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.”