by Mary Feliz
David shook his head. “The resolution isn’t that great, and the farm roads cut through there. There aren’t any fences or anything on either side of the barn. It’s in a kind of triangle patch between the farms. It could belong to either one.”
I thought for a moment. “So Kevin Rivers.” I belatedly lowered my voice, suddenly aware that anyone within earshot could be a friend of Kevin’s, and I wouldn’t want them to think we were gossiping about him.
“Kevin Rivers,” I repeated softly. “He needs to keep chemicals from coming in contact with his crops, yet Diego would want to maximize his yields by using every pesticide or fertilizer that’s allowed.”
David nodded. “So if Kevin discovered that Diego had filled the barn with nasty pesticides or fertilizers, he’d be angry. Probably livid. It takes years to secure an organic certification, but seconds to lose it.”
“But would that anger extend as far as murder? Assuming the Petersons are right about it not being an accident, that is.”
“Follow the money. Organic strawberries go for at least a dollar a pound more than regular stuff. Growing the certified berries is way more expensive and time-consuming.”
“So, if you grew fruit conventionally, but sold it as organic, your profit margins would increase.”
“Right. Big time. And if someone sprayed pesticides on your organic fruit, you’d lose a bundle. Not just on that crop, but for years to come.”
“But could you pull it off? Those fields are out in the open. Anyone could spy on your operation.”
“Government agencies don’t test every berry. Just random samples maybe once a year. So if you had both organic and standard fields, and could submit organic samples in place of your ordinary fruit, and then claim all your fields were organic, you’d make a mint.”
“So what happens if you get caught?”
“I don’t know what the legal penalties would be, or what might happen if your friends, neighbors, competitors, and employees discovered what you were up to—”
“If you were caught, could you still sell your fruit?”
David continued to squint at the screen. I wondered if he needed glasses. “The least that would happen is that the California Department of Food and Agriculture would yank your organic certification. You’d probably end up in civil court with tons of legal expenses…” His voice trailed off before he spoke again. “This says there are federal penalties as well as state ones. But the real liability is that, in California at least, people can sue anyone who passes off non-organic food as organic. You or I could do that. There was a test case a few years ago…” David’s voice trailed off again as he continued reading, but then he looked up. “It turns out that government enforcement is sketchy and slow. I expect any jerk who got caught mislabeling would be a target for, let’s say, more informal and direct forms of justice.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Picketing? Boycotts? Shunning. Maybe a crooked farmer would find himself face down in a vat of pesticide or scarfing down burgers laced with rat poison.”
“And maybe someone who wanted to keep their crooked practices a secret would threaten a guy who flew over his fields every day?”
David and I stared at each other. I still didn’t fully buy the argument that someone had deliberately caused Jake’s ultralight to crash. But David’s research suggested there could be something going on behind the scenes. Something worth hiding. If his theories proved true, someone might have had a motive for silencing Jake. It would be difficult for anyone, especially the DA, to blame Brian and David for harming him when alternative explanations were at hand. But we still needed proof.
Chapter 10
In the terrifying event that a child goes missing at the beach, don’t panic. Look downwind. Beach lifeguards report that children generally take the path of least resistance when wandering. (Just in case, always make note of what your child is wearing. Bright colors are cheerful and easiest to spot at a distance.)
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Luckily, David didn’t seem bothered by the dark places our imaginations were taking us. He took another bite of his sandwich without looking at it.
“I’m going to check on Brian,” I said. “You okay here, or do you want to come?”
David shuddered. “And watch someone stitch through my brother’s skin? No, thanks. Besides, I want to look up suspicious agriculture-related deaths.”
“Enjoy.”
“Wait.” He handed me the bag of sandwiches and a bottle of water. “Don’t forget these. They’re stitching his leg, not his hands. He’s probably starving.”
In the language of brothers, David’s gesture meant I love the little guy. I was touched.
I made my way past the gatekeepers who required me to show identification yet still looked at me skeptically. Inside an emergency room cubicle, I found a white-coated young man plucking debris from Brian’s leg with tweezers. My younger son’s skin had gray-green undertones. Food was the last thing on his mind.
“How ya doin’, bud?” I asked, not able to resist ruffling his hair this time. When your kid is hurting, it’s difficult not to revert to the mother-toddler relationship.
“Great!” he said, in what I suspected was a drug-induced haze.
I glanced at Max, who nodded. “High as a kite. They wanted to do a deep clean, so they numbed him up well. But there’s so little flesh there on the shin, it was difficult and excruciating to anesthetize, so they gave him a tranquilizer, too. He’s a little woozy, but he looks much better than he did a few minutes ago.”
“A lot of happy juice,” said Brian. “Can you tell?”
“Oh, yup, I can tell,” I said.
“David okay?” Max asked.
“He’s out there researching gruesome agricultural deaths and making a list of motives for murder.”
“Cool,” answered Brian, turning to the medical professional working on his leg, who didn’t look that much older than either of my kids. Part of that was his pallor, which nearly matched Brian’s. Clearly, this kid worked long hours and studied more. In any case, he didn’t get out to the beach much.
