by Robin Ray
“Eh, nothing really,” the clerk exaggerated. “Thrashed the store. No biggie.”
The young PI pointed to his friend’s glabella. “How’d you get that cut?”
“I think I ended up on the golf course,” Eddie said. “I don’t remember.”
“That bad, huh?” Eddie smiled.
Eddie squeezed his friend’s hand tightly. “I gotta get out of here, man. This place is driving me nuts.”
“Easy, easy,” Tony said, wincing in pain from his arm where the IV was inserted.
“What’s the matter?” his blond friend asked.
“This IV stings a little because of the tube,” the recovering detective revealed. “Since there’s no plastic, they have to use silicone rubber. It’s thicker even at the point of insertion.”
Eddie gazed at the bottle. “At least half of it is already gone.”
“Hopefully I won’t need another one,” Tony moaned. “I’d have to pass.”
“40 torturous years,” the Cumby’s clerk lamented. “40 torturous years.”
“Of what?” his buddy asked.
“Of being in R&R, man.”
“I’m down to try something new if you want,” Tony promised.
Eddie’s eyes lit up like a candle. “You are?”
“Sure,” his pal conceded. “If you want.”
“Yeah,” Eddie C nodded. “I want.”
With Tony recuperating in the hospital, his partner Gregory, still unaware of his location, decided to continue with his investigation of the death of chanteuse Lady Winehouse or, as George Michael once called her, “the best female vocalist he has heard in his entire career.” Hitching a ride on the back of an electric scooter to Exotic Roots, the 400-acre farm on the southwest portion of Woodstock, the PI ambled through the main gate, down a short, unpaved road framed by a marsh on either side of it, and arrived at The Market, the sole grocery outlet on the sprawling estate. Entering the barn-sized structure, he was greeted by several earthy smells; some familiar, some unknown. Primarily a vegetable market, the majority of products were laid out on easily accessible, water-sprayed stands with every item not only titled but also with a brief description of what they taste like, the best ways to prepare them, which wine they best pair with, country of origin, and other tidbits.
Approaching the eggplant section, he looked at the offerings on sale – long, thin, deep purple Japanese eggplants; lighter colored Chinese eggplants like Oriental Charm and Ping Tung Long; round, purplish graffiti eggplants that, if one wasn’t paying close attention, would think were large bulbs of purple garlic; the extremely rare, egg-shaped, tango eggplant which came in colors of white and yellow; golf ball-sized Thai eggplant – definitely an acquired taste because they’re pretty bitter; and the Chinese round mauve, an eggplant almost identical in size, shape and color of a violet heirloom tomato.
Every red-aproned clerk, he noticed, was busy helping customers, so he continued perusing an exotic root aisle which contained baskets of vegetables he’d never seen till now. One basket contained salsify – a long, dark brown root one could almost nickname Giant’s Fingers; New Zealand yams which, truth be told, look like giant maggots with red, blood-colored lines around them; Spanish tiger nuts – imagine a basket full of adult human thumbs. For the avid mathematicians, there’s the Romanesco – a cauliflower cousin whose spirals on the head followed a Fibonacci pattern; and celeriac – a potato substitute that resembled the pale, unshaven nutsack of a Viking, the smiling PI thought, then sniffing it as if half-expecting the pungent, salty odor of Medieval battlefield sweat. Looking up, he finally saw a clerk that was free and approached her.
“Excuse me,” he began. “You have a pretty unique collection here. I want to try some of this stuff when I leave, but first I have to speak to Janis, Janis Joplin.”
“And you are…?” the clerk asked.
“Greg Angelicus,” he answered. “I’m the PI doing the investigation on Ms. Winehouse.”
The young woman, first wearing a countenance as warm as the morning sun in Egypt, now looked like she could freeze mercury with just one glance.
“I don’t know if she’s here,” the clerk said dryly then started to leave.
“Wait!” the PI called her back. “I’m not an angel. I’m with you, on your side. I’m just looking for answers. Everyone is.”
