Dying for a Taste (13 page)

“Common story,” I said. “I think that’s one reason there are so few family farms left around.”

“Yep.” Kate’s mouth tightened. “It really pissed me off, ’cause I knew he didn’t need all the money up front, and I was willing to pay him over time.” She shook her head. “Anyway, so I did some investigation, and it turns out there’s this land trust organization here in Marin—MALT is its name—and they agreed to purchase what’s called an agricultural conservation easement on the property. In other words, they pay me a lump sum to ensure that I keep the land as farmland rather than, say, sell it to a subdivider.”

“Yeah,” Nichole chimed in, “I’ve heard about those land trusts. They’re awesome.”

“So I was able to use that money to buy out my brother and keep the farm after all.”

“What all do you grow?” I asked.

“Oh, the usual for this region: broccoli, green beans, brussels sprouts, leafy greens, beets, leeks and onions, herbs. That field over there was just planted with mesclun and arugula.” Kate gestured toward the freshly plowed hillside beyond the greenhouses, where I could make out tiny green shoots poking up from the reddish-brown dirt. “And I’ve got a few fruit trees—cherry and plum—up by the house.

“Anyway, getting back to why you’re here, so last summer, I was helping some friends put on a farm-to-table dinner up in Tomales Bay, and who shows up but—”

“Let me guess: Letta,” I filled in.

“You got it. And I just couldn’t help it. There I was, loaded down with a case of heirloom tomatoes and Little Gem lettuces, gaping at her from afar as she chatted up one of the gals who was hosting the event, and I realized, after all those years—and after what she had done to me . . .” Kate shook her head impatiently. “I still carried the goddamn torch.”

Kate fell silent, and Nichole and I said nothing, letting her take her time. An oak leaf fluttered down into my glass, and I picked it out and tossed it aside. In the quiet, I became aware of the background sounds: birds chattering in the tree above us, the faraway buzz of machinery, Xena’s sigh as she rolled over onto her side.

After a minute, Kate sat up, stretching her back, and then leaned forward again, elbows on the table. “It was funny,” she finally said, continuing her account of the farm-to-table dinner, “because the woman Letta was talking to brought her over to me to introduce us. When Letta saw that it was me, she shrieked and gave me a big hug, acting as if everything was all fine between us. And I guess it was. The passage of time will do that, sometimes.

“She told me all about her restaurant, and when I told her that I was now running my parents’ farm, she insisted that she start buying produce from me. I didn’t object, even though it did seem a little crazy for me to sell to a place all the way down in Santa Cruz. I liked the idea that I’d have
an excuse to see her again on a regular basis. And I think she had the same thought.”

The picnic table was now in full sunlight, and Kate pulled off her long-sleeve T-shirt to reveal a red knit tank top underneath. At the sudden movement, Xena awoke and moved back into the shade.

“It wasn’t very long before we started . . . I guess ‘seeing each other’ is the appropriate euphemism. But Letta made me promise to keep it a secret, especially from her family.”

And from Tony
, I was thinking. But then I wondered if there was any chance Letta might have told him. And whether she’d told Kate about Tony, for that matter.

Kate glanced over at me. “I guess that didn’t work very well—her keeping it a secret.”

“No. I mean, yes, it did. I only just learned about it the day I called you.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Javier, Letta’s sous-chef. He’s the guy who walked in on you in Letta’s office.”

“Yeah, I remember. She was pretty freaked out about that.”

“Well, I gather he did keep it a secret, like she asked him to. He only told me because I was curious about Letta buying produce from you, and so I was giving him the third degree.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Kate removed a pack of Camel lights from her pants pocket. “You mind?”

Nichole and I both shook our heads, and she lit one up. “I don’t smoke all that much, actually. Letta hated it when I did—said it made me and my clothes stink. But it’s an old habit I picked up back when I tended bar.” She tilted her head
back and exhaled a thin stream of smoke straight up, toward the live oak branch overhanging the picnic table.

“So”—I cleared my throat—“I know this sounds kind of hokey and melodramatic, but do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Letta or why anyone would have done . . . what they did?”

Kate didn’t answer immediately, and I wondered if she’d even heard my question. But after a moment, she gave a quick shake of the head, still staring up at the sunlight filtering through the foliage above. “No, I don’t. I really don’t.”

