The last booth before Mama Tamale occupied twice as much space as most of the others. No banner hung from the back wall, so I couldn’t tell if the produce was organic or conventional, or even what the farm’s name was. Two women wearing red aprons who looked like they might be of Hmong heritage were busy selling every vegetable and fruit grown in the state, from the looks of it. The universal farmers’ market rule was everything sold had to be grown or made on the farm. The variety of things in this booth made me wonder if they followed the guideline. Could one farm really manage to grow all these fruits, from citrus to melons to pears to peaches? Pears and peaches were not in season in February, unlike citrus. If these had come out of storage, they wouldn’t be very good. I gave a mental shrug. Policing farms was up to the market manager, not me.
A lean woman with a lined face and a ponytail hanging down her back also wore a red apron. She wasn’t interacting with the public. Instead she scurried around, making sure the displays were full, checking on the employees, bringing them a new supply of bags when one ran out. Both employees were helping customers at the other end. I was fingering the carrots when the lean woman approached.
“They’ll fill bags for you. This isn’t a self-service stand.” Her tone was clipped and fast.
“I didn’t know.” I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Robbie. I’m a chef visiting from Indiana.”
She regarded me for a moment, then shook my hand with a firm, dry grip. “Welcome.”
“Thanks. Where’s your farm?”
“Outside Bakersfield.”
“You have a long drive.” It had to be at least two hours from there to here. I gestured around. “You have quite the variety. You grow all this on the farm?”
She nodded once. “Of course. It’s the rule.”
A reedy voice spoke from behind me. “Good morning to one of my favorite customers.”
The woman smiled at the speaker. I twisted to see Walter Russom clasping the woman’s hand and pumping it. He had the same silver hair I’d seen in his photograph and through his office window, but today he wore farmers’ market casual, a yellow polo and khakis with sockless dock shoes.
“How are you, Mr. Russom?” the farmer asked.
“Fine, fine. My daughter and I are picking up some produce, and where else to shop but right here?”
Katherine sidled up next to him. Her smile for the farmer ebbed when she saw me. “Still shopping, Robbie?”
“I’m almost done. This is your father?” I smiled at him, extending my hand again. “I’m Robbie Jordan. Katherine and I went to high school together.”
He shook my hand. “Walter Russom. Any friend of Katherine’s is a friend of mine.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Daddy,” Katherine muttered.
A big man in sunglasses and a dark shirt stood at the edge of the booth, hands loose at his sides. He sure didn’t look like someone out to pick up a bag of locally grown produce.
The farmer stared at me. “Jordan? Any relation to Jeanine?”
“She was my mother.”
“That woman nearly ruined my life,” she spat out. “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but . . .” She clamped her mouth shut and turned away, shaking her head.
But what? I swallowed. “Nice meeting you, sir. See you, Katherine.” I hurried out into the fresh air of the crowded aisle. Anywhere to escape the toxicity I’d waded into.
As I waited in line at Mama Tamale, I snuck a glance out of the corner of my eye back at the farm’s double-wide stand. Walter Russom’s narrow-eyed gaze at me was icy enough to send a shiver down my spine.
Chapter 24
I plopped down on a bench on the sidewalk across from the market with my tamale and my bag. The tamale, the size of three decks of cards stacked up, was served in a cardboard basket. I unfolded the corn husk it had been steamed in and used the compostable bamboo fork they’d given me to scrape some of the medium-hot red sauce I’d requested off the husk onto the soft masa surrounding the filling.
The first forkful was all I’d been expecting and more. The masa was tender and warm, firm enough from the steaming to hold its shape without becoming hard. The dark shredded beef filling had exactly the right amount of cumin and chili powder. The sauce left an afterbite but didn’t kill my taste buds.
My encounters with the humans at the market? Not so satisfying. Why had Walter given me a cold look? What could Mom possibly have done to wrong a farmer from Bakersfield? Ceci’s accusation of financial near ruin because of the fumigant was particularly unsettling, too.
I sniffed smoke on the air and glanced around. I didn’t hear sirens, so the fire must not be right here in town. I tried to spy the mountains, but trees blocked my view from here. The wildfire must be spreading. I savored the last bites of tamale, then pulled out my phone. I wrinkled my nose at what I read. The Cachuma fire was moving fast in the area of the reservoir by that name in the Los Padres National Forest up in the mountains. Alana and I had gone to Girl Scout camp for a couple of summers in the area, swimming and canoeing in Lake Cachuma. Rainfall this winter had been minimal, and these coastal mountains never got a heavy snowpack, unlike the higher-elevation Sierras. The winter rains that formerly protected against the dry vegetation often didn’t come anymore. I was lucky not to have asthma, but those who did truly suffered when the air was filled with drifting smoke.
Checking my e-mail made my heart beat a little faster. Mel Washington had written. Had she found Mom’s report? I stabbed open the message but swore under my breath when the only thing it said was to call her. I checked my texts. Sure enough, she’d texted me
