by Gin Jones
“That kind of bad first impressions is exactly what I’m trying to overcome with my breeding program.” Sandy dropped her phone into her jacket pocket, freeing her hands to gesture as she spoke, revealing the previously hidden calluses on her palms. “The currently marketed varieties don’t appeal to the buyers’ senses. The stalks either look too much like celery for people to associate it with fruits, or if the color is nice and red all the way through so they look pretty, they’re too small to be appreciated in a world where bigger is automatically considered better. Graham and I were both convinced that if we could breed a variety that has both solid red color and a consistently large size, it could become the new super-food. At least as long as we didn’t breed out all the flavor and nutrition the way commercial breeders have done with tomatoes.”
Mabel decided that Sandy was definitely a real farmer. Not just because of the calluses on her hands, but because she was every bit as knowledgeable and passionate about her rhubarb as Emily was about her goats and Rory was about community-supported agriculture. It wasn’t something that could be faked.
“We should work together to save Graham’s rhubarb,” Mabel said. “I’m willing to take care of the seedlings until the heirs decide what to do with them, but I’m not much of a farmer. I need you to tell me what I need to do.”
“He didn’t leave any records that you could refer to?” Sandy’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure he had some. He used to brag about how he had reams of data.”
“I found his journals easily enough, and there’s probably data in them,” Mabel said. “Just not the basic information I need.”
Her eyes lit up. “I’d be glad to take them to my office for safekeeping if you’d like.” The words sounded casual, but Mabel thought the woman was more eager to look at the journals than she let on.
“You’d have to check with the police before anything is removed from here,” Mabel said. “Besides, from what I’ve seen, they don’t have the basic information, like how often to water and fertilize things and how to tell if it’s too hot in the greenhouse. I don’t even know if rhubarb does best in warm or cool temperatures.”
“Then you shouldn’t be in charge.”
Sandy moved to go around Mabel and into the greenhouse, but Mabel blocked her. Collaboration was all fine and good, but not with someone who wasn’t willing to be part of a team. If Sandy didn’t want to help, then she could leave.
“I’m the only person available. The police entrusted the key to me, and they didn’t authorize anyone else to go inside.” That would probably change if Sandy contacted Detective O’Connor, but she didn’t know that. “Besides, the longer you stay, the more likely the neighbor will have your car towed.”
Sandy glanced over her shoulder before shrugging. “It’ll still take another ten or fifteen minutes for a tow truck to get here, assuming they were called right away. Before I leave, I’d really like to see what Graham accomplished. He talked a good game, but he isn’t a trained scientist. Some amateurs can do amazing work, while others, not so much.”
She tried to go around Mabel, who blocked her again. “Maybe another time. After I check with the police.”
Sandy grimaced. “At least let me look through the doorway. I’ve never even seen his setup.”
Mabel relented. “Okay. It really is impressive. At least, I think so. I know more about coding than about plants. But it looks like he had meticulous organizational skills that would have served him well in any kind of work.”
Sandy stopped just outside the entrance and slowly inspected the long benches of neatly labeled seedlings. “Hunh.”
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“It’s not what I was expecting.” Sandy leaned forward as if trying to study the alphanumeric code on the nearest label. After a moment, she straightened and shook her head. “Not up to my standards of course, but not bad for an amateur. If you ever want to see what a professional setup looks like, I’d be glad to show you my plantings and greenhouse.”
“I’d like that.”
“Just text me to set up a time.” Sandy recited her phone number and Mabel keyed it into her own phone’s contacts.
Sandy looked into the greenhouse again. “I’m surprised he could keep his plants alive, let alone collect any data. Especially the last year or so. He came to me for advice something like five or ten years ago when he purchased his initial rootstock and the main greenhouse. I gave him some books to study, but I never thought he’d actually read them, let alone follow their procedures. He seems to have at least tried.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Mabel asked. “If he was willing to learn from an expert, why wouldn’t he do what you recommended?”
“Originally, I thought his interest in breeding was just a phase he was going through. Part of grieving after his wife died,” she said. “He’d started reading about the plant just because his wife had liked rhubarb so much, and he wanted to plant some in her memory. That wouldn’t have been so bad. But then he stumbled across the various medical uses it’s been put to. Mostly the roots for digestive issues, but there’s a lot of speculation about the stalks too. They contain vitamins and minerals, of course, which is part of why I want to make it more attractive to consumers. But Graham saw even greater benefits than that. He came up with this theory that some of the compounds in rhubarb might have cured his wife. Totally baseless, of course, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone who told him he was wrong.”
“It sounds like you followed his work closely.”
“Not really,” Sandy said, turning to leave. “We lost touch over the years, so most of what I know about him is what I’ve heard from others. He’d become convinced that the leaves weren’t just safe to eat—which they’re not, if you don’t know—but were actually an overlooked resource for curing cancer.”
Mabel escorted the professor down the driveway, taking the slightly longer way around instead of squeezing between the vehicles. “Is there any chance Graham could have been right? Or at least had the germ of an idea for further research?”
