Guru Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Gyndrex was a company touting the benefits of GMO food crops. The GMO versions were not affected by the heavy herbicides Gyndrex manufactured—chemicals that killed non-GMO crops.

  “An unmanned plane with a Gyndrex chemical tank crashes in a field owned by a man suing the company that makes the chemicals. Sounds like the opening scene in a legal thriller.”

  “Hold your horses, Miss Conspiracy Theorist.”

  “I’ll put money on it.” I wasn’t a huge believer in coincidence.

  Tinkie changed the subject. “Why aren’t you at the spa instead of talking on the phone?”

  “Spa day and the lecture were cancelled. Priya Karsan has been murdered. Also with what appears to be a chemical.”

  “Oh, my.” Tinkie sounded truly distraught. “She was really waking up the world to the dangers of food additives. She’d stepped on a lot of toes in the food industry.”

  “These two events are likely related.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the link.

  “Someone is waging war against those fighting against chemicals and GMOs. This could get even bloodier.”

  Tinkie spoke the truth, and Gyndrex had the money and the muscle to hurt anyone who got in their way. “Look, this isn’t our case. I’m sorry it all happened, but we haven’t been hired to poke into this, and it would seem these people are truly badasses.”

  “That’s not exactly accurate,” Tinkie said. “Mr. Angler asked me if we’d help him, and I said yes.”

  Tinkie was a woman of her word, and I had to back her play. “Then we’re on the case.”

  Sheriff Coleman Peters was waiting to talk to me at the sheriff’s office, where Cece had agreed to drop me off to meet Tinkie. Tinkie had photos of the plane crash—and from the looks of them, the Cessna had been flown without a pilot. Coleman had called in help from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation, and they were managing the suspicious plane crash and its cargo of what appeared to be a highly toxic pesticide.

  The empty Gyndrex container aboard the plane indicated the crash site had been contaminated by a substance deadlier than the Agent Orange defoliant used in the jungles of Vietnam, but so far the investigation was inconclusive. I hadn’t heard from Doc about any of his determinations in Karsan’s death, either, but it was easy to think they might be linked.

  “Don’t you think killing a young woman and crashing a plane is taking the GMO battle a little too far?” I asked Coleman. He stood at the counter in his freshly starched uniform shirt and jeans that hugged his thighs. His cowboy boots—not normal workday footwear—reminded me of long-ago high school gatherings in ol’ Pete Gruber’s fields. Most of the high school boys hired out for farm work after school, and once the sun set, we’d meet around bonfires to socialize. It was an oasis of pleasant memories from a time when my life wasn’t the happiest.

  Coleman didn’t answer my question. He was pissed at me for barging into the cooler, photographing Karsan’s body, and delivering the pictures to Cece.

  “Priya must have really threatened someone,” Tinkie said. “We need to find out whom. Any leads, Coleman?”

  “You ladies need to watch your backs,” Coleman said, addressing Tinkie and ignoring me. “These people are deadly serious.”

  “Is Cyrus Angler okay?” Tinkie asked. “He was upset when I spoke with him.”

  “Physically, he’s fine. The preliminary finding is that the tank contained a cellulose substance, which is still being evaluated. The worst is that someone could have been seriously injured by the plane crash.”

  “He can sue the pants off its owner,” Tinkie said.

  I refused to be left out any longer. “Money won’t mean much to Cyrus. They might as well have shot him in the heart as attack his land.” I’d known him from childhood, when my dad farmed the Delaney land. Cyrus was an old-school farmer, like Daddy had been. One who walked his fields and loved the work of growing things for people to eat.

  “Tracing the plane is proving problematic,” Coleman said. At last he looked at me, a chink in his annoyance. “According to FAA records, the Cessna 182 was reported stolen several weeks ago. The owners are Bert and Betty Henderson from over at Stonegate Farms. They grow a lot of row crops for local groceries and truck markets. They’re also big supporters of the GMO and pesticide-ready crops Cyrus opposes, but the Hendersons say they had nothing to do with the plane crash. They reported the theft and filed an insurance claim.”

