by Tim Downs
Nick followed her to the door. “Start from the spot where we found the other MJ and work outward—whoever discarded the stuff might have just dumped it along the edge of the field. If you don’t find anything there, start working your way down the rows one by one.”
She turned and looked up at him. “You know, I never got a hug.”
“What?”
“I got out of my truck and five minutes later I was working. I never got a hug—you barely said hello.”
Nick started to reach for her, then stopped and looked down at the dog. She was staring up at him with a predatory glare. “If I hug you will she sink those teeth into me?”
“Yes—if you let go before I say so.”
Nick obeyed.
12
Kathryn steered her pickup into the parking lot of Piney Grove Baptist Church. She was late—there were five cars waiting for her. She mouthed a silent curse; she had already lost almost half of her Community Supported Agriculture shareholders in the last two years thanks to Michael’s downward spiral—a few more cancellations and she wouldn’t have the up-front cash to plant next spring. She couldn’t afford to make these people angry—and she was making them wait.
The drivers began to get out of their cars when they saw her truck approaching—women, mostly, with whining and demanding children in tow. Kathryn gunned her engine and sped across the parking lot toward them as a small way of saying, “I’m doing the best I can—really I am.” She swung the truck wide and screeched to a stop, then jammed the stick in reverse and backed up so that her tailgate was facing them.
She took a quick look at herself in the rearview mirror and turned to Callie. “Hop out, sweetheart—we’ve got another dropoff to make.”
“Hop out,” Callie repeated. “Hop out.”
It was their third CSA drop-off of the day. First was the United Methodist Church in Spivey’s Corner, then the Assemblies of God in Newton Grove. Houses of worship were perfect places to rendezvous with her CSA shareholders; church parking lots were always empty on weekdays, and everybody knew where they were.
“Hop out,” Callie said again, pushing open her door and looking down at the parking lot. It was too high for her little legs to reach, so she rolled onto her stomach and slowly lowered herself over the side of the seat, stretching until her toes found the pavement. As she slid down, the edge of the seat caught the rim of her sun bonnet and knocked it from her head. She let out a shriek as it fell to the ground and began to roll with the wind.
Kathryn quickly circled the truck, grabbed the bonnet, and pulled it down tight on her daughter’s head. Callie made another little scream.
Kathryn dropped the tailgate and greeted her shareholders with all the enthusiasm she could muster. “Good morning, everybody! Sorry to keep you all waiting, but I’m sure you’ll agree it was worth the wait.” She began to hand out corrugated boxes loaded with freshly picked produce. “The tomatoes are all Heirlooms this time,” she said. “I think they’re my best ever.”
Kathryn took one tomato from the top of each box and handed it down to Callie, who in turn handed the tomato to the waiting customer. This earned the little girl a smile and a “Thank you, Callie” from each of them, and each time Callie immediately repeated the words back to them: “Thank you, Callie.” Kathryn knew that her daughter was good public relations; her sweet little face reminded Kathryn’s customers that hers was a family business deserving their loyal support.
Her shareholders took their boxes and began to load them into their trunks and backseats. One woman lingered, resting her box on Kathryn’s tailgate and slowly picking through it. “No pole beans?” she asked. “I was hoping for some.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cochran, I was late getting them in this year. Next year, I promise.”
“What about bell peppers?”
“I’m fresh out. I didn’t get as many as I hoped this season.”
“Sweet potatoes would be nice for a change.”
“I’ve got two rows set aside for sweet potatoes in the spring.”
The woman looked up from her box. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to renew next year.”
Kathryn’s face dropped. “Oh, Mrs. Cochran, please don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry, Kathryn, but times are tight. You know how the economy is.”
Kathryn put a hand on her forearm. “Please, stick around for a minute. Let me say good-bye to the others first.”
When all the others had loaded their boxes and departed, Kathryn turned to the woman again. “Please, Mrs. Cochran, I really need you to stay with me. I know I don’t have the variety I used to have, but it takes time. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
The woman smiled sympathetically. “That’s what you said last year, dear.”
Kathryn looked at her with pleading eyes. “Look, you know how Community Supported Agriculture works. I estimate all my expenses for the year and divide it up into shares, then I sell the shares to the public to cover my expenses. My shareholders get guaranteed produce every week and I get a guaranteed income—it works for both of us. Without my shareholders I’d be living hand to mouth. I’d have to try to make a living selling to grocery wholesalers, and there’s no money in that. People like you provide the money I need for seed and supplies every spring; without you I can’t even keep what I have, much less expand. Please, Mrs. Cochran, I need you.”
“Can’t you take out a loan or something?”
“No bank will loan me more money—I’m in hock up to my ears already. And you know what credit is like right now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I have a budget to keep too. I’m paying a premium for your organic produce, and I still have to go to the grocery store to buy what I can’t get from you. You just don’t have the selection you used to have.”
