by John Moore
Piper knew that he spoke the truth because she’d seen her mother and the other ladies in the spa in Los Angeles face the same dilemma. They were trapped in a lifestyle that doomed most of them. Still, I wanted to help them as much as I could and so did Piper.
Baker looked at me with the broadest smile of the day and said, “So, you didn’t think you were getting out of here without telling me about that ring on your finger, did you?”
I told him about Tom’s proposal and our wedding plans. He said he’d come if he could but made no firm promise. His face turned deadly serious and he said, “All kidding aside, Victor is hooked up with Bart Rogan, and that spells trouble for you. Everything Victor does is for money, but for Rogan it’s personal. My informants tell me that Rogan is after you. Watch your back.”
Chapter Nineteen:
Marketing Plans
We left Detective Baker and headed home, wondering who his informants were. I knew he would never tell me his informants’ names just like I would not tell him the names of my sources. I guess the who wasn’t important, because it was the fact that Rogan was after me for putting him in jail that mattered. What could his plan be? Something told me I’d find out soon enough. I didn’t know very much current information about Bart Rogan, so maybe it was time to dig into his past and connect it to his present.
When Piper and I returned home, Tom was on the phone with Jason Crawford. The remediation of the Indiana farm had run into more trouble. Tom had his cell phone pressed against his ear as he paced the floor.
“Jason, Alexandra just got home,” he said. “I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Oh, hi, Alexandra,” Jason said. “The remediation has turned into a bit of a mess. The work has been shut down by Bart Rogan.”
“Bart Rogan,” I said. “What’s he doing in the middle of the remediation in Indiana?”
Jason continued, “Tom told me about your run-ins with him, and I’ve always heard he’s a bad guy. He’s calling in the Indiana State Department of Environmental Management to examine water pollution from your family’s septic tank.”
Tom shook his head in disgust, “He’s just causing trouble because he hates us. Is it even possible that the septic tank could be polluting that groundwater?”
“It’s definitely possible,” Jason said. “The Department of Environmental Management is mandated to investigate once a complaint has been made. All remediation must stop till they determine the environmental risk.”
“I knew Rogan was going to pull something,” I said. “He’s been too quiet. Do we need to come to Indiana?”
“Not now,” Jason said. “The department will take its time to investigate. The project is shut down till they finish. Soon the winter snow will make it impossible to continue our work. I think we are dead in the water for a while.”
“That no good SOB,” Tom said. “He’s crazy if he thinks he can stop us by filing a complaint with the State of Indiana. We have purchased a farm in Louisiana to begin our organic farming. We’ll show Rogan we are in this for the long haul.”
“That’s great news,” Jason said. “Would you like me to help you get started?”
“Sure,” Tom said. “We can send you a video tour of the property.”
“Heck no. I’m coming to see it in person,” Jason said. “I’ve never been to New Orleans, or Louisiana for that matter, though I’ve always wanted to see it. This is the perfect opportunity.”
Tom hesitated for a moment and looked at me. Slight red blush filled his cheeks before he spoke.“Jason, we really can’t afford to pay you to come to New Orleans and help us. I’m sorry.”
“Pay me?” Jason laughed. “You don’t have to pay me. I want to be a part of the project. I’ll fill you in on the details when I get to New Orleans, but just know, I’m financially secure. My passion is the environment, and it’s clear yours is too. So, what do you say? Can I help?”
Piper had walked into the room just as Jason spoke. She blurted, “Hell yeah!”
We laughed because she said what we were all thinking. We’d love to have Jason’s hands-on help. He had his own organic farm in California and could teach us more face-to-face than on Skype or any other way. I couldn’t help but think that in a roundabout way Bart Rogan had actually helped us by reporting the septic tank leak to the Indiana Department of Environmental Management. Instead of trying to fight the harsh conditions in Indiana, we were going to farm in our own backyard with Jason’s expert help. But I knew Rogan would not stop trying to stop us, so we’d better be prepared for anything. It was time to find out everything we could about Mr. Rogan.
“Piper, I need you to work your magic on the web to dig into Bart Rogan’s life. I want to find everything I can about him. Can you do that?”
The words had barely left my mouth before she’d vanished up the stairs to her room to get started. I had a good feeling about our farming future in LaPlace since Jason was coming to help, but it did create another problem for us. What were we going to do with Zach and Maddy? It wasn’t practical for them to continue living with us through the winter. We needed to get them in a place of their own.
“Tom, where can Zach and Maddy live while we wait for the remediation to finish in Indiana? If Jason is right, it will be well into next summer before the State of Indiana has completed their investigation and the land is ready to farm.”
Tom scratched his head for a moment. “There is a small house on the property in LaPlace. Do you think they would want to stay there?” he asked.
“You mean that rundown tiny shotgun house by the barn?” I asked. “It looks like no one has lived in it in years. I was afraid to go inside. It looks like it’s about to fall down. We can’t ask them to stay there.”
Tom chuckled a bit and said, “I went inside. It’s not in as bad shape as it looks. The house is at least sixty years old. It was built out of cypress wood. The old Cajuns used to build their houses of cypress because it resists the wet, humid conditions in South Louisiana. It is naturally resistant to insect damage such as termites. We can all help fix the house up. At least we should ask them.”