  “Did anyone investigate?” Stonegate Farms was in the adjacent county. Coleman didn’t have jurisdiction.

  “Sheriff Ledbetter investigated,” Coleman said. “The plane was stolen and flown away while the Hendersons were in Jackson on a business trip. Airplanes are stolen more often than I’d like to think.”

  “How did they rig it to fly without a pilot?” I asked.

  “That’s not so difficult with technology today,” Coleman said. “We should be able to tell if Cyrus’s fields were targeted or not.”

  “And what about Priya?” Tinkie asked. “Any leads on who killed her or how she died? It’ll be a mess when the national press swoops in.”

  Coleman motioned at the window. A line of vehicles pulling up bore call letters from the Jackson and Memphis media. “They’re here already. This story will play big. It’s time to hit the road.”

  I motioned for Tinkie to follow me from the office. There was no point getting caught in the media melee. Coleman and his deputy, DeWayne Dattilo, could handle it.

  A warm hand on my arm halted me in my tracks. “I need a word,” Coleman said.

  Tinkie smiled and closed the door behind her. Coleman and I were alone in the sheriff’s office.

  “We need to talk,” Coleman said.

  “About?” I tried an innocent look.

  His eyebrows arched. “Aside from the fact you intruded on a crime scene, photographed a homicide victim, and gave it to a local reporter, Doc told me he wanted to do blood tests. You were exposed to whatever was on the, uh, Ms. Karsan. He needs to be certain you aren’t contaminated.”

  “I didn’t touch her, or even get really close.”

  “Then run by the hospital, give some blood, let Doc check, and get it over with.”

  I sighed. Coleman wouldn’t take anything but yes for an answer. “I will.”

  His hand moved to my back, and he pulled me close. “I’ll cuff you and take you myself if I have to. Doc is worried about you.” His arm tightened. “I am, too. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  I couldn’t say if it was the tone of his voice or his muscular body against mine, but I forgot any and all objections to doing as he asked. I remembered the long-ago kiss we shared on Harold Erkwell’s front porch. I wanted to kiss him again, to reignite that feeling. But I stepped back. My heart had been torn out. What I felt for Coleman was a compelling need to consummate the off-and-on dance of flirtation we’d participated in for nearly two years. “I’m okay. I promise.”

  “Will you have the blood test or do I have to take you myself?”

  “There’s a horde of reporters about to descend on you.” My voice was breathy.

  “They can wait. You can’t. Think of Sweetie Pie and Pluto and the horses. What would they do if something bad happened to you?” He leaned down so that his lips brushed my ear and grazed my cheek. “What would I do?”

  The office door burst open, and a dozen reporters boiled in. Coleman released me and stepped back, pivoting to face them, but not before I saw the whisper of a devilish grin on his face.

  I made my escape out the front door, where Tinkie was waiting for me. “Doc has the needle ready. He said it wouldn’t take more than three minutes. I’m to drive you right there.”

  I had no choice. I was destined to be a pincushion for Doc. When I got there and only after I’d donated at least half the blood in my body, Doc said, “You’re all clear, Sarah Booth. The stuff coating Ms. Karsan was non-toxic.”

  “Then what was the cause of her death?”

  “Still unde
termined,” he said.

  “Why did you take all that blood if you knew I hadn’t been exposed to poison?”

  “I saw my chance to run a full panel and took it. You haven’t had a check-up in two years. I told your mama I’d look out for you and that’s what I did.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  His grin was one of victory. “So sue me. Now run along. I have sick people to attend.”

  After the hospital, we swung by Dahlia House and picked up Sweetie Pie and Pluto, then cruised over to Hilltop, Tinkie’s house, to retrieve her little dust mop of a dog, Chablis. For a tiny Yorkie with an underbite, Chablis had the heart of a lioness. She and Sweetie were best friends, and even Pluto, who normally disdained all living creatures, had a soft spot for the salon-glitzed pooch. Chablis might look like a society confection, but she was a down-and-dirty detective dog.