“I’ve had to cut back and rebuild,” Kathryn said. “I’m practically starting over. You know what happened—with Michael and all.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m very, very sorry—but the economy is bad for all of us right now. Maybe next year.”
Kathryn watched as the woman loaded her box into her car and drove off. The economy’s bad for all of us, she thought. Sure, while you drive off in your Lexus. Give me a break—I’m the one hanging on by my fingernails here. I’m the one raising a little girl all by myself. I’m the one trying to salvage a farm after my husband ran it into the ground. Sure, you’re sorry—but not half as sorry as I am.
The more she thought about Michael the angrier she became. Things had gone so well at first. The CSA program had been Michael’s idea—one of his few good ones—and it was a godsend. The first couple of years were a little tight, but soon they had a waiting list for shareholders. Not anymore; with each bout of Michael’s deepening depression, the farm became less productive and the shareholders began to lose confidence and drift away—and confidence lost was almost impossible to regain. It was as if the farm had a permanent shadow hanging over it now: the shadow of Michael Severenson.
Kathryn looked down at Callie. The little girl was still holding a ripe tomato in her right hand. For some reason the image made her feel like crying. What’s wrong with me? she thought. Using an autistic little girl to shill for a failing business—how pathetic can I get?
Suddenly her shame turned to anger. She grabbed the tomato from her daughter’s hand and looked around for a target—something, anything to vent her frustration at. The parking lot was large and empty and the only object of any kind within throwing distance was the church itself. She aimed for the spotless white double front door, leaned back, and let the tomato fly.
The instant she released the tomato she realized what she had done and felt a surge of panic. She watched in horror as the tomato hurtled silently through space. Ironically, she found herself praying to the Owner of the building that he might somehow make the tomato miss.
Her prayer was not answered.
The tomato hit dead center with a sickening splat. It seemed to remain t
here for a moment, as if someone had nailed it to the door as a seasonal decoration—then it slowly began to sag and slide down the door, leaving a dripping red stain as it went.
Kathryn just stood there, holding her breath.
A moment later the door opened and an old man stepped out. He looked at the door, then stooped down and scooped up what was left of the tomato.
He looked up at Kathryn.
Kathryn’s first instinct was to turn and run—but she knew that was the only thing she could possibly do that would be stupider than what she had done already. She just stood and watched as the man walked across the parking lot toward her, trying desperately to come up with some kind of explanation.
The man held up the tomato as he approached. “Did you lose something?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was an accident.”
He smiled. “That’s odd—when I drop my car keys they usually land near my feet.”
Kathryn opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
He extended his hand. “I’m Ben Owen—I’m the pastor here. You’re Kathryn Severenson, aren’t you?”
“I’m going by ‘Guilford’ now. Do I know you?”
“I knew your husband, Michael. He grew up attending my church—I baptized him myself.”
“I guess it didn’t take,” Kathryn said.
“I wouldn’t say that—I thought Michael was an outstanding young man. And who’s this?” The pastor bent down and put his hand on Callie’s shoulder; when he did, the little girl let out her usual shriek.
He pulled his hand away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Kathryn said. “Callie’s just sensitive to touch.”
Callie stood there, staring off to the side and rotating both hands at the wrists.
“Callie—such a pretty name. She’s autistic, isn’t she?”
“How did you know that?”
“We have several autistic children in our church. It can be very challenging raising a special-needs child.”
“Special-needs child,” Kathryn said. “Look at her—she’s happy as a clam. I’m the one with special needs.”
“How can I help?”
She looked at him. “What?”
He held up the dripping remains of the tomato. “I came as soon as you called.”
“Look, I just lost my temper, that’s all. You’re reading too much into it.”
“Maybe you’re not reading enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“God has a way of working through the most ordinary means—sometimes when we’re not even aware of it. You lost your temper so you threw a tomato—that’s what you meant to do. I heard something hit my door and came out to take a look—that’s what I meant to do. Maybe what God meant to do was introduce us to each other.”
“I’m not looking for a church right now,” Kathryn said.
“I wasn’t inviting you. I was offering to help.”
“Thanks. I don’t need any help.”
“I’m the one with special needs. Isn’t that what you said?”
Kathryn glared at him. “I don’t need any help from you, okay?”
“I’m sorry. Did I offend you in some way?”
She paused. “Look, maybe I did throw that tomato for a reason, but maybe I wasn’t trying to hit your church. Maybe I was trying to hit your Boss, ’cause I’ll tell you the truth—I’d plaster the old man right between the eyes if I could throw that far.”
“Have you ever told him that?”
Kathryn blinked. “Have I ever told God that I’d like to hit him with a tomato?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Kathryn had no idea what to say.
“Did you ever read the Psalms, Kathryn? Some of the prayers are very beautiful, but some are very dark—so dark that it makes you wonder why God would allow such a dreadful prayer to be included in a holy book. Why do you suppose he would do that?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think he’s saying to the rest of us, ‘Stop pretending. I know what’s in your heart anyway, so tell me about it. If you’re hurting, say so. If you hate me, tell me. Until you admit what you really feel, we won’t be able to work together on the problem.’ You know, God’s ego is not so fragile that he can’t bear to hear what you really think and feel.”