The clerk inhaled, then exhaled, and finally returned to Gregory.
“She’s out back,” the worker reluctantly admitted.
“Where out back?” the PI inquired. “This is a 400-acre farm.”
“Then I guess you’d better start looking,” she suggested and exited.
You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, he said as she disappeared.
Strolling out to the farm, Gregory stood near the rear door and surveyed the vista spread out before his eyes. No doubt, the farm was huge, probably the size of Universal Studios Hollywood as he’d remembered. Rolling, well-manicured hills of variable green hues lined the landscape to the left while one long row of greenhouses sat on the right. Between the two scenes were acres and acres of planted vegetables, some fully exposed to the sun, and those with fragile leaves protected by wide canopies. Water sprinklers could be seen throughout the entirety of the well-designed farm. All the workers, perhaps 40 in number, were busy planting seeds and stakes, harvesting root vegetables, pruning beds or repairing broken water conduits.
Arriving at the first greenhouse, the PI stepped in and was instantly amazed by the intoxicating smell of the well-arranged selection of non-native herbs; it was like crash-landing on Earth II and waking up in a never-before seen rain forest. Several workers and customers were milling about, either fertilizing plants or sampling their leaves. Gregory ambled over to a young, brown-haired worker in her mid-30’s who was transplanting herbs from smaller pots to larger beds with a hand shovel.
“Hello,” he greeted the clerk. “I was curious. Some of the plants here have really strong scents. What kinds of plants are they?”
“Just herbs from all over the globe,” she answered. “Jamaican thyme, Vietnamese Crab Craw herb, headache plant…”
“Headache plant?” the ex-cop asked, stupefied.
“It’s a medicinal plant,” she replied. “The Vietnamese chew the leaves for their headaches. They also stir-fry frog’s legs in them, but obviously, not up here in Heaven.”
“Pretty cool,” Gregory said. “I just passed a plant with a really nice smell, kind of unique, like jasmine.”
“That’s probably the Nepalese pandan,” she stated. “They use it to flavor rice, you know, like basmati.”
“Sweet,” the PI nodded. “Where do the seeds come from since no one can go back to Earth?”
“Culinary Heaven, Farmer’s Heaven, different places,” she revealed. “You’re new here, huh?”
“My first week,” he answered. “My name’s Gregory Angelicus. I’m…I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m Amy,” the clerk introduced herself as they shook hands. “Amy Sweeney.”
“Tell me something, Amy,” the PI said. “How come there are so many farms in R&R? Seems like they might be out of place.”
“Hardly,” she retorted. “These farms are small compared to the ones in the Garden of Eden; that’s what we call Farmer’s Heaven. Now that place is huge. Almost endless, really. A lot of mouths to feed, you know. No, these local farms were set up to keep the musicians busy. Slothfulness is kinda looked down up, I guess.”
“I take it you’re a musician, too?” the PI asked.
“Not yet,” she answered. “I was a flight attendant. I petitioned to come here a couple of years ago because I’ve always wanted to learn how to play drums. Can you imagine my teachers – Keith Moon, John Bonham, Karen Carpenter, Jim Capaldi, The Rev, Cozy Powell, Nick Menza, a lot of people. Tré cool.”
“Flight attendant, huh?” Gregory wondered. “One of the big carriers, like Pan Am?”
“American Airlines Flight 11,” she answered.
The PI, looking puzzled, snapped his fingers a few times. “Fight 11… that sounds familiar. Where’d I hear about that?”
“September 11, 2001,” she answered somberly. “I was part of the crew when we got hijacked out of Logan International. All of our lives ended when we crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.” The horrible memory caused Sweeney to start crying.
Gregory put his arms around her. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he cooed. “You’re here now. You did good. It’s not your fault.”
“You know,” she said, sobering up, “I’d initially wanted to be a singer but, you know, good pipes are a gift. I envy people like Ella Fitzgerald, Grace Slick, Janis Joplin…”
“Back on Earth,” the PI stated, “I was one of the biggest fans of Janis Joplin.”