  “Let’s talk to Cyrus,” I suggested. “We can meet him at Millie’s Café.” After the all-clear that I hadn’t been exposed to anything life-threatening, my appetite had returned full bore.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cyrus Angler walked through the front door of Zinnia’s finest dining establishment. He stood tall and straight for his seventy-plus years. He worked his farm each day, and his tanned face was leathery and worn. He came right to the table where Tinkie and I waited.

  “Mr. Angler.” I stood to kiss his cheek. “I’m so sorry about the day you’ve had.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down. “I was warned. They said if I didn’t drop my suit against Gyndrex, I’d pay.”

  “Who said that?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “You know, it was anonymous. Just phone calls and such. Cowards.”

  “So you have no proof it was Gyndrex.”

  “Proof! The only proof I need is crashed into my pumpkin patch. Next time, it won’t be cellulose and fiber. It’ll be poison.”

  “Did you report those threatening calls to Coleman?” Tinkie asked.

  Cyrus’s pale eyes looked haunted. I realized he’d almost given up hope on fighting Gyndrex’s billion-dollar budget. “I reported the first few threats. Coleman couldn’t do much. No way to trace the calls. Sunflower County isn’t equipped for this high-tech stuff, and the people behind it are smart. I’m so glad you and Sarah Booth have agreed to look into this mess. If Gyndrex isn’t stopped, they’ll control the world food supply.”

  Cyrus was a fighter, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew he didn’t really have the resources to win this battle. Still, he was going to fight. “Tell me everyone you suspect.” I didn’t know how far a list of suspicious people would take us, but I had to have a starting point.

  “The big honchos of Gyndrex are all in Washington, D.C. There won’t be any evidence they were in Sunflower County or involved in any way. They have paid thugs who do their dirty work. It’s hopeless.” He waved away Millie Roberts, the proprietress of the restaurant, as she came to take his order. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m mad.”

  Millie put her hands on his shoulders and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I’ll make you a go-box. Later tonight, you might get hungry and it’ll be there ready for you.”

  He patted her hand. “You’re good to everyone in the county. You and these ladies, offering to help. I’m just afraid Gyndrex has too much money and too much power. They’ve bought our elected officials and now they run roughshod over anyone who opposes them. I heard they killed that pretty little lady who stirred up so much public opinion against their GMO foods. I guess I’m lucky I’m not dead, too.”

  “Both the plane crash and Ms. Karsan’s murder must involve someone local. I mean, Gyndrex couldn’t telepathically kill the Food Guru or crash a plane in your field. We need to identify the perpetrators. Any suggestions?”

  He was deep in thought when Millie slid a cup of coffee and a slice of hot apple pie in front of him. He automatically took a bite. “I can’t point a finger at anyone. I believe it’s someone living here. I just don’t have a clue who it might be.”

  “Cyrus, what are your plans?” Tinkie asked.

  “My youngest son has a satsuma crop coming in down in Grand Bay, Alabama. He’s desperate to get the citrus picked, boxed, and packed. I’ll go down there and help him harvest. Then I’ll decide what to do about my farm here.”

  “Are you dropping your suit against Gyndrex?” I asked.

  Fire crackled in his pale eyes. “Not on your life. I’ll be back and win it, starting in court come Thursday. They haven’t broken me. They’ve only really pissed me off now.”

  It was easy to see why my parents had so respected Cyrus Angler. He stood up for what was right, even when it cost him greatly.

  “We’ll stay in touch,” I said.

  “I can’t pay for your help until I win the lawsuit,” he said. “I know that’s not right, but I promise you, when I get any money, I’ll pay whatever you charge.”

  “That’s not even a consideration,” Tinkie assured him. “These people have come into Sunflower County and damaged things we love. We’ll work for free.”

  I nodded. Sometimes it was about more than money.

  When Tinkie and I returned to her car, we found Sweetie Pie, Chablis, and Pluto in chicken tender-induced comas. Millie had sneaked out the back door of the café and fed them while Tinkie and I talked to Cyrus. Millie was always leaving treats for Sweetie Pie and me at Dahlia House—as if I needed to be pampered with food.