“That’s very inspiring,” Kathryn said. “I’ll think it over.”
“Now you’re pretending with me.”
“Look, I’m sorry I hit your door. I’ll repaint it when I have time.”
“Because you don’t have the money to pay someone else to do it? There’s a need—you need money.”
“I don’t want charity,” she said.
“I’m not talking about charity—I’m talking about business. I know why you come to my parking lot every week, Kathryn. Those are your CSA members, aren’t they? How’s that going for you?”
“Not very well,” she said. “I’ve lost a lot of them because of—you know.”
Ben nodded. “You know, we do church suppers here every Wednesday night. I’ll bet the ladies would love to get their hands on some of your wonderful produce. I know it’s mid-season and all, but maybe you could sell us two or three shares. I’m so sick and tired of chicken; maybe the ladies would make Italian for a change.”
“That would be terrific,” Kathryn said.
“I tell you what. I’ll get the church administrator to cut you a check, and I’ll drop it off to you in a couple of days. Three shares—fair enough? Just plan on including us in your regular delivery next week.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Kathryn said. “Sorry again about the tomato.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ben said. “He gets that all the time—and you know what? He doesn’t even bother to duck.”
13
Pasha watched as Nick lifted the glass front of the rearing chamber and reached inside. The unit was the size of a washer and dryer set, and it rested on a table at one end of the lab. Inside the unit sat a pair of twenty-gallon terrariums side by side. Nick slid one of the terrariums closer and removed the screened lid.
“What are you doing?” Pasha asked.
“It’s chow time,” Nick said. “We have to make sure the larvae have a steady supply of food so their growth rates aren’t stunted.” He handed Pasha a bag of red meat cut into squares. “Put one in each of the containers. Use those forceps—be careful not to crush any of the maggots.”
Pasha held up the bag and looked at the bloodred meat. “What is it?”
“Beef liver. Some entomologists like to use pork because it doesn’t liquefy during decomposition. I’m a beef man myself.”
Pasha took one of the Styrofoam cups from the terrarium and looked inside. In the bottom was a shriveled piece of liver covered with wriggling maggots. A moment later the stench of the decomposing liver reached his nostrils; he winced and turned away.
“Sorry,” Nick said. “I should have warned you about that.”
“Is it always so bad?”
“It can get worse—a lot worse. Some of my colleagues complain about the smell. They want me to turn on the vent hood and air out the place, but I don’t like to do that—the increased air flow can reduce the humidity.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Evaporation has a cooling effect. Insect growth depends entirely on temperature; the warmer the temperature, the faster the insect develops. There was a case in California a few years back: A body was discovered next to a river. An entomologist took insect specimens from the body and he reared them, but he took his temperature and humidity data from a nearby airport. Somebody got the bright idea to check the temperature at the river where the insects were found, and guess what? It was eleven degrees cooler by the water. That little temperature change threw the postmortem interval off by forty-eight hours. That’s no small error.”
Nick pointed to a row of dials and gauges along the top of the rearing chamber. “See those? They con
trol the temperature, humidity, and lighting within the chamber. That’s what a rearing chamber is for: It allows us to reproduce the precise conditions we found at the murder scene. The more accurately we do that, the more accurate the PMI. Oh, there’s another thing the chamber’s good for: It lets us keep the lab nice and cool. It’s almost ninety degrees outside, but in here we keep it a balmy seventy-two—nice, isn’t it? Without the chamber we’d have to keep the whole lab the same temperature as the murder scene. Where did you say you’re from?”
The question caught Pasha off guard. “What? Oh—Russia.”
“That’s right, I remember. What part?”
“Do you know Russia?”
“Not really. I was just wondering how you’re handling a North Carolina summer. This is a hot one.”
“I did my master’s degree in Kansas.”
“You’re used to the heat, then. I’ll take temperature readings at the site three or four times a day for the next few days—that should give us a good average. I’ll also use a sling psychrometer to take humidity readings.”
“You are very thorough,” Pasha said.
“This woman is an old friend,” Nick said. “The victim was her husband.”
Pasha watched Nick as he worked. From time to time he would tip his head back and forth slightly, as if he were an insect staring out through different facets of its compound eyes. The woman is an old friend, he thought. This will be personal for him. Pasha knew very little about this field of forensic entomology, but he grasped the basic theory and he understood the danger. If Polchak could pinpoint the exact time of death, the authorities would focus all their attention on that period of time—and the odds of them finding a witness who might remember seeing Pasha would greatly increase.
Pasha looked at the dials on the rearing chamber again. “So—temperature, humidity, and lighting.”
“Lighting is important too,” Nick said. “Blowfly activity slows to a stop after sunset—we have to factor that in. Are you done there?”
Pasha placed the last chunk of liver in with the hungry maggots. “Done.”