After the Storm (32 page)

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?”

I laugh.

“I coauthored a piece that was published a couple of years ago in the
Horticultural Science
journal on the use of
Phytolacca americana
by herbalists and other nontraditional medicinal uses and folk remedies. It’s a fascinating plant surrounded by an abundance of folklore.”

“Is the plant poisonous to humans?”

“Very much so, particularly the tubers or root.”

“And yet people eat it?” I say. “Poke salad?”

“That’s one of the things that makes this plant so fascinating. The young leaves can, indeed, be eaten and enjoyed, but only if they’re ‘thrice boiled,’ with the water changed between boilings. People have been known to use the berries for pies. Women used the ink to add color to their lips.” He lowers his voice. “Just between you and me, I’d avoid the poke salad altogether.”

“It’s palatable?”

“I’ve heard it tastes like asparagus or spinach.”

I think about that for a moment. “If a person were to mix pokeweed with dandelions or some other green, would it still be toxic?”

“Toxic as hell but a lot more tasty.”

“What kind of symptoms would the victim have?”

“The patient would initially experience esophageal irritation. Within an hour he would develop severe abdominal pain and vomiting, followed by prolific bloody diarrhea. Later, he would suffer tachycardia. Elevated respiration. Once he was taken to the ER, the attending physician would note that the patient was hypotensive—”

“Low blood pressure?” I ask.

“Correct,” he replies. “Due to the vasoconstriction of the large vessels, the physician would more than likely introduce pressor drugs to elevate blood pressure. If the patient was in respiratory failure, a ventilator would be introduced.”

“What’s the typical cause of death? I mean, even with medical attention?”

“A combination of maladies, any one of which could be catastrophic or fatal. Hypotension, cardiac arrhythmia, ventricular fibrillation, and severe respiratory depression.”

“In the course of an autopsy and in terms of a toxicity screen, what specifically would the coroner need to look for?”

“That’s beyond my realm of knowledge, Kate, but if I were to venture a guess, I’d say a general organic screen would pick up the toxins. In terms of the autopsy, bleeding and ulceration of the stomach and intestines would be found. Liver damage would be present.” He pauses. “It sounds like you have another interesting case on your hands.”

“If the tox or autopsy comes back with proof that my victim ingested pokeweed, how do I tell if the weed was picked inadvertently or purposefully included with the intent to poison?”

“As a fan of the classic mystery, I’d say it all boils down, so to speak, to motive.”

CHAPTER 24

It’s nearly midnight by the time I arrive home. As I pull around to the rear of the house, I notice that Tomasetti left the back porch light on for me, and something wistful and soft unfurls in my belly. I’ve missed him, I realize. I’ve missed the simple happiness of being with him. Of just loving him. Easy Sunday afternoons. Saturday mornings in bed. I’m midway down the sidewalk when the kitchen light flicks on and the door opens. Tomasetti, dressed in faded jeans and a Cleveland Division of Police T-shirt, steps onto the porch.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he tells me.

I take the steps to the porch and stop a foot away from him. “You, too.”

I expect him to pull me into his arms or maybe lay a kiss on me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back and opens the door to usher me inside. “Tired?”

“Yup.” I step into our cheery, brightly lit kitchen, noticing the box of cereal on the table next to a bowl and spoon. “Another romantic dinner?” I quip, as I remove my equipment belt and drape it over the back of the chair.

“I knew you’d be impressed.” He closes the door behind me. “Sorry, but we’re out of food. I didn’t have time to stop at the grocery.”

“It’s late. Cereal’s perfect.”

He’s at the refrigerator, peering inside. I look down at the bowl in front of me and go to him. “Tomasetti.”

He straightens, turns to me. Before he can say anything, I step close and put my arms around his neck. He smells of aftershave and shampoo and his own unique scent I’ve come to love. “I miss you,” I whisper, and I press my mouth to his.

His arms encircle me, pull me close. He kisses me back, long and slow and with a certain reverence. After a moment, he pulls back and gives me a long look. “I think I’ll serve up cereal for dinner more often.”

