In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Jane Jensen

  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.

  Nate licked his lips, uneasy. “It’s been in the news the past few days. That’s what got into the milk, right? The cows eat it and it poisons the milk? I told Amber she was setting herself up for a liability selling that stuff right off the farm. She never listened to me.”

  “Are you sure you never heard of white snakeroot before it was on the news recently?”

  “No. Why would I? Look, if you’re implying that I had something to do with the poisoned milk Amber sold, that’s . . . that’s ridiculous! That’s total—excuse me—bullshit!” He laughed, but it was a bitter sound.

  I stared at him for a long moment, watching him squirm. “It would help us eliminate you as a person of interest, Mr. Kruger, if you gave us permission to search your home and car. Just to verify that there’s nothing that links you to this case. I also have a list of dates for which you’ll need to provide a full account of your time.” I took a form with dates from my notebook and pushed it to Nate across the table.

  He glanced at the form. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.” I leaned my elbows on the table, my gaze steady.

  Nate swallowed hard and pushed the form back to me. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  —

  Rob Myers, Amber’s intern, was the opposite of Nate Kruger. He was open and friendly, almost too friendly. He was short, about five foot five, dark-haired, and skinny. He was twenty but still had the acne of a teenager. His only attractive features were striking light blue eyes that glimmered with intelligence and a ready smile.

  “This whole thing is so awful,” he said sincerely when we interviewed him at the station. “Poor Amber. She must be beside herself, what with all those people dead. Are you going to arrest her?”

  Rob’s face was a study in sympathy. I thought, You were selling that milk at the farmers’ market too, kid, but I didn’t say it. Was Rob nervous that he could be in trouble? I decided I didn’t need to threaten him with that. Not yet, anyway.

  “That Tuesday morning when you picked up the milk and produce at Levi Fisher’s farm, did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything different about how Mr. Fisher was acting? Anybody on the property you didn’t recognize. Footprints. Trash. Animals acting strangely. Anything at all?”

  Rob hummed and appeared to think about it. “No. Honestly, I’m not all that with it early in the morning. We were there at, like, seven o’clock. I remember it being just like any other day.” He gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I wish I knew how to help.”

  “Amber didn’t seem any different that day?”

  Rob blew out a heavy breath. “Not until we were driving home. She got sick on the drive back. I offered to take her straight to the ER, but she wanted to go home. Guess maybe I should have insisted.” He looked regretful.

  “And you never got ill yourself?”

  Rob shook his head. “No. I drink nonfat milk, so I don’t drink the stuff we get at the farms. Gotta watch the diet, you know?” He patted his stomach with a conspiratorial smile. Said stomach was nonexistent as far as I could tell and in any case was hidden under an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt.

  “How did you come to work for Amber, Rob?”

  “Um, I’m taking computer repair classes at a vo-tech college in Lancaster. But I thought I might want to be a farmer someday. You know, once I’ve saved up some money from a computer job. My dad was a farmer. It’d be nice to be your own boss, you know? Not have to punch a clock.”

  “And you met Amber how?”

  “Oh. Well, anyway, if I ever do go into farming, I want to do organics. ’Cause that’s where the money is, right? You can hardly make a living these days in regular farming, but people like that organic stuff, and if you sell it direct you cut out the middle man. Amber put up a job notice at the vo-tech ’cause there’s a farm program there. I saw it and thought it might be good experience, just to see what it was like. And . . . yeah. It’s been good. Very educational.” Rob frowned. “Do you think Amber will keep her business? I know it means a lot to her. She’s very dedicated, you know?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Amber about that.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  We ran through the other farmers—the Knepps, the Hershbergers, the Kinderm
ans. But Rob didn’t know any of them. He said that all the Amish farmers he’d met were “nice” and that he “could learn a lot from them probably.” He didn’t seem to harbor any emotion about them one way or the other. Or if he did, he was good at hiding it.

  “Have you ever heard of a plant called white snakeroot?” I asked.

  Rob tilted his head with a curious look. “No. What is it?”

  “You haven’t heard it mentioned on the news recently?”

