A mister on a timer released tiny droplets of cool water as Harry lingered over the various types of lettuce, some varieties named with imagination, like Tidewater Romaine and Low Country Early Lettuce. Taking a step back, Harry looked down at the produce section of Yancy Hampton’s grocery store. Harry marveled at the freshness of it all, beholding the bounty: shiny eggplants, deep oranges, tangerines, apples in every red and green imaginable. She also marveled that these sumptuous vegetables and fruits were truly organic.
As a farmer, Harry knew how insects, blight, various fungi, too much rain or not enough, could affect a crop. Few organic goodies glowed as these beauties did. Any of them would have been at home in a still-life painting of superabundance.
Then, too, how do you define organic? Fresh. Yancy stressed the point by naming his store “Fresh! Fresh! Fresh!” The market constantly advertised the purity of its goods.
The store also heavily advertised that it bought from local farmers. Walking its aisles, Harry conceded that buying tomatoes might be easy after all. They were the number-four crop in the state. Tobacco was third, corn second, and soybeans first.
While she’d never seen a tobacco leaf in any store, the varieties of corn and tomatoes were prominently displayed. Maybe they were trucked in.
Virginia collected $1.8 million in wine liter tax revenue, and she could only imagine the monies that the big four brought to the state. Few people realized how crucial agricultural proceeds were to the economy of any state. They were all dazzled by green industry, high technology, electronics. At least Yancy was supporting Virginia farmers.
Few people bought raw soybeans. They were hulled and roasted. Harry had no idea if Yancy’s soybeans came from Virginia or not.
She didn’t know why she was suspicious, but she was.
She crossed her arms over her bosom. The temperature under the morning sun had been seventy-two degrees F when she’d exited the station wagon. Just enough for the trickle of sweat to roll down her cleavage and under her breasts. A lady didn’t take a handkerchief and wipe down her glories any more than did a gentleman whose nether regions were prone to sweat. Harry couldn’t help but think that those very breasts, lovely as they were, might have killed her. She banished the thought, continuing to troll the fruits. The tangerines’ color was so deep, it just jumped out at her.
The price, four dollars and ten cents for three, also jumped out at her.
Reminding herself that she wasn’t here to buy citrus, Harry checked her watch: ten o’clock sharp. Time for her appointment with Yancy Hampton. Although Monday morning was not a time one usually associated with grocery shopping, the store was jammed with well-groomed women and the occasional man. Rolex watches captured the light; discreet good earrings or diamond studs created tiny rainbows. Perfectly pressed blouses and Bermuda shorts were worn with snappy espadrilles to complete the outfits. No one was fat.
Yancy Hampton knew his market.
Harry knocked on the natural-wood door; a thin voice called out, “Come in.”
Yancy Hampton rose to greet her and shake her hand. He motioned for her to sit in an ergonomically perfect chair and then sat back down in his own version, designed to take pressure off the back.
“Harry, last time I saw you was at the Cancer Ball.”
“Thank you again for your support. We raised a lot of money from the five-K race, as you know, and then with the ball we raised a quarter of a million dollars. Of course, having the work of sports celebrities and media types sure helped.”
“You know that Diane Long raised that or maybe a bit more for the Boys and Girls Club? Her husband, Howie, and Terry Bradshaw were the auctioneers. We should send that woman to Washington. She’d get things done.”
Harry smiled, for she’d met Mrs. Long, a great beauty, only once and was deeply impressed by the fact that she’d been a classics major. “Hampton, she’s too good for Washington.”
He laughed. “What can I do for you?”
“BoomBoom told me you were buying crops before harvesting. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but I found that concept unusual and intriguing.”
“And I know you’re growing sunflowers and grapes. I even heard you’ve got a plot of ginseng down by the creek there.”
Harry wasn’t surprised. Everybody knew everything in the county. Then again, she thought, maybe not. There was a dead man at the ReNu shop ready to disprove that theory.
She cleared her throat, for she’d paused a bit long to answer. “I’m trying to find niche crops. I don’t have the implements for my tractor to grow corn. Ethanol has sure made that an attractive proposition, but I’m old-fashioned. If I did grow corn, it wouldn’t be for fuel.”