Sandy shook her head. “He wrote to the chairman of my department once about his theory that rhubarb could cure metastatic breast cancer, and I had to explain that there just wasn’t any reason to justify the research, much as I’d love to think my chosen crop could get more attention. There’s still a lot to learn about cancer and about the various compounds in all plants, but there’s absolutely no reason to think rhubarb would have any cancer-treating properties whatsoever, and there’s far more promising cancer research happening that has actual scientific merit.”
“You said you lost touch with him,” Mabel said. “Why was that?”
“He stole some of my breeding stock,” Sandy said shortly. “I wouldn’t have minded if it was one of the varieties already on the market, but he took some of my hybrids, things I’d been working on for years.”
That sounded like a good reason to dislike Graham and even a potential motive for murder. “When did that happen?”
“About three years ago.”
Maybe not such a likely motive then, since enough time had passed to get over the initial anger. Still, Mabel needed to establish that she wasn’t the only person who might have wanted Graham dead, so she wasn’t ready yet to give up on the rivalry as a motive. “Did you call the police about the theft?”
By then, they’d arrived at the sidewalk, and the car, fortunately, was still there, and not attached to a tow truck. She almost wished it had been, since then she’d have had more time to grill Sandy.
“I considered calling the police, but my colleagues talked me out of it. Graham denied stealing the plants, and it would have been complicated proving they were mine. I could have done it, of course, but not in a way that a non-scientist like a judge would easily understand.” She went around to the driver’s side door. “Besides, everyone said it would reflect badly on my professional reputation when the matter
went public, and it came out that I hadn’t been able to keep my work secure. It might have encouraged others to steal from me or, worse, from other researchers at the university, even though this was my personal project, not a school-funded one.”
“Are there really that many breeders of rhubarb who might want to steal your work?”
She laughed. “I almost wish there were, and then I’d have handed off what I had to someone who had more time and resources to work on it. I was more concerned about my paid work for the university. Then I could choose to work with a more popular plant that would increase the chances of my getting grants. And tenure.”
“Do you think Graham still has your plants, or the descendants of them?” Mabel asked.
“You think that’s why I’m here? To steal them back? The thought did cross my mind, but I’d lose my job if I got caught, and I didn’t expect all of this.” Sandy looked back longingly at the greenhouse. “I just wanted to see what he’d accomplished and if anything could be salvaged. Legally. I could buy them from the estate. The data too. You did say there were records, right? And they’re as tidy as the labels are?”
Sandy obviously intended it to sound like idle curiosity, but she sounded a little too eager for the information for Mabel to believe there wasn’t more to it. What if Sandy had indeed been willing to risk her professional career and even her freedom to get the results of Graham’s work that used her original stock? She’d said herself that she didn’t have the labor she needed to expedite her research. Perhaps she’d let Graham steal her stock—or even gave it to him and only pretended that he’d stolen it—so he would invest his time into it, and she could claim it down the road, after he’d made a breakthrough or at least had put enough time into it to have advanced the research beyond what Sandy could have done alone. Then if he’d refused to work with her, she’d have a motive for murder.
Mabel wasn’t a fan of irony, especially not here, where the irony would be squared, if his death was all wrapped up in his beloved breeding program. She already knew that the means of the murder was the knife he’d bought to use on his rhubarb, and it was possible that the motive was also related to his breeding program.
“The data looks good to me,” Mabel confirmed. “But it could be all gibberish. I’m just keeping it safe until the estate can take over.”
“What if—”
She was interrupted by the roar of a tow truck turning into the subdivision.
“I did warn you.” Mabel shrugged. “The next-door neighbor sees everything that goes on over here, from parking to trespassing.”
Sandy didn’t answer, hurrying as she was to get into her car and start the engine before the tow truck could get in place. Still, Mabel thought the professor had gotten the message: Don’t even think about coming back later and stealing Graham’s data. Sandy was a smart woman. She had to know she couldn’t get away with it, not with Mabel knowing of its existence, and the neighbor keeping an eagle eye out for visitors.
Chapter 11
It took Mabel a couple of hours to fumble her way around the greenhouse, dragging hoses and searching for faucets and guessing at how much water was enough without being too much. It would have been easier and probably quicker if Sandy had been more willing to share some basic agricultural information, but all things considered, Mabel had done as well as she could, and it had to be better than if no one had acted.
On her way out of the greenhouse, she took a series of pictures of the interior, including the drawer full of journals and a shot of the smaller building, being careful not to get too close to where the dead body had been. It seemed like something Jeff Wright would have advised her to do, just in case someone later accused her of stealing or damaging any of the plants. By the time she locked the door behind her, she had a record of all the plants and how they’d looked when she’d started taking care of them. And if someone else stole anything later on, whether it was data or plants, the pictures would help to establish what was missing.
Back at the farmhouse, Mabel went upstairs to check on the pregnant cat and refill the water and kibble bowls. There was no rush to pack up Aunt Peggy’s belongings now that the sale of the farmhouse wasn’t likely to happen for months, but Mabel was going to need more space for the cat and her eventual kittens. She might as well go ahead with packing up the contents of the room. She had the boxes already, and she’d need to do it eventually.
