She made a tsking sound. “Why?”
“Because his group, which Mom was active in, was trying to get the company’s products banned in the area. They still are. Do you know anything about that?”
“No more than what you just said. I only heard a rumor, sorry. You gonna find out the real story?”
“I’m going to do my best,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure how I could.
“Good luck, hija.”
Back in Indiana, the use of “hon” was common, even among strangers. Here, where many Mexican immigrants had been in the state for generations? Some used hija, pronounced “ee-ha,” which means “daughter.” Same effect, different word. I finished eating while checking e-mail and social media on my phone. Upstairs, I brushed my teeth, then headed out on the bike for the county sheriff’s office about six miles away. I could have driven, of course, but I had to do something to work off the hefty burrito.
On my way I rode past Chumash High School. I slowed and watched as students moved between the buildings, books and notebooks in their arms. Some talked and laughed, many walked with their eyes on their phones, and a few loners slouched past looking miserable. I remembered an art installation Zoe had put up our senior year. It had been a seven-by-seven-foot box painted black inside and open at the front, with a sign inviting students in. She’d perched on a stool for a week, shooting photographs of all the ordinary—or crazy—poses people had struck. She’d made a video that had run on a loop in the outdoor covered lunch area the week before graduation. Zoe had excelled at creativity, while I’d aimed myself at more logic-oriented pursuits, like math team and solving puzzles.
I arrived at the sheriff’s office at about nine fifteen. It was in a low building tucked under dry live oaks and a few ubiquitous palm trees. Last night I’d run across a couple of news stories from a few years ago about how the building had inadequate ventilation. One mentioned that the pathologist and anyone attending in the morgue had to wear respirators. I hadn’t been able to find any recent stories about the ventilation having been improved.
I locked the bike and paused in front of the door, which was propped open under the overhanging roof. A building with air-conditioning and ventilation would not be letting air in and out through an open door. I sure hoped there weren’t any lethal germs floating around. Still, I wanted to request the report and hopefully talk to the pathologist, too.
I greeted the receptionist. “I’d like to request the coroner’s report on my mother’s death. She died two years ago, on January sixteenth.”
A small, dark-haired woman typed away without looking up. “Your name, please, and the name of the deceased.”
“I’m Roberta Jordan, and she was Jeanine Elizabeth Jordan.”
“I’ll need to see some ID.”
After I slid my license across the counter to her, she checked it and slid it back.
“That’ll be ten dollars,” she said. “To what address should we mail the report?”
Rats. “I’d hoped to get it now. How long will it take before it’s ready?”
She glanced at me over the top of her reading glasses, as if I’d asked her to fix me lunch or something. “We’re very busy here. It’ll be seven to ten business days.”
By then I’d be back in Indiana. I supposed getting the report by mail was better than nothing and gave her my home address. I dug in my pack, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. “I’d like a receipt, if you don’t mind.”
She scribbled on a receipt pad and handed me the yellow copy. Very old-school, very low-tech.
I thanked her. “Would it be possible for me to speak with Melinda Washington? Jason Wong of the SBPD said I should contact her.”
“She’s not here.”
“Do you know when she’ll be in?”
She shook her head.
Whoever thought it was a good idea to let this unfriendly woman greet the public was seriously misguided. I let out a sigh and left the building. Jason had given me the pathologist’s e-mail address. I stood next to a planting punctuated with the cheery orange of California golden poppies and tapped out a message to Melinda Washington on my phone. I introduced myself, and then wrote,
I’d like to speak with you in person about Jeanine Jordan’s death on 1/16 two years ago. My friend Jason Wong gave me your contact info. I am in town through Friday and can meet you at your convenience.
I signed it, included my phone number, and sent the message.
Now what? I wasn’t feeling as cheerful as the flowers at my feet looked. My flight home wasn’t until Saturday morning. Why had I thought it was a good idea to stay out here for a week? I felt antsy with all this free time. Others with a week’s vacation in paradise might take a towel, lunch, and a book—or a crossword—to the beach for the day. I’d never been good at lazing around. I had a dinner date with Alana tonight, but for now, what else could I do to follow up on Paul’s allegation? I ran through what he’d said, then nodded to myself. I was halfway to Goleta now. Might as well get in more biking and pay a visit to Agrosafe while I was at it.
Chapter 10
I set one foot on the ground, straddling the bike in front of a glass-fronted two-story building in an industrial park. The name Agrosafe was scribed in a muted green, with a stylized branch winding under the name that ended in a flourish of leaves. It was a benign presentation at odds with what Paul had said about the harmful effects of the company’s products. The building was flanked on one side by a software company and on the other