Yancy leaned back, folding his hands and putting them behind his head. “Scam. That’s all I’ll say about that. Anyway, you know I’m dedicated to locally grown products whenever possible and to products grown as naturally as possible. You are what you eat.”
Harry almost said, “And you are what you do,” but she halted, instead saying, “How can you buy before harvest? Mother Nature is a temperamental partner.”
“I go out, look at the crop, make a bid based on past costs per bushel or per chicken, let’s say, based on the prior five years of purchase price wholesale. I also have to figure in gas costs, since everything is trucked in. That means I’m getting an average. Now, the harvest might be excellent and the prices go down a bit. Or it may be the opposite and prices rise. The market giveth and the market taketh away. But you get what I bid no matter what, so you’re taking your chances, as am I.”
“What if the crop is destroyed?”
He frowned a moment, as that was not a happy thought. “Obviously, the deal is void. That’s in the contract.”
Removing his hands from behind his head, he picked up a folder, a bright lime green, and slid it across to Harry.
She rose, picked it up, placed it in her lap as she sat down. “Beautiful folder.”
He beamed. “I have a weakness for office supplies. If I hadn’t become a grocer, I’d have opened an office-supply store, a high-end one.” He sat up straight. “You know, there’s a woman in Richmond who prints on a hand press, invitations and the like. The more our economy shifts to the big box stores, the more room there is for quality and individuality.”
“Yes, I think so, too. I’ll read this thoroughly.”
“Well, if you decide to sign on, I’ll come out three times before harvest to inspect your crops. Heard you had a banner year with the sunflowers last year.”
“I sure did. And this is the first year I can harvest my grapes. It really will take another four years or so before they’ll be as they should.”
“You were prudent to only put in a quarter acre, if for no other reason than to see how the soil affects the taste. Every vineyard, even if only two miles apart, creates its own terroir.”
“Fascinating. Thank you for the compliment, but I know I can’t become a big vintner. I’m learning so much with the help of others, but I think my real drive is toward the sunflowers, the ginseng. I’m also growing asparagus, though it won’t be ready until next year.”
“You staggered the planting, of course.” He leaned forward, brown eyes bright.
“Had to. You can only pick edible asparagus every other year. That’s one of the reasons it costs more.”
“I’m interested in that, Harry. I can’t keep fresh asparagus on the shelves. Doesn’t matter if it’s the type most people know around here or the large white ones, the European varieties.”
She stood up. “Thank you for seeing me.”
She left, took two steps from the office as she closed the door behind her, and ran smack into Franny Howard, owner of a large tire store.
“Harry, I’m so sorry.” Franny’s hand flew to her lips, pink with color.
Harry laughed. “Hey, I’m just glad you weren’t behind the wheel of your car.”
“I do a little better there. Not so many distractions. Isn’t your checkup next Wednesday?”
“Is.”
“Want me to go with you?” Franny had also survived cancer, before Harry was diagnosed.
Franny had brought Harry into the cancer support group.
“Oh, thanks, Franny. I know I’m going to be fine.”
“Yes, you will. Say, I read in the papers where you, Reverend Jones, and Susan found that body at ReNu Auto Works. Must have been a shock.”
“Was. No suspects yet. The guy seems to have led a quiet life.”
“Those are the tough ones. You peel away the layers. There’s always something bubbling at the center, I swear. ReNu undercuts everyone’s prices. I guess if the killer were one of their competitors, they’d have brained Vic Gatzembizi instead.” She named the owner.
“Have to catch him. He’s on the move between his shops. People like you and Vic have so much ambition.” Harry’s lips curled upward, a wry half smile.
“Thank you.” Franny nodded. “Victor, you know, just in passing recommends people to me who are looking for new tires. Obviously vehicles in his shop for repair will have to use what the insurance company will pay for. But Victor is good to me, steering—shall we say—non-smacked-up customers?” She lowered her voice. “Hear he’s got ladies in all his shop sites. Bet his wife would kill him if she knew. On the other hand, he gives her everything. Whatever she’s doing, I need to learn. Need to develop those skills.”
“Honey, I think you have skill enough in that department.” Harry laughed.
