“There,” Grace said. “You know, Paul was a really nice guy, but he was kind of a fanatic. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a lot of people angry at him.”
“I guess it comes with the territory when you feel strongly about a cause.”
“I guess.” She studied her hands. “Thanks for coming by. I feel so lost.”
I stood and held out my hand. “I truly know the feeling, Grace. I wish we’d met under happier circumstances.”
She rose and shook my hand. “Me, too.”
“I’ll be in touch if I hear anything. I’m going back home Saturday, but I’m hoping for information before then.”
“Good.”
I turned before I crossed the street. Grace had picked up her bags and had her hand on the door handle.
“You have a great farmers’ market here,” I called.
She smiled. “I know.”
I waved and headed for the car, my fingers itching to text Jason and see what he knew.
Chapter 27
“I so needed this,” I said to Alana at two that afternoon. She’d messaged me earlier when I was still nursing my mimosa with Katherine, asking me about going for a walk later. After my visit with Grace, I’d stopped back by my room to drop off my purchases and give the artichokes to Carmen to use however she wanted. As predicted, I’d already made my way through one box of strawberries. I’d texted Jason but hadn’t heard back.
Now our bare feet crunched briskly through the sand at Hendry’s Beach, our shorts and T-shirts a far cry from winter wear in the Midwest.
“Me, too,” Alana agreed. “When I’m at home working, I rarely make time to get to the coast. Plus, from Berkeley it’s a hike to get to a walkable beach.”
“Remember when we came here on that double date our junior year?”
She groaned. “With those twins, Whoosit and What’s His Name? That was a disaster and a half.”
“No kidding.” I snorted. “They wanted to go on a moonlight walk with us.”
“The blond one kept trying to lag behind with me and cop a kiss.”
“And you finally linked arms with me so he couldn’t.” I laughed. “Boys who thought they could outsmart us got wise quick.”
“I’ll say. So what did you get up to today?” she asked.
“I was going to go for a long bike ride, but I got waylaid by Katherine Russom.”
She glanced over at me. “Waylaid?”
“Actually, I saw her at the farmers’ market this morning and ended up asking if she wanted to get a coffee. She suggested a drink, instead.”
“In the morning. I’m guessing you went along with it.”
I laughed. “It was ten thirty and I nursed a mimosa very slowly. She had the equivalent of four bloody Marys before noon by the time we were done.”
“Why did you extend the olive branch to her all of a sudden, Robbie?”
I walked on a few more steps, loving the sand between my toes, the salty Pacific breeze in my hair, the sandpipers trotting along the water’s edge ahead of us. “I keep running across unsettling things this week, and it’s only Wednesday. You heard Paul Etxgeberria died?”
“Wait. Who is Paul, again?”
“He was an anti-agrochemical activist who had worked with my mom. We saw him walking here with Katherine Monday when we were at Boathouse.”
“Right,” she said. “The guy she seemed to be fighting with.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “So far he seems to have the same cause of death as Mom did. And everywhere I look, I get more confused.”
“For example?” Alana made a rolling “please elaborate” motion with her hand.
“For example, at the farmers’ market this morning, an alpaca farmer basically said Katherine’s father had ruined their lives. She told me the drift from Agrosafe’s sprays made her animals sick. She and her husband had to sell out at a loss and start over up in the hills.”
“Ouch. Poor alpacas, too.”
“No kidding. A little while later, I talked to a conventional produce farmer from Bakersfield who seemed very buddy-buddy with Walter Russom. When she heard my last name, she said my mother had nearly ruined her life, or something to that effect. Both times Katherine was part of the conversation.”
“Aha!” She held up an index finger. “Exhibit one. Robbie befriends the villain for the sole purpose of getting information out of her.”
“A girl’s gotta try, right? Katherine was surprisingly receptive to hanging out with me for an hour or two.”
“You mean, as long as alcohol was involved.”
“Yeah, maybe.” We walked on for another minute. “This week I also learned Zoe Stover is an addict. She washes dishes at the Green Artichoke, and Paul was a delivery person.”
“Poor Zoe. Is it oxy?”
“Probably. Opiates, is what her mom said.” I blew out a breath.
“That stuff’s brutal. A guy who attends my temple up in Berkeley has been clean for a couple of years, but it’s a real struggle for him.”
“I just hope she doesn’t get into heroin and run into fentanyl along with it.”
“Really,” Alana agreed.
“I also stopped by Paul’s apartment a little earlier and talked to his roommate, Grace. She said the police took away the container he always uses to bring home his meal from the restaurant where he did bike delivery, the Green Artichoke.”
Alana blinked. “To test it for poison?”
“That would be my guess. It looks like they’re treating his death as a possible suspicious one.”
“Murder?” Alana gave me a horrified look.
“Maybe.”
We walked in silence for a couple of minutes. Two lean, tanned men ran toward us, shirts tucked into the back of their shorts. Several wet-suited surfers floated astride their boards waiting for a good wave. Under a striped umbrella a white-haired woman sat in a low folding chair reading a hardcover novel while her husband did a crossword next to her. I scolded myself for not doing the same so far this week. I was in California in February. I should be on the beach working harmless puzzles instead of trying to solve a real one.
“Did you know Katherine had a