  Rob shrugged. “I don’t watch TV much.”

  I wrote that down slowly. I found it odd, considering that Rob was closely involved with the deaths in Philadelphia. Most people would have followed the news stories about it obsessively. Then again, college students could be incredibly insular. “And where do you live, Rob?”

  “I live with my mom right now. My dad isn’t with us anymore, and she needs the help. Plus it saves money while I’m in school.” He tapped the table restlessly, maybe embarrassed to still be living at home, despite his straightforward rationale.

  “I’d like your address, please. And your cell phone number. I also have a list of dates. I’d like you to describe, to the best of your ability, everything you did on those days.” I passed Rob the form.

  “Absolutely. I’d be happy to,” Rob enthused. “Anything for Amber.”

  CHAPTER 12

  At noon on Friday, I was in the car with Glen as we drove back to Lancaster from Harrisburg. We’d given our update to Margaret Foderman, Mitch Franklin, Dirk Ellis of the DCNR, and the rest of the state officials who were interested in the raw-milk case. There’d been pressure placed on us but no more than was already there. It had only been a week since we’d opened the murder case officially, but frustration with the lack of progress was rising fast. Fortunately, the press still thought the deaths had to do with an “invasive plant” problem. It was only a matter of time, though, before the killer figured out we were looking for him.

  “So . . . I hear you used to live in New York,” Glen said, breaking the silence in the car.

  “I did. I lived there a little over ten years.”

  “Living here must be quite a change for you. Why’d you move?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t feel like sharing the story of my husband’s death with Glen. It was a private story and would make me more vulnerable than I cared to be with him. But not telling him, when he’d asked, felt like a denial of Terry. And that felt wrong.

  “I was getting tired of the city anyway. Then my husband was killed. It was a random holdup at a convenience store. The perps shot him and two other people who were in the store at the time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Glen said with quiet sincerity.

  “Thank you.”

  I offered nothing more, and after a moment Glen spoke again. “I understand the desire to get away. Believe me. But . . . doesn’t it get boring as all hell working in a small city and living out in the country?”

  I shot him a disbelieving look. “You can ask that, with this case we’re on?”

  Glen made a face, acknowledging my point. “But this isn’t the norm, right? And I’m not just talking about work. Culture. Nightlife. A real city. Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.”

  I looked out over the open countryside. It was scenic, especially in late spring, with the crazy neon green of new growth and the farmhouses tucked among the fields. Did I miss Manhattan? I missed things about it. I missed my favorite Indian food place, just a block from the apartment I’d shared with Terry. I missed the off-beat film festivals he’d dragged me to. I missed Central Park. I missed the lights of downtown at night. But if I was there, I’d miss here more. And I couldn’t begin to picture Ezra in Manhattan.

  An image came to mind of him, beautiful and strong and grounded to the earth, working out in the pasture with the mules. Things between us were a bit rocky at the moment, but that had no impact on how I held him in my heart. And I felt . . . important to this community in a way I hadn’t felt in Manhattan, like I made a difference. Maybe it was an illusion, but it was a damned nice one.

  “Nope. I’m good,” I said.

  “I have a few friends with the DC police. They’re always looking for good officers. If you . . . I mean, if you’d have any interest in checking it out. It’s a solid force. Good leadership. Excellent benefits. And DC is an exciting city.”

  I looked at him curiously. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the wheel. He was uncomfortable, probably because he was pushing in a rather obvious way.

  “I appreciate the thought. But I’m not looking to make a move.”

  “Well . . . if you change your mind.” Glen took his eyes off the road to give me a hopeful smile.

  I thought he was going to say something more, something about how it would be nice to have me close by, maybe. His eyes said as much. I was relieved when he didn’t put it into words. Words are tricky things, and you can’t take them back.

  We left the highway and crossed a small bridge just outside the city limits. Something caught my consciousness like a cast line. “Hang on,” I said, sitting up straighter.

  “What is it?”

  “Pull over!”

  Glen pulled onto the grassy shoulder, and I got out of the car. I jogged back to the bridge and stared down into the stream below. Lancaster County was riddled with streams, and I had no idea what this one was called. But it was at least ten feet across and still running high from the winter snow melt and spring rains.

