In the Land of Milk and Honey (6 page)

Glen nodded grimly. “I don't blame you for being worried. But hopefully we can figure this out quickly, and it won't cause any more trouble.”

Those sounded suspiciously like famous last words.

By
the time I got home from work on Wednesday night, I was deeply out of sorts. I walked into our kitchen just after eight to find Ezra reading a local paper, the
Lancaster Farmer
. He closed it and smiled.

“Glad you're home. Got some grilled chicken and potatoes on.”

The table was already set. Ezra went to the stove where there was a cast iron skillet and several pots covered and awaiting my arrival.

“You're the best. Just let me change.” I felt exhausted.

I went into our bedroom and took off the charcoal gray suit and white silky blouse that was part of my detective wardrobe. I put on oversized flannel pj bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. Although it was April, the nights were chilly and I
preferred to wear warm, comfy clothes until the summer heat made them unbearable.

Back in the kitchen, Ezra had dinner on the table. He cooked simple things like grilled chicken and baked or mashed potatoes and steamed veggies. But the food was from local farms, if not raised by Ezra himself, and it was always delicious. Right now, though, I needed a hug more than I needed to eat. Sighing contentedly, I put my arms around his waist. I loved the sense of strength and security I felt when his arms closed around me. He rubbed my back.

“All right?” he asked after a moment.

I shook my head.

“Bad day, then?”

“People expect me to be some sort of Amish whisperer, and I'm so not.”

He chuckled. “Well, you do pretty gut with me.”

I smiled against his chest. “
You
, yes. And I've gotten to know a few people in the community. But most of the Amish still treat me like I'm a scarlet woman.”

“You are a scarlet woman. That's part of your charm.”

I laughed at his teasing and pulled away. “Well this scarlet woman is hungry. Anyway, I could have wings and be glowing and I'm not sure I'd fare much better when it comes to interviewing the Amish.” I plopped down in my chair and picked up my fork, then hesitated.

Ezra sat down and looked at me. “Go on and eat.”

“Did you . . . want to say grace?” There was always an
awkward moment when we started a meal. I knew Ezra was used to saying grace, and I wasn't. I sensed he missed it. It was in the way he always hesitated at the start of each meal. “It's fine with me if you want to.”

“Not sure what I'd say.” Ezra shrugged and frowned down at his food. As if to prove a point, he cut off a piece of chicken and took a bite. “Who were you interviewing today?”

I sighed and let it go. “I stopped at about thirty farms between the Kindermans' and the Hershbergers'.”

“What'd you learn?”

“Not much. No one else has been sick, and that's great. That's a relief. But when I, or Glen, ask to see their animals, or suggest they lay off the raw milk for a bit—”

“Glen?”

Ezra's tone was merely curious, but I felt a guilty heat flush my neck. Damn it. I had nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, Dr. Turner was interested in me, but I hadn't encouraged him. “Dr. Glen Turner. He's, um, with the CDC. He met up with me this afternoon to help interview. Do you know they've scoured every bit of the Kindermans' farm and haven't found any trace of white snakeroot? Or any other source of the toxin, tremetol?”

Ezra watched me with calm interest. “That's good news. Not so?”

“Well . . . yes. But that means we still don't know where the toxin came from. And until we know that, it could show up somewhere else. It's frustrating that nobody is taking this seriously. I mean, when we go to these farms and say we're there to look at
their animals and make sure they're not sick, you'd think we were threatening to shoot their cows or something.”

“A man's protective of his animals. He doesn't like people thinkin' he's not taking good care of them,” Ezra pointed out. “And they don't know you.”

“But people have died! And when I suggest they refrain from drinking their cows' milk, just until we've figured out what's going on, they get angry!”

“Elizabeth.”

Ezra's voice was calm but pointed. I realized I probably sounded a wee bit too intense. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. I'd felt like such an idiot this afternoon. It was one thing when the Amish farmers treated me like a strange and threatening creature, because I was not only English—an outsider—but a female and a police officer as well. But it was particularly embarrassing to be treated like a pariah on my home turf in front of a government agent like Dr. Turner.