I took a deep breath and hoped my next question wouldn’t completely destroy any trust I had gained so far. “Well, any chance you were down there—at Gauguin or in Santa Cruz—around the time when she was killed?”

She dropped her gaze to rest on me and raised the cigarette to her lips.

“Because,” I stuttered, “you know, you might have seen something while you were there.”

“Or maybe noticed if Letta’s mood was weird or something?” Nichole added, doing her best to help me out.

“Look, if you want to know where I was ‘at the time of the murder,’ as they say, just come out and ask it, for chrissake.” She took another quick drag from her cigarette and puffed out a plume of smoke.

“Okay,” I said. “So where were you?”

“Here, at the farm. And several of my guys can confirm it if you need proof. The last time I saw Letta was the end of the week before she was killed, when I brought down my produce delivery. I’m sure you can find it in the books.” She
tapped her forefinger impatiently on the picnic table. “Any other questions?”

“Uh, actually, I do have another.” Rummaging through my bag, I extracted the two letters. “Here. Take a look at these. I found them in an Escarole cookbook in Letta’s office at the restaurant.”

Kate read them through. “Huh” was all she said.

“They don’t surprise you?” I asked.

“Well, they are rather vitriolic, but then again, feelings do run pretty hot for some people on this subject.”

“You sympathize with them,” I said. It was a statement rather than a question.

“On some issues I do, yes. And I told Letta I did.”

“You knew about these letters?”

“Yeah. And I told her that although I didn’t agree with their tone or their threatening manner, I did think they had a point.”

I picked up the first letter. “What’s CAFO mean?”

“Concentrated animal feeding operation. That’s where about 99.9 percent of the beef cattle in this country spend the last six months of their lives.” Kate reached for a coffee can that was sitting at her feet, set it on the table, and tapped the ash from her cigarette into it. “Did you know that down in Kern County, the
average
number of steers in the feedlots is over ten thousand? And not only are they jam-packed into pens where they have to stand knee deep in manure, but they’re fed a steady diet of corn, which they can’t even digest.” Her tone had become pedantic and slightly testy, like a teacher lecturing a not-so-bright student. “Cattle are ruminants, grass eaters, so the corn ends up giving them gas and makes them
bloated and sick. So what do the feedlots do? They just pump ’em up with antibiotics as a short-term fix-all.” Kate took one last puff from her Camel and then crushed it out with a vengeance. “And that’s what Letta was serving her customers.”

After this diatribe, I was hesitant to ask my next question, but I wanted to know: “And what’s a farrowing crate?”

Kate gave me a hard look. “You own Gauguin now you said, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, you should do your homework and learn about all this ’cause it’s important.”

Nichole again jumped in to my rescue: “It’s like a stall where pigs give birth and nurse their babies, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Except the word ‘stall’ is way too generous. In most commercial pig farms, sows used for breeding are kept for their entire lives in cages that are just two feet wide. You know how big a full-grown pig is, right?” She looked at me as she said this. “About two feet wide. They have just barely enough room to stand up and lie down. No room to turn around or scratch or do anything except be a baby-making machine. When you think how smart pigs are . . .” Kate shook her head. “It makes me sick.”

“I had no idea,” I mumbled. “Why would they need to do that?”

“Because the sows would fight otherwise. Not if they were pastured, they wouldn’t. But when they’re crammed into warehouses under artificial lighting and can’t act like, well, pigs—you know, nesting and having their own natural hierarchy among themselves?—then they’ll fight. Chickens are
the same way. But it’s our unnatural way of raising them that causes the problems.”

I digested this information. I knew pigs were supposed to be smart—smarter than dogs, even. What horrible lives they must have. But would I be willing to give up baby-back ribs and Mortadella sausage? And bacon?

“I try to buy free-range meat,” Nichole said. “But it’s not always that easy to find, even in San Francisco—especially pork and chicken.”

“So go without if you can’t find it. That’s what I do. I told Letta I thought she should switch to grass-fed and pastured meat, but she wouldn’t go for it. She was afraid the higher prices would drive off her customers.”

“Well, you’re apparently not the only one who was pressuring her to change her menu. This guy was, too.” I pulled out my phone and found the photo Letta had taken from the pickup window at Gauguin. “Here. You recognize him?”

Kate shaded the screen with her hand and peered down at the picture. “No,” she said with a shake of the head. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

I dropped the phone back in my bag. “’Cause I think Letta was pretty freaked out by the two events—getting those letters and then that guy coming in and harassing her.”

