I smiled. “Okay. Why not?”
I followed her instructions and tossed a strip of apple peel into the water. She took the peeler from me and wished me luck, then left to help another curious visitor.
As I watched, the apple peel curved itself into a sideways C-shape and remained floating in that position on top of the water. I snickered. How could a peel ever form any other shape?
On the other hand, there could be more to see in the basin. I sometimes gazed into a bowl of water as a scrying technique. While a crystal ball might be more traditional, any reflective surface could work. I’d never tried it in public, but the atmosphere in the tent seemed conducive to clairvoyance.
Without further thought, I stared into the clear water surrounding the apple peel and allowed a question to surface in my mind. What was Josephine’s secret? My aunt had been vague and mysterious. The one time I spoke with her, she mentioned not trusting anyone. Was she as paranoid as Fern? Was she scared?
I continued to look into the water until my vision blurred. With my eyes half closed, I began to perceive random images: an apple, a book, a tree. Holding the question in my mind, another, clearer image took shape. It was a person carrying a gun. For a moment, I felt a jolt of fear, but I willed myself to keep watching. It was a person of authority, I realized. Someone in uniform, wearing a ranger hat and holding a ticket book. She turned, and I saw who it was: Ricki Day, the environmental inspector.
“How we doing over here?” The peppy voice of Gypsy Rose, Fortune-teller, snapped me out of my reverie.
“Fine,” I said. “I think.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was after 5:00 p.m. when I left the fortune-teller’s tent. I decided to grab a bite to eat, so I headed to the snack shack and purchased an apple slushy and a bag of popcorn. On my way out, I ran into Pammy Sullivan, from the firm.
“Why, Keli! What a surprise. Meet my nieces, Maddie and Bea. They’re visiting from Chicago.”
Instead of her usual polyester dress suit with coordinating makeup and jewelry, Pammy wore pressed denims and a Western-style plaid shirt. I guessed she must have taken the day off work, which meant she missed the excitement with Fredeline. We chatted for a few minutes. The girls were eleven and eight and full of giggly energy. I shared my popcorn with them and told them about Gypsy Rose’s fortune-teller games.
“How fun,” said Pammy. “What letter did you get?”
“What letter?” I echoed.
“With the apple peel. What’s the initial of your future husband?”
“Oh,” I laughed dismissively. “It was a C.”
Pammy looked perplexed. “C? Like . . . Crenshaw?”
“What? Goodness, no. My boyfriend’s last name is Callahan, so maybe the prophecy will turn out to be true. Who knows?”
“Let’s go, Aunt Pammy!” said Bea, the younger of the two girls. “I want to have my fortune told.”
“Okay, we’ll go there next, right after we get our snacks. I could go for some hot cider. It’s starting to get chilly.”
“It was nice meeting you,” I said to the girls. To Pammy, I said, “I’ll see you next week. My aunt’s funeral is Tuesday, so I should be back on Wednesday.”
“So, I won’t see you Friday at the Jameson party?”
I had no idea what she was talking about. My confusion must have shown.
“Didn’t Beverly tell you? You know who Neal Jameson is, right? He owns a couple restaurants and hotels in Edindale and nearby towns. He’s also big into philanthropy. He hired Beverly to develop his estate plan. Anyway, he’s throwing a benefit party on Friday. It’s going to be a masquerade ball. The firm is a cosponsor.”
Now I recalled Beverly mentioning the “Jameson opportunity.” She must have been talking about the party.
“I already got roped into playing a wicked witch at the haunted barn,” I said. “I think it’s okay if I sit this one out.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. This is going to be a great networking opportunity. Lots of bigwigs will be there. Plus, it should be a great time. It’s being catered by a celebrity chef out of Memphis, who specializes in vegetarian fare. We all thought of you when we heard.”
I had to admit this sounded a lot more interesting than the haunted barn. “What’s the cause?”
“Something to do with the local organic food movement and expanding the farmers’ market. Tadd Hemsley will be there, and some other Farmers Union people.”
“Farmers, huh? That does sound like a good cause. Maybe I’ll try to make it after all.”
This could be a good opportunity for more than one reason. Perhaps I’d meet someone who knew Josephine. Speaking of which, it was time to follow up with one person who definitely knew her.
* * *
“Fern, please tell me what you know.” I sat in a chair behind Fern’s display table as she carefully packed her bead jewelry in cloth-lined traveling cases. The last of the pumpkin patch visitors walked past pulling wagons laden with fat orange pumpkins. Ignoring them, I plied Fern with questions. “Did Josephine have a house someplace? Does she have bills that need to be paid? Will creditors be looking for her?”
Fern shook her head. “She didn’t own a house.”
“You’re sure?”
“There won’t be creditors. I’m sure.”
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “Okay, well, what about a will? If she made a last will and testament, where would it be?”
“With no property and few personal possessions, I doubt if she had a will. She lived a simple life.”
“Where was she going when she stopped through Edindale? You said she was going out east. Was she visiting someone? Is there someone who should be notified of her death?”
“I’ve already let folks know of her passing.”
“Through your network?”