  During the drive to The Club, the animals didn’t stir. The minute we arrived, though, the pooches hauled ass across the golf course.

  “Hey, hey! Come back here!” I called after the disappearing hounds, but they took no heed of my commands. The dogs streaked past the first hole and disappeared down a small incline. Pluto merely extended a back leg and licked it, a kitty contortionist.

  “They’ll be back,” Tinkie said, unperturbed.

  “It’s what mischief they’ll get into in the meantime that worries me.”

  Sweetie and Chablis had a reputation for mayhem in Sunflower County. They’d been involved in the theft of all the jock straps of the high school football team. They’d plundered garbage cans, dragged up scandalous material on half of Zinnia’s residents, and left the evidence at the front door of the First Baptist Church just before the Sunday service let out. They were naughty dogs. While many people overlooked their antics, a few had a burn on for them, because they were filled with mischief and lacked respect for the priorities of humans.

  Pluto, on the other hand, sauntered beside us as we entered The Club. Animals were not allowed, but Tinkie, and her husband Oscar, president of Zinnia National Bank, were the exception to almost every social rule. And because the kitchen was shut down due to the Food Guru’s grisly death, Pluto wasn’t really violating any health codes.

  I bade the cat stay in the dining area. He found a sunny window and was snoring in a matter of moments. Outside, Sweetie and Chablis romped across the putting green, and I prayed they weren’t wreaking havoc on someone’s game. There was no chance to round them up—Tinkie and I had work to do.

  Jasper Pew assured us he’d send all club employees to us for interviews, so Tinkie and I settled in the empty dining room. Though The Club was closed, the kitchen staff had begun clearing all foods that might be contaminated. Priya Karsan’s death had rippled in many directions.

  The first arrival was Suellen Sweeney, the young server who’d told me of Priya Karsan’s murder. She approached with hesitation. “Mr. Pew said you had some questions for me.”

  “We do.” I motioned to a chair. “It’s really important that you try as hard as you can to remember.”

  “Sure.”

  “Has anything unusual happened in the kitchen in the last couple of weeks?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. The menu for Priya Karsan’s event was very specific. We had to get supplies from different sources because of the non-GMO and organic focus, but Mr. Pew said this was the direction The Club was going anyway.”

  “What ne
w suppliers?”

  She rattled off a list that I took down.

  “Any new employees or people suddenly quitting?” Tinkie asked.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Ricky Davenport. He just up and quit day before yesterday. Said he had a primo job offer in Memphis, but he didn’t give any more details. It all sounded sort of odd, seeing as how Ricky isn’t a ball of fire at work. I couldn’t believe he’d landed the great job he told us about.”

  “Is Ricky Davenport a local person?” I asked.

  “No, Mr. Pew hired him about a month ago.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Said he was a family friend. When he quit so suddenly, Mr. Pew was really mad.”

  “Did you overhear any conversations about Priya Karsan or a company called Gyndrex?”

  “No. I mean, there was a lot of discussion of what Ms. Karsan was saying about the chemicals in food and such. Some of the kitchen staff thought it was hogwash and others said it was true. But there weren’t arguments.”

  “When the foods were delivered, did anyone seem overly interested in the event where Ms. Karsan was speaking?” Tinkie asked.

  “Just normal stuff. Like the cost of organic strawberries. Things like that?”

  “Who has access to the kitchen after the club is closed?” Tinkie was working on a theory.

  “Mr. Pew. I guess the other administrators. I don’t know.”

  “What about the kitchen staff? Surely someone has to come in early to start the breakfast shift.” Tinkie leaned forward in her chair as I made notes.

  “I only come in when I’m told and Mr. Pew is always here. You’d have to ask the head chef or Mr. Pew.”

  “Thanks, Suellen. We’ll get more details from Jasper.”

  All told, the interviews yielded absolutely nothing new, though the kitchen staff shared Suellen’s assessment of Ricky Davenport. By the time we finished, Jasper Pew was nowhere to be found and Pluto had also wandered off. Heaven knew where the cat had gone. He had a nose for trouble.