here.”
He drove up to the house and found Mrs. Harris and
her daughter having coffee in the bright sunny kitchen
with Mrs. Samuelson. Even though the housekeeper
immediately stood and busied herself over at the sink
the moment he entered, it was clear from the plates
and cups on the table that neither woman stood on
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MARGARET MARON
ceremony with the other. No bosslady/servant protocol
here.
More than ever, the Harris daughter looked like
someone who had come straight from a soup kitchen.
She wore loose-fitting black warm-up pants and an over-
sized Duke sweatshirt that hung on her thin frame.
“We know who killed your father, Mrs. Hochmann,”
he said when the formalities were done.
She looked at him, startled. “Who?”
“One of the migrant workers here, an Ernesto
Palmeiro.”
The name clearly meant nothing to her. Even Mrs.
Samuelson looked blank. But not Mrs. Harris.
“He and his wife Maria worked in the tomato crop
here,” he said. “She got pregnant last spring and had
a baby here in January. Either stillborn or it died soon
after. We’ve heard conflicting stories.”
Mrs. Hochmann looked concerned and murmured
sympathetically. Her mother sat silently.
“It was born without arms or legs. It was only a torso
with a head,” he said.
“Oh my God!” said Susan Hochmann. “That’s why
he—? But why, Major?”
“Ask your mother,” Dwight said harshly.
“My mother?” She turned in her chair. “Mother?”
“Has she told you what she and your father really
fought about last spring when Maria Palmeiro was less
than one month pregnant? When that baby was still
forming in her womb?”
“Mother?”
“Be still, Susan! He doesn’t know,” her mother said.
“He’s only guessing.”
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HARD ROW
“Am I? We’ll subpoena the records for this farm.
They’ll show who was where when the tomatoes were
sprayed that week. Too many people know.”
“Records are sometimes spotty.” She gave a dismissive
shrug. “And these are my people. They won’t talk.”
Dwight looked at her, genuinely puzzled. “Why are
