Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (105 page)

Pasha raised his hand.

Nick pointed to him. “Question in the back?”

“Yes. What purpose does this ‘postmortem interval' serve?”

“It allows the police to focus their resources on a very narrow window of time. It eliminates a lot of possible suspects and greatly increases their chances of finding the perpetrator.”

“Have you seen this work?”

“Many times. It's also possible to determine other factors surrounding the manner of death—things like cause of death and possible relocation of the body.”

“How is this accomplished?”

Dr. Ellison interrupted. “I see we already have one student fascinated by forensic entomology; perhaps the two of you can speak privately later. For the rest of us, may I simply wish you a heartfelt welcome to North Carolina State University.”

As the group broke up, Pasha headed directly for Polchak—but Pettigrew got there first.

“Why must you do that?” Pettigrew demanded.

“Do what?” Nick asked.

“Insult me. Humiliate me. Belittle my field of study.”

Nick shrugged. “Why do ants like to feed on maggots? Because they're soft and squishy.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm not sure, but the comparison was irresistible.”

“Now look here, Polchak—”

“Is it true your wife ran off with the exterminator? Because I would find that ironic.”

Pettigrew glared at him. “At least I
was
married—an accomplishment you've never attained.”

“I've always heard marriage is like football,” Nick said. “The goal isn't just to catch the ball—you're supposed to hang on to it.”

“I've had just about enough of your—”

Nick held up a hand and pointed to Pasha. “Sorry, incoming student. He mustn't hear us bickering, Sherm—he might transfer to
Dook
.”

Pettigrew turned and stomped off toward the exit.

“I suppose I shouldn't do that,” Nick said, “but Sherm's just too easy a target.”

“Bad blood?” Pasha asked.

“Something like that. I'm Nick Polchak.”

“Pasha Semenov.”

“
Semenov.
Is that Russian? Ukrainian?”

“Russian.”

“What brings you to the U.S.?”

“My family owns a farm—a large one.”

“Who's your faculty adviser?”

Pasha pointed to the exit. “He is.”

“Oh—sorry about that. Dr. Pettigrew isn't a bad guy, really; he's just—”

“Forget it. I don't like him either.”

“What's your area of research?”

“The European corn borer. I'm studying the effect of row spacing on insect populations.”

“Well, you're in luck. Sherm put the ‘bore' in ‘corn borer.' Seriously, he's done a few peer-reviewed papers on the topic.”

“I'm fascinated by your field of study,” Pasha said. “I would love the chance to learn more.”

“That could be arranged,” Nick said.

“You mentioned something you're working on now—something about a tomato farm.”

“That's right. I'm rearing some specimens for a postmortem interval.”

“Is there any chance I might observe?”

“My lab is right here in Gardner—stop by anytime. Just so you know, it should take less than two weeks for these specimens to mature, depending on the species. So if you're interested, you'd better stop by soon.”

Pasha smiled. “Thanks—I will.”

7

K
athryn hoisted a crate of tomatoes from the bed of her old Chevy pickup and lugged it to her stall. It was just after sunrise, but the state farmers' market in Wilmington was already bustling with early birds and restaurant buyers seeking the best pick of the produce. The market had been open since five; Kathryn and Callie arrived shortly thereafter and Kathryn quickly set up her folding tables.

“Organic produce,” Kathryn called out to an older couple passing by. “From Severenson Farm in Sampson County—the best in North Carolina.”

The woman picked up a tomato and weighed it in her hand. “How much?”

“Three-ninety-nine per pound—that's a real bargain.”

The woman frowned. “It's half that much at the Piggly Wiggly.”

“That's because you're getting half as much,” Kathryn said. She took a paring knife from her apron and sliced a wedge from a crimson Mule Team tomato. “Now you taste this, then you go over to Piggly Wiggly and try one of theirs—see if you can't tell the difference.”

The woman bit into the tomato; she leaned forward as the juice ran down her chin. “My, that is good.”

“You bet it is—just the way God intended. You can save a few dollars at your local grocery if you want, but before you eat those green rocks they sell there, you'll want to be sure to wash the pesticides off first. Water alone won't do it. Try adding a couple of tablespoons of Clorox and let 'em soak for a while—they should be safe then.”

The woman bought four pounds.

As Kathryn counted the money and tucked it into her apron she heard a familiar voice say, “Are you still scaring folks into buying that overpriced produce of yours?”

She looked up to see a man about ten years her senior slicing into one of her tomatoes with his pocketknife. He held a slice between his thumb and the blade and wedged it into his mouth.

“You're eating my profits, Tully.”

“Hey, you offered her some.”

“She was a customer. Are you buying?”

The man smiled. “Sure. How much you want for the whole thing?”

Kathryn didn't smile back.

“Look, I just stopped by to say I'm sorry. I heard about Michael—that's a real shame.”

She paused. “Thank you.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean with the farm. You can't run it all by yourself.”

“Why not? I've been running it by myself for the last couple of years. We'll make a go of it.”

Tully grinned. “You and Callie?”

“That's right—me and Callie. Is there something wrong with that?”

He held up both hands. “Hey, I've got no problem with Callie. Cute little girl—I just never figured her for a farmhand.”

“What do you want, Tully?”