And that wasn't even what really bugged me. I was frustrated about the case. My gut was telling me something was wrong. Hell, I'd walked through a farmhouse full of corpses, an entire Amish family dead after having no doubt suffered horribly. And most of the Amish acted like it had nothing to do with them. It was tragic but somehow “God's will.” They would rather pray about it than take easy steps for their own protection. At least, that's how it seemed to me.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Ezra picked up his glass of milk and held it up. “You don't
know how it is. To the Amish, a man, his family . . . they don't just buy this at market. They raise their animals like they raise their gardens. Eating the fruits of that labor is a blessing and a responsibility. You don't let it go to waste. You don't turn your nose up at it. You thank God for it. Anything less would be the worst kind of blasphemy.”

“But it's just milk!”

The gulf between me and Ezra rarely felt this wide, but he was looking at me with his brow wrinkled in confusion. He gave a frustrated grunt. “No such thing as ‘just milk.' When you have a family cow, you drink milk at every meal, and between meals too. It's free and it's gut for the body. If you're feeling peaky, you drink milk. If you can't sleep, you drink milk. If the milk jug is empty, you go milk the cow. If the cow is dry, you go milk the neighbor's cow. And if the neighbor's cow is dry, well . . . in that case it's time for a general meetin'.”

He was trying to be funny in that laconic way of his, but I wasn't in the mood to be amused. “I'm not asking them to give up milk forever. It's just until we've figured out where the toxin is coming from. You'd think parents would worry about their children. Hannah poured out
her
milk.”

Ezra shook his head. “Hannah knows you. And she knows the Hershbergers gut too. You won't convince most Amish that there's somethin' poison in the animal he raised on his own land, and milks with his own hands.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “They'd damn well better hope I'm wrong then.”

Ezra set his glass down, giving it a guilty glance. Suddenly, I felt uneasy. “That's the milk I brought home last night, right? From the store?” I got up and went to the refrigerator. Inside was the half gallon of pasteurized milk from a national brand in its carton with a grinning cartoon cow. Unopened. Next to it was a plastic unmarked gallon I recognized all too well, the top quarter already gone. “Ezra! For God's sake!”

Ezra's voice was steady but had a trace of apology in it. “Happened to go by Henry's Fruit Market today and . . . I was thirsty.”

Feeling sick and angry, I strode to the table, picked up Ezra's glass, and carried it to the sink. There my temper and frustration overcame me, and instead of pouring it down the drain as I'd planned, I threw the glass of milk into the sink where it shattered and sent drops of milk flying everywhere.

“Elizabeth!” Ezra was out of his chair, his face red.

“How could you do that? You say Hannah knows me. How could
you
get that milk and drink it when you know—” My voice cracked. I was at a loss. “You didn't see them, the Kindermans! You didn't go into that house!”

“Hush!” Ezra strode over in two big steps, put his arms around me, and pulled me close. “I'm sorry. You mentioned it . . . but—I truly didn't know it meant that much to you. I won't drink it again. Don't be upset.”

“Ugh!” I remained stiff in his arms. The thought of him waking in the night, vomiting . . . seeing him die in agony. One part of me knew I was being ridiculous. I was overreacting, like some kind of PTSD reaction to seeing those bodies, those
children
. The
likelihood of there being anything wrong with
this
milk was minuscule. But still—

There was a knock on the front door.

“Who would be callin' at this hour?” Ezra made no move to get the door, just kept soothingly rubbing my back.

“I'd better see.” I pulled away, not entirely done being mad at him. Christ. If my own boyfriend didn't listen to me about this . . . I wiped my eyes and walked to the door.

I opened it to find Glen Turner standing there looking unhappy. “Sorry to bother you at home. I tried your cell, but it went right to voice mail.”

“The battery's probably dead. Sorry about that.” I stepped back. “Come on in. What's going on?”

Glen stepped into the living room. He looked around curiously—and his eyes found Ezra, who'd followed me from the kitchen. The two men studied each other silently with a distinct air of sizing each other up.

“Um . . . Glen, this is my boyfriend, Ezra. Ezra, this is Dr. Glen Turner.”