“Dr. Eddie Singh, this is my wife and Brian’s mom, Maggie McDonald,” Max said
The doctor looked up, smiled, and nodded. “I won’t stand up or shake hands, under the circumstances,” he said, and went back to fishing for debris in Brian’s wounds.
“Were you here when Jake Peterson came in?” Brian asked the doctor. “What do you think happened? Why did he die? He was badly hurt, but when we checked the next morning, we were told he was doing fine.”
Dr. Singh looked up from Brian’s wound. “You’re that kid,” he said. “The guy who rescued Jake?”
Brian nodded. “Me and my brother. You knew him? Are you from here?”
The young doctor shook his head. “I knew him, but not from here. I grew up in Santa Clara. But I live in Watsonville now. My roommate went to high school with Jake.” He looked around the exam room as if hunting for spies who might arrest him for conveying too much information about another patient.
“Jake was an ultralight pilot,” the doctor said. “Ultralight pilots tend to be into other active sports like mountain biking, skiing, and kite-surfing. When you add in trouble with bagel knives, abalone shells, and attack-trained garden tools, folks around here were considering giving him a special deal. Ten emergency-room visits and you get a free surgery.”
Brian grinned. “My mom says the same thing to my brother and me.”
The doctor patted the uninjured side of Brian’s calf. “Frequent flyer, eh? I’m about ready to stitch you up. Just need to grab a suture pack. No dangerous gymnastics while I’m gone, got it?”
He winked at Brian who bobbed his head in slow, solemn agreement, then promptly nodded off.
“How m
uch medication did they give him?” I asked Max.
“Enough. It was grim, but he was a trooper.”
“That’s our boy.”
“I meant the doctor. Brian was tough, but I thought the doctor was going to vomit. I wasn’t much better. I kept watching those tweezers disappear into his leg and pull out what looked like boulders of debris.”
I shuddered. “Enough of that. Did he get a tetanus shot?”
“And an update on his pneumonia vaccine for good measure. I figure that if he has a reaction to any of that, it might help slow him down a bit and give the leg more time to heal.”
“How are we going to keep him out of the water?”
“We may need to invest in a case of plastic wrap and duct tape to protect it. Short of leg irons and chains, I’m just not seeing him sitting on the beach.”
Brian must not have been as deeply asleep as he appeared. “I’ve got a plan,” he said.
But before could fill us in, Dr. Singh reappeared carrying a blue paper-wrapped suture kit. He closed Brian’s gaping wound with twenty-one sutures. Later, he handed me a thick volume of discharge papers and went over what to watch for in the coming days, when to check in with our regular doctor, and when to be concerned. “Brian, I want you to rest and avoid putting any weight on that leg. We can’t have it swelling up. Ice and Netflix are your new best friends.” He handed me a prescription for antibiotics.
“Wow, Mom,” said Brian, rolling his eyes. “When you said this summer was going to be an adventure, you kinda undersold it.”
“Smart aleck,” I said. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” I counted off our encounters so far on my fingers: “Helicopter, search and rescue, state park rangers, sheriff, emergency room…what’s next?”
“Zombie apocalypse?” offered Brian.
I glanced at the doctor, who fought to avoid snorting and failed. “How ‘bout it?” I asked. “Will these antibiotics protect us in the event of a zombie attack?”
Dr. Singh frowned and tapped his chin, then said, with exaggerated seriousness. “I think you’d need anti-viral medication, given my reading to date, but the research isn’t really complete. If antibiotics were indicated, a broad-spectrum medication like this one would be just what you’d need.”
“Good to know.”
“I’ve prescribed an antibiotic that should help Brian’s body fight against infection in the tissue and bone that was damaged in his fall.”
“Bone?” I grabbed again for the edge of the gurney and felt Max take my other hand.
The doctor’s gaze shifted from Brian to me. He pushed a chair in my direction and guided me into it.
“Sorry! You came in after we discussed that. We took an X-ray. Brian has a hairline fracture of the tibia. We’ll keep him in a boot and on crutches until the wound heels. The splint will need to be replaced with a cast as soon as the swelling and chance of infection abates. Long term, the injury shouldn’t pose a problem. He’s young, strong, and will heal quickly. But the bone is at increased risk for osteomyelitis, which is just a fancy name for a bone infection. It’s serious business. It can occur whenever someone has an infection, from pneumonia to an abscessed tooth, but we’re particularly wary when we see an open wound that exposes a bone to bacteria. Has he had cancer, a transplant, or immunosuppressant?”
“Like prednisone for asthma?”
The doctor frowned. “How recently?”
I looked at Brian. He shrugged. I turned to Max. “I’ve got his medical records at home,” I said. “Do you remember?
“Our ski trip, I think, was the last time,” Max said. “Three months ago, or thereabouts. I can get you more precise dates if you need them.” He reached for his phone.
Dr. Singh shook his head. “Like I said. He’s young, strong, and a fast healer. I’ll give you some more information about what to watch for, and you’ll want to check in with an orthopedist. Let us or your doctor know if he develops any signs of infection over the next few days.” My skin went clammy.
