“Yes.”
“Interestingly, a few years ago, a young mother brought in a toddler that was critically ill with vomiting and respiratory distress. One of the first things I noticed was that the child’s hands were stained red. After questioning the parent, I learned the child had wandered from the yard and into a weed-infested lot next door. The mother thought the child may have ingested some purple berries. She brought them in and I immediately couriered them to the lab, and they turned out to be American nightshade.”
“So you have some experience with this particular plant.”
“If memory serves me, the toxic components lie with the saponins. There’s more to it than that, and I don’t recall the specifics off the top of my head, but I’ll look it up. Of course, the actual testing will be done at the BCI lab. Now that I know what to ask them to look for, they’ll run an organic tox screen. If there’s something there, they’ll find it.”
I think about my conversation with Chuck Gary. “I’ll follow up with a call, too.”
“Kate, it occurs to me that even if Jeramy Kline did indeed ingest some type of plant-based toxin, it may have been accidental.”
I think about the wicker basket I’d discovered on the porch at the Kline farm. The one Abigail Kline used to gather dandelion greens and, evidently, pokeweed. “This might be one of those cases in which the cause of death is going to be a hell of a lot easier to prove than the manner of death.”
*
I’m still thinking about the wicker basket when I hang up. Though it was in plain view and I had every right to be standing on Abigail Kline’s doorstep, I couldn’t confiscate it without possibly adversely affecting a potential case. Pokeweed is not illegal to possess. Had I appropriated the basket without first obtaining a warrant, it could have been rendered inadmissible in court and jeopardized the case, so I take the time to get my ducks in a row.
It takes me an hour to write up an affidavit and another forty-five minutes to obtain a search warrant from Judge Seibenthaler, which entails a call to Sheriff Redmon in Coshocton County and the stipulation that at least one deputy from his department accompany me to the Kline farm.
Once I have the warrant in hand, I swing by the station and pick up T.J. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“We’re going to search Abigail Kline’s farm.”
“We looking for something in particular?”
I tell him about the wicker basket. “Pokeweed is poisonous when prepared incorrectly. The BCI lab is going to run an organic tox on Jeramy Kline to see if that particular toxin was in his bloodstream when he died. I think they’ll find it.”
“Damn.” Shaking his head, he whistles. “Never would have pegged her for murdering her husband. I mean with her being Amish and all.”
“The Amish have all the same weaknesses as the rest of us,” I say. “Including the human capacity for violence.”
*
T.J. and I arrive at the Kline farm to find the place bustling with activity and a Coshocton County sheriff’s cruiser parked on the shoulder a few yards from the driveway. I recognize the deputy immediately as Fowler Hodges and pull up next to his car.
“Hi, Folly.”
“Hey, Chief. I just got dispatched. Sheriff said you’ve got a search warrant?”
I tell him about finding pokeweed in the wicker basket.
“So you think Mrs. Kline offed her old man?” he asks.
“I think it’s a possibility.”
“Well that’d be a shocker.” His eyes slide toward the house. “You expect any trouble from these people?”
“No.” I sigh. “Might be best if I serve the warrant, though. I’ll keep it as low-key as possible.”
“Sure thing, Chief.” He motions toward the gravel lane. “After you.”
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull into the driveway. Ahead, four black, windowless buggies are parked in a row on the shoulder. The horses stand with their rear legs cocked and their heads down, grabbing a snooze while they have the chance. The teenage Amish boy tending them eyes me suspiciously as I park behind the buggies. I get out and give him a nod, but he looks away. I glance to my side to see Folly get out of his cruiser. He doesn’t approach the house but saunters to the front of the vehicle and leans against the hood.
T.J. and I start toward the house. Four young children play on the tractor tire hanging from a tree branch in the side yard. On the other side of the front porch, two twenty-something Amish women kneel, chattering and tossing freshly pulled weeds onto a growing pile of compost. Two Amish men stand at the barn door, one with a pitchfork in hand, the other puffing a pipe, gray smoke curling into the air. Their eyes are in shadow from their flat-brimmed hats, but I feel their gazes follow us as we take the sidewalk to the house.