“Look, we're neighbors—we have been for years. I'm just trying to do the neighborly thing, that's all. I just wanted to see if I could help.”

She eyed him. “That's very neighborly of you, Tully. And how exactly did you think you'd help?”

“I'd like to make you a decent offer on the place—
more
than decent.”

Kathryn jammed her paring knife into a summer squash. “Not this again.”

“C'mon, Kathryn, be reasonable. You've got five measly acres there. You can't make a living off that place. You barely got by when Michael was in his prime—we both know that. You can't afford to hire good help anymore. You've been trying to get by with student volunteers from Sampson Community College, and you get what you pay for. Now, farmland like yours in Sampson County goes for seven, eight thousand an acre. You've got five, plus the house and the barn. I figure a fair offer for the whole place would be—”

“What is it with you?” Kathryn asked. “Your farm surrounds mine on all four sides—you've got one of the biggest corn farms in North Carolina. How many acres do you have, Tully? Do you even know? Why do you need my five? I'll tell you why: because it bugs you, that's why. You can't stand to see my little tomato farm smack-dab in the middle of yours, like a little bleeding scab right between your eyes. You want my five acres just so you can plow them under and plant five more acres of corn—just so you won't have to turn the steering wheel on that John Deere when you drive it across your fields.”

“Kathryn, you need to listen to reason.”

“You really want to help me, Tully? I'll tell you how you can help: You can plow up those extra rows you planted right up to my property. That land should lie fallow—you know that. It's supposed to be a habitat for wildlife, but you plowed it under just to put in a few extra rows of corn.”

“It's just business, Kathryn. Last June corn was up to almost eight bucks a bushel—I can't let land lie fallow in a market like that.”

“Sure you can—it's just money.”

“
Just money?
Listen to yourself. Isn't your whole problem ‘just money'? That's your problem, Kathryn—you don't think like a businessman.”

“Well, thank God somebody doesn't. Corn takes more fertilizer than any other crop, and some of those chemical fertilizers you use are so soluble that they start to run off in the first hard rain. Where do you think all that nitrogen goes? Into the creeks and rivers, that's where, then right out into the ocean. The nitrogen feeds the algae; the algae consume all the oxygen—then the fish start to die. Look at the Gulf of Mexico: Last year the runoff from the Mississippi caused the biggest algae bloom in history.”

“Oh, c'mon—I plant a few extra rows of corn and I personally destroy the fishing industry?”

“That land should have been rotated to soybeans or just left alone.”

“Land is money, Kathryn.”

“Land is
land
, Tully. We've got to take care of it, not just use it.”

“I've got a family to provide for.”

“Your family's doing fine. I've seen your house and your cars and that boat you haul down to Topsail Beach every weekend. Your teenage son drives a better truck than I do.”

“That's because I'm a
businessman
. Look, we can stand here and argue about the wonders of nature all day, but sooner or later you've got to face facts. You can't run that place all by yourself—you tried it with Michael and the two of you couldn't do it together. You can sell it to me now or you can sell it to me later, but sooner or later you're gonna have to sell it to somebody and you might as well sell it to me. Now, I've made you a very fair offer. I'm trying to be nice about this.”

Kathryn narrowed her eyes. “
Nice
—is that what you're trying to be? You know what you should have done with those extra rows, Tully—the ones that back right up against my property? If you were being nice you would have planted a windscreen—maybe a nice row of cottonwoods to stop your pesticide overspray from drifting onto my fields. But you didn't want to do that, did you? You know my place is certified organic, and you know I have to be recertified every year. You know they test my tomatoes, and if they find your pesticides on my tomatoes I'll lose my certification. That would shut me down for good, wouldn't it? Then I'd have to sell.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I have to spray and I don't control the wind.”

“Why? So your few extra rows will produce a few extra bushels? What's the matter, Tully, do you need a bigger boat?”

Tully threw up his hands in frustration. “I've tried to be patient with you, Kathryn, but I can see you're intent on running that miserable place of yours into the ground—and when you do I'll buy it at auction for pennies on the dollar. I don't see why you have to be so pigheaded about this. You can ruin your own life if you want to, but you've got a little girl you need to think about.”

Kathryn's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She jerked the paring knife from the summer squash, looked at the blade, then jammed it back in again. She grabbed a tomato instead and cocked her arm. “Run.”

“What?”

“I'll count to five.”

“Don't be silly—you're not gonna throw that.”

“You don't think I can throw, do you? You think I throw like a girl. Let me tell you something, I grew up chucking turds at boys like you and I can hit your sorry butt on the run at twenty paces. Go on, give it a try.”

Tully didn't move.

Kathryn slowly lowered the tomato. “You're right, Tully. I'm not going to throw this at you because this is my living. I'm a farmer, and one day I plan to pass that farm on to my little girl—and that will never happen if I throw my profits away at idiots like you. Now get out of here. I've got a living to make.”

8

N
ick sat at the table and watched Kathryn as she prepared dinner. Her manner seemed mechanical and brusque—she'd barely said five words to him since he arrived. He wondered if it was something he had said or done. Based on his experience with women, it probably was—so he didn't ask.

She set a plate down in front of him with a
clunk
.

Nick looked at the plate. “I hear the food is good here, but the waitress can be kind of cranky.”