Chili-stuffed baked potato was an invention worthy of a patent, and her photo made my stomach growl to look at it. I’d go find some lunch in a bit, but first I had a curious mind to feed.
I poked around on the Internet. Agrosafe had been in business for fifteen years. Walter Russom had founded it, and the firm was still privately held. I didn’t know a lot about the stock market. It would seem “privately held” meant he made all the decisions and got all the profits—and also took all the risks on his own shoulders. Or bank account.
I paused at a news report of protestors picketing the company. A photograph showed about twelve people walking in a circle in front of the building carrying signs that read things like AGROSAFE—BAD FOR PEOPLE AND ANIMALS and CHEMICALS OUT, ORGANICS IN. Paul’s tall form and dark curly hair were unmistakable. Two burly guys in sunglasses were positioned in front of the entrance, hands loose at their sides as if ready to defend the company.
The Agrosafe company ownership model reminded me of what I’d heard an author talk about one time at the South Lick Library. The presentation by a Bloomington novelist had been about self-publishing versus being published by an established firm. The speaker had said when writers self-publish, of course they get all the proceeds—or as much of them as the online distributor wants to hand over—and they also have to pay others to do all the tasks a publishing house normally handles. They take all the risk on their own shoulders.
In Agrosafe’s case, Walter would be personally threatened by an effort to legally ban his major product from being sold locally. As Mom used to say in an echo of earlier activists, “Think globally, act locally.” She’d even had a bumper sticker on her truck bearing that message. If one or two California counties banned the Agrosafe fumigant product, others might follow suit. Paul had to be thinking along those lines. Was Katherine, too? Could she have had a hand in my mother’s death? It made me shiver to consider the idea. I tapped my foot, wondering when I’d be able to contact the pathologist and find out the details in Mom’s death report.
My phone dinged with a text, and I smiled. Danna, who’d offered to stop by my apartment every day to play with Birdy and keep him in fresh food and water, had sent me a picture of my kitty trotting toward the camera. He looked as inquisitive and alert as ever. I shot her a Thanks in return.
It was time for a change of scenery. I couldn’t do anything about Mom’s death from the confines of my room, and it was a lovely Santa Barbara midday. I tucked my hair into a ponytail, threading it through my cap, and threw on some sunscreen. I grabbed my bag, shades, and keys. I added a towel and my book and headed out for some fresh air and a bite of lunch, maybe even a snooze on the beach. What was the old saying? When in Rome, do as the Californians do?
Chapter 12
I parked near the beach. Beach volleyball was in session to my right, several co-ed games being played by fit Californians in exercise clothes. Katherine would be among them if today was Friday, or maybe she played on other days, too. Two cormorants sat on a float in a sheltered cove with their wings extended to the sides. I considered my options. I could plop down on the sand, or I could explore Stearns Wharf, the nearly half-mile-long pier stretching into the harbor.
A rumble from my stomach answered me, saying, “Lunch first.” Several restaurants out on the pier were possibilities, including the iconic Harbor Restaurant. But the food trucks I spied clustered in the parking lot at the harbor to the right seemed like a more immediate—and affordable—option, and several picnic tables nearby provided a place to sit and eat.
The truck at the near end of the line sold Asian noodle bowls, the one next to it your basic hot dogs and hamburgers, and a third offered what looked like pretty ordinary tacos and burritos. I smiled at the name on the last one, Hector’s Hot Bosillos. This had to be Carmen’s son’s food truck. I was pretty sure bosillo meant pocket in Spanish, and I was about to find out. He didn’t have a line of customers waiting, so I approached the wide window in the side of the vehicle. An aproned Hector had his back to me, but salsa music was playing softly and he moved his hips and shoulders to the rhythm as he worked. Alluring aromas of fish, lime, and I wasn’t sure what else floated out into my nose, making my stomach growl all over again.
“Hi, Hector.”
He twirled with a flourish. “Robbie, what a surprise.” He smiled down at me.
“I’m staying at your mom’s B-and-B, and she said you had a food truck down here somewhere. When I saw the name, I figured this was yours.”
“It is.” He folded his forearms on the shelf at the base of the window and leaned on them. “I didn’t know you were at Mom’s. Nice place, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect. I met your grandma, too.”
“Mamá taught me a lot, as did Mom.” He leaned closer. “But I’ll tell you a secret. I only cook so I can dance. It’s how I support my habit.”
“You could do worse. Do you compete? Because, I’ll tell you, you could win at Dancing with the Stars. You have moves like one of the show’s pros.”
“My buddy Paul tells me the same thing. And our teacher. But, no, I dance for the love of it. I take lessons, sure, but I also go wherever there’s music.”
“I heard about a Paul yesterday. My mother’s friend Liz, Zoe Stover’s mom, mentioned him. Does your buddy have a Basque name?”
“Exactly.”
“I met him briefly downtown yesterday afternoon.”
“Why?”
I wrinkled my nose.
