Murder Under the Tree (29 page)

In the opposite corner, a smaller trunk stood with fabric showing out from under the lid. I opened the trunk to see what treasures it held. There were a few more costumes in it. One was a beautiful silk-and-gossamer hooded robe, detailed with a silvery sun and moon over a pyramid on the front. I couldn't explain why, but this robe made my hair stand on end. What mysteries had this hood covered? All of these costumes spoke of a private past into which I was intruding. A chill went through my spine, and I felt a sudden need to get out of here as soon as possible. The attic began closing in on me. The dust, too much. At least I had my costumes. I folded the robe and returned it to the small trunk.

I let myself out and walked back around the house to the front to pick up Margaret’s mail, which had already been delivered. A large, thick package postmarked “Guangzhou, China” was among the mail. This must be the envelope Margaret was expecting. I wondered what kind of offer these people made to Margaret.

* * * *

Early that evening, Phil returned from school. He was tall, dark, and irresistible. (Okay, so he was of average height, graying, and starting to develop a little paunch.) He had sultry, dark eyes the color of chocolate, and long black eyelashes. I loved his face. It wasn't movie star handsome, but it had a jaunty appeal.

“Are we all set to leave?” Phil asked.

We walked downtown to Jo's Bar and Grill for their Friday fish fry. Fish fries and Friday nights were big in Wisconsin. People liked to celebrate the end of the work week and go out for fish (and beer). As we walked down Main Street, the professor hurried passed us on the sidewalk, glancing at his watch. A wave of crimson leaves stirred up as he went by.

It was quite a contrast coming in from the cool evening air, to the warm, friendly ambiance of the tavern. The aroma of stale beer and fried fish greeted us at the door. The place was packed with lots of happy, chattering patrons. Blues music was playing on the jukebox.

Jeff Richards sat at the end of the bar, where he usually did, beer in hand, talking excitedly to some friends. His hair was windblown, and he had a heavy five o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw. Jeff spent many evenings at Jo’s. He and his wife, Rebecca, lived two houses away from us next to Deirdre and Mike. Jeff was a computer systems administrator during the day, and a “Master of Trivia” at Jo’s by night. He played guitar and sang in a local rock band. Jeff wrote humorous songs, sometimes about himself and his life, and sometimes about Rebecca, which I was sure weren’t very amusing to her. They were pretty funny to everyone else, though.

“How’s it going, Jeff?” Phil asked.

Jeff looked up at us. “Hey, Kay, Phil. Mighty fine,” he said, pushing his hair away from his eyes. He took a drink of his beer, spilling some on his brown shirt. I wondered how long he'd been sitting there. “So you two are out on the town tonight?”

I looked at Phil and laughed. “I guess you could say that. Is Rebecca around?” I asked.

“No. She's at home sewing drapes for our bedroom. Geez, the woman just made new bedroom drapes last year.” Rebecca held the title of the “Martha Stewart” in the neighborhood. A perfectionist in how she looked and in everything she did, she offered an interesting contrast to Jeff. “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“We’ll have to take a rain check,” said Phil. “Our table should be ready by now. Kay, I'm going to go check on that.”

“Have you eaten yet?” I asked, as Phil walked away.

“Not yet. I put my order in.” Jeff tipped back on his bar stool perilously, causing my breath to catch. “This Sunday evening we're going to be playing at Gatsby's. I'd like it if you'd come. I bet I could talk Rebecca into going if you'd be there.”

“I don't know, Jeff. I'm not sure about this Sunday. How long will you be playing there?”

“Every Sunday night through November. Give me a call when you can make it.”

“By the way, I wanted to tell you, I love your new song.”

“An Ordinary Man in Love?”

“Yes. The lyrics...too funny. Have you written anything else lately?” I was up to hearing more of his lyrics, to laugh and forget about Al’s and Margaret’s strange behaviors. For some reason, Al's reaction to his co-worker and Margaret’s mysterious silence when I talked about Dr. Anders kept bothering me.

“No, but it was fun writing that song. I don't think Rebecca appreciated being in it, though. Are you sure you don't want to sit down?”

