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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Reap a Wicked Harvest
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At the moment, I was at a loss. No specific idea had presented itself. While I was thinking, Jacob said he was going for a walk down the drive to stretch his legs. I wasn't ready to go back to the lodge. Seeing the open loading-dock door, I decided to have a word with Eugene.
I went up the steps and into the main corridor of the greenhouse. It was hot outside but the ventilating fans created a strong current of air. I stopped and lifted the damp hair off my neck. My conversation with Jacob had left me uncomfortable. I couldn't put my finger on the reason, but something felt off. He'd answered my questions readily enough. When I'd asked why he'd come to work for Parker Greenhouse, his explanation had sounded rehearsed. I shrugged. Perhaps that's the reason he'd given to Evan and Cleome. And yet, something didn't feel right.
I smoothed my hair and walked down the corridor. My sneakers made a whisper of sound on the concrete floor. Passing an open door, I glanced in and then away. I took a couple more steps then stopped. A movement in the far corner had caught my attention.
On tiptoes, I retraced my way back to the doorway. The
light was dim, the room in shadows. I saw an Amish straw hat lying on the cot. A stack of dark clothing was neatly folded on a chair. This had to be Jacob's room.
I stepped to the door, reached around the doorframe hoping to locate a light switch. My fingers found it, and I gave it a quick flip. The bare bulb illuminated unadorned walls, a battered chest of drawers, and Eugene squatted in front of a suitcase. At the moment his hands were motionless, but the rumpled contents of the suitcase gave testimony to the fact that he'd been rifling Jacob's personal possessions.
My tone was cynical. “Shame, shame. And on a Sunday, too. Didn't your mama teach you it's not polite to rip off others?”
Eugene jumped to his feet with a piece of paper grasped in his hand. When he saw my gaze fixed on it, he let it go. Like a glossy black-and-white butterfly it fluttered back into the open suitcase.
Flashing me a quick smile, he said, “Bretta, you know me better than that. I wouldn't rip anyone off, especially an Amish guy. What could he have that I'd want?”
“Nothing material, but I think you were upset by his friendship with Marnie.”
Eugene's head snapped up, but his tone was smooth. “Friendship is the operative word. They were just friends. I have the proof right here.”
He turned and picked up the paper he'd dropped. When he held it out to me, I saw a black-and-white photograph of a young Amish woman. Her dark hair was covered with a white cap, head tilted at a beguiling angle. Her eyes stared straight at me. Something about the paragraph niggled at me. I made a move to take the picture, but Eugene pulled it away.
Snickering, he said, “Old Jake has himself a babe waiting at home. He wasn't interested in Marnie.” He put the picture back in the suitcase and slammed the lid.
Softly, I said, “But you didn't know that until you found the picture.”
“That doesn't matter. Marnie and I didn't have an exclusive arrangement.”
“You dated her.”
“We went out a few times.”
“What did you expect to find among Jacob's belongings?”
Eugene shrugged. “I wanted to see that photo. He usually carries it with him. I've seen him staring at it, but he hasn't shown it to anyone.”
“That's called privacy, Eugene.” I waved a hand at the suitcase. “Apparently, a concept you've never learned.”
Eugene hunted for the words to defend his action. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but when he couldn't come up with a plausible excuse, he said, “I have work to do.” He would have gone on his way, but I wasn't finished with him.
“Just a minute,” I said and waited for him to face me again. “Why do you think Marnie was murdered?”
Eugene gulped. “I don't know. She was usually in control of most situations. She could work anyone around to her way of thinking.”
“Could she work you?”
“Hell no. I'm my own man.”
“So she couldn't work you.” I paused then added quietly, “And she couldn't work the person who took her life.”
Eugene's face paled. “You aren't thinking I killed her?”
“I'm not accusing you, Eugene. I'm stating a fact that you gave me yourself.”
He took a step toward me. “How long have we known each other, Bretta? Four? Five years? Surely you can't believe that I'd murder anyone.”