She gave me a sharp glance, but I didn’t flinch. After a mini-staring contest, Fern relented. She held her finger up as if to ask for one minute, then walked over to speak with her daughter, who was chatting with another vendor. She handed the younger woman a case of jewelry and asked her to take it to their car. Then she sat down next to me and leaned forward with her hands on her knees. She spoke quickly and in hushed tones.
“There is a sisterhood of women,” she began, “who are so attuned to the rhythms of nature and the needs of Mother Earth that they grasp the urgency in protecting what we have before it’s too late. Understanding that there’s strength in numbers, they—we—banded together to fight the destructive forces of industrialization—in small ways and big. It all started at the Happy Hills Homestead in 1969, before Josie arrived. When she moved in, it didn’t take long to see that she was one of us.”
I nodded to encourage her to keep talking. I wasn’t about to interrupt.
“One of our most ambitious projects was the creation of a secret seed bank. We took upon ourselves a sacred contract—to preserve and spread heirloom seeds. This was critical, as the rise of modern industrial agriculture has resulted in a devastating loss of plant diversity. And it has only worsened as companies like Sorghum have begun patenting hybrid seeds and GMOs.”
She paused, so I steered the conversation back to the subject of my aunt. “So, that was Josephine’s mission? To distribute heirloom seeds?”
“Yes.”
“She really was like Johnny Appleseed, wasn’t she?” Fern didn’t respond, so I asked another question I had been pondering. “What ever happened to Roger, the guy who came to the commune with Josie?”
Fern wrinkled her forehead. “That dope? He didn’t stay long. He thought his draft card was about to be picked, so he headed to Canada. The dummy didn’t realize the war was practically over by that time.”
“So, he just left Josephine behind?”
“It was her choice. She could have gone with him, but she’d lost interest. He didn’t share her passions.”
“Fern, the other day, you said Josephine had made enemies. What did you mean by that?”
> She looked away, and I was afraid she was done talking. Then, she looked at me again with fire in her eyes. “Josie was hungry. Itchy. Change couldn’t come fast enough for her. She was more aggressive than the other sisters. At some point in her travels, she met up with a group of radicals who pushed the bounds of peaceful activism. Instead of sharing seeds and spreading hope, they made targets. Who were her enemies? It runs the gamut: Big Oil, Big Ag, timber companies, chemical companies.”
“But she did continue to distribute seeds,” I pointed out. “Isn’t that what her business, Sister Seeds, was all about?”
“That came later. A couple years ago, Josie decided she wanted to get back in touch with her original mission.”
“Oh.” I was quiet for a moment as I tried to decide what else to ask. I knew my time was running short. “So, this group of radicals that she joined up with. Can you give me any names? Did she keep in touch with any of them, or mention anybody in any of her visits?”
“There is one person. When she left the commune, she didn’t leave alone.”
“Who did she leave with?” I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
“Gil Johnson.”
* * *
By the time Fern and I wrapped up our conversation, the last of the pumpkin patch patrons had left, and workers were picking up litter and emptying garbage cans. I walked with Fern to her car, helping her carry some of her merchandise. I was happy she had finally warmed up to me. While she didn’t know the details of all Josephine’s past activities, she did tell me she believed it was Gil’s fault Josephine became involved with the “troublemakers,” as Fern called them. According to Fern, Gil was a gregarious and charismatic man with big ideas, but little patience, and she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. She didn’t keep in contact with him, even after he moved back to Edindale, and Josie didn’t say much about him. She had no idea what he was up to these days.
On a more promising note, Fern agreed to meet with Fredeline. She even offered to explore ways the Sisterhood might be able to support Fredeline’s efforts in Haiti, picking up where Josephine had left off.
As Fern slammed her trunk shut, I thought of one more thing I wanted to find out. “By the way,” I said, keeping it casual. “I’d like to thank you for the book.”
“What book?”
“Josephine’s book. Silent Spring.”
Her confusion appeared genuine. “I’ve read that book, but it’s been decades. I assume Josie read it years ago, too, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Then it wasn’t you? Somebody left an old copy of the book on my front porch. Do you have any idea who might have done that?”
“No. I have no idea.”
Oh, well. It was worth a shot.
I waved at Fern and her daughter as they pulled out of the parking lot, then I headed over to where I’d left my car. As soon as I got there, I realized something was missing. My bag! I had set down the shopping bag with all my purchases when I was talking with Fern. It was probably still on the ground beneath the table.
I jogged up to the entrance, which was now blocked with a rope. Seeing no one around, I stepped over the rope and retraced my steps to where the vendors had been set up.
It was dusk now, and the gray clouds had returned. The atmosphere at Valley Farm was completely changed—whereas before it was festive and lively, now it was quiet and desolate. Even the scarecrows seemed to take on a more sinister mien.
My bag was still where I’d left it, with the contents untouched. Whew! I snatched it up and hurried back to the exit. As soon as it came within view, I saw that the way was now blocked by more than a rope. A semitrailer had pulled up to the entrance. Veering from the path, I decided to cut straight to the parking lot from the side near the corn maze.