On the way home, with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker all crammed in the front seat, Harry laughed again at Franny. Thinking about cars and tires reminded her she needed to check in with Miranda and that she’d promised to wax Miranda’s Falcon. Given the backlog at ReNu, Miranda would need a loaner. Safe & Sound should supply her with one, but just in case, Harry would offer her the station wagon.
Harry drove onto the bypass as she headed for Route 250 west. Taking the bypass, she’d avoid a lot of local traffic.
That plan came to a halt, literally. Flashing lights, policemen, and firemen stopped the flow of cars, trucks, delivery trucks. The line looked to be long.
“Dammit,” Harry cussed, then read her gas gauge.
Half a tank. She’d be fine, even if the wait dragged on. She saw Rick Shaw and Coop up ahead, in a heated discussion with a state trooper. He had his hands on his hips, then walked to his cruiser, got in, and called.
Seeing Harry’s Volvo, Coop walked down to her.
“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Harry.
“Milk truck overturned.”
“So.”
“Federal law: The butterfat in milk is oil. We have to treat this as an environmental hazard. I’ve just been read the EPA guidelines. Rick and I are trying to convince Johnny Jump Up”—Coop called all state troopers this—“to allow us to create a single lane, since the spill has flowed over the far right lane and into the runoff. But, hey, milk is a danger.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it.” Coop dealt with the endless costly mandates that spewed forth from D.C. every single day.
Coop turned as Rick called for her, slapping the side of the station wagon as she did so.
“Mom is boiling hot,” Mrs. Murphy warned.
The traffic, directed into a single lane, began moving. As Harry passed the overturned milk truck, Coop winked at her.
Once finally home, she hurried to her little office in the tack room and turned on her MacBook Pro computer, bought for her by her husband, as she didn’t want to spend the money. He said they needed it for his work. But he really hoped she’d learn to use it. Fair carried his own high-powered laptop. He’d go through one a year, but it was invaluable for veterinary medicine.
Harry, peering into the seventeen-inch screen, called out to her friends, “The EPA, after direction by the White House, proposed in 2009 to exempt spilled milk from being treated the same as oil and fuel spills. That was years ago.” She slapped the desk in frustration. She’d made up her mind to snoop at ReNu tomorrow and wanted to avoid a slowdown in case the milk had soaked into the road on the one lane. It really was absurd.
Simon, the possum, leaned over the side of the hayloft. “Is she one step ahead of a running fit?”
Tucker, upset because Harry was upset, sat looking upward, the center aisle cool underneath her butt. “She’s pretty hot.”
Mrs. Murphy, on a tack trunk, added, “She has her breast checkup Wednesday. She’s more irritable than usual.”
“Mom isn’t very irritable.” Tucker quickly defended Harry.
Pewter, next to Mrs. Murphy, smiled sweetly. “True, but you are.”
“I am not.” Tucker growled.
“The truth hurts.” Pewter puffed out her chest.
Tucker, now on her hind legs, lunged after Pewter, who easily eluded the corgi.
A frightened Simon scurried to his nest filled with treasures, in the back of the hayloft.
Pewter climbed up the side of the ladder, Tucker snapping at her heels.
Harry thumped out of the office. “That’s enough. Do you all hear me? Enough!” Then she turned again, glaring at Tucker. “Tucker.”
Dropping her ears, Tucker plopped down but continued to bare her teeth at the gloating cat overhead.
Tired of tormenting the dog, Pewter found Simon in his den, a big hollowed-out space in a hay bale. Harry knew the location of his den and never disturbed it.
Mrs. Murphy, having heard enough of Tucker’s complaint of disrespect, no matter how well founded, climbed up the ladder to join Simon and Pewter.
“Look at this.” Simon, dexterous, picked up a shiny pen with metallic lime-green dots on the surface.
“Very pretty.” Pewter complimented his taste.
“And how about this? It’s kind of snaky.” Simon held up a narrow-gauge rubber hose, which had been reinforced with fiber put into the various layers. “It wiggles.”
“Smells like oil,” Mrs. Murphy, nose keen, noted. “Not burning oil, gear kind of oil.”
As it came off the big John Deere tractor, it indeed smelled of gear oil.
The mention of oil provoked Pewter to recount to Simon the saga of the spilled milk.
Dear little Simon believed every word of Pewter’s embellished story, and Mrs. Murphy had the wisdom not to contradict her.