“OK, but I don’t want them to think we are forcing them into anything,” I said.
“Me either,” Tom said. “They seem to be amenable to anything we need to do to move this forward. When are they coming back here? I’d like to talk to them and get our plans going. We can’t let Rogan stop us.”
Piper ran down the stairs as if someone was chasing her. “Alexandra, Alexandra,” she panted, catching her breath. “I’ve found a bio on Bart Rogan. It doesn’t have much information, but he grew up in Baltimore. I’ve found his high school yearbook and know more about his teen years.”
“So what did you find?” I asked.
“He seemed to be a loner. He looked ordinary enough, maybe a little nerdy with his short hair and glasses. He didn’t play sports or belong to any school clubs. I went to several of his classmates’ Facebook pages, and he isn’t a friend of anyone he went to high school with. He doesn’t even have a Facebook account.” Piper looked at Tom and me, wrinkled her nose, pursed her lips, and said, “I mean . . . who doesn’t have a Facebook account? What a loser.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Seems like Mr. Rogan kept to himself in high school. Did you check to see if he went to college?”
Piper popped her eyes wide open and said, “Duh, of course I did. He graduated in the top 10 percent of his class at St. John’s College and went on to get his MBA. But just like in high school, he didn’t belong to any fraternities or have any extra-curricular activities. He must have kept to himself.”
“Were you able to find any living family members or addresses in Baltimore that might be his family home?” I asked.
“No,” Piper said. “His digital trail goes cold till he turned up in the Bhopal, India, fiasco. I did find one womanstill living in Baltimore that I think could be his aunt. T
he address I found for her was in a managed-care home.”
“Looks like you two ladies will be taking a trip to Baltimore,” Tom said.
“No. Piper is staying here with you,” I said. “There’s no need to put her in harm’s way just to talk to Rogan’s aunt. Besides, who’s going to take care of you?”
Tom laughed, “You’ve got a point. Piper and I can go to LaPlace with Zach and Maddy to work on the renovation of their new house if they agree to live there. That means we have to talk to them before you leave for Baltimore.”
“They’ll be back this afternoon,” I said. “We can talk to them then, and I’ve got to talk to Charlotte, so you and Piper can figure out what you want to do with the house in LaPlace together.”
I left Piper and Tom in the kitchen talking about remodeling. Was I crazy to ask a girl with multi-colored hair and nails and a man with a nautical sense of fashion to plan a renovation? Probably, but whatever they came up with was fine with me. All of us would have a chance to discuss it later, and I trusted Zach’s and Maddy’s tastes, so among that group, some good ideas were bound to flow.
I called Charlotte. She had contacted the International Spa Association and reserved an exhibition booth at their annual expo. This year it was being held in Las Vegas, and it was the perfect place to launch our new marketing campaign. I had some ideas I wanted to run by her.
“Hi, Charlotte, how are things with you?” I asked.
“Going great, Alexandra,” she said. “We are going to have to scramble to get our booth ready for the ISPA show. We only have two-and-a-half months to get it together. All of the major spas around the country will be there. I am working on a design concept for the booth. I thought we could send emails to all of the attendees in advance asking them to stop by our booth for coffee and tea sweetened with Sweet Treat. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “I have a slogan I want to run by you. There is a media backlash against sugar sweeping the country. Many people are becoming aware of the problems associated with too much sugar in their diets. I think we need to capitalize on this media trend. Tell me what you think of this: ‘Baby Boomers: Are you worried about Social Security being broke? Sugar . . . saving Social Security one spoonful at a time. Use Sweet Treat Stevia and live longer.’ So what do you think?”
Charlotte paused for a second to process what I’d just proposed. Then she said, “Wow, that’s really aggressive. It’ll definitely get people’s attention. It might piss some off, but it’ll put us on the map quickly. Do you have a backup slogan? Maybe one that doesn’t have the grim reaper following people around.”
“I do, but it’s fairly direct also,” I said. “Here goes nothing . . . ‘What do donuts and early aging have in common? Sugar . . . Use Sweet Treatstevia and stay young! Want to learn more? Visit our website.”
“This is one slogan in a series. All will start with ‘What do (some sugar-laden food or drink) and (health problem) have in common . . . sugar. ’The point we are making is that sugar is a significant contributor to a large number of health issues, like inflammation, premature aging, heart disease, cancer, pancreas issues, and on and on. We can have a large number of corollary issues we link to sugar.”
“Oooooh, I like that much better. It makes the consumer think without scaring the crap out of them. It also drives them to our website to learn more about our product. We can build a complete ad campaign around the slogans.”
“I am glad you like it,” I said. “You should start working on an ad campaign to roll out at ISPA in two months. In the meantime, we’ll keep selling our products in the health food stores that carry it now.”
Charlotte didn’t make a sound for what seemed like ten minutes before she said, “Can we talk about your wedding?”
“OK, but what is there to talk about?” I asked. “We are getting married in two weeks at the Aquarium of the Americas and having a few close friends over to our house for a reception.”