Amy perked up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Sure,” Gregory answered. “Saw that movie twice. You know, the one with Bette Midler?”
“The Rose,” she said.
“Yeah,” the PI smiled. “Great film. I heard Janis works here in Exotic Roots.”
“Oh, sure,” the clerk said. “Just go back out the front, take the long central path down to the fifth or sixth greenhouse. She works between those two.”
“Thanks, Amy,” he said, shaking her hands. “I appreciate that.”
“Sure,” she smiled “No problem.”
Wow, the PI thought as he strolled towards the fifth greenhouse, she was in the midst of 9/11, looking out the window of a plane just before it went slamming into the World Trade Center. Unbelievable. I would’ve been a basket case by now. Amy, more power to you, sister. You are one strong woman.
CHAPTER 25
Strolling down the narrow dirt road that cuts a swath right through the efficiently planted grounds of Exotic Roots, Gregory read the names of a few plants he encountered – Wild Klip Dagga, Sacha Peanut, Jicama, White Leaf Hibiscus, Awapuhi Ginger, and several others. Being the curious PI that he was, he paused to smell some of the flora, half of which had odors so pungent they made homeless bum drawers smell like potpourri. Eww, he thought, I’d rather smell rhino farts than this. As he neared the 5th greenhouse, he could hear world instrumental music coming from inside. The jumpy rhythms reminded him of the jazz he usually enjoyed, although this one with its heavy reliance on a mandolin-type stringed instrument made it all the more fascinating. Opening the glass door, he entered and, immediately, was bombarded with the cornucopia of sweet and unique scents from the various flowering shrubs in the house.
Gazing around, he absorbed as much of the greenhouse as he could. Plants of varying shapes and sizes sprouted everywhere, some just knee high, some as tall as mango trees. Rows of narrow pipes across the ceiling misted the foliage every minute. A few customers were sampling some of the edible flowers while others were reading manuals or informational tags about the unusual plants. Towards the back, the good PI spotted an employee who was busy pulling off the dead leaves from several botanical specimens. The clerk, he noticed, was very colorful with her psychedelic bamboo slippers, purplish pants, flowery blue and white tunic, rows of bangles on each wrist, several beaded chains around her neck, and a pink strip of cloth enmeshed in her long brown hair. As Gregory neared her, he could hear her humming along to the music playing over the virtual speakers high up in the corners of the center.
“Excuse me,” he introduced himself, “I was told Janis Joplin works back here.”
The employee turned and glanced at him. “You found her, babe.”
“Hi, Janis,” the PI introduced himself. “I’m Gregory Angelicus. And…”
“Oh, Lord,” she moaned, flinging the twigs in her hand down. “Another angel. What’d I do now?”
“Oh, no,” he stated quickly, “I’m not an angel. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” she asked, eyeing the intruder with suspicion through her circular yellow sunglasses.
Gregory looked around momentarily. “Is there some place we can talk?”
“Sure,” she answered, crossing her arms. “You’re standing in it.”
“It’s about Amy Winehouse,” he explained.
The legendary blues singer turned and went back to pruning the plants as if she was never interrupted, resuming the tune she was humming before.
“You’ve got me wrong, Ms. Joplin,” Gregory insisted. “I didn’t want to get saddled with this investigation, but the fact that one of us is dead because of a stolen soul, that creates a lot of trouble through all the heavens.”
“Wait,” the singer said, peering at the PI. “Did you just say ‘stolen soul?’
“Stolen, ripped off, extracted, removed, stripped, whatever,” he elucidated. “Ms. Winehouse’s soul is gone.”
“Really?” Janis started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I always thought she had no soul to begin with,” the singer gargled.
Gregory shook his head. “I take it you two didn’t get along.”
“Listen, man,” she said, “it’s one thing to want to be a good singer; takes a lot of work, you know what I mean. But when you’re just copping me to make a few bucks, that’s bad, man.”
