Trimmed to Death

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Nicole’s eyes turned the color of warm honey. “Can you keep a secret? I’ve been spending weekends at his place.”

  “No kidding? This is getting serious. Why haven’t you told me before now?”

  “You’ve had other things on your mind.”

  Marla clapped her hands. “I’m excited for you. You two make such a great couple. I knew you would hit it off when I introduced you.”

  “Enough about my personal life. What’s your next step in crime-solving?”

  “Dalton wants to take a drive north on Sunday. He says the Kinsdales have a cousin in central Florida who owns an olive grove. This man might be able to give us some answers.”

  Nicole chuckled, a low throaty sound. “Sounds like a good excuse for a day trip. Relax and enjoy the outing. Temps are supposed to be in the seventies. Take advantage of the good weather while it lasts.”

  Marla should heed her words. Even though the winter months could bring cold air to South Florida, a new hurricane season was always around the next corner... same as the killer in their latest crime case.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Sunday arrived, Marla and Dalton decided to make an overnighter out of their trip, since it would take five hours or so to reach their destination northwest of Orlando. Brianna chose to stay at a friend’s house that night, since she had school the next day. Marla suspected the teen wanted them to enjoy a getaway alone.

  “What do you know about Ben Kinsdale?” Marla asked Dalton from the passenger seat of his sedan. She regarded his tall, handsome figure with a proud thrill that he was all hers.

  Dalton’s brows lifted. “He’s related to Zach Kinsdale. He purchased the land in Lakesville eight years ago and appears to have established a thriving olive grove. Before that, he lived in our area and worked the family farm with his other cousins.”

  “I wonder what made him leave.”

  “Maybe he knows something we don’t. Let’s back up to your visit at the magazine office in Boca. Tell me again your impression.”

  “As you’d said, Francine seemed to be genuinely liked by their staff. She hadn’t fired anyone lately who might hold a grudge, nor did Lynette appear to have been jostling for her position. So nobody there had a burning desire to get Francine out of the way.”

  “Yet Ms. Wilde gained the editorial director post as a direct result.”

  “True, but she hadn’t been expecting a promotion. Have you found out who actually owns the publication?”

  Dalton’s mouth compressed. “Not yet. I’ve been busy working up Alyce Greene’s death. I really shouldn’t be going away this weekend, except that her case might be connected to Francine’s.”

  “Anything new in regard to her accident?”

  “No witnesses. No vehicle tracks. One neighbor heard a brief shriek, but by the time she went outside, a white car was speeding down the street. She called nine-one-one.”

  “So you’ve no way of knowing if it was an accident, and the driver fled because he got scared, or if it was a deliberate act to run Alyce down.”

  “I’m more inclined to believe the latter.”

  “You’d think Alyce would be more careful. She must have learned something that made her a viable target.” Marla stared out the side window at the passing scenery. Mount Trashmore was coming up on their left. She could smell the garbage dump and noted the black birds circling overhead.

  “Our tech boys still haven’t found anything significant on Francine’s hard drive. Did her people tell you what she’d been working on?” Dalton asked, keeping his gaze focused forward.

  Marla offered him a package of cheese crackers she’d brought along. After he took it, she opened one of her own. Her stomach rumbled. They’d eaten breakfast earlier, although all she could eat was a piece of cinnamon toast. Breakfast didn’t sit well with her these days.

  She realized what that might mean. Buying a pregnancy test kit rose to the top of her to-do list. The timing couldn’t be worse if the results proved positive. Dalton had to focus on solving his cases. He didn’t need distractions.

  “Francine’s colleagues have no clue about her research topic,” she replied to his question, pushing aside her ruminations for now. “The magazine’s circulation has been faltering, and Francine may have meant to revive things with more investigative pieces into the food industry. Did you see her business proposal for the bake-off committee?”

  “She’d mentioned a buyout to some company. I didn’t read the details but assumed it related to the magazine.”

  “Lynette suggested Francine may have meant to purchase their publication from the conglomerate to gain control, and then she could broaden their focus without needing approval.”

  “I’ll look it over again. In the meantime, let’s talk about where we’ll eat lunch.”

  Typical male, Marla thought. “What time did you tell Ben Kinsdale to expect us?”

  “Two o’clock. We’ll have the chance to grab a quick bite somewhere.” They’d left early and traffic was light, but it was still a long distance.

  “Is Ben going to tell Zach we’re coming to interview him?” Marla had urged Dalton to set up a private tour. She’d never been to an olive grove before and couldn’t pass up the opportunity, even though Dalton had revealed the purpose of their visit to Zach’s cousin.

  “I suggested Ben keep our chat confidential for now. We don’t know what prompted his move north. It could be he’d had a falling out with his family. That’s one of the things I plan to ask him.”

  They reviewed their list of questions and then fell into an amiable silence as they passed the orange groves in central Florida and entered the greater metropolitan Orlando area.

  They stopped for lunch in Altamonte Springs at the north end of town. Having some time to spare, they found a place where Marla ordered an avocado and crabmeat salad. Dalton got a shrimp and mahi bowl served with rice.

