by Diana Saco
“Hey, we’re an equal opportunity establishment,” Farm joked. “We serve accused murderers, adulterers, little old ladies, and uptight private dicks.”
“Not funny and don’t call me a dick.”
“Or should I say, upright private dicks?”
“Stop it!”
“Upstanding? Upset?”
“Farm!” I warned.
He leaned back and looked at me in a calculating fashion. “Mint chocolate chip?”
I hesitated only a moment before nodding. Ice cream was my kryptonite.
“Oh, look,” he said. “Another member for our menagerie.”
I turned toward the entrance and saw Bruno coming in. He was heading toward the middle of the counter when he noticed us. He changed directions and sat next to me just as Scotty came over.
“Hey, Handsome, are you having a good day?” Scotty greeted him.
“Yup, but it just got better,” Bruno said with a smile. “Just the usual, Scotty.”
“Coming right up.”
“And a mint chocolate chip for the lady, on the house,” Farm added before Scotty left.
Farm couldn’t wait to gossip. I always marveled at the stereotype that women liked to gossip when, in my experience, men were much worse. “Bruno, guess who came over for dinner, well lunch,” he said, tilting his head toward Moffit and Munch—party of two.
“What?” Bruno asked, looking in the direction Farm had indicated. “Oh, well that’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it,” I said.
“I thought you weren’t working on the Munch case today, Nina,” he commented.
“I wasn’t. I was over at the soap shop down the street when those two showed up. I followed them here to see what they were up to. And since it was lunchtime . . . ” I finished with a shrug.
“Did they say anything to you?”
“They haven’t seen me.”
“She was in stealth mode,” Farm joked. “But wait. There’s more. Chloe’s here, too. With Aunt Dottie,” he added excitedly.
What a pettegolo ficcanaso, I thought, remembering Nonno’s lyrically redundant way of saying “nosy gossip.”
“That could be trouble,” Bruno observed.
“Why?” I asked. “Do you think Marvin might make another scene?”
“Or the sister. She called me asking for an update. Somehow she found out about the toxicology report and about Randall Kirkland. She asked me if I had questioned Chloe yet.”
“How did she know about Chloe’s involvement?” I asked.
“I’m not sure she did know. I think the husband’s just been telling her about Monica’s enemies.”
“That’s right,” I said. “According to Al, Marvin started priming that pump the day she got here.”
“So what did you tell her?” Farm interjected.
“Same thing I’m telling you,” he replied with a slight smile. “I can’t comment on an ongoing police investigation.”
“Hey, what about what you’ve told me so far?” he protested.
“Common knowledge and some forewarning, in case they start a ruckus. Which may be about to happen,” he added, craning his neck in the direction of the dining area.
I turned to look and saw that Chloe and Dottie were heading toward our general direction from the back of the room, and their current trajectory was about to take them right by Maxi and Marvin’s table. Steamy’s wasn’t very full today, but enough people were there to create a background hum of conversation that would have made it impossible for us to hear if the crowd hadn’t quieted. But when Maxi saw Chloe, she shot up, stepped directly in front of her and said, “You!” in a loud enough voice that it got everyone’s attention.
“Ms. Moffit,” Chloe said, more of an acknowledgment than a greeting.
“It’s Dr. Moffit, and what are you doing here?” she asked, as Marvin stepped up next to her for moral support.
“Um, eating,” Chloe said, unknowingly parroting Farm’s earlier reply to me.
“I mean, why aren’t you in jail for what you did to my sister?”
That was Bruno’s cue. He headed over to defuse the situation just as Chloe raised her hands defensively and said, “I didn’t do anything to your sister.”
Maxi was the first to notice Bruno’s approach. “Sheriff, why isn’t this woman in jail? Arrest her!”
That got Dottie agitated. “Arrest? No! Just eating. Can’t eat?”
“Easy, Aunt Dottie,” Chloe said softly. Her smooth vibrato was as calming as a cat’s purr, and it seemed to do the trick with Dottie.
“Let’s everyone take it easy,” Bruno added calmly. “I’m not arresting anybody today. Your sister’s death is still under investigation.”