“You didn’t think she was original?”
“Didn’t have an original bone in her body,” Janis swore.
“Some people would beg to differ.”
“They can get on their knees and beg all they want,” she insisted. “I don’t care. I’ll tell you what, man. All these cats come around, throw a few notes across some chords, you know, kinda just slide over the top of the music, but they’re not in it, you know what I mean? They don’t feel it. The way they sing, it don’t grab me, man. It just don’t.”
“Maybe she has a different style,” the detective suggested.
“You ever heard her sing?” Joplin asked.
“No,” he professed. “I’ve actually never heard of her till I got here.”
“How long you been here?” she wondered.
“One week,” he replied, pride buried in his voice.
“How’s it working out so far?” she asked.
“A lot of people to interview, that’s for sure,” he admitted. “I had a young partner but, I don’t know, kinda got sucked up into this place.”
Janis shrugged, resuming her work. “That ain’t unusual.”
“He’s been missing for over a day now,” the PI pleaded, “and for a tiny town like this, that would seem fairly difficult.”
“Did you check the hospital?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have thought…”
“Hey, man,” she said, stopping to look at him, “you haven’t caught on yet, huh? This is paradise. Let your freak flag fly, you know what I mean? The sky’s the limit. Throw everything to the wind. That’s the first lesson you learn. The second one is all that partying comes with a price. Check the hospital.”
“Thanks,” he promised. “I’ll do that.”
“I’m gonna take a break, Gregory,” she said abruptly. “You want something to drink?”
Ten minutes later, Janis and the PI were sitting at a pine table in the small café towards the back of Exotic Roots. A pitcher of wheat ale sat on the table between them as well as a large bowl of Calico corn chips and salsa. Customers and workers strolled past intermittently, some pushing shopping carts, others simply checking out the goods on display all around the store.
“How was your relationship with Ms. Winehouse?” Gregory asked her, scooping a chip in the jalapeno and cilantro-soaked dip.
Janis, smoking a cigarette, laid it aside to answer the PI’s question. “What’s that word they use – tepid?”
“Were you jealous of her?”
“Amy Winehouse?” Janis winced. “Oh, hell no. She ain’t got nothing I want.”
“But maybe she wanted something you got?”
“Like what?” the blues singer asked, helping herself to the appetizer.
“Well,” Gr
egory noted, “there aren’t too many young women around. It would make sense that a looker like you would get all the attention.”
“Oh, I’ve been here for years,” she explained. “I’ve seen all the tramps come and go. They’re not all that, man. Just groupies, you know? These guys don’t take ‘em seriously. It ain’t about love; more like pride and satisfaction, that’s it.”
“It’s said Amy specifically requested to come here just to meet you, her hero.”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” Janis said, faux blushing through the ordeal.
“You don’t sound like you believe that,” the PI doubted.
“Man, I’m not a palm reader, you know?” she insisted. “What do they call those cats with the cards?”
“Tarot readers?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Don’t have the gift. Just a singer in a rock and roll band.”
“As with everyone else,” the PI requested, “Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix, would you mind taking a polygraph test?”
Janis took a deep drag of her cigarette and exhaled. “I did already.”
Gregory softened his tone a bit. “I do have a different approach.”
“Then put it out of your mind,” the blues singer barked. “I ain’t going through that shit again. All them wires across my chest makes me, ugh, claustrophobic.”
“So you refuse the polygraph?” he asked her.
“Hey,” she submitted, “I know no one has the authority to force a lie test on me, so I’ll make a statement if it’ll make y’all happy. You can even write it down, but I ain’t going through that shit again. They didn’t learn anything the last time. I barely made their needles move. You’d think I had no heartbeat or something. Check the papers. It should all be there somewhere.”
“I will,” Gregory promised, sipping his drink. “Did you go to the rally?”
“I’m all about love, man, not politics.” She started singing with her raspy voice.
“Summertime, time, time, child, the livin’s easy.
