In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Jane Jensen

  “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.”

  “What’s in it?” Glen asked politely as he appeared in the doorway behind me.

  Rachel looked at her father for guidance.

  “Chamomile, lavender, rose hips for the immune system, feverfew,” he said. “She knows the plants on sight but not the names so good.” He took the bag from Rachel and opened it, smelled the contents. “Mint too. You put mint in the tea?” he asked Rachel.

  “Mint
.” Rachel nodded, smiling happily. “Good for your tummy.” She circled her palm over her soft-looking belly.

  “Where do you sell your herbal remedies?” I asked. I had my iPhone in my hand and was still recording.

  “We set up at Root’s Market on Tuesdays,” Henry said. “I take that day off work and go along with Rachel. But most customers come here. Rachel knows what she’s doin’. She’s never hurt anyone. What is it exactly you’re lookin’ for? And what’s this got to do with Knepp and Hershberger? They ain’t never been customers of ours.”

  I glanced at Glen. He was peering closely at a shelf that had dozens of labeled glass bottles.

  I decided I might as well be blunt. “The Knepps and Hershbergers were both quite ill with this sickness that’s being transmitted in raw milk. Have you read about it or seen it on the news?”

  Henry’s eyes darted between me and Glen, who was still reading labels. “So? That’s got nothing to do with Rachel and me. We don’t even have a cow.”

  I debated internally what to say next. I spoke carefully. “You would know how to give a cow milk sickness though, wouldn’t you, Mr. Stoltzfus?”

  He blinked at me, his face shocked. “I—why would anyone want to do that?”

  “Harris.” Glen’s voice was excited. He waved me over and pointed to a bottle on the shelf. The bottle was half full of a clear substance, and the label read: “Tall Boneset Extract.”

  “It’s another name for white snakeroot,” he muttered low in my ear.

  I rubbed my lips, surprised and uneasy. It was certainly a breakthrough, but not one that was very gratifying. I only felt sad. Of course, this wasn’t proof that Henry Stoltzfus had poisoned those cows. But he had the motive and the knowhow, and now we’d found the means—or at least a means. That many checkmarks rarely added up to coincidence.

  Glen was watching me, his eyes asking how we should proceed. I straightened my shoulders and turned to Henry and Rachel.

  “Mr. Stoltzfus, I’m going to have to ask you and Rachel to accompany us to the police station for questioning. You can refuse to go with me, but if you do, I will formally arrest you.” I could arrest him now, but I preferred to wait until we had more to go on, something that directly linked Henry and the poisonings. Once I made an arrest, it would be on his record for life.

  Henry went pale. As if his legs were weak, he grabbed the edge of the worktable for support. “My grandchildren . . .”

  “We’ll take them along. There’s a playroom where they can wait at the station. I’ll call a police car to come get you.”

  “Da? Wass wrong?” Rachel asked, studying her father’s face. She looked confused and upset.

  “It’s fine, darlin’. We’re just gonna take a little ride. Okay?” Henry rubbed her shoulder soothingly, his voice soft. “Come on, Billy.” He held out his other hand to the boy, who now had his game machine tucked close to his chest and was watching the proceedings with a solemn face. The boy hopped off the table without a word.

  I was touched by how gentle Henry was with his daughter and grandson. But I knew better than to let it cloud my duty. I opened the shed door and motioned for them to step out ahead of me.

  “Need to grab Rachel’s coat and purse from the house,” Henry said quietly.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to touch anything. While we’re waiting, I’ll go into the house and get your granddaughter and Rachel’s things.”

  Henry closed his eyes and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. But he didn’t protest. Head down, holding Rachel’s hand on one side and the boy’s on the other, Henry Stoltzfus walked resolutely forward.

  CHAPTER 11

  I had a black-and-white pick up the Stoltzfus family, and I rode back to the station with Glen. We drove into the city from the south, and as we approached the center of downtown, the traffic grew congested.

  The heart of the city of Lancaster is Penn Square, where the Soldiers and Sailors Monument—impressive, gothic, and ornate—stands in a small circle in the middle of the square. A roundabout directs the flow of traffic around the statue to the four intersecting streets. Penn Square is ringed by quaint shops in old colonial buildings of brick, stone, and wood, and I always enjoyed passing through it.

  But today, the traffic was jammed up blocks before Penn Square. I texted with Grady to fill him in and get the interview room lined up, so I wasn’t paying a lot of attention until Glen spoke up.

  “Great. The governor will love this.”

  I looked up and took in the crowds on either side of the street. A few signs clued me in on what I was looking at. Among the Saturday tourists and shoppers were protesters. There had to be a hundred pro-raw-milk protesters with their signs and slogans. On one corner of Penn Square, a smaller group in opposition shouted at passing cars. They carried signs that read: “Pasteurization—Good for Farmers, Good for You” and “Raw Milk HURTS Dairy Farmers!”