“She never mentioned him to me. Did he actually threaten her, you think?”

“I dunno. But I was at Escarole last night, and Ruth—you know, the chef Letta used to work for—she told me Letta seemed shaken up by it all. And I know she went out and bought some pepper spray right after she got that second letter.”

Kate frowned. “I wonder why she never told me about the guy.”

Maybe because of how unsympathetic you were about the anonymous letters
, I thought. But I left this unsaid. Instead, I nodded toward the two letters sitting on the table. “You have any idea who might have sent those?”

“Nope,” Kate responded, picking one up. But the narrowing of her eyes as she examined it made me wonder if maybe she did have an idea.

She set the paper back down. “These look like copies. Can you leave them with me? I know some folks who might know, and I can ask around.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got another set. Thanks.”

Kate folded the letters and shoved them into her back pants pocket. “You know,” she said, “there’s something else I should tell you about Letta and me. You haven’t heard the whole story yet.” She fiddled with the pinkie ring on her right hand, and Nichole and I waited for her to go on.

“So early last month this guy shows up at the farm—a real dick, all posturing and macho and stuff. He pulls up in front of the cold storage shed as I’m loading boxes of broccoli raab and cauliflower into my truck for a delivery, rolls down the window, and asks if I’m Kate. I say, ‘Who wants to know?’ and he answers, ‘I just wanted to get a good look at you.’ And then he gives me the once-over in this really disgusting way.”

“Yuck,” Nichole offered.

But I was thinking,
Tony
?

“Yeah. Agreed,” said Kate. “But I figured he wouldn’t get out of the car, since Xena was with me, and as you’ve seen, she can be pretty intimidating. It was weird, though. I mean, I’m
used to occasionally getting shit from guys who have a problem with me being a lesbian, an’ all but having one actually go to the trouble of seeking me out at the farm—that was a new one. I found out later he’d been asking about me down at the lower gate, and one of my field hands had told him where to find me.” Kate shook her head. I imagined the worker would think twice before directing strange men her way again.

“Anyway, when I told Letta about it a few days later, I just expected her to be annoyed and disgusted like I was, but she reacted in this odd way, asking me to describe the guy and his car. Kind of heavyset, I said, with dark hair and a big ol’ Giants tattoo on his forearm. Probably in his fifties? He had one of those really loud muscle cars with big wheels. And then I told her I thought it was funny ’cause he almost got stuck in the mud as he left.”

I exhaled in relief, as Letta no doubt must have done, at this point in Kate’s story: Tony drove a pickup, not a muscle car.

“But she didn’t laugh like I expected her to. Instead, she just stared out the window after hearing my description and wouldn’t meet my eye. I said I thought she was acting really weird, and she got all silent and didn’t want to talk about it. And so then I just said, ‘Fine,’ and left the room to go do something else. But after a few minutes, she came and found me and said we had to talk. She’d been feeling guilty, she told me, and the episode about the guy had made her realize that she was starting to get paranoid about it all. ‘About all what?’ I asked. And then she told me about being involved with this guy named Tony.”

Kate lit another cigarette, shaking the match out impatiently. “I was dumbfounded. I’d had no idea she’d been seeing anyone else. Stupid,
stupid
!” She smacked her hand on the table at the repeat of the word, startling Nichole and me, as well as the sleeping dog.

“Letta insisted it wasn’t that serious, that she had been planning on breaking it off with him and would do it the next time she saw him. But at that point, I realized I didn’t care whether she did or not, that I couldn’t take it anymore. She’d already done this once before. And to have it be a
man
—
again
.”

Her eyes, staring down at the wooden table top, had a steely, hard look to them—kinda scary, actually. But what was even more scary was that, from the set of her jaw and the white knuckles on the hand holding her Camel, I could tell she was actually trying to minimize how enraged she felt about what Letta had done. I decided to play a card.

“You know, Letta was actually engaged to Tony. I just found out.”

Kate turned her gaze to me. I could see a solitary vein on her temple that I hadn’t noticed before. And then she just exploded.

“I
knew
it!” With one swift movement, she stood up and swept her hand across the table, taking precise aim at her glass of iced tea. I gaped as it flew through the air and smashed against the trunk of the oak tree, sending liquid and shards scattering at the feet of the surprised Xena.

Kate moved slowly to pick up the pieces as Nichole and I sat there stunned.