“I'd better find Phil. Talk to you later.”

* * * *

Jo's fish fry was always a treat. Across the room, my neighbor, Ted and his fiancée, Beth, were just finishing up their meal, with pleased expressions on their faces. Our weary waitress came up to us and asked, “Would you like the usual?” We told her yes, and she left to turn in our order. It always made me feel good to hear the words, “Would you like the usual?” Phil and I moved so often with his career, I loved the thought of us being regulars somewhere
.

A new song spilled through the speakers on the wall as Phil started telling me about his day at school. I half listened to him while the rhythm and the beat of the music distracted my attention. “A well known guitar maker came in today. He had a gorgeous guitar made of Swietenia macrophylla. It had extremely fine grain lines. Reminded me of Khaya ivorensis...”

The song sounded familiar. I had heard it before. It had a great backbeat. I started to move my body to this beat and glanced over to Ted's table. He had already left. I looked back at Phil and smiled. He was still talking about what I could only assume were different types of wood.

“I just thought I would stop by to say hello.”

I looked up. “Oh, Beth, hello. I'm glad you did.” Really glad. I glanced at Phil. He excused himself and left to talk to a friend who just walked in.

Beth shook her head. “Ted received a call and had to leave to show a building ASAP. Can you believe it? Who would be wanting to do business on a Friday night? I should nickname him The Vanishing Man. He keeps going off somewhere because of business.” She crossed her arms.

I shrugged my shoulders. “The life of a real estate agent, I guess.”

“We were supposed to meet some friends at the theatre in ten minutes. Now it will just be the three of us.”

“What's playing?”

“Some Halloween movie. Not sure. But I better get going.”

“Enjoy the movie. See you tomorrow night?”

She smiled. “You bet. Ted and I will have our dancing shoes on, unless, of course, he has a last minute showing again. I'll be there in any case. I'll go without him if I have to.”

Soon our waitress came out with two plates of piping hot lake perch, crisp French fries, and an oil-vinegar based coleslaw. Lake perch didn't get any better than this. We ate enthusiastically and washed everything down with a couple pints of cold tap beer.

* * * *

Professor Sherman Walters hurried down the steps of South Hall after his seemingly endless monthly faculty meeting. Already late for his appointment downtown, eight blocks away, the professor hastened past the hundred-year-old red brick buildings of the college campus. He had uncovered something startling in his research that he needed to discuss.

Titled
The Agricultural History of Sudbury Falls
, Professor Walters' book focused on ginseng, the main cash crop in the region and the mainstay of Sudbury Falls’ economy. He sent crop samples that he had taken to bioengineering laboratories that dealt with genetically engineered crops. Walters read the old county records to better understand the nature of the ginseng and interviewed the landowners about their crops. At first, the landowners cooperated with him on his research, but lately one landowner in particular had acted outright hostile in response to his inquires. In the last two weeks, Professor Walters discovered some alarming findings in the analysis of ginseng samples. He hoped tonight things would be made clearer.

“Dr. Anders had to choose the farthest bar to meet in,” Professor Walters muttered as he approached Sonnie's Bar, short of breath and twenty minutes late. “And what a dump!”

Professor Walters climbed the stairs to Sonnie's bar, which was at the end of the business district on Main Street. He peered through the window of the pub and saw Dr. Anders waiting in the last booth with his back to the wall, looking at the door.

The professor entered the poorly lit pub. Two solitary drinkers were sitting at the bar.

“Gimme another Bud,” one man said to the bartender.

The professor walked to the back. “Good evening, Dr. Anders. I'm sorry I'm late. Thank you for waiting.”

They shook hands. Dr. Anders' charcoal striped suit jacket hung on the hook on the side of the booth. His top shirt button was undone, his tie loosened around his neck, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. Dr. Anders looked haggard and worn out, as if he'd had a hard day. His gaunt face had a gray tinge to it.

“No problem. Nice to meet you, Professor Walters. Please have a seat.”