  “Oh no,” I muttered. I was surprised by the number of people and surprised too by the passion I saw on the faces of those on both sides of the issue. “This is not good.”

  “No,” Glen said tersely as the car crawled forward.

  I already felt enormous pressure about this case. There was the meeting we’d had at the state capitol and the knowledge that the media and the state government were watching the case closely. But there was a greater stress that came from inside me, as if the walk-through I’d done at the Kinderman house was always lurking behind a thin veil in my mind. I’d do anything to prevent more children from dying, more Amish families from being poisoned on their own farms. I felt protective and fierce about the case, and I wanted to find whoever was responsible and make him pay.

  However, the pressure the growing protests put on the police department was not at all helpful.

  We rolled by a lovely brick building that I’d always admired. It was a real-estate office right on Penn Square, and it was across from a deli the police frequented. A man in white coveralls was in front of the brick wall with a bucket and scrub brush. Someone had defaced the building with graffiti in neon yellow. “Besnard,” it said. Had the graffiti artist been trying to spell “bastard”? I hated to see the defacement of such a prominent property.

  If you have to be an asshole, at least learn how to spell.

  Then Glen braked hard as a group of young teens passed in front of his sedan. They wore T-shirts that showed the back end of a cartoon cow with a huge udder and, under that, the words “Do It Raw.”

  “Classy!” I muttered under my breath, and Glen burst out in a laugh.

  —

  The formal interview with Henry Stoltzfus and then Rachel was performed in one of the station’s interrogation rooms and filmed through one-way glass. I ran the interviews, and Glen sat in. Though I couldn’t see him, I knew Grady was watching from behind the mirror. I could feel his strong, calming presence as if he were in the room.

  “Can you describe how you know the family of Aaron Knepp?” I asked Henry.

  “Told you that already, at my house.”

  “I’d like you to tell me again.”

  No one ever enjoys being questioned by the police. Reactions run the gamut from fear to tears to anger and defiance. Habitual criminals often show no emotion at all, unless it’s boredom or disdain. Henry was not an emotional man, and he wavered between bewilderment that this was happening at all, and irritation.

  “We used to go to the same church. That was seven years ago. Ain’t seen the man but a couple of times since.”

  He repeated the whole story, with prompting for more details from me this time. His wife had died giving birth to Rachel, and she was Henry’s only child. When Rachel got pregnant at sixteen, and the church issued their ultimatum, he’d stuck by his daughter. He’d left the Amish church and the only life he’d ever known.

  I couldn’t help but admire Henry. I
’d seen the way Katie Yoder’s parents had written her off when they thought she’d left home and the Amish way. And then there was Ezra. Being shunned by his family hurt him in a soul-deep way that I was still trying to fully comprehend. With a low throb of anxiety, I remembered how upset he’d been two nights ago after he’d gone to see his father. It would have meant the world to Ezra to have his parents stand by him. Of course, they couldn’t have done so without leaving the church, as Henry had.

  But brave though Henry’s actions might have been, it was clear that it hadn’t been easy and that he still wasn’t over it.

  “Hypocrites is what they are,” he said bitterly. “You’re supposed to have compassion for the sick and disabled, but that’s only if they’re smart enough, or weak enough, to follow your rules. If they ain’t, then to hell with ’em.”

  “You hold quite a grudge, Mr. Stoltzfus,” I said.

  “I’ll hold a damn grudge as long as I want. I think I’m entitled. But I didn’t do anything to Knepp or Hershberger nor to anyone else. I’ve got my own life to live. I don’t have time to worry about theirs.”

  I changed tack. “Do you know Levi Fisher of Willow Run Farm in Bird-in-Hand?”

  Henry shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

  “Are you positive? We’ll also ask Mr. Fisher. It won’t look good if you withhold information now.”

  “I don’t know him! Just because I was Amish don’t mean I know every Amish there is. I know hardly any these days. We don’t associate.”

  Henry wouldn’t budge on the Kindermans either. He swore he didn’t know them and had no reason to wish them harm. I’d follow up on that, of course. But for now, it was time to gain the upper hand.

  I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and gazed at Henry intently. “What is hexerei?”

  “That’s what this is? Those idiots told you I hexed them?”

  “Just answer the question please. What is hexerei?”

  He pinched his mouth closed, his eyes thunderous. He started to speak, stopped, and started again. “Powwow can be used for ill. But I have never used it as such. Yes, there are curses in the old books, hexerei. But never in my life have I laid one.” He looked at me challengingly. “I have only ever done good with the word of God.”