“Well, what are you doing here? You’re having lunch while my sister’s murderer roams around freely,” she added, pointing at Chloe.
Chloe bristled. “I’m sorry for your loss, but say that again, and you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of a slander suit!”
Bruno cut in. “Dr. Moffit, I realize today is a particularly stressful day for you and Mr. Munch. As I understand it, you have a funeral to go to shortly, don’t you?”
“Are you implying we shouldn’t be here?”
“No ma’am. I’m saying that it’s obvious you’re grieving, and that it won’t help your sister’s memory or the situation in general for you to make groundless accusations on such an emotionally charged day. Now let’s just everybody calm down and go back to our business,” he added, bringing his arms up to usher Chloe and Dottie on through. “Aunt Dottie, it’s good to see you,” he said with a big smile.
She smiled back.
I patted Dottie’s back and said, “See you at home later,” as she and Chloe went past me. As I caught Chloe’s eye, I couldn’t resist also giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She seemed to appreciate it. When I turned back, I noticed Maxi had been watching us, still visibly angry and apparently deciding that Chloe and I must be friends. Her attention was drawn by Farm, who had made his way to their table. He introduced himself as one of the owners, offered his condolences for their loss, and picked up their tab. While he checked to see if they needed anything else, Bruno took the opportunity to come back to the counter where Scotty was just setting down his tuna melt and my ice cream.
“You okay?” Scotty asked him.
He took a large bite of his sandwich first and closed his eyes to savor it. “I am now,” he said after swallowing.
Scotty smiled. “How about some fries with that?”
“I thought you wanted me to cut back on the carbs,” Bruno commented.
“You deserve it today. Be right back.”
“Scotty’s right,” I said, as I watched him leave to fetch fries. “That was nicely handled.”
“How much of that do you think was for show?” Bruno asked.
“I was wondering the same thing myself.” I thought about the heated exchange as I started my ice cream. “Are you going to the funeral?” I asked him.
“I have to. Loyal and Lily will be there, too. What about you?”
“I don’t think I should. Maxi saw me talking to Chloe just now and probably thinks we’re friends, especially since Chloe and I also happened to be together when she first met us. I think it would just inflame her.”
“I agree. I don’t want another scene at the funeral. Let’s see if this town can bury the poor woman in peace.”
*****
The Munch funeral, according to Bruno, had been a blissfully unremarkable affair. A few dozen mourners, most of them out-of-town family, came to pay their respects. Marvin Munch and his dear departed wife’s sister kept an appropriate distance from each other, probably owing to the extra relatives in the vicinity. The only noteworthy observation Bruno mentioned was that they seemed satisfied when they saw that he as sheriff and Loyal in his capacity as town prosecutor were in attendance.
I, for my part, kept my appointment with Jeff Woo on Friday morning. Because his testimony might prove ne
cessary, I had run a background check on Woo and learned that he was a Millsferry native, third generation Chinese-American, and third generation farmer. He had a Bachelor of Science degree from Mass Aggie, the nickname for the Stockbridge School of Agriculture at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. In keeping with the local philosophy, his degree was in Sustainable Food and Farming.
His wife, Joanna Woolsy, was a PhD candidate in Plant Biology, also at Mass Aggie. According to her online CV, she participated in a summer internship at the Svalbard Global Seed Vault on the Norwegian island of Spitsbergen. Built inside a mountain, the seed bank was kind of a Noah’s Ark for plants. Duplicate copies of several thousand species of seeds were stored there as a backup against plant extinction in the event of large-scale catastrophes, which is why the place was commonly known as the “Doomsday Vault.” That made it sound so grim, yet cool, too. I was hoping to get the chance to ask her about it.
I knocked on the couple’s door a little after nine in the morning. A small woman with curly brown shoulder length hair and thick rimmed glasses answered.
“Nina?” she asked with a friendly smile.
“Yes, are you Joanna Woolsy?”
“That’s me.”
“No hyphenated name for you?” I teased.
