Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838)

by White, Linda J.

  “Is that right?”

  “Tomato growers lost 250 million, nationwide, and all because a few folks got the trots.”

  “How many is ‘a few’?”

  “Thirteen hundred’s what I read.”

  Kit smiled. “That’s a bit more than ‘a few.’ Did you lose some work?”

  “Naw. I run dry goods, so I was OK. But other truckers lost money. Truckers along with the growers.” Bob turned onto a small, two-lane country road with oyster shells on the shoulders. “It was overreaching by the Feds. That’s what I think.”

  Bob pulled the truck over to the side of the road in the shade of some trees on a small hill overlooking a large field full of tomato plants staked up with twine. Even without getting out of the truck, Kit could see the ripe red fruit waiting for the harvesters who were spread out over the field. They wore long-sleeved white shirts and long pants, and some of them, she could see, had gloves on. They were walking down the rows, bending over, picking individual fruits, and putting them in soft bags worn across their bodies.

  “That guy there,” Bob said, pointing to a man leaning against a pickup truck parked in the shade, “he would be the boss. The crew chief. He’s hired all these pickers, and he’s responsible for them.”

  “How long will they be in this area?”

  “A month, maybe six weeks, then they’ll move on.”

  “Where does the crew chief find them?”

  “Who knows? I figure most of ’em get jobs by word of mouth. They all got the same last names: Rodriguez, Martinez, Hernandez … you know. They’re all Mexicans.”

  “All of them?”

  “There maybe a Guatemalan crew now and then. Salvadoran. But these days, they’re mostly from Mexico.”

  Kit watched as the workers moved through the field, periodically emptying their bags into a large flat bin on wheels parked in the crosscuts between rows. Down near a stand of trees at the edge of the field, she could see some little children playing while their parents worked. Had her beach child been one of them? “Why do the pickers wear gloves?”

  “Cuts down on the salmonella and E. coli. They also make ’em wash their hands good. They keep that wash house clean as a kitchen.”

  “What happens after they pick them?”

  “They put them through a sizing line, wash them, inspect them, squirt ’em with a little bleach water, dry ‘em off, and pack them. It’s tricky, y’know? Tomatoes are fragile, yes indeed. A split on the skin, a blemish, and diseases, bacteria can get in there and ruin ’em.”

  “Do they have a lot of culls?”

  “Sometimes yes, they do. They can’t risk a bad tomato in the batch.”

  “What happens to them? The culls?”

  “Well, it depends. If it’s a little blemish, the farm workers take ’em, cut out the bad part, and eat them. Serve them to their families. Nothin’ much wrong with ’em, they just ain’t suitable for the market.”

  “I’ll bet they’re sick of tomatoes by the end of the season.”

  Bob nodded. “Probably so. The field workers, they’ve gotta be trained how to pick, how to judge if the ’mater is ripe, and then they’ve gotta be supervised carefully. It’s no small thing, growing ’maters. That’s why the FDA …” Bob stopped himself and shook his head. “Well, you heard me say it before. They got to be more careful putting out these warnings. It ain’t fair to the growers, you know?”

  On the way back to Chincoteague, Kit thought of another question. “You drive a night run, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I work 11 to 7, pretty much.” Bob shifted into low and turned left onto the road that would take them past Wallops Island and onto the causeway.

  “Have you seen anything odd lately?”

  “On the road?” Bob frowned. “I tell you one thing. The cops’ve been pulling people over like crazy. Mostly big sedans that look like they’re loaded or SUVs with the windows tinted out.” He nodded like he was agreeing with himself. “My theory is drugs. Drug traffickers. That’s what they been lookin’ for.”

  “So enforcement has been high.”

  “Yep. I watch my speed, I’ll tell ya. Not going to give them any excuse.”

  The bridge over Mosquito Creek lay ahead. Kit tried to work out a scenario in her head. If police presence had been heavy on Rt. 13, maybe criminals were moving out onto the ocean. There was no other major north-south route on the peninsula.