My laugh feels good coming out. “I’m sorry I haven’t been home much.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been better company.”

“It’s just that this case…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I get it.”

I stop myself. “Tomasetti, it isn’t about the case. I mean, not all of it.”

He tilts his head as if trying to lift my gaze to his. “I think I got the other thing, too, Kate.”

“This is new ground for me. I’m scared. I don’t know how to do this. And I don’t know how you feel.”

“It’s new ground for me, too. Having a kid … it’s a big deal. It’s okay to be scared.”

Turning slightly, I run my arms over his shoulders and grip his biceps. “It’s not only the pregnancy I’m afraid of. It’s us. There’s this … distance between us now that wasn’t there before. It’s like I can touch you, but I can’t
reach
you.”

“I know,” he tells me. “It’s my fault, not yours. Whatever gap exists, we’ll bridge it.”

“You didn’t want this.”

“I’m not going to lie to you. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, I didn’t. That said, we both know life rarely serves it up just the way you want.”

“I don’t want this to get in the way of us.”

“I’m not going to let it.” He reaches for my hand. “Come here,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

Hand in hand, we leave the kitchen and take the stairs to the guest bedroom. It’s a large space with tall, narrow windows that look out at the front of the property. Shortly after I moved in, Tomasetti added a bathroom and walk-in closet. The additions gobbled up some space, but there’s still plenty of room, which includes a sitting area near the window.

The light flicks on and I find myself looking at a wooden bassinet. I recognize the Amish craftsmanship immediately: the dovetail joints and corkscrewed spindles. It’s made of maple and stained the color of cherrywood.

“I found it at an auction in Geauga,” he tells me. “It’s Amish-made. The guy I bought it from said it’s about sixty years old.”

I can’t stop looking at the bassinet. There’s something about that solid piece of furniture, so sturdy and with so much history, that drives home the fact that all of this is real. That my life—our lives—are about to change in a very big way. The world is spinning out of control, and I feel the sudden need to hold on tight or else risk being flung off into space.

“I’m working on a case there,” he tells me, “assisting the sheriff’s office with the murder of a small-time meth dealer who’s turning out to be not so small-time.” He motions toward the bassinet. “There’s a nick on the leg, and it’s missing a caster wheel in the back. Both are easy fixes. I picked up a caster at the hardware store. And I think I’ve got some wood filler and stain in the garage.”

It’s not like Tomasetti to prattle. In fact, he’s more likely to clam up. For the first time I realize he’s nervous about what he’s done. About how I’m going to react to it.

“Kate?”

I tear my gaze away from the bassinet and look at him. I see concern and uncertainty in his expression, and I realize this is an important moment. One that’s going to define how we navigate this new turn in our lives.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him.

He reaches for the bassinet and gently lays it over on its side. “Look at this.” Beneath the crib section, carved into the wood are the words from an Amish proverb I hadn’t heard or thought of in years.

A CHILD IS THE ONLY TREASURE YOU CAN TAKE TO HEAVEN.

I’m not a crier. I can count the number of times I’ve cried in the last five years on one hand. But the sight of those words inscribed in the wood and the knowledge that the man I love bought it for our child bring a rush of heat to my eyes.

I raise my gaze to Tomasetti’s. “It’s perfect.”

“You sure? I mean, if you want something new, I can—”

“I love it.” He starts to say something else, but I press two fingers against his mouth. “For God’s sake, Tomasetti, if you say or do one more nice thing, I’m going to start blathering like an idiot.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“I’d rather it not be that.”

“Okay.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist and lowers my hand from his lips. Then his mouth is against mine and my back is against the wall. He leans into me and kisses me without finesse. A hundred thoughts scatter and fly, and I forget about everything except this moment between us and the promise of a future that, for the first time in my life, might just be within reach.

*   *   *

There are times when a case sinks so deeply into my psyche that I mull it even in my sleep. By the time morning rolls around, I’m convinced of two things: Jeramy Kline’s untimely death was no accident, and his wife, Abigail, is responsible.

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.