“I actually considered it until I said it out loud. Woolsy-Woo,” she said laughing. “Come on in. Jeff! The detective is here,” she called out, turning to lead the way.
The sundress I had thought Joanna was wearing was actually an apron. And when she turned her back to me, I was suddenly shocked to see that it was the only thing she wore. At that moment, I realized something that the background check had missed. The Woolsy-Woos were nudists.
“Uh, Joanna? Did you know the back of your dress is missing?” I asked nonplussed.
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face me again. “Jeff didn’t tell you, did he?”
“No, he forgot to mention it,” I said.
“He’s supposed to tell people we’re nudists before inviting them over to the house,” she explained with a sigh.
“Ah,” was all I could muster.
“Excuse me a moment. Honey, you better put some pants on,” she called out again. And then she disappeared into a back room.
Wow! Nudists! I wondered if Chloe knew that she bought her produce from a nudist. I shuddered thinking of the possible farming accidents a naked Jeff Woo could have. My next thought was even worse—the potential for finding something unexpected in the produce. Yuck! I wondered if they made a hairnet for that.
Trying to get a grip, I looked around the living room and considered taking a seat. Then another realization came unbidden. Sitting on a nudist’s sofa was like putting on his underwear. I had, up to that moment, considered myself a fairly rational liberal-minded human being. Confronted by all that real and imagined nakedness, however, I was forced to acknowledge a surprising but irrefutable truth about myself. Nina Braco, you’re a Cuban-Italian-American Puritan!
Jeff showed up just then to rescue me from my thoughts. He was shirtless, but he had on a pair of jeans. I sighed gratefully as he introduced himself and shook my hand.
“You know, I didn’t realize when you called that this had to do with that woman who died at the bake-off. Joanna figured it out. You think it was our rhubarb?”
Jeff’s eagerness to get down to business was like a lifeline pulling me out of that sea of awkwardness I’d been floundering in. I smiled at him gratefully.
“We just want to rule it out,” I said, my professional demeanor restored.
“Well, sure. How can I help?”
“Can you walk me through your process, first?”
“It varies depending on the produce. For rhubarb, we harvest only as much as we sell in a day or two. Anything we don’t sell by the end of the second day gets chopped and frozen or cooked. We pick the next batch and sell that fresh or day-old—wash, rinse, repeat. Until the end of the harvest season, which lasts about two months or so.”
“How do you know when you picked the produce you’re selling?” I asked.
“Everything’s barcoded,” Jeff replied.
“It is?” I asked, slightly surprised. And then I remembered where we lived—Millsferry, the database capital of the world.
“Yeah, we track the variety, date planted, date harvested, notes on anything affecting that season’s crop, from pests to anomalous weather conditions. Some of the data is for Joanna’s research, so we’re careful about our records.”
“Do you also track who bought what on a given date?”
“Not for cash paying customers, and that’s most of our business. But we let some of our regulars run tabs, and we invoice them monthly.”
When I had made the appointment with Jeff over the phone, he had asked whether I had a receipt for the purchase I wanted information on. I had contacted Chloe about that. She habitually scanned all her receipts and was able to send me a PDF. I pulled it up now on my smartphone and showed it to Jeff.
“What can you tell me about this purchase, just the rhubarb?”
He entered the item number into his phone. “MacDonald Crimson rhubarb, very common. From a patch we planted three years ago. Picked and sold same day, July 18, like it says on the receipt,” he added, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not sure how that helps.”
“It helps if you can name at least one or two other people who bought the same rhubarb that day. Maybe one of your regulars who pays on credit?”
“Yeah, I could do that, but . . .” he hesitated.
“But what?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t mean to be a jerk about this, but do you have a warrant?”
“I’m not a cop, but I can get one with a warrant. Do I need one?”
“It’s a privacy thing, you know?”
I really didn’t know. How could a guy who liked having his privates al fresco have a privacy thing? But I did understand why he might be reluctant to volunteer his clients for questioning by a stranger.
“We just need to find out from your customers if they got sick from the same rhubarb. You can call them yourself.”