  “One more thing.” Bob interrupted her thoughts. “Some folks been beat up lately on the peninsula, shopkeepers at country stores. One of ’em died. ’Course, he was seventy-two years old, but still. I never have heard such a thing. Don’t know why it would be happening, not now.”

  “If the economy’s bad …”

  “This time of year it ain’t.” Bob drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Something ain’t right. My daddy would say the devil’s afoot.”

  David O’Connor nudged the nose of his kayak through the cordgrass, mosquitoes swarming around his head. The marshes around Chincoteague, as Connie had promised, teemed with wildlife, more kinds of birds than he knew existed. In the shallows, he could see crabs beneath the water, and clams, minnows and larger fish. The cry of an osprey pierced the sky.

  He desperately needed to relax. He’d come to Chincoteague to get away from police work. So why was he getting involved with Kit’s case? With Kit, even? As attractive as she was.

  The sun felt hot, even at nine in the morning, but a light breeze made the day bearable. The current seemed easier to deal with on this, the east side of the island, and there were many canals and fingers of water for him to explore. The kayak moved smoothly over the surface, and David felt his muscles working rhythmically. His shoulder was getting better and he was relieved about that. The weeks of physical therapy after the shooting had been arduous. At first, the docs expressed doubt about how much of his strength he’d regain. But it was coming back. He could feel it.

  Now if only his mind were a muscle. He knew how to rehabilitate muscles, how to work them, how to push them, how to be dogged about exercising them. His mind was something else altogether. Past events had cut deep channels through which his thoughts ebbed and flowed, swirled in whirlpools, and raced in strong currents. Sometimes, he thought he would drown in them. Sometimes, he wished he would.

  A splash of saltwater stung his wounded arm. His mind returned involuntarily to the boy on the beach, the body they’d found. Who was he? Why was he there? And why hadn’t his family reported him missing?

  Ten years he’d spent in homicide. It was a hard habit to break.

  I’ve got to stop this, he thought. I’ve got to quit thinking about death. David steered the kayak around a bend and stopped it suddenly, using his paddle as a brake. Ahead of him, in the shallows next to a stand of marsh grass, stood a big white bird. What had Kit called it? A great egret.

  David sat motionless, just ten yards away. The bird seemed intent on something in the water. It moved, its long legs hinged at the back, stepping high, like a man in a business suit moving gingerly through puddles, trying to keep his pants’ cuffs dry. Then it stopped. David remained still, barely breathing, his eyes focused on the bird.

  Suddenly he sensed movement to his right and his eyes flicked over to the marsh grass. A gray-haired woman dressed in waders, a khaki hat and a camouflage shirt stood in the water, mostly hidden. She had a still camera with an enormous lens on a monopod trained on the bird. She held her finger to her lips to caution David to be quiet.

  He looked back at the egret. All at once, its sharp head flashed downward. It thrust its pointed beak into the water, and seconds later, it came up with something, something that was wiggling. David squinted into the sun. It was a crab. Then the egret swallowed it in one gulp. He could hear the woman’s camera capturing the sight, clicking and whirring.

  The bird moved again, those stilt-legs rising and falling, its eyes bright. And then suddenly it hunched its shoulders, extended its wings, and lifted off, beating the air with i
ts great white wings, its black legs folded beneath.

  David watched it fly away, low across the water, beautiful in its pure whiteness and strength. And only when it was out of sight did he speak. “That’s pretty cool,” he said to the woman.

  “My, yes. I think it must be nesting right over there.” She motioned to the right.

  David nodded toward her camera. “You just shoot birds?”

  “Mostly. But put a pony near me, or a crab, and I’ll get it, too.” Her gray eyes sparkled.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  “I should. Been at it long enough. Now those great egrets, they’re common this time of year. Yesterday, I got an American Coot. Very rare in the summer. Want to see?”