I edged my way to the door. “I wouldn't have thought you'd enter another person's room and search his property, but you
did. Maybe you loved Marnie and the thought of her getting close to Jacob made you furious.”
His reaction took me by surprise. He whipped out a hand and grabbed my arm. “I never killed her. I loved her. I never would have hurt her.”
“Let go of me,” I said, jerking my arm.
Natalie spoke from the doorway. “What's going on in here?”
Eugene dropped his hold on me and rearranged his expression. Like a chameleon, he reverted back to his normal ingratiating self. “I'm sorry, Bretta,” he said in a contrite manner. Hanging his head, he mumbled, “I'm upset about Marnie's death. I lost my temper when you baited me.” He turned to Natalie. “I know she's your friend and a good customer of the greenhouse, but I'm steering clear of her when she's in
detective mode.
I like the florist side better.”
Eugene walked out of the room. Natalie stared after him and then turned back to me. “What in the world did you do to him?”
I rubbed my arm and shook my head. “Were you looking for me?”
Natalie studied me. When she saw I wasn't going to tell her anything more, she said, “I'm going to Dan's greenhouse. I thought you might like to tag along.”
I glanced at the suitcase. I wanted another look at that picture, but after chastising Eugene for pawing around in Jacob's belongings, I couldn't very well do the same thing myself.
I followed Natalie down the loading-dock steps. We crossed the employees' parking lot, where five delivery trucks were parked as well as three vans with the Parker Greenhouse name and logo stenciled on their sides.
Natalie opened the door to the orchid house. She led the way
into a small antechamber that contained a sink, a trash can, and a shelf stacked with white paper gowns and footies for covering our shoes. Taped to the door in front of us was a big sign.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER A STERILE ENVIRONMENT
PLEASE WASH HANDS
PLEASE COVER CLOTHING AND SHOES
PLEASE KEEP INNER DOOR CLOSED AT ALL TIMES
With our hands freshly washed and our shoes and clothes concealed under disposable coverings, we stepped into Dan's laboratory. The first thing I noticed was the change in temperature. The atmosphere was fresh and cool with air circulating among the plants.
“This is really nice,” I said, raising my voice so Natalie could hear me over the fans. “It doesn't feel like other greenhouses I've been in.”
“It isn't like other greenhouses because orchids need a different climate. Dan is hand-pollinating the plants so all insects and birds have to be kept out. There can't be any unscreened openings. Intake vents pull the air from outside, filter and humidify it before releasing it in here.”
The structure was approximately twenty by forty feet long. An open-weave cloth lay across the roof, blocking out some of the harsh August sun. The floor was cement with several drains. A wide bench ran down the middle with narrower benches on each side. Plants covered all the surfaces.
I'd expected fabulous blossoms in every size, shape, and color. A few cattleya were in bloom, as were phalaenopsis and some cymbidiums. The rest of the plants, which numbered
around two hundred, were flowerless. The plants themselves were uninspiring with their pseudobulbs—thickened stems where water and food are stored, enabling the plant to survive periods of drought—resting above the soil. The thick-bladed leaves draped and drooped over the edges of the pots.
Natalie said, “Disappointing, isn't it?”
I nodded. “I thought there'd be more blooms.”
“Sometimes there are, but many of these plants are dormant. After they rest, they'll come into bloom again. When that happens, Dan will cover the flowers with drawstring pouches so he can control which bloom gets the pollen from his choice of plant.”
I walked down the aisle, stopping when I came to the first section. A neatly printed sign said this genus was
Ophrys.
Reading tags I saw there were fifteen plants equally divided into three varieties:
O. holoserica, O. apifera,
and
O. insectifera.
“Latin names,” I said. “The O must mean the genus
Ophrys.”
“The second is the species,” said Natalie.
“O. holoserica
is the late spider orchid.
O. apifera
is the bee orchid and
O. insectifera
is the fly orchid.”
I grinned. “I'm impressed. For someone who doesn't care about this place, you seem to be knowledgeable.”
