head. “Yes and no. Most of the orchards rely on the same four to eight popular varieties. About half the growers have their top-tier specialties, which they must have divvied up ages ago.” She placed a stack of print outs on my desk and pointed to the one on top. “And while all of this is public knowledge, more or less, getting these guys to give up the goods on what else they’re growing is like…” She smirked. “It’s basically an impossible task. Unless you’re willing to show up at their property with a warrant. Or spy.”

“Did you get the topographical maps?” I neatened the edges of the stack of papers and tucked them into an accordion folder.

“I was just printing those out. I had to grab a new set of ink cartridges for the printer.” She turned to leave. “Anything else?”

“Keep your eyes opened wide and your ears glued to the grapevine,” I said. “And call me anytime. I’m going to drop in on Abi and Cliff. I’ll also share this with Agent Marechal and see what he has to say.”

“Ooh, any of his cohorts coming in again?”

“I think they might all be spoken for, but I’ll see if he has any other dashing single men under his supervision.”

“You do that, Calliope. It’s in the fine print of my job description.”

I chuckled. Kerry and I didn’t socialize outside of the office, but she showed up, stayed late when needed, and occasionally updated me on the island’s social undercurrents. Keeping her happy was a priority.

“Oh, and another thing,” she said, pivoting around her desk and artfully tucking her skirt under the backs of her thighs. “Two other growers said they’d gotten substantial offers on their properties this past month. I marked their locations on your topo map.”

As I was reversing out of the parking slot, my cell phone rang. Tanner. I put him on speaker and pulled onto the road, heading in the direction of the southern section of the island.

“I started looking into your ex-husband’s family’s business,” he said without greeting. “Did you know it’s been around since the late eighteen-hundreds?”

“I did. They’re quite proud of their longevity. I met a lot of his relatives over the years he and I were together. They weren’t much into retiring out of the business. Doug and his brother were always tight, but Roger’s wife never liked me,” I added. “I never liked her much either.”

“Is she a realtor?”

“Yes, and it definitely was not her in that SUV. Her name’s not Adelaide, and the woman I saw had dark hair. My ex-sister-in-law is a dedicated bleached blond. And I need to go, but I’ll call if anything interesting comes up.”

Shit. I forgot to tell Tanner about the other offers on the orchards, and trying to locate the memo app on my phone while negotiating the curvy section of road was a no-no. I stuck my phone down the front of my shirt, nestled between my breasts, and let that be enough of a reminder to text Tanner from the Pearmains’. He could make the calls today, and we could visit the orchards tomorrow.

I looped my bag across my body as I exited my car. The comforting buzz of bugs and a distant lawnmower gave the Pearmain property a sense of life it had been missing a few days ago. I knocked on the frame of the screen door and was greeted by the tang of fresh-picked lavender and melted honey and a short, shadowed form. Abigail’s face lightened as she shuffled across the wood floor to the door, and her smile soothed some of the lingering worry from my chest. It was so good to see Abi upright.

“Been expecting you,” she said, pushing the door open and stepping to the side. “Cliff’s visiting with his trees. Go on out through the back and yell if you can’t find him. I’m stirring up a new batch of soap, or I’d offer to sit a spell. We’ll have lemonade when you come back up.”

This was the Abigail I was familiar with: hospitable to a point and always with something going on in the kitchen. “Thanks, Abi. I’ll see you in a bit.”

The newer plantings were situated opposite from where Tanner and I had come across the trees with the tunnels. I ventured on to the wider, straighter path, newly mowed to either side and wide enough to accommodate a truck. I found Clifford checking tubular mesh cages protecting the saplings’ slender trunks.

“Mornin’, Calliope,” he called, waving.

“It’s almost noon, Cliff,” I answered, smiling back. “What’s going on over there?” I pointed past this section of the orchard to a gently sloping hill where evenly-spaced posts marched along four rows of bare soil. Mulch was mounded in low rows in between.

“We’re planning to try something new,” he said. “The two grandsons I spoke about been readin’ up on ways to plant more trees per acre. It’s called the tall spindle method.”

I knew other orchardists were using the method, most with success. It was a wise choice for those with smaller acreages. “Will you be able to maintain your organic grower status?”

“Oh, for sure.” He finished refolding the ends of the mesh and pocketed his wire snippers. “And we’ll look forward to having you here to inspect us.”

“I have no doubt you’ll pass.” I waited for him to put his hand tools in the ancient canvas bag he carried. “Cliff, if you’re ready, I’d like to talk about the hidden folk.”

“I suppose it’s time.” He sighed and studied his hands, his whole upper body seeming to sag under the weight of my request. “I don’t remember when I saw my first garden troll, but it must have been when I was a little kid.”

“Can you tell me how you came to be in possession of those two heads?” I led us to a weathered slab bench. Cliff joined me with an audible huff, dropping his bag onto the grass at his feet.

“My knees,” he explained. “They don’t

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