A Dime a Dozen (13 page)

“We’re not doing very well, either,” Natalie said. “We made a list of the people who were working here then, and there’s not a single person on it that we would suspect of stealing files or sabotaging the database.”

I took a seat across from them and suggested they bounce their thoughts off of me.

“Well,” Dean said, “it helps to understand that our work is very seasonal in nature. Because the bulk of the picking is finished by the end of October, most of the migrants are gone by then. At the bigger orchards, a few migrants are paid to stick around and close out the job, but by and large our staff here drops significantly before the first of November.”

“Okay.”

“The records were left in the Laundromat on November 17. At that time, we had eight employees. The data was erased on November 23, and by then we were down to five employees, not counting Luisa.”

Natalie handed me the list of names.

“Two of those people can be counted out automatically. One of them was at a convention in Florida at the time, and the other was in the hospital having gallbladder surgery. That leaves three people, three women, on the list of possible suspects.”

“What about the one at the convention?” I asked. “That could’ve been faked.”

“She was the keynote speaker for the night of the twenty-third.”

“All right, then she’s in the clear,” I said, smiling.

“Callie, I have to be honest,” Natalie said. “I absolutely cannot imagine any of those three women having anything to do with this. They are old and dear friends, members of our church, and lovely women all. I just refuse to believe that any of them would’ve done something so malicious.”

We talked about the possibility of some other person letting themselves into the building with an unauthorized key, perhaps a former employee or someone’s family member.

“They might get into the building,” Dean said, “but that wouldn’t allow them to get into the database. I’m not very computer savvy myself, but I know we’ve got some protections in place.”

I nodded, thinking.

“Who’s in charge of database security?” I asked. “Are they one of the names on this list?”

“Ellen Mack is our database administrator,” Natalie said, “but she’s the one who was having her gallbladder out when it happened.”

“Ken set up the system,” Dean said. “He knows how the security is put together.”

“Let’s call him. I have some questions.”

While Dean got his nephew on the phone, Natalie and I went to the break room area and started a fresh pot of coffee. As it brewed, I had her walk me down to the database administrator’s office and introduce us. Ellen Mack was brusque but friendly, in her forties, and wearing a gray skirt and sensible brown shoes. She was obviously a technical person because her office was littered with equipment, including a motherboard that was spread open on her desk like a patient in surgery.

We spoke for just a minute or two and then excused ourselves, leaving her to her computers and wires and tools.

Back at the break room, Natalie poured herself and Dean some coffee and I made myself a cup of hot tea. Then we returned to Dean’s office, where he put Ken on speakerphone. Ken explained to us the security levels that would need to be penetrated in order to accomplish such a big loss of data.

He said there were four levels of password protection, and each level was accessible to fewer people than the level before. At the tightest level, only two people knew the passwords, which were changed regularly.

“You always want two people to know that final password,” Ken said, “just in case something happens to one of them.”

“Who would those two people be?” I asked.

“The database administrator and the database technician.”

I looked at Natalie, who said, “Ellen Mack and Luisa Morales.”

I nodded.

“And Ellen was in the hospital at the time,” I said. “No wonder you thought Luisa did it.”

“Whenever you have passwords,” Ken added, “there’s always the chance that somebody will get stupid and write theirs down. But when we set up the system, I made it very clear
never
to do that. Once the disaster happened, if y’all recall, Uncle Dean and Aunt Natalie, we questioned both women extensively, and they both swore they had never written down any passwords.”

“Is there any way to override the passwords?” I asked.

“Sure,” Ken replied. “If you know what you’re doing, I guess you could reinstall the operating system and wipe out the entire database. But that’s not how this was done. In this case, large chunks of data were simply erased, and the only way to get that kind of access is through passwords.”

“So somebody’s lying?”

“It looks that way.”

We thanked him for his help and wrapped up the call.

“What next?” Natalie asked me as Dean hung up the phone.

“I’m not sure,” I replied, even though I already had several ideas in mind. “For now, why don’t the two of you interview Ellen Mack about those passwords one more time, just to make sure there’s not any question of her having written them down somewhere or told them to someone. For all we know, she mumbled them out as she was going under anesthesia for her gallbladder operation.”

They smiled grimly but agreed it wouldn’t hurt to revisit the situation one more time.

“I’ve got some things to take care of,” I said. “But I’ll be in touch later.”

Back in the conference room, I packed up my laptop and briefcase. The next stop for me was the police station. I needed to talk to them, to see what they had done, what they knew.

Before I left the office, however, I asked Dean how I could reach Danny Stanford, the man from Tinsdale Orchards whom I had met at the party last night. Danny and I had tentatively agreed to a tour of the orchard this afternoon at 5:00, but I thought it best to postpone it until the next day, if possible. With all that had happened, the tour had an added interest for me, since I wanted to see the area of the orchard where Enrique supposedly disappeared, the “high block.”

Dean suggested that I call Karen Weatherby, the woman I had met at the party who was the head of Go the Distance Learning Center. I did just that, and she gave me Danny’s cell phone number.

“I’m sure he won’t mind putting it off,” she said. “They’re unsealing a room this week, and the timing on that is always kind of tricky.”

“Unsealing a room? What’s that?”

She explained that although the apples were all picked in the fall, many of them were stored in special rooms where they remained fresh until they could be shipped throughout the year.