The doctor scooted his rolling stool closer to me and took my hands in his. “Look. It’s pretty much our job to scare the heck out of moms. It gives us a chance to rattle off all the obscure symptoms and contraindications we’re learning for our boards. But honestly, I’m guessing this will be a minor blip in Brian’s health history. It’s a big deal today, and it will cramp his style for a few weeks, but the other events of your family vacation will make this incident fade into the background quickly, I’m sure.”
Dr. Singh had no way of knowing how accurate his prediction would turn out to be.
Chapter 11
Rolling instead of folding clothing reduces wrinkles and conserves luggage space.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Wednesday, June 19, Late night
Brian’s leg hurt, making it difficult for him to sleep. Hyperaware of his restlessness, I poked my head into his room in the middle of the night and invited him to join me in a snack of warm tea and hot toast, after which we could top off his pain meds. We iced his leg while we chatted. I tried to distract him from his discomfort.
“Would it help to have something to look forward to? Something that doesn’t involve running or exposing the wound to water?”
“I had an idea.” Brian reached into the pocket of the hoodie he wore to stave off the chill from the ice pack. He pulled out his phone and showed it to me. “I took this picture at the diner. When we had breakfast. It’s a free ride up in one of those little planes at the airport. Free. I make the cut, age-wise.” He grinned. “David doesn’t.”
I took the phone from him, squinted at it, and read aloud. “Founded in 1992, the Young Eagles program has dedicated twenty-five years to giving youth their first free ride in an airplane. It’s the only program of its kind, with the sole mission to introduce and inspire kids in the world of aviation.”
“I looked online. They offer rides by appointment through the summer. Every Sunday in the winter.”
“You want to do this?”
“You kidding? Besides, if you take me, you can grill the ground crew and everyone else there about Jake Peterson, ultralight maintenance, flight conditions, and bad guys. David might be able to take that hunk of metal he’s been carrying around and see if it’s an important part of an ultralight.”
“Hunk of metal?”
“Just something he picked up on the cliff. Probably nothing. It’s not important.” He took a sip of his tea. “Dad will undoubtedly find someone to schmooze. Knowing him, he’ll find some fighter pilot who saved the free world.”
I smiled. Brian was right. Max could charm the socks off almost anyone and learn their life history within about ten minutes of meeting them. We teased him about it, but it was nearly a superpower. In a different man, his ability to disarm might be used as a weapon to subdue or seduce. But Max was generally interested, fascinated in fact, by other people’s dreams, barriers to them, and the things that drove them to bust through brick walls and make their aspirations a reality.
“Sounds like a plan,” I told Brian. “Let’s talk it over with Dad in the morning.” I was a little nervous about the idea of sending my youngest up in the sky with a stranger in a small machine, particularly after what had happened to Jake. But I couldn’t think of a rational reason to say no.
“There’s a restaurant at the airport that’s got great reviews, and it’s not too far from the grocery store.” Brian said. “We could combine several trips.”
“You’ve been thorough.”
“Sleeplessly surfing.”
“Any other ideas?”
“Maybe the boardwalk? I’m supposed to keep the leg elevated. Most of the Typhoon ride is upside down.”
I nearly spit out my tea. “Yeah, you know, I’m not sure that’s what Dr. Singh had in mind when he said
you should be resting. What about a whale watching tour?”
“Sure. But, you know, I could also help Renée in the office. I might not be able to run after the toddlers, but I could certainly play on the floor with them. And trip them with my crutches if they tried to wander off.” He sighed heavily, and his shoulders drooped, in a posture perfected by unhappy teenagers and angry cats. Every cell in his body seemed dejected and limp, telling me that, for all his joking, the pain and the prospect of a protracted recovery had thrown him for a loop.
Without replying, I jumped up to bring him more ibuprofen, along with a banana and a cookie. If this kid ever got to sleep tonight, I wanted to be sure he had enough fuel in his body to sleep as late as possible. “How are you fixed for books?” I asked. “You can download stuff to your reader if you want.”
“I’m rereading Harry Potter.”
By now, I was sure both boys knew most of the series by heart, in English and Spanish. High school language teachers gave kids extra credit for reading translations and watching dubbed versions of their favorite movies and books. If there was a reading version of comfort food, Harry Potter had to be it.
He yawned. “Ready to go back to bed?” I asked. “I’ll check online tomorrow and see if there’s a good place to spot wildlife with the binoculars. Rumor has it there’s a pair of bald eagles somewhere in the slough.”
* * * *
Brian slept until nearly eleven. While he snoozed, Max called the airport and snagged a flight early in the afternoon. He had a late breakfast, the rest of us an early lunch, and we all trooped to the airport. David had snuck into Brian’s room earlier to charge up his cell phone, prepping it to take tons of reconnaissance pictures of the farms on the ridge. The trip had captured the imagination of both boys as though they were planning a secret spy mission.
After the idyllic and unspoiled vastness of the marine sanctuary, the glare from the airport’s windswept expanse of concrete and the pervasive odor of jet fuel was an assault on our eyes, noses, and sense of aesthetics. We pulled up close to the door of the office and restaurant to minimize steps for Brian, who was still mastering the art of walking with crutches.
