It’s implausible to believe an Amish woman would mistake pokeweed for dandelion greens; the two plants are noticeably different in appearance and taste. If Abigail intended to include the pokeweed, she would have known it must be “thrice” boiled in order to cook out the toxins. I believe she purposefully poisoned her husband by serving up a toxic amount of underboiled pokeweed mixed in with a batch of dandelion greens.
The problem, of course, is proving it. In order to do that, I need motive, which I believe is inexorably linked to the as-yet unsolved mystery of Leroy Nolt.
Tomasetti had an early meeting with the suits in Richfield and left the house at a little before six. He didn’t wake me, which has become the norm since I found out about my pregnancy. It’s a little after seven when I pad to the kitchen, still wearing my sweatpants and T-shirt. Outside, a summer storm has moved in. Thunder rattles the decorative plates hanging on the wall. The curtains above the sink billow in a breeze laden with humidity.
I’m pouring my first cup of coffee when I find the note tucked beneath the coffeemaker. Let’s go fishing this weekend.
I laugh in the silence of the kitchen. It’s the sound of a happy woman, and I pause to remind myself that that woman is me. That I laugh when I’m alone in the privacy of my own kitchen. And I will take to work with me today the knowledge that I am loved.
Pulling a pen from the drawer, I write: Last to show baits the hook.
I’m tucking the corner of the note under the coffeemaker, thinking about going upstairs for one more peek at the bassinet before jumping into the shower, when the back door creaks. I turn from the coffeemaker to see the door open a couple of inches, pushed by a gust of wind. Uneasiness flutters in my gut. Tomasetti is far too cautious to leave any door unlocked. Then I notice the sheen of rain on the floor. The sparkle of broken glass. A smear of mud on the tile. And I know someone’s in the house.
Adrenaline ignites and spreads to my arms and legs with enough force to make me shake. My every sense flashes to high alert. The hum of the refrigerator. The din of rain against the roof. The slap of water against the ground. The hiss of the radio I left on in the bedroom upstairs. Outside, thunder rumbles like the footfalls of some massive primordial beast. My first thought is that Nick Kester found out where I live and has broken in. My second thought falls to my .38, which is lying on the night table upstairs next to the bed.
I set down the cup of coffee. My eyes dart to my cell phone charging on the counter a few feet away. I lunge at it, yank out the cord, and hit 911 with my thumb. Never taking my eyes from the door, I take a step back and look over my shoulder at the stairs. The living room is silent and dark, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t there, intent on doing me harm.
I’m about to charge up the steps, when someone comes around from the front of the house. Even in the dim light I recognize Kester. He’s wearing blue jeans. Pistol grip sticking out of his waistband. Dirty denim jacket. His hair is soaked and dripping, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I smell the cigarette stench coming off him. For an instant, he looks surprised to see me.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
He jolts at the sound of the tinny voice. His eyes dart to the cell phone in my hand.
“Sheriff’s Department is on the way,” I tell him. “You’d better run.”
His mouth opens. I see jagged yellow teeth from within pale lips. A flash of uncertainty in his eyes. A glint of something ugly just beneath the surface. His right hand twitches, moves toward the pistol.
I hurl the cell phone, striking him beneath his left eye hard enough to open the skin. He reels back, hands coming up. “What the fuck!”
Spinning, I grab the banister, swing around it, and fly up the steps two at a time. Kester bellows a curse. I reach the top of the stairs. My stocking feet slide on the hardwood floor. I scramble left and sprint down the hall, arms outstretched.
“Fucking bitch cop!” Kester pounds up the steps behind me. “I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!”
A gunshot snaps through the air. A hollow thunk! sounds as the bullet tears into the sheetrock to my right. Then I’m through the bedroom door, slam it behind me, slap the lock into place. Two steps, and I yank my .38 from the holster. Revolver trained on the door, I back toward the bench at the foot of the bed and snatch up my police radio. “Ten-thirty-one E!” I shout out my address. “Shots fired! Ten-forty!”
In a fraction of a second, Skid’s voice snaps over the radio. “Ten-seven-six.”
“Stand by,” comes Mona’s voice.
“Kester, I’m armed!” I scream. “You come through that door and I will fucking shoot you!”
“You got an ID?” Skid asks.
“Nick Kester,” I pant. “He’s armed with a handgun.”
“Fuckin’ MUTT!” Over the radio I hear the groan of his cruiser’s engine as he cranks it up. “ETA two minutes. Hang tight.”
“SO’s en route,” says Mona.
Never taking my eyes from the door, keeping the pistol leveled and ready, I back up and kneel beside the bed. I know it won’t stop a bullet; the best I can hope for is that it will buy me a few seconds. If he comes through the door, I’ll open fire until he stops moving.
“Anyone hurt?” Mona asks.