As I walked along, my bag jostling in my hand, I suddenly felt the strange sensation of being watched. This had happened before and turned out to be true. I stopped to listen. The wind rustled the tops of the dried cornstalks. A flock of crows lifted from a nearby field, their cries sounding sad and eerie. Then I heard something else, in a whisper.
“Keli.”
I jerked my head around, but there was no one in sight. I shook it off and started walking again, a little faster now. I was hearing things.
But then it came again. A woman’s voice. “Keli. Help me.”
Again, I looked around. The place was deserted. Before I could hear it a third time, I took off at a run and didn’t stop until I reached my car. When I made it, I almost laughed at myself. What did I think, I was being chased by a ghost?
I fumbled in my purse for my car keys—and then screamed as a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Whoa! Take it easy!”
This time the voice that spoke to me was masculine, and it was one I knew well.
“Wes! What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. You never answer my texts, so I had to do a little detective work of my own to track you down.”
I was dumbfounded. “I do so answer your texts!” I reached for my phone to prove it, but it wasn’t in my purse. I looked through the driver’s side window of my car and saw it sitting in the cup holder. Oops.
“I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.”
He reached out and lifted the hair from my neck. “I know.”
As we looked into each other’s eyes, I felt a rush of love—followed by regret for how distant I’d been. I vowed then and there to treat Wes more like a partner and less like a part-time lover.
“How did you find me?”
He smiled. “I have my ways.” He took my keys from me and unlocked my car. “Want to go to the Loose? Jimi’s been experimenting with new veggie burger recipes. He could use your expert opinion.”
“He wants me to be his guinea pig, huh? Fine by me. I could use some food. And a drink.”
Wes followed me in his car as we drove back to town. When we arrived at the Loose Rock, the bar was half-full with college kids, but they were a mellow crowd. I was forever grateful to Jimi, the owner and an old friend of Wes’s, for not installing TV screens in his place. The focus here was on music and friendship.
We found a table in the back and settled in with beers and burgers. I caught Wes up on everything I’d learned so far. He expressed dismay when I described my caper in Levi’s cabin, but he knew better than to scold me. Before long, he seemed as intrigued as I was.
“Can I see the postcard?” he asked. After reading it, he raised an eyebrow. “She wanted to ‘come clean.’ This makes it sound like we were right—she was on the run from the law. She committed some kind of crime.”
“Yeah. That seems clear. And I suspect she might have been planning another crime. I think she was scoping out HAPCO, this company that deals in synthetic pesticides and other chemicals. It’s just the kind of thing she’d be against. In fact, Ricki told me that she filed complaints about the company. Of course, she was using an assumed name at the time, but I’m sure it was her.”
“Do you think she was caught breaking in or trespassing?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. She was at least a mile or two from the facility when she was shot. Still, it might be good to know more about the business. When I ran into Tadd Hemsley yesterday, he said no one had seen her in the area. But I don’t see how he could know for sure. He didn’t make it sound like he’d asked his employees. I wonder how many people work there?”
“You want to know more about Tadd? Maybe I can help.”
“How so?”
“You know that feature the paper is doing on various townspeople? I get a say on who we feature next, and Hemsley is on the list.”
“Hey, you were supposed to pick Beverly for that.”
“Sorry, babe. She’s not on the list. But Hemsley is. Besides all his work for farmers and local businesses, he apparently has an unusual hobby.”
“What kind of hobby?”
“I don’t know. I di
dn’t read that far into his bio.” I made a face, and Wes grinned. “I’ll find out,” he said. “Got any other assignments for me?”
“You’re cute when you play detective,” I teased. “And you still haven’t told me how you knew I was at the pumpkin patch.”
He gave me a coy grin and took a swig from his beer bottle. My phone rang, and I saw that it was Zeke. I showed Wes the display, then answered. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I found something,” he said. “Meet me at the Loose?”
“Uh, I’m already at the Loose.”
“Say no more.” He hung up, leaving me to shake my head. I wondered if he lived nearby, or if he was still at the library.
“So, back to your private-eye skills,” I said. “Did you see Zeke this afternoon? He’s the one who told me where I could find Fern.”
Wes scoffed. “That bozo? I wouldn’t even know where to find him.”
“Now, be nice. He’ll be here—” I broke off, as the door to the Loose opened. “Now,” I finished.
Zeke scanned the room, then moseyed over when he saw me. He stopped short when he got to our table. “Oh. I thought you’d be with the blonde.”
“Zeke, have you met Wes?”
Wes flashed his pearly whites and held out his hand. “Pull up a chair,” he said to Zeke.
Deflated, Zeke shook Wes’s hand and grabbed a nearby chair.
“What did you find?” I asked.
Brightening slightly, he retrieved a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his snazzy blazer. “The other day you asked me about unsolved ecocrimes, and I told you about the Sorghum bombing.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And I told you the feds had some suspects at the time, but then the investigation fizzled.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I was curious about those supposed suspects, so I did a little digging. And I found this.”
He handed me a printout of a news article, which mentioned the FBI was looking for a “person of interest” by the name of Davey Winslow. The name rang a bell. I was pretty sure it was one of the names on the folders in Levi’s cabin, though I didn’t feel the need to share that tidbit with Zeke.
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