Before she could get started, Pixie meowed from the kitchen. Not the warning yowl of someone on the property, fortunately, but the cry that signified it was dinnertime and her bowl was empty. The packing could wait until after everyone had eaten. Mabel had forgotten to have lunch, and now it was after eight o’clock, and there was nothing in the fridge except the last of Emily’s eggs. Fortunately, her two favorite restaurants in town, Jeanne’s Country Diner and Maison Becker, both delivered. The number for Jeanne’s was busy, so she ordered the daily special from the other place before fixing Pixie’s dinner.
Mabel was unwrapping the delivery half an hour later when Emily knocked on the kitchen door and let herself in. “I saw Maison Becker’s delivery girl as she was leaving. Is there enough to share? I brought dessert. Cheesecake bars made with goat cheese.” She raised a cupcake carrier in front of her chest. “I’ve been thinking of adding them to my farmers’ market offerings.”
Mabel always ordered too much from Maison Becker because the food was so good, and even when she tried not to, the portions were huge, so she always ended up with leftovers. Usually saved for the next day’s lunch, but she didn’t mind sharing. Emily was probably lonely with her husband gone on a longer-than-usual business trip. Besides, Mabel had been meaning to ask Emily if it was possible Charlie had been flirting with her.
“Have a seat. You’re always welcome.” It struck Mabel that it was true. She’d grown accustomed to the unannounced visits, and even Pixie didn’t seem to feel Emily presented any risk that needed to be warned against.
Emily settled at the table and peered eagerly into the delivery box. “Is that chili? Perfect for a fall evening.”
“I didn’t ask, just ordered the special.” Mabel got an extra plate and silverware, along with bowls for both of them.
“I could never let them choose for me. I don’t like surprises.”
“What about good ones?” Mabel took her own seat on the other side of the table.
“It depends.” Emily looked up from the chili she was dividing between two bowls. “The last ‘good’ surprise I got was when my husband said he had a new contract, and it was going to pay for a trip when he got back. Turned out, he forgot to tell me that it would mean his being away for six weeks in order to earn the big bonus.”
“I’m sorry,” Mabel said. “But this one’s all good. No downside for either of us. The deal to sell the farm is off. You were right about Porter being a developer who would destroy my aunt’s legacy.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily said, licking her finger where some of the chili had spilled. “Not that the deal fell apart, but that you had your hopes raised for nothing.”
“I’m sure someone will want the farm eventually,” Mabel said. “I’ve still got a little time to look for the right buyer. I told my boss I’d probably need six months of leave, and that gets me to the new year. Then the next few months should be pretty quiet here when the fields are covered with snow, and I work virtually anyway, so I could go back to work then and hope for a sale before the spring squash planting starts.”
“What about the newest addition to your household? I heard you’d taken in a pregnant cat that was found at Graham’s property.”
“She’ll have her kittens soon, and they’ll be ready for adoption by next spring,” Mabel said, although it dawned on her that she didn’t know what the gestation period or time to weaning was. “Won’t they?”
Emily nodded. “Kittens are born about two months after conception, and they can be weaned
at about eight weeks. It’s a lot faster than with goats.”
“Plenty of time for the kittens to not need me or their mother before I sell the farm,” Mabel said.
“I wonder where the kittens’ father is,” Emily said.
“Probably pooping in Lena’s flowerbeds,” Mabel said. “She said pets weren’t allowed to be out loose in that subdivision, so the father is probably as wild as the mother is. All I know for sure is that he didn’t stick around to take responsibility for his kittens.”
Emily laughed. “You should call her Billie Jean then. Like the song.”
“Thanks a lot. I’m going to be singing that in my head forever now.” Mabel stood to get some water for both of them, and as she brushed against the barn jacket draped over the back of her chair, Graham’s journal fell out of a pocket.
“What’s that?” Emily asked.
Mabel bent to pick it up. “One of Graham’s gardening notebooks. It looks a lot like my aunt’s journal, except that it’s encrypted.”
“Really?” Emily held out her hand. “What do you think he was hiding?”
“Secrets of his breeding program, I assume.” Mabel handed over the journal and continued over to the sink to get the water. “Did you know there’s another rhubarb breeder nearby? She works at the university.”
“You must mean Sandy Faitakis. She wouldn’t consider herself ‘another’ breeder, someone in Graham’s league. She would call him a mere hobbyist, while she’s a scientist. She once claimed that if he actually came up with a better variety than the current standards, it would be a matter of luck rather than science. She would really have hated it if he’d lucked his way into a breakthrough. She’s staking her entire career on the scientific method and her application of it to rhubarb.”
“I think Graham was more of a scientist than anyone ever knew,” Mabel said, returning with two glasses of water. “He definitely kept extensive spreadsheets with detailed information on all his plants. I wouldn’t understand most of the data even if it weren’t encrypted, but he interspersed it with narrative sections that look more like a diary. I was thinking there might be some information in there that I would understand about his current crop of seedlings.”