“Didn’t you ever wonder how you could buy apples year-round, even though they are only harvested in the fall?”

“I never thought about it,” I said. “I guess I figured they brought them up from South America or something.”

“Nope,” she replied. “Not at all. They have special rooms that keep the apples fresh. It’s kind of hard to explain, but it has to do with the temperature and oxygen levels.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I hope Danny will show that to me on my tour.”

Before we hung up, we made plans for me to visit her facility the next day as well. Despite the questions that now hung over my investigation like a black, roiling cloud, I needed to press onward in other areas of the case, and that included learning more about the different organizations that MORE supported.

Using the number Karen had given me, I called Danny and told him simply that I had been held up. He said it was no problem, that whatever time I wanted to swing by tomorrow would be fine.

Eleven

I drove on to the police station, which was downtown and near the post office. At the main desk I asked for June Sweetwater, and they told me she had stepped out but would be back in about 15 minutes.

Actually, I realized, that was probably good. I still needed to pick up the keys to my cabin from the Skytop Vacation Rentals office. As much as I had been dreading this particular errand in the past few weeks, I couldn’t imagine how I had almost forgotten to do it at all in the confusion of the day.

The place was only a few blocks away, so I decided to walk. Fortunately, once I got there, I didn’t recognize a single person in the rental office. That made it much simpler for me, because I didn’t have to face any of those young-widow-whose-husband-died-a-tragic-death pity looks I had received when I first signed up with the place. To these strangers, my house was just another rental unit.

It did strike me funny that I had to sign some paperwork before I could be given the keys to my own home, but then I supposed that was just as well. Better they be too careful than not careful enough. As I walked back outside, I slipped the keys into my pocket, thinking about the cabin and all of the bittersweet memories that it held, trusting that God would provide each little bit of strength as I needed it.

From there, I slowed down a bit and enjoyed the stroll back to the police station. I looked around as I walked, reorienting myself to the charming little downtown.

Greenbriar had grown a bit in the last few years, with a new high school stadium marking one end of town and a big, glowing Wal-Mart on the other. When I first started coming to Camp Greenbriar, the town always seemed fairly superfluous; the campground, after all, had everything we needed. But at least once during camp every year we were bussed into the sleepy downtown of Greenbriar and set loose for several hours of free time. My friends and I usually made a beeline for the Indian shop, where we strung turquoise necklaces and bought beaded keychains for souvenirs. From there we would hit the drugstore, which had an old-fashioned soda counter and a good-looking clerk named P.J., who made up our orders and ignored our preteen giggles.

Finally, we would end our time at the Carolina Gem Museum, a small volunteer-run facility that featured rows and rows of glass cases with real gems inside—diamonds and emeralds and rubies—that had been dug from the dirt of the Smoky Mountains nearby. The highlight of the museum for us was the “panning” area in the back, where for a dollar you’d get a scoop of dirt from a real mine and a screen-bottomed pan. By dipping the pan in a trough of running water, the dirt would rinse away and you might be left with a few rough gems of your own to keep. I still had a little bottle at my mother’s house that held some of the miniscule rubies I had panned for myself.

Smiling at memories of being young and silly, I paused and tried to recall where each of those places had been. From what I could see now, the Indian shop and the gem mine were both long gone, though the drugstore was still there. On a whim, I peeked inside but was dismayed to see that the soda counter had been replaced by an aisle of depilatories, a rack of tabloids, and a shelf filled with Chia Pets.

As I walked the rest of the block, I decided that Greenbriar’s attempts at downtown renewal seemed to be working beyond just new trees and lampposts and benches. There was a funky coffeehouse on one corner and a nice-looking independent bookstore across from it. Signs in several windows advertised an upcoming wine and cheese tasting, and apparently there was live music on Friday nights at “Sparky’s,” a corner bar and restaurant that seemed to be rather busy for a Monday afternoon. As I reached the police station parking lot, I wondered if things perked up even more on the weekends. So many small-town downtowns were disappearing these days with the advent of superstores and shopping malls. It looked as though Greenbriar might be an exception to the rule.

At the main desk I asked again for June Sweetwater, and this time she appeared through a doorway and invited me back to her office. I followed behind her, noting that today her ponytail had been woven into a thick, heavy braid which swung at her waist like a pendulum.

Her desk was at the back of a large room, separated from the others by a low partition. She pulled up a chair for me next to the desk, and I started to ask if we could speak somewhere privately. Looking around, however, I realized we were the only ones in the room at the moment, so I sat.

“How can I help you today?” she asked.

I wasn’t quite sure. I had a lot of questions I hoped she might answer, but no good reason to convince her to do so except the truth. I decided to explain my situation fully in the hope she would be willing to bring me just a little bit into the loop.

“First of all,” I said, “I need to explain to you who I am and why I’m in town.”

“I thought you were the Webbers’ daughter-in-law.”

“I am, but I’ve also come here in an official capacity.”

I hesitated, knowing I might put her instantly on her guard by throwing out my qualifications of “attorney” and “private investigator.” Instead, I told her simply that I was the director of research for a nonprofit foundation, and that my task here was to “inspect” and “audit” the Webbers’ agency with the intention of approving them for a large grant.

“I have to examine policies and procedures, finances, things like that, as well as look at more esoteric issues like effectiveness, reputation, results. I’m sure you understand.”

“I think so.”

“In any event, some things have come to light in my invest—”