“Dan loves orchids. He eats, talks, and breathes his work. I've picked up some facts by osmosis—I can't escape it.”
I waved my hand at our surroundings. “What else do you know?”
Natalie shrugged. “Dan is breeding a plant he can sell through the greenhouses. Instead of huge blooms, he wants a compact plant with delicate sprays of flowers that have unique markings. He's working with several different families of orchids. They're all tagged and grouped. At first it was a hobby, and I could live with that. But his interest has grown until he's
obsessed. He's finished pollinating this group of orchids, and now he's waiting for the seed to mature.”
My knowledge of orchids concerned only the flower, having used them in weddings and corsages. But I'd lived on a farm and had watched my mother save marigold and zinnia seed from her garden plants. I cited the next stages. “Dan will collect the seed, germinate it, and grow the plants until they bloom. That's when he'll see if his cross was successful.”
“That's right. Dan says it'll take from five to seven years before he'll know if the seed produces the kind of flower he's after. He could collect the seed and send it off to be germinated, but that would take part of the procedure out of his hands. He wants to be involved in all aspects—from the selection of the parent plants, to the breeding, the harvesting of seed, to the germination, to the final plant with blooms.”
“I had no idea orchids were so slow-growing. Maybe that explains why the blossoms are expensive.” I frowned and looked at the mature plants on the benches. “Doesn't he have any baby plants yet?”
Natalie pointed to the rear of the greenhouse. “They're called plantlets and are kept in a special room referred to as the nursery.” She made a face.
I walked down the aisle to the two doors. One led into an office. The other was posted with another sign. This one was in Dan's own handwriting.
IF I AM NOT AT YOUR SIDE
DO NOT ENTER!
DAN PARKER
I cupped my hands to the glass and peered in. A four-footwide cabinet with a stainless steel worktable dominated the
room. A manufacturer's tag mounted on an upper door said it was a Laminar Flow Cabinet. To the right was a table filled with glass flasks and illuminated by fluorescent lights. Each flask was labeled, but I couldn't make out the words. In some cases the flasks contained bits of green. I assumed this was the germinating orchid seed. It looked as if Dan was on his way to growing seedlings of his own making.
“What's going on in here?” I asked.
“That cabinet has an exhaust system that keeps unwanted particles out of the air. Orchid seedlings tend to get fungus. If that happens the whole batch has to be aborted.”
I gave the seedlings another look before I turned away. I walked back down the greenhouse, reading labels, staring at the plants. “I'm impressed, Natalie. I think Dan's work is fascinating.” I frowned. “It reminds me of something, but I can't think what.” I shrugged. “Anyway, it's exciting. Dan could be on the threshold of hybridizing an entirely new species of plant.”
“Yeah, I know.” Her tone was glum.
“Why don't you like coming in here?”
Instead of answering me, she went back into the anteroom and removed her gown and footies. I followed, but I wasn't going to drop the subject. If this place was as important to Dan as Natalie said, then there had to be a good reason why she didn't like coming in here.
Once we were outside, I said, “Well? You've been behind Dan in everything he's done. When he first started the greenhouses, you worked next to him. You delivered plants, watered, fertilized, did whatever needed to be done. What is it about the orchids that has alienated you?”
“It isn't the plants. It's Dan. Like I said, he's become obsessed with this work.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “You're
right. I did work alongside him building this business, but now we have employees.” Tears came to Natalie's eyes. “Maybe I'm jealous. I'm not needed.”
I reached out to put my arm around her, but she stepped away. “I'm ready for a swim,” she said. “Are you coming with me?”
I wiped the sweat off my brow. She didn't have to ask me twice.
 
Twenty minutes later I was drifting on a raft, cool as a cucumber, even though the hot sun felt brutal to my exposed skin. Natalie had turned on the gas grill. The smell of past cookouts rose in the air to mingle with the smell of chlorine. I was too tired for a workout, but Natalie was swimming laps. I watched her, marveling at the effortless way she glided through the water.

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