  “Sure.” He put the paddle in the water and moved the kayak forward until he was next to the woman. She pressed some buttons and then turned the camera toward him so he could see the screen on the back. David squinted in the bright light, and pulled his head close until he was able to see the picture—it showed an old man sitting on the shore in a lawn chair, sound asleep.

  The old woman laughed out loud at her own joke. “That’s him, my old American Coot. He’s right over there,” she motioned her head. “He can’t see what I like about wading through these marshes, but he drives me here, nonetheless.”

  David grinned.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not. David O’Connor,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Alice Pendleton,” she responded, shaking it. “You here for the summer?”

  “For a few months. Taking a break from my job.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  Alice Pendleton nodded gravely. “This is a good place to get away for a while. And these birds, they’ll teach you a lot. There’s a plan, you know, a plan for everything. There’s even a reason why you’re here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Alice, who you talking to?” A man’s voice came from the shore.

  “That’s him. That’s my old American Coot,” she said to David, her eyes wrinkling in amusement. “Coming, dear!” And she turned and slowly made her way back through the marsh. Later, David stood in his rental house drinking a glass of ice water and staring at one of the photographs on the north wall of the living room. It was an amazing picture of a gray bird flying low over the blue water. And as he stared at it, the signature on the bottom right of the print came into focus: Alice Pendleton. Immediately, the image of the old woman in the marsh came into his head. “Good grief,” he said out loud. “She’s a pro.”

  Kit inserted the key into the lock on the door to her cottage. That’s when she noticed the business card stuck in the crack. She pulled it out. Piper Calhoun, Reporter, The Norfolk Times the card said. On it in smudged blue ink were the words Call me.

  Not a chance, Kit thought, and she pushed in the door. The air conditioning hit her like an open refrigerator door, refreshing after the hot, humid outdoors. She’d spent the day gathering statements from the teenagers who had been on the beach and doing some background checking on Joe Rutgers, the Fish & Wildlife officer, about whom she’d discovered nothing remarkable.

  She threw her things down on the big oak harvest table and tossed the business card in the trash. The main room of the cottage was painted blue, the trim an antique white. The high ceiling and exposed beams gave the place a light, airy feel. The kitchen, painted blue and white with yellow accents, stood off to one side. This configuration allowed the entire side of the cottage facing east to be open to the water, with windows and French doors leading to an open deck.

  Kit poured a glass of water from the container in the fridge. Fatigue swept over her. She booted up her laptop, ready to write up her reports. A knock at her door interrupted her.

  The reporter? Kit braced for a confrontation. But instead, Rick Sellers stood on the porch. She opened the door.

  “Hey!” he said, a sheepish grin on his face. “I, uh, felt bad about the IOOS thing and I brought these for you.” He held a bunch of papers in his hand.

  She eyed him. “How’d you know where I’m staying?”

  He shrugged. “Word’s out.”

  Great.

  “Here.” He handed her the papers.

  Kit looked down. Copies of the reports he had filed with the Norfolk Coast Guard office. “Thanks. I appreciate this.”

  “Sure thing. And if there’s anything else I can do, just yell.” Sellers grinned. “I’ll do better next time. I promise.” He turned to leave, then looked back. “If you find something I’d appreciate it if you’d , let me know. So I can update those guys.” Sellers nodded toward the papers in Kit’s hand.

  “OK.”

  “We’re going to go out patrolling for a while, about the time you saw that boat. I’ll let you know if we catch ’em.”

  “Thanks,” Kit said and she watched as he walked out to his truck and got in. How did word get out about her location? Should she change cottages?

  Her cell phone rang. Another interruption.

  “Hey,” David said. “I’m done for the day. Feel like going to the beach?”

  Kit felt a rush of emotion. “The beach?”

  “Yeah, you know: water, sun, sand …”

  She hesitated.

  “You swim, right?”

  She could hear the teasing in his voice. “I lifeguarded all the way through college,” she said.

  “Good. I may need a lifeguard,” he laughed. “Look,” he said, his voice dropping, “I’d like to talk to you.”