Overheated from his walk, the professor removed his camel-colored coat and hung it on the hook on his side of the booth. He wiped the sweat off of his forehead with his handkerchief. As he returned his handkerchief to his shirt pocket, Walters noticed a circular barbecue stain on his shirt from the chicken sandwich he had for lunch. Damn! As he slid into the narrow booth, his pants caught on the ripped vinyl seat and dragged white stuffing through the fissures.

“Professor Walters, I've heard about your research and was curious about your phone call asking to meet with me. How can I help you?”

The professor, still trying to catch his breath, paused a few moments before he spoke. “For the past year, I've been writing a book about the agriculture of Sudbury Falls. It specifically deals with the ginseng farms outside of town. Part of my routine has been collecting soil and crop samples from the surrounding four farms and sending them to labs for analysis. One report from Ag-Lab in St. Paul stated that a few of the crop samples from one of the farms, the Stewart farm, seem to have been genetically altered. The 16S rRNA gene sequence contains some biosynthetic capacity abnormalities.”

Dr. Anders glanced toward the stain on the professor's shirt and looked up. “Interesting findings, but what did you want to see me about?”

“I spoke informally with Dr. Robert Kessler from Ag-Lab, and he shed some more light on the gene manipulation in the ginseng crop sample. He said the genetic anomaly looks similar to the sequence seen in poppies, which, as you know, are where the active and addictive ingredients in opiates are derived from. He wanted to know more about the origin of the samples. I wasn’t ready to reveal their source. I said they were from an associate in the UK.”

“Why come to me? Have you gone to the FDA with your findings? Why not go there?”

“I haven't because not all of the crop samples have shown this. The crops from the other three farms didn't have the anomaly. I want to gather more information before I go to the federal government with this. I've taken some of these same samples, the ones that were reported back to me as being genetically altered, to the Bioengineering Laboratory here in town to have Dr. Richard Stewart analyze them. They've all come back as normal. Rather odd.

Being chief of staff at the clinics here in town and the medical examiner, I thought you might have seen some evidence of patients showing symptoms of chemical dependency or drug addiction. Perhaps someone has tested positive for opiates. I don't think the growers would risk processing the manipulated ginseng through export certification by the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture. Probably using it themselves or maybe trafficking it out of the area to the Twin Cities. Have you noticed any patients, field workers, or the owners of the farms with symptoms of chemical dependency?”

“Such as...?”

The professor's eyes opened wide, staring at Dr. Anders. His forehead wrinkled. “Such as pulmonary edema, respiratory depression, restlessness, euphoria, muscle and bone pain, insomnia, nausea, and also having elevations in their blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rates, and temperature?” The professor took a deep breath.

“Those, Professor Walters, are common symptoms for many different conditions. Haven't noticed any difference in the usual diagnosis of the patients we've been seeing, and I've worked every Tuesday night that the free clinic is held. We do drug testing at the clinic, too. I'd be happy to go over the charts again and get back to you about it. As far as the field hands go, I haven't seen any at the clinic even though it is also available to them. Two other doctors see patients. I could look into their patients' charts.”

Walters crossed his arms and sighed. “Pulmonary edema and respiratory depression are common symptoms?”

Dr. Anders looked at his watch. “It's been a long day, I'm sure for both of us. Can I get you a drink, and we can discuss this further? A beer perhaps?”

“Sure.”

As the doctor left for the bar, the professor went to the restroom to do what he could with the stain on his shirt. When Walters returned, two drinks were waiting at the table, as was a patiently smiling Dr. Anders.

“They should turn the heat up in here.” The professor put his coat back on and drained half of the glass of beer before he continued the previous discussion.

“Ginseng wasn’t grown in Sudbury Falls until the 1960s, and the crop didn't become successful until in the 1970s when it was noticed by the Chinese market. I've gone through the records to see what had changed, talked with some of the old timers in Sudbury Falls. I was told previous researchers had asked similar questions to what I had brought up about the crops. After delving into a hodge-podge of old journals at the college, I have uncovered a few names of these researchers who also looked into the crops and had similar questionable findings. I intend to follow up on them and what they found out.”