In the Land of Milk and Honey (5 page)

“No, sorry. This is the last of the asparagus today.”

“Oh no! In that case, let me grab those quick. What about strawberries? I saw some at other booths, but they were from greenhouses. Your stuff is from Amish farms, right?” The woman
looked up at the large banner Amber had designed. It depicted a painted farm scene with a red barn and the words “Fresh Direct to You from Amish Farms in Lancaster County,” and “Chemical Free!” and “Raw Milk!” The woman tilted her head. “Are the strawberries coming in over there yet?”

“We had the first batch this week.” Amber grinned. “So good! Unfortunately, I didn't have that many pints and I sold out. But I should have a ton more on Saturday.”

“Damn.” The woman lightly frowned. “I work an early shift at the hospital on Saturdays. Don't get home until three.”

“If you're sure you'll be here before we close, I'd be happy to set aside a few pints for you.”

“Would you?” The woman looked like she'd been promised a winning lottery ticket. Then again, the first spring strawberries straight off the farm were close. “I can
definitely
be by, like, three thirty?”

“We close at four, so yeah, if you can make it by then that would be great.”

“That's amazing! Thank you so much!”

Amber smiled at the woman. They were definitely on the same wavelength. And her baby was such a cutie. Lucky baby to have a mama like this one.

“And I suppose you're completely out of raw milk?” the woman pouted.

“Oh, yeah! Sorry. That goes fast.”

The woman sighed. “I figured. Oh well!” She jostled the
brown-haired munchkin strapped to her chest. “We'll have to get our moo moo at the store tomorrow!” she cooed to the little girl. “Lilah's crazy about the stuff,” she told Amber.

“Well that's something she and I have in common.” Amber leaned forward to touch the baby on the nose. She was rewarded with a smile.

“They have it at the natural food store in town, but it's a pain getting over there. We're so lucky, aren't we? I have a friend who's a mom in Maryland. Sometimes she'll drive up for a visit just to pick up raw milk. I can't imagine not being able to get it whenever I want it.”

This was a topic Amber felt passionately about, and her tiredness from the long day faded as her blood rose. “I know!” she agreed. “Technically, I'm not supposed to sell it to anyone who'll take it over the state lines. But screw that. Anyone who wants to buy it from me, I'm not asking questions. If they happen to mention they're from Jersey or Maryland, I'm just like, ‘La la la! Didn't hear that!'”

The woman laughed. “Good for you! So how much do I owe you for the asparagus?” The woman pulled a wallet out of a pouch in the carrier.

Amber hesitated. “You know, I have a gallon of milk in the truck I poured one glass out of this morning. If you want it, you can have it. Just so you have something to hold you over till tomorrow. No one drank out of the carton or anything.”

The woman looked unsure. “Seriously? I don't want to take it if you were keeping it for yourself.”

“Oh, I still have most of a gallon at home. I'm good.”

“Well . . . okay. That'd be wonderful! Would you like some milk, Lilah?”

“Moo moo!” the little girl said happily, kicking her legs.

Amber
laughed.

T
he CDC held a VIP emergency debriefing at the police station on Tuesday morning, four days after the Kindermans had been found. The heads of a few state agencies came down from Harrisburg, and only the top brass of the police were invited. Fortunately, Grady stopped at my desk and nodded at me to come along. He knew I had a real jones for this case, even though the CDC were in charge of it.

Dr. Glen Turner from the CDC led the meeting. He was in his mid-thirties with sandy hair, a goatee, and a “hip scientist” vibe. His button-down oxford shirt and khakis stood out among all the suits. He came across as very intelligent and firmly in charge. He was pretty cute too. Not that I cared one way or the other. It was just an observation.

“Our lab has identified the toxin.” Dr. Turner had his laptop
plugged into a projector, and he put up a photograph of a plant. It had long stems and a wide head made up of tiny white flowers. “The Kindermans died of tremetol poisoning. It was in their cow's milk. Tremetol is found in a few wild plants—most commonly
Eupatorium rugosum
or white snakeroot.” He waved at the picture on the screen. It looked like the sort of flowering weed you'd see along rural roads. “Also called deerwort, tall boneset, and richweed. The animals eat the plant, get sick, and develop tremors and weakness. The tremetol is passed along in their milk and meat. In sufficient concentrations, it's fatal to humans.”

I had a million questions, and I wasn't the only one. A dozen hands went up, but Dr. Turner waved them down. “Let me get through this information, please. I'll take questions later.”

He clicked to a photograph of the Kindermans' farm. “We've already been in touch with Pennsylvania's DCNR—the Department of Conservation and Natural Resources.” He nodded to a man in the room, and the man put up a hand in acknowledgment. “They tell us white snakeroot isn't native to Pennsylvania, and they aren't aware of any growing here in the wild. We've checked the feed supplies the Kindermans were using for their dairy cows. They grew and harvested their own hay and bought grain feed from a local supplier. There's no sign of the tremetol in the feed. So that's a good thing, because a lot of farms use that same supplier.”

Holy shit.
The possibilities spooled out in my mind.

“Our most important concern at the moment is to locate the source of the tremetol on the Kindermans' farm. It is possible we're looking at an invasive-plant problem, so we're working
with the DCNR. We'll be checking every inch of the Kindermans' fields. But it's also possible the cows got the toxin some other way—something brought onto the farm like livestock medicine, ear oil, insect repellent, whatever. We'll find it. And yes, we have prepared a press statement we'll be releasing in about an hour. Questions?”

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.

—

A
mber 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.

—

A
fter 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 where 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.”