“Call me Glen.” He held out his hand.

“Ezra.” Ezra shook Glen's hand, but his face was closed off.

“What's happened?” I repeated.

Glen straightened back up, his expression turning grim. “I'm on my way to Philly right now. People have been showing up at emergency rooms there with symptoms that sound like tremetol poisoning. Five people have died, two of them children.”

“Oh no!”

“The thing is—when doctors questioned them about what they'd eaten, all of them had consumed raw milk. And they all got it at a farmers' market there in Philly, from a booth called Lancaster Local Bounty. The milk came from
here
, Harris.”

“Oh my God!” I put a hand to my head as if that would make the information easier to absorb. Maybe I should have felt a touch of vindication for my gut's sake, but I felt nothing but horror, horror for what had already happened and fear about what was still out there.

I turned and glared at Ezra. “What did I tell you! And you were drinking it at supper!”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I'm sure I'll be fine.”

Glen watched the two of us warily. “Anyway, I talked to Grady and he said maybe you could contact the woman who runs that Lancaster Local Bounty booth. Find out where she got the supply she sold at the market on Tuesday, and find out if she sold it or gave it to anyone else. I'm sorry to ask, but my staff and I need to check out this Philly outbreak. If you can get a list of from her tonight, my team can run it down in the morning.”

“Of course. I'll go right away.”

“Thanks. You should call Grady. I think he wanted you to go with a partner. The woman's name and address were sent to your e-mail. I'd, um, better go.” Glen looked at Ezra. “It was nice to meet you.” His tone was stiff and overly formal.

A nod was Ezra's only reply.

An hour later, I stood outside a row house where Amber Kruger lived. It was squeezed on both sides by identical homes, like lovers trapped forever in an embrace. The street was in one of the trendy old neighborhoods of downtown Lancaster, the sort frequented by young urban professionals. It was gentrified enough that I was surprised to see recent graffiti. The narrow residential street had the word “cotton” spray-painted on the asphalt in two-foot-high neon yellow letters.

Manuel Hernandez came jogging up with a welcoming smile. The ex-soldier was a relatively new detective and younger than me. He was my favorite peer in the department. Hernandez was tough but had a gentle spirit and was always eager to provide assistance, no matter how boring the grunt work.

“Hey, Harris.”

I returned the smile. “Hi. Guess we're both working late tonight.” I checked my watch. It was just going on ten o'clock, so hopefully our target would still be awake. “Grady give you a rundown?”

“Just that you need to interview someone, and there might possibly be more legwork tonight, depending on what you learn.”

“That's close enough. Ready?”

“Always! Let's do this, boss,” Hernandez quipped.

I rolled my eyes. I wasn't Hernandez's boss, but his light attitude made me relax, and I was grateful. I was glad I'd gotten Hernandez tonight. The Lancaster Police Violent Crimes Department was so small that I often worked alone or with whomever was available.

I knocked on the row house door. It was opened by a thin young man in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and thick socks. “Hi. Can I help you?”

I held up my badge. “Detectives Harris and Hernandez, Lancaster Police. We have some questions for Amber Kruger. Is she available?”

The guy looked surprised. “She, um, rents the apartment upstairs. I'll go knock.”

We stepped into the hallway while the guy took a set of stairs two at a time. The old row house had been converted into two apartments—one up and one down. The door to the downstairs apartment was slightly cracked open, and we could hear the faint sounds of a TV. The staircase turned so we couldn't see the top of it, but I heard knocking.

“Amber? There're some people here to see you.” Pause. “Amber?” He knocked again.

The guy came back down looking regretful. “She's not answering.” He went to the front door and opened it, peeked out. “Her truck is here. Maybe she walked a few blocks to a restaurant or something, but I'd be surprised. She sounded pretty sick last night.”

I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. “Sick? How do you know that, Mr. . . .”

“Nick. Nick Smith. Well, my wife and I heard her in the night. Her bathroom is right over ours. It sounded like she was in a bad way, so my wife went upstairs and checked on her. But Amber just wanted to go back to sleep.”