gotten some dirty looks, but it's hard to know why. No one's ever stopped and lectured me about it, if that's what you mean. My ex-husband is not a fan.”

“Oh? In what sense?”

She gave an exasperated eye roll. “He didn't like me working in local foods. It didn't pay well enough to make him happy, and he just didn't get it. He's a Pizza Hut and Wonder Bread kind of guy. Not a fan of the Amish either. The more I got into the local food scene, the more we fought. We got divorced last year.”

It sounded to me like the perfect recipe for anger and resentment. “What's his name?”

“Nate Kruger. He wanted me to take his name when we got married, so I did. I haven't messed with changing it back.”

I wrote it down along with his address. “You say he's not a fan of the Amish. Can you explain in more detail?”

Amber looked uncomfortable. “Um. I don't know, really. He doesn't approve of their religious beliefs I guess.”

“Would you say your ex-husband has an interest in seeing your business fail?”

Amber frowned. “I don't understand why you're asking. I thought this was about an invasive plant species. What does that have to do with my ex-husband?”

I had to tread carefully. So far no one outside of our internal team knew about the possible saboteur, and I wanted to keep it that way. “It's just routine. We have to look into every possible avenue.” I changed the subject. “Tell me about your interactions at the Fisher farm. Did you ever see anyone else there? Did you talk about that farm with your friends? Did anyone ever go out there with you, your ex or anyone else?

“The only person I ever took out there was my intern, Rob. As for who I saw there, um, there was a vet there once. And sometimes there would be other Amish visiting at the house. And customers for the farm store . . .”

Amber's interview lasted three hours and added four people to my contact list.

Amber's ex-husband, Nate Kruger, was a good-looking thirty-year-old. He worked as an accountant for a local tile manufacturing plant, and he was nothing at all like his ex-wife.

“Amber is totally obsessed with food. She won't even go out to a restaurant. No GMOs, no ‘factory farm' meat, nothing pasteurized, no corn syrup . . . She's completely paranoid!” Nate complained, exasperated. “I grew up on a farm in Lancaster, and my mother made cookies and TV dinners sometimes. Macaroni casseroles. Hell, she'd fry up Spam once in a while. There's nothing wrong with regular food!”

I made no comment. “Did you ever go with Amber to visit any Amish farms?”

Nate looked uneasy, as if wondering how much he should
admit. “She kept going on about how great it was, so, yeah, I let her drag me a few times.”

“Do you recall visiting the Levi Fisher farm in Bird-in-Hand?”

Nate rubbed at the tabletop with his thumb. “I dunno. I don't remember the names. They're all alike, aren't they?”

I didn't care for the way he wouldn't meet my eyes. I was pretty sure he was lying.

“And what did you think of the Amish farms Amber took you to?”

Nate scratched his forehead, then, obviously nervous, he rubbed the table some more.

“Mr. Kruger?”

“Look, Amber probably told you how much she loves the Amish. And that I don't. I'm going to an evangelical church in Mount Joy. The minister there says the Amish are a cult. God never asked us not to use modern conveniences. I mean, he gave us the brains to invent them, didn't he? He doesn't ask us to toil needlessly. And the Bible says ‘be in the world but not of it.' They just hide from the world. We're supposed to be
in
the world, bear testimony, not shut everyone else out.”

I studied Nate. I didn't like him. His everyone-else-is-wrong attitude rubbed me the wrong way. But did he have a deep enough hatred to kill? Could he resent his ex-wife's business with the Amish that much?

I gave him a tight smile. “Do you know much about plants, Mr. Kruger?”

“What? Plants? Not really. Why?”

“Never done any gardening?”

“No.” Nate snorted as if the mere idea was ridiculous.

“Have you ever heard of a plant called white snakeroot?” I kept my expression neutral.