“I know, but there’s something I need to ask you,” she said. “I’m a little embarrassed, to tell you the truth, but here goes. Can I be your maid of honor? I know I’m supposed to wait for you to ask me, but I just can’t, knowing you’re not even planning on having one.”
She made me laugh out loud. She was right; I hadn’t even considered having a maid of honor. I don’t think Tom had thought about a best man. We just hadn’t talked about it. But why not have one and make this wedding a bit more fun?
“Well, I’m asking you now,” I said. “Charlotte, will you be my maid of honor?”
I could hear Charlotte snickering on the other end of the phone, “Uh, I don’t know, it’s such short notice. I’ll try to clear my calendar. Hahahaha,”she bellowed. “I can’t wait to get a dress and be in your wedding. Tom and you are the perfect couple, and I’ve been waiting for your wedding day ever since I introduced you two. Who knows? If I catch the bouquet, maybe I’ll be next.”
Now was my chance to probe her. “But you aren’t even dating anyone. Or are you?” I asked. “Who are you bringing with you to the wedding anyway?”
I witnessed Charlotte blush for the first time since I’d met her. She was the most together person I knew. She had more guys after her than she had time to count, but I could tell she was ready to take the first step out of her shell. She had somebody in mind, and I believed I knew who.
“I think I’ll ask Michael if you don’t have a problem with it,” she said.
“Be careful, Charlotte, workplace romances create problems.”
“Uh, I think I know about that,” she said.
Oh my God why did I just say workplace romances cause problems to her? How insensitive of me. She’s probably trying to find a way to move on. This may be a good first step for her. Only thing to do is apologize.
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry I just said that. I really didn’t mean anything by what I said.”
She wiped tiny tears from her sparkling blue eyes and said, “It’s OK, Alexandra. I know you were only looking out for me. Getting past my feelings for Mr. Morris has been hard for me, and you are right, I have to be careful.”
I decided to change the subject for both of our sakes. She was right that I hadn’t spent any time planning my wedding. I guess I felt like I was already married to Tom. We were happy and didn’t need a ceremony to broadcast it to the world.
“So, what type of adult beverages should we have at the reception?” I asked. “This is New Orleans and people will want to drink.”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “I’ll take care of the bartender and the booze. You don’t have to worry about that. I can have her come to your place tomorrow if you want to meet her.”
“I’m flying to Baltimore tomorrow. I want to find out more about Bart Rogan. Don’t tell anyone though because he’s a dangerous man and won’t like me investigating his past.”
“Do you think he would go after you himself?” she asked.
“I’ll find out because I’ll be talking to his aunt tomorrow afternoon. He may scare me, but he can’t intimidate me. Tomorrow it’s my turn to go after him.”
Chapter Twenty:
Hometown Boy
As I boarded the plane to Baltimore, I thought how risky it was to venture into Bart Rogan’s backyard without any protection. I chose to leave my .38 at home because I didn’t want the hassle that went with bringing it through security and on the airplane, hoping I wouldn’t regret the decision.
The Baltimore International Airport is named for one of Baltimore’s favorite native sons, Thurgood Marshall, the United States’ first African American Supreme Court Justice. Justice Marshall was the great-grandson of a slave and made a name for himself as a civil rights lawyer in the 1950s. He won an important victory for the movement in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka in 1954 in which the Supreme Court struck down the doctrine of “separate but equal,” which jus
tified segregated schools as long as the education in white and black schools could be claimed to be equal. His victory gained him notoriety, which eventually led to President Lyndon Johnson appointing him to the court in 1967, the same year the New Orleans Saints played their first game. Justice Marshall wasted no time in distinguishing himself, but it took the Saints a great deal longer.
Piper had discovered that Bart Rogan was born in Baltimore in 1946, shortly after the end of World War II. His birth certificate named his parents as Katy and Dylan Rogan,both eighteen years old. Both of his parents were deceased, his father, Dylan Rogan, one of the first of 54,246 American servicemen killed in the Korean War between 1950-1954. His mother, Katy Rogan, never remarried and died of cancer in 1970 when Bart was twenty-four. There wasn’t much else in the public record about Bart Rogan’s early life.
The Baltimore Airport was a modern structure equipped with moving sidewalks and bars to ease the frustration of traveling, and it was easy to find my rental car. Armed with Rogan’s background information, I made my way to the home where Bart’s Aunt Claire lived. I was shocked to see that it was a nursing home in the classic sense of the term, no modern conveniences in sight. The place smelled of old urine and the halls were lined with seniors parked against the walls in silver and blue wheelchairs. Some were muttering to themselves while others looked dazed and confused. I imagined all were heavily medicated for the convenience of the staff as much as for their comfort. This was a nursing home for people without money or caring living relatives. It was a place the old and infirm were stored until they died.
I found Claire Rogan in the community room walking from table to table, talking to the residents, fetching them water and snacks. Claire was a woman in her eighties who looked as though she had another eighty years left to live. Her hair was long and gray but well-kept, trussed up on top of her head in a bun. Her clothes were dated but not worn or disheveled. She stepped lively from person to person, graceful and sure, almost as if she were dancing.