  Their stomachs satisfied, they resumed their journey northward and then headed west. The terrain became hilly and shaded with tall trees. Spanish moss hung from tree limbs and graced lakes that glistened in the afternoon sun.

  Soon they pulled up in front of a gift shop with a big sign facing street-side to lure visitors. Rows of trees stretched into the distance beyond a collection of outbuildings.

  Were the olives picked using mechanical means, Marla wondered, or was it done by seasonal laborers? When was the harvest anyway? She knew nothing about growing olives although she loved to eat the product.

  With an eager bounce in her sneakered steps, she accompanied Dalton through the screened front door.

  A middle-aged man in a caramel sport shirt and a matching baseball cap stood behind a sales counter. He grinned at their arrival. Both items of clothing bore the grove’s logo of an olive branch with green fruits.

  “Howdy. You must be Detective and Mrs. Vail. I’m Ben Kinsdale.” He came around to shake their hands. Ben had tanned skin, a stocky build, and whitened teeth. His wheat hair seemed a tad too uniform in color to be natural.

  “You said you’d like to have a tour of the grove while we talk?” the proprietor said. “I’ll give you a taste of our olive oil varieties after we return.”

  Marla’s jaw dropped as she noticed the range of goods for sale. Shelves filled with bottled olive oils tempted her along with jars of cured green and black olives, olive oil soap, olive leaf tea, olive wood products, tropical fruit jams and jellies, Florida fruit wines, and bottled vinegars, plus freshly baked breads and muffins. Heck, forget about touring. She wanted to shop.

  “I’m a big olive fan, and I can’t wait to hear how you grow them. It’s a relatively new industry in Florida, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Hey Amberly, can you man the front desk?” Ben hollered to someone out of sight past an open inner door. “I’ve got some folks here for a tour.”

  After the woman entered, he gestured for them to follow him outside. “With the citrus industry in a slump, growers are looking for an alternative crop,” h
e told Marla in reply to her query. “Our citrus industry has declined more than seventy percent since its peak production in the late 1990s.”

  “How come? Has demand gone down that much?”

  Ben shook his head. “Not at all. The citrus fruits are being destroyed by an incurable greening disease, spread by a sap-sucking insect called the Asian citrus psyllid. Olive growers believe their crop may be the next best thing. Look at how the Florida blueberry industry has taken off.”

  “Is that why you jumped ship from the family farm to move here?” Facing Ben, Dalton wore a pair of sunglasses on his nose and stood in a patch of shade.

  “Both Zach and I saw the future,” Ben said with a shrug. “This industry could become big, and we wanted to get in at the ground floor. We’re actually partners, although I get a bigger share of our net income since I work the place. But Zach saw it as a safety valve in case something happened to the old homestead.”

  “Rory told us the farm may be in trouble,” Dalton stated, observing the older man.

  “That kid should keep his trap shut. He’s never been happy working in his daddy’s shadow. Rory should have gone to school for hospitality management, but Zach couldn’t accept his son’s lack of interest in the family business.”

  “Is there truth in his words?” Dalton asked. “I’ve been unable to verify your family’s ownership as recorded on the deed. Another man’s name is on the title, which goes way back. There’s no evidence of a later sale although some records have been lost.”

  Ben peered at him. “Have you asked Zach to produce a deed?”

  “Yes, and he’s failed to comply. Either he doesn’t possess this document, or he isn’t willing to show it for reasons of his own. We’re unable to track the other person’s kin. The prior owner seems to have left no heirs.”

  “You’d best take that up with my cousin. Or better yet, speak to his lawyer.” Ben pointed to the trees extending in rows with sandy aisles in between. “Let’s start our tour, if you’re really interested and didn’t just come here on a fishing expedition.”

  Marla linked her arm into Dalton’s. “I love olives, so I made Dalton request a tour. We like plants and trees, too. We’ll often go to parks and see how many we can identify. I wasn’t even aware olive trees would grow in Florida.”

  Ben’s chest swelled with pride. “We have twenty acres with over eleven thousand trees planted in high-density rows. That’s nearly five hundred and sixty trees to the acre. This includes seven different varieties. If you want to grow your own, we have young trees in containers that are for sale.”

  “When’s the growing season?” Marla asked, wondering what Ben knew about Kinsdale Farms that he wasn’t mentioning. He’d given them a good idea, though. They could speak to Zach’s attorney. Maybe his family lawyer knew something about the property that he’d be willing to share.

  Ben adjusted his cap to shade his face from the bright overhead sun. “The trees blossom from February through April, and the fruit matures over the summer. Harvesting runs from August to early October.”

  “How come they don’t grow in South Florida? Is it too humid?”

  Ben started down one of the paths. “Olives need about two hundred hours at forty-seven degrees or lower per year in order to flower. You’re not gonna get that further south. It takes two to three years before a new tree produces fruit.”

  “Are your olives hand-picked?” Marla asked.

  “We use mechanical harvesting. We have our own mill, too. It can process up to eight hundred pounds per day via batch or continuous feeding. We only cold press our oil because we want to preserve the nutritional value as much as possible.”

