“It is lovely, and we’re making the most of it. My husband has started to plant grapes, too, and we’ve gone a hundred percent organic. We’re taking the long view.” She gazed at the wool. “Do you knit?”
I laughed. “No, never learned. I might get some of these mittens, though. For when I go home.”
“They’re quite warm, and not itchy at all, like sheep’s wool can be.”
“Perfect. My aunt raises sheep in Indiana, but somehow her yarn isn’t itchy, either.” I set down my nearly full cloth bag and bent over the table where the mittens were arrayed. I could get a pair for myself as a souvenir, and one for Abe, too. Heck, I might as well bring home pairs for my coworkers and Abe’s son while I was at it. Adele wouldn’t mind. She made hats for sale from her own wool but not mittens.
“Your aunt’s animals might be a variety with a lot of lanolin in their wool,” Ceci said.
“Patronizing the locals, are you, Robbie?” Katherine’s voice sounded from behind me.
The “witch” herself. I turned. “Hi, Katherine. Yes, why not? Believe me, we don’t have outdoor farmers’ markets in the winter where I live. I’m loving all of this.”
“Ceci, how are you?” Katherine asked in a casual tone.
When Ceci didn’t answer, I glanced at her. She’d set her fists on her hips and glared at Katherine.
“I am fine.” She nearly spit out the words. “And you can tell your father as much.” Ceci turned her back and fiddled with a sweater draped on a hanger.
Katherine gave me a look signifying, What’s up with her? “See you, girls,” she said, and disappeared around the end of the row.
“Is she gone?” Ceci asked in a mutter without turning.
“She is.”
The farmer faced me, blowing out a breath. “The Russom family is as toxic as the chemicals they make.”
I watched her. “Agrosafe?”
“Yes, bloody Agro-dangerous.” She petted the alpaca with a trembling hand. “Baby, here, she nearly died when the neighboring strawberry farmer in Oxnard sprayed his fields with the ‘new and improved’ chemical Russom pushes to anyone who will listen. Anyone with money, that is.” She wiped her forehead. “It’s why we had to move. We took a huge loss, too.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Did you try to sue the company?”
“They have the big bucks to pay ruthless lawyers. We’d have to prove that nothing else could have made our animals sick. We’d never win.” She shook her head. “That man—and his daughter—ought to be shot. Or drawn and quartered. At the very least, imprisoned for the rest of their mortal lives.”
Chapter 23
After I paid Ceci for five pairs of mittens, she handed me one of her cards.
“Come on up and visit the farm while you’re in town if you want, Robbie. Lots more where she came from”—she lifted her chin toward Baby—“and it’s a real pretty site.”
“Thanks, Ceci. I’d love to. You know, earlier this week I heard about an olive ranch also being affected by the Agrosafe product being sprayed onto a new strawberry farm nearby.”
“I know those folks. It’s tough. They can’t move their trees like I moved my animals.” She shook her head. “That company is criminal, that’s what it is.”
I said good-bye and strolled on, still on the hunt for organic strawberries. I didn’t blame Ceci for feeling strongly about Agrosafe—and the people who ran it. Except, as far as I knew, Katherine didn’t work for the company. She’d said she was a wedding planner. Maybe when your father is in charge you can’t help but be involved. Or maybe something more was going on.
The kid at Agrosafe had said Walter was the president. Had he founded the company, too, or been brought in to run the business by its board of directors? Surely such information was in the public domain somewhere. No, it was a privately held company, but maybe there were news articles about the firm.
I paused at an organic farm’s tent where pint boxes of plump, deep red strawberries advertised deliciousness.
“Sample?” the farmer asked. At the local summer market I always bought my June strawberries from an Amish organic farmer. This one also wore suspenders and a flat-brimmed hat, but his was straw and the T-shirt under his suspenders read, Figueroa Mountain Brewing. Definitely not Amish. He extended a round tray with hulled berries each speared with a toothpick, most likely to keep customers’ fingers from touching the other samples.
“Thanks.” I bit off half the berry, savoring the sweetness, the meaty juice, even the tiny seeds on the outside that invariably got stuck in my molars. I popped in the rest, tossing the toothpick into a little basket filled with other pink-tinged slivers of wood. I wanted to buy a flat of berries, but such a purchase would be silly, I thought. Still, it was only Wednesday. “I’d like two pints, please.” I easily could finish two boxes before Saturday, considering the first might not make it back to my room.
He slid the containers’ contents into two paper bags and handed them over. “These are the earliest variety around here, but they’re fully as sweet as the April berries.”
“I live in Indiana. We don’t get local strawberries until June.” I glanced again at the national organic certification label on his sign. “I’ve been hearing about issues with fumigant spray drift from farmers who use Agrosafe’s products. Is spray a problem for your farm?”
“Luckily not. We’re a small farm in the hills. I have a buffer zone of a dozen miles from the nearest conventional farm. Which is good, because Agrosafe makes some bad sh—” He cleared his throat. “Uh, stuff.”
“I’ve heard.” I thanked him. I stashed the berries, paid up, and strolled on, my stomach eager for a tamale. I couldn’t carry much more,