  “What’s wrong?” Glen asked, joining me at the bridge.

  I pointed. My eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on me. I knew immediately what it was. And my brain leaped from that recognition to the implications in the space between one terrified heartbeat and the next.

  Churning through the stream were swaths of white, like liquid ghosts. It was an unnerving sight, almost apocalyptic, only instead of the rivers running with blood they were running with milk.

  “What the hell?” Glen sounded more confused than horrified. He hadn’t gotten it yet.

  I already had my phone out and was dialing Grady.

  —

  That morning, Ezra had made sure Elizabeth got some coffee, eggs, and toast before she headed out for a meeting in Harrisburg. Then he drove to Lancaster County Central Park to meet up with the ex-Amish group. He’d only been to one of the group’s meetings, but he was looking forward to seeing them again. The park was crowded with cars, rows and rows of buggies, and large tour buses. It took a while to find a spot and to make his way to the rendezvous point on foot.

  He hadn’t told Elizabeth about this. He knew she’d be angry. The raw-milk protest had been growing like spring weeds with high emotions on both sides. Elizabeth had complained about it several times—the mess it was making of downtown and the pressure it was putting on the investigation. Now the Amish were organizing their own protest, which would only add fuel to the fire. Jacob Zook had heard about it from his older brother. Samuel Zook was still Amish but talked to Jacob a little anyhow.

  Jacob had brought it up at the ex-Amish group meeting on Wednesday. “I guess we have every reason not to support them. But I think . . . yeah. I want to be better than that. I want to show I can support them even if they don’t support me. And everyone is welcome at this thing, English too. That’s what Samuel says.”

  I can support them even if they won’t support me. Those words had stuck with Ezra. He’d made the decision to come today in full knowledge that Elizabeth wouldn’t like it one bit. He was willing to give a lot for her, but there were times when a man had to do what he felt was right no matter who disagreed.

  There were at least two hundred people gathered at the park pavilion where the protest was being held. It was on a grassy lawn bordered by steep woods on one side and a pretty bend in a stream on the other. People were milling about the area. The group was primarily Amish, but there were dozens of Engli
sh there too, standing around waiting, some holding protest signs in favor of raw milk.

  Ezra recognized some of the Amish in the crowd. Their gazes lingered on him a moment before moving away. But it felt all right. He was not their concern today. The men were busy moving around large kegs on dollies from a flat-bottom wagon. And a group of Amish women stood in a circle, holding hands and praying.

  Jacob Zook saw him and came over with Leah.

  “Hey, Ezra. Good to see you.” He shook Ezra’s hand with a smile.

  “Jacob, Leah. Good to see you too.”

  “We have eleven here from our group. Wanna come stand with us?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Jacob led the way. The Strauss brothers were there with their English wives. Ezra hadn’t known any of the others in the group in his previous life, but they’d all felt like kin immediately. The younger ones had the look he thought he himself probably wore—like someone walking out onto the ice in a pair of skates for the very first time. There was a nice older woman, Mary, who was a nurse. She’d been out of the Amish community for twenty years. She’d left, she told Ezra, to get an education. She’d never taken the vows the way Ezra had, so her leaving wasn’t considered as much of a sin. Her family still talked to her some. There was an older man, too, who’d left the Amish on religious grounds. Ben was now “born again.” They all greeted Ezra and he shook hands all around.

  It was . . . nice. It was hopeful to have a group to stand with, like he was less of a castoff. But they were all castoffs, he supposed. They were the in-betweens. They were no longer Amish, but they knew the life as second nature. It held no mystery or undue romance. They were not like the English in the crowd who either stared at the Amish or tried so hard not to that they stuck out like red poppies in a field.

  The mood in the crowd was serious. Hardly anyone spoke as the Amish rolled large barrels over to the stream bank.

  “Do you know what they’re plannin’?” Ezra asked Jacob in a whisper.

  “Not exactly,” Jacob replied with a wary shrug. “But I’m guessin’ there’s milk in those barrels.”