I wished I’d spent more time running a search on Agrosafe last night. I didn’t know if they manufactured the chemicals on-site or if they only handled the business end of things in this building. While I was here, I might as well ask.
With no bike rack in sight, I locked my metal steed to a sapling and headed in. But when I pulled on the door, it didn’t budge. A key card swiper was fixed to the right. Maybe only employees came and went, not the public. I peered through the glass. A desk faced the door at the side of a staircase, but nobody sat at it. I spied a doorbell, pushed it, and waited, wondering if I should give up, get back on my bike, and leave. A minute later, though, a guy looking like he might still be in college—or younger—pulled open the door.
“Good morning and welcome to Agrosafe.” He looked me up and down. I supposed their visitors didn’t usually show up in bike shorts and a windbreaker. He himself was neatly dressed in a button-down Oxford shirt and pressed slacks, and his sandy-colored hair was neatly trimmed, too. “Can I help you?”
“Hi. My uncle owns an organic farm in . . .” Think quick, Jordan. “In Paso Robles. But his profits are way down and he’s thinking of switching to conventional methods. He asked me if I could pick up some information for him about your products.” Which was a pretty lame story, considering all this fictional relative had to do was employ Mr. Google.
“Come right in.” The kid stood back and held the door for me. “I’d be happy to give you our informational brochures and put your uncle in touch with a sales representative. I’m Tommy Moore.” His words came out in a rush, as if rehearsed.
Even his name made him sound twelve. “Thanks, Tommy. My name is, uh, Irene.” No need to reveal who I really was. Just in case.
“Pleased to meet you, Irene. Do have a seat.” He gestured to a sitting area with a couch, two upholstered chairs, and a glass coffee table covered with brochures and leaflets. The lobby had large healthy-looking potted plants scattered about. On the walls hung a big photograph of a flourishing strawberry field, another with rows of thick dark green spinach, and others of fields full of plants I couldn’t identify. A large picture was mounted on the wall behind the couch, but this one featured two men in suits shaking hands in the sunshine in front of this building, with a half dozen others standing behind.
I pointed to one of the suits. “Isn’t he one of California’s senators?”
Tommy beamed. “Yes, with our company president, Walter Russom. We were able to work out a very nice deal benefiting the taxpayers as well as local business owners.”
I peered at the picture of the men. Had I ever met Katherine’s father? I wasn’t sure, but they certainly shared the same toothy smile. Walter had silver hair combed back from a high, tanned brow and he looked trim, as if he played tennis or was a runner. He wore a well-tailored suit and tie.
Tommy selected several brochures from the table. “These will tell your uncle all he needs to know.” He hurried back to his desk and returned with a digital tablet. “What’s your uncle’s name? I’ll have someone contact him.”
“I don’t think he’s quite ready to talk with a salesperson yet.” I turned over one of the brochures. “But this has a number to contact. I’m sure he’ll get in touch soon. I appreciate your being so helpful. Are the products made right here?”
“They certainly are.” He opened a different brochure and showed me a picture of the building, which stretched way back, something I hadn’t seen when I rode up. “We manufacture, package, and ship, all from here.” His voice oozed with pride.
“How long have you worked at the company?” Maybe he was related to the Russoms somehow.
“I started only last month. I’m on a gap year before college. I want to major in chemistry with a minor in agriculture. My mom plays tennis with Mr. Russom, and she landed me this internship.” He beamed.
Bingo on two counts. Tommy wasn’t even in college, and Walter played tennis.
“I play tennis,” I lied. “What courts do they use?”
“They’re in Mr. Russom’s neighborhood in Montecito.”
I mentally whistled. Montecito was a ritzy neighborhood just east of Santa Barbara proper. “Well, it’s been nice talking with you.” I edged toward the door. “Thanks again for the help, and good luck with your studies.”
“Thank you. It’s such an exciting field. Ride safe, now.”
Once outside, I glanced up at the second floor. The sun had bounced off the glass earlier. Now it had shifted and I could see into a corner office, where a man with silver hair sat at a laptop. President Walter Russom’s corner office, from all appearances. Had he really poisoned my mother? Why risk all this to shut up a protester?
Chapter 11
Back in my room, changed into a casual skirt and T-shirt after my ride, I checked my restaurant e-mail and Instagram accounts. I didn’t expect any issues to come up while I was gone, but you never knew. I smiled to see that Danna, my assistant at Pans ’N Pancakes, had also posted to the restaurant Instagram page. The picture was a close-up of a split baked potato on a plate in front of a snowy scene showing through the window. The potato was topped with a meaty chili, the sauce oozing down the sides. Her message read, “Next week’s special. #wintereating #sticktoy-ourribs #notthetimetodiet #cooksofinstagram.” Both my assistant and my other employee—who were also my co-chefs—had posting privileges to the account as well as to the restaurant’s Facebook page. I encouraged them to go all out