Joanna came in during the last part of the conversation—wearing an actual sundress this time—and tipped the scale in my favor. “Jeff, just tell her. It isn’t like any of that information is privileged. And there’s a genuine health issue anyway.”
Joanna was my new best friend. I looked at Jeff expectantly. He relented and started tapping and swiping away on his smartphone. “I had four regular customers that day who also bought the same rhubarb. I’m texting their contact information to you now.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“S’okay. I wasn’t, you know, trying to obstruct justice or anything. I just think we share a lot of private stuff without stopping to think about whether we should.”
This from a man who very nearly exposed his “private stuff” to me! The word ironic sprang to my mind and almost to my lips. Still, I knew where he was coming from, so I nodded.
“But I think you would have heard by now if that batch of rhubarb was tainted,” he added.
“Why do you say that?”
“Those four customers I mentioned? Two of them were restaurants.”
11. An Intervention, But Whose?
By Saturday, I had had my fill of all things related to rhubarb, poison, expired chefs, and naked farmers. I couldn’t say why a pair of friendly nudists had thrown me off my game. They certainly weren’t the first birthday suits I’ve had to see in my line of work. Being a PI means interviewing people, often in their homes, and you never know what condition you’re going to find them in—drunk and naked, high and naked, sexed and naked, stupid and naked. Not to mention everything you see on surveillance.
Visual sewage has clogged my brain to the point of overflowing. What I wouldn’t give for a memory plunger. I floated the idea by Gizmo once. He admitted that he thought we’d be able to purge unwanted memories someday, but he said it would be more like flushing the cache on
a computer than “flushing a brain toilet.” (Farm was the only person who truly appreciated my metaphors.) In the meantime, I’d just have to put up with remembrances of things bare-assed.
At least I got the information I was after from the Woolsy-Woos. The particulars, however, made Chloe look bad, and that mattered to me. I’m not sure when I had developed a personal interest in the outcome of this case. Nor why. Maybe it was because Bruno was friends with Chloe. Or maybe it was because I had started to feel that she could become a friend to me. Whatever the reason, I was finding it harder to think of Chloe as a murder suspect, despite the mounting evidence.
The news that Woo’s customers provided, however, didn’t bode well. A quick call to each of them revealed that no one else got sick from Woo’s rhubarb. This was enough to confirm that the high concentrations of oxalic acid that killed Monica Munch and that almost killed Randall Kirkland were not in the rhubarb that Jeff harvested and sold to Chloe and others on the Thursday before the bake-off. Rather, the poison was added only to Chloe’s rhubarb and only after she bought it. The simplest explanation was that Chloe poisoned the rhubarb. Sometimes, Occam’s razor sliced deeply.
The fatal stab at anything but the simplest explanation came in the form of a jar of jam. Some of the harvested rhubarb that Jeff sold to Chloe was still unsold the next day, so Joanna used it to make strawberry-rhubarb preserves. She was able to produce one of those jars from the detailed labeling and meticulous records that she and Jeff kept. I took that jar to the lab later that morning after leaving the Woo farm. In the afternoon, a tech called to report that the rhubarb was good. A PDF copy of the report was now blinking at me from my email inbox. I was so fed up with the whole case, especially given the direction it had taken, that I closed my laptop in disgust and vowed not to boot it up again until Monday. That decision sucked because I had designated Saturday as a writing day.
Shortly after my initial interview with Chloe, she and Aunt Dottie launched a campaign to encourage me in my creative pursuits. That enterprise took a variety of forms. The population widget that Aunt Dottie sent to my laptop a couple of days after she moved in was one tactic. Others included a steady stream of emails that the two of them sent me every few days with links to writing blogs, authors’ trials and tribulations, tips and best practices for coming up with ideas, and examples of famous books that were initially rejected by publishers. Chloe also sent me daily text messages with quotes, paraphrases or puns intended to be inspirational. I found most of those silly but cute, like “an anecdote a day keeps the doldrums away.” Other times, she would send something thoughtful and profound. The one that stuck was “Don’t write like your life depends on it. Live like your writing depends on it.”