  “Is it true you can’t eat olives raw?” Marla noted the different varieties as he pointed them out. The green leaves were narrow and tapered at the ends. She hadn’t realized you could make tea out of them.

  “That’s correct. They have to be cured, or they’re too bitter to eat due to oleuropein, a phenolic compound. You can use the dry salt method or cure them in brine.”

  “What’s the difference between green and black olives?”

  “Green olives are picked when they’re full size but before they ripen. They can be shades of green to yellow. Semi-ripe olives are picked at the beginning of the ripening cycle. Their color has begun to change from green to shades of red or brown. Black olives are fully ripe. They can be assorted shades of purple or brown to black.”

  “So that bitter substance is neutralized as the olive matures?” Marla asked for clarification.

  “Right. Some olive varieties may be edible off the tree if they are sun dried first. Otherwise, the curing process can take a few days with lye treatment, or a few months with brine or salt packing.”

  “What do you mean, with lye?” Marla wrinkled her nose at the thought.

  “Lye processing is mainly used with green or semi-ripe olives,” Ben explained, as they crossed over to another row and then headed back toward the main complex. “The olives are soaked in lye for eight to ten hours to hydrolyse the oleuropein. Then they’re washed in water to remove the caustic solution and transferred to fermenting vats filled with brine. Or, you can avoid the lye process and put them directly into fermentation vessels. There are other methods as well. One technique involves artificially darkening the olive to make it appear black.”

  This was news to her. “Are table olives different from olives used to make olive oil?”

  “Yes. Some olives are grown to cure and eat, while others are prized for their use in making extra virgin olive oil. Olive mills press the oil, and the sooner you get the product to consumers, the better the quality of the oil. Demand has increased since the health benefits of olive oil have been recognized. In the U.S., we currently import about ninety-eight percent of the millions of gallons we consume per year. You’re not always getting the product you think you are with these imports. Fraud has become a multi-million dollar enterprise.”

  “Have you met Tony Winters from Amalfi Consolidated?” Dalton asked, getting back to the point of their visit.

  “I know Zach buys products from his import firm, but I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him. We have no need for imported goods here. Our products are all naturally grown and processed at the grove.”

  “Has Zach ever expressed concerns about the veracity of their ingredients?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Those items are imported from Italy. Did you know that as much as eighty percent of extra virgin olive oil may be falsely labeled? Some of it contains lower grades of olive oil or seed oils that can cause allergic reactions.”

  “I read about a case where Italian police officers arrested a bunch of people in Operation Golden Oil,” Dalton mentioned. “The crooks were bringing in cheap oil from elsewhere in the Mediterranean and relabeling it as Italian.”

  Ben bobbed his head in agreement. “In recent years, major shippers as well as producers have been caught passing off inferior products as extra virgin. Another scheme involved twelve companies in Italy and a certification lab. That case was similar in faking the olive oil’s origins. Lab tests showed the product came from the Middle East.”

  “So how do consumers know what to buy?” Marla asked.

  “It’s good if you can taste a sample. Buy small bottles since opened oil deteriorates quickly. And try to buy olive oil that’s less than a year old according to the pressed or harvested date, if given on the label. Do you think this Amalfi company is involved in your case?” Ben asked Dalton.

  “It’s possible,” he replied.

  Marla’s heart rate accelerated. Maybe that’s why Tony’s relatives from Italy were paying him a visit. They considered him a threat to their operation. Francine could have caught on to his end of things, and later Alyce. This could be the exposé the magazine publisher had planned to publish.

  Ben took them to see the mill and the big vat room where the olives were cured. Then they ended up back in the gift shop. As Marla eyed the olive wood items such as serving
spoons, carved wooden bowls, and cutting boards, Dalton had a few more words with the owner.

  Laden with packages, they trundled back to the car a half-hour later.

  “So what’s next?” Marla asked her husband as they headed to the bed-and-breakfast where they’d made a reservation for the night. The trek outdoors and the shopping frenzy had left her feeling wilted. She looked forward to relaxing and mulling over what they’d learned.

  “I’ll take a closer look into the Italian connection for Amalfi Consolidated, and then I need to revisit Zach Kinsdale.”

  “How about talking to his attorney as Ben suggested? If Zach is having title problems with the property, his lawyer must know about it.”

  “Yes, but there’s client confidentiality. I’ll see what Zach has to say first before approaching the attorney.”

  Had this detour been worthwhile? They’d learned a lot about the Florida olive industry, fraud in the olive oil business, and other fascinating lore, but was it worth Dalton’s time away from his cases? Gazing at his stern profile, she realized a break might be good for him. He’d return to work with better clarity of thought and so would she. She’d certainly learned a lot about olives and remembered what she’d read about the health benefits of olive oil.

  Come to think of it, she hadn’t had a problem when tasting the olive oil varieties in Ben’s store. Her stomach didn’t roil the way it had when Tristan had given her a sample at The Royal Palate. Had that product been doctored with seed oils that could cause allergic reactions?

  Regardless of the cause, she was happy her queasiness hadn’t afflicted her on this trip. And speaking of trips, Dalton had not once mentioned his drugged experience on the spiritual plane since his return to work. If he’d had any repercussions, he wasn’t mentioning them.