  He wanted to talk? Kit tried to read the intonation in his voice. Maybe needed to talk? Could she spare the time? “OK. Sure. I can be there in half an hour.”

  Kit threw on her swimsuit, added shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed a towel and her fanny pack, and left for the beach. Driving over the bridge to Assateague, she saw a collection of snowy egrets in the trees near the road. A herd of wild ponies stood a long way down the salt marsh, grazing. How she’d loved watching them when she was a kid! And Pony Penning, when the firemen would round them up, swim them over to Chincoteague, and sell off the colts—that was sheer heaven to her as a young girl. She rolled down her windows, let the soft salt air swirl into the car, and inhaled deeply.

  She parked at the south beach lot, away from the surfing area. The absence of commercial buildings on Assateague was part of its charm. There were no boardwalks or hotels or restaurants or T-shirt shops, no cotton candy or caramel corn. Just a small museum, restrooms and the beach. David had said to meet him in the vicinity of the last lifeguard stand.

  Crossing the dunes, she could see the ocean was calm this day, two-foot waves breaking close to shore, the waves sliding up over the sand, foamy-moustache edges leading the way. Some of the beachgoers were packing up to head back for dinner. To her left, some kids flew a kite that looked like a great green dragon. Kit turned right, heading down toward the tip of the island, away from the surfing area, away from the place she’d found the little boy, toward the end of the island set aside as a nesting area for the endangered piping plover.

  Every family she passed reminded her of her case. White, black, Hispanic, Asian—who could possibly lose an eight year old and not report it? Not miss him? Maybe his mother couldn’t report it because … because why? Fear? Kit ran through the possibilities as she locked her fanny pack in the glove box of her car.

  Down the beach, she dropped her towel on the sand, put her ID and keys down and threw her T-shirt on top of them. David hadn’t arrived yet, but she felt hot, so she plunged into the waves, diving through the breakers, her eyes smarting from the green, salty water. She swam out beyond the surf line, and then turned on her back and floated, then swam again, sliding through the waves, feeling the tug of the ocean like an embrace. “God,” she whispered, “thank you for this. Thank you for the sea and the sky and the sun, for a place that touches me so deeply.” The spontaneous prayer surprised even h
er. Could the familiar beauty of the barrier islands and the embrace of the sea seduce her back into the love for Jesus she once knew?

  She swam north, parallel to the shore, then turned south again. She felt the littoral current pressing along the shore and she let it pull her along for a while, thinking of the little boy, and his body’s journey. Did he travel along the bottom? In the middle of the current? Did the surf turn his body over and over as it washed in?

  Kit treaded water, looking out at the waves coming toward her, thinking about the victim. Suddenly, something grabbed her leg. Panicked, she jerked around. David O’Connor surfaced, grinning, water streaming off of his face.

  “David!” she cried. “Oh! That is so middle school!” Kit cupped her hand and sent a sluice of water shooting toward him.

  “But I got you, didn’t I?” he said laughing.

  “Oh, big deal! Big deal! So you can swim underwater!” Smiling, Kit swam over to the beach side of David, talking all the way, capturing his attention so that he didn’t see the huge wave coming before it broke over his head. Deftly, she dove through it, and he came up sputtering.

  “All right,” he said, shaking the water off his head. “We’re even.”

  “No way!” she said, and she shoved him down into the water.

  The two played for half an hour, maybe more, bodysurfing in the waves, diving and laughing, swimming against the current, and floating on top. Then they let a strong wave take them in to the beach. “How’d you spot me?” Kit asked as they walked out of the surf.

  “You were the only swimmer pretending to be a dead boy,” he said, grinning.

  Kit bent down and picked up her towel. “Very funny.”

  “Seriously. I saw what you were doing out there, and I thought, now there’s a girl who needs to play.”

  “Well thank you, Dr. O’Connor.” Kit sat down on the sand and David did as well. He had on blue and white boardshorts. The large bandage on his arm was gone; only the butterfly bandages remained. “How’s the arm?” she said, nodding toward it.