I go to the front door and knock anyway. No one answers, so I stroll to the edge of the porch and look out over the yard and field beyond. A pleasant breeze caresses my face, bringing with it the smell of new foliage and the scent of honeysuckle, and I breathe in deeply. To my right I see Abigail’s garden. Beyond, countless rows of corn sway in the breeze. Pulling one of my cards from my pocket, I go to the front door and slide it between the screen and the jamb, but it slips out and flutters to the floor. I’ve just stooped to pick it up, when I notice the wicker basket shoved against the wall, beneath the porch swing. It’s the one Abigail was using to pick dandelion greens the other day. Oddly, it’s still full of wilted greens.
I pick up the card. I’m about to rise, when something in the basket snags my attention. Not all the greens are dandelions, but the reddish stems of what looks like miniature rhubarb. Only it’s not. My mamm grew rhubarb and regularly made strawberry-rhubarb pies, so I know what it looks like. I stare at the red stems, and a distant memory whispers unpleasant tidings in my ear. I remember my mamm telling me there are certain plants you don’t ever pick when you’re harvesting dandelions. If it’s red, put it to bed.…
Kneeling, I pluck the questionable plant from the basket. The leaves are saggy and wilted, but the stem is still firm and red.
If it’s red, put it to bed.…
I pull a small evidence bag from a compartment on my belt, tuck the stem into it, and drop it in my pocket. Leaving the basket, I rise and take the steps to the side yard. The grass is freshly mowed, probably by Jeramy before he fell ill. I cross the gravel driveway and head to the horse pen and barn. The grass is knee-high here with a profusion of goldenrod and thistle with lavender tops. Closer to the barn, I see another plant that’s thigh-high with a reddish stem, egg-shaped, pointed leaves, and clusters of tiny white flowers. I go to it and kneel to study the stem. Sure enough, it’s the same as the one in the evidence bag.
If it’s red, put it to bed.…
Pulling on my gloves, I remove the small knife from my belt and cut off about a foot of the plant, capturing the stem, leaves, and flowers. An ink-like liquid the color of blood drips from the cut, and another quiver of uneasiness runs through me. I’ve seen this plant before. I was warned away from it by my mamm because it’s poisonous. It’s known by many names: nightshade. Cancer jalap. Pokeweed. There are certain times of the year when you can eat the new leaves safely, but they must be thoroughly boiled, the water tossed, and boiled again. Some Amish use the berries in pies and even harvest the tubers for canning, but you have to be very careful. My mamm never took the chance and forbade us to touch it.
Is it possible Abigail Kaufman harvested pokeweed with her dandelions and poisoned her husband? Was it accidental? Or did she harvest the green knowing fully they could kill him?
*
I met Chuck Gary when I was attending Columbus State Community College a few months after I left Painters Mill. I’d just earned my GED and enrolled in the hope of graduating with a degree in criminal justice. After what happened to me at the hands of Daniel Lapp when I was fourteen, I swore I’d never be a victim again. After a detective came to the college to speak about a career in law enforcement, I made the decision to become a police officer. It was a long and arduous journey for an Amish girl fresh off the farm. I was working part-time as police dispatcher at a substation in a not-so-nice part of Columbus. I was broke, homesick, and lonely when Chuck, then my Biology 101 instructor, befriended me, helped me land a second part-time job in the campus bookstore, and somehow persuaded me to stick it out until I got my degree.
We lost touch over the years, though I still get Christmas cards from him, updating me on all the goings-on with him and his family. At some point he landed a tenured position at Kent State University and moved to North Canton, which is an hour or so northeast of Painters Mill. Last Christmas, he informed me that he was not only a grandfather for the first time but the senior research scientist in the biological sciences department and part-time professor of horticulture. Hence, my call to him this evening.
“Katie Burkholder! Good golly, what a pleasant surprise. How are you?” His voice is exactly the same as I remember, as large and booming as a Broadway actor’s.
I fill him in on some of the things I’ve been doing over the last few years since we last spoke.
“I followed the Slaughterhouse Killer case from beginning to end,” he tells me. “Dreadful business.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I always knew you’d make a fine police officer—and an even better chief.” He makes a sound reminiscent of nostalgia. “I like to think I had something to do with that.”
“You did. If you hadn’t taken me under your wing, I’d have dropped out of school and gone back to Painters Mill with my tail between my legs.”
“You don’t do anything with your tail between your legs. But had you gone back, it would have been quite a loss to the English world now, wouldn’t it?”
Though he can’t see my face, I smile, and for the first time in years, I miss him. “Chuck, do you have a few minutes? I’m working on a case and I need your expertise.”
“Ah, words like that will motivate an old curmudgeon like me, though I can’t imagine what puzzle you couldn’t solve on your own.”
“Are you familiar with American pokeweed?”
“I saw Elvis Presley sing ‘Polk Salad Annie’ in Las Vegas in 1970. Does that count?”