Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

But within a few minutes of driving the rental car from the airport parking lot into the town, Marge realized that Ponceville didn’t grow for the “farmers’ market” clientele. This place was stone-cold agribusiness with acres upon acres of commercial plots fenced and confined with NO TRESPASSING signs. No cute roadside stands here. Instead she and Oliver traversed fields and groves of crops and cultivation. There were canopies of avocado shading unripe citrus, the silver-green leaves of olive trees, rows of stone fruit trees-apricots, peaches, plums, and nectarines. The area had patchwork quilts of vegetables, and with each one she passed, a different sensation would tickle her nose: cilantro, jalapeños, onions, green peppers.

Street signs were next to impossible to find, and there were no distinguishing landmarks other than a barn here and a plow there. She and Oliver rode on two-lane asphalt streets surrounded by the breadbasket of America, trying to follow Willy Brubeck’s arcane directions to his father-in-law’s farm.

The rental had come with a broken GPS and after a half hour, it was clear that they were lost.

“We could call up and ask for help,” Marge suggested.

“We could,” Oliver answered, “but I have no idea where we are.”

Marge pulled the car onto the shoulder of the street. “Call him up and tell him we’re at the corner of cantaloupes and habañeros.”

Oliver smiled. “Give me the number.”

Marge recited the digits and Oliver punched them in. “In case his wife answers, her name is Gladys.”

“Got it…Yes, hello, I’m Detective Scott Oliver from the Los Angeles Police Department and I’m calling for Marcus Merry…Yes, exactly. How are you, ma’am? Your husband was gracious enough to see us today and…Yes, we are lost. We’re at the corner of two fields. One has cantaloupes and the other has habañeros if that helps…Oh, it does…He doesn’t have to do that…Yes, it probably would be very helpful. Yes, thank you. Bye.” He turned to Marge. “The old man’s coming down to fetch us. She’s got a little something for us to eat when we get there.”

“That probably means a big spread in farmer language.”

“That’s all right by me. I didn’t eat any breakfast. Man, I didn’t even get my coffee this morning.”

“Yeah, the airline was pretty skimpy with the food and drink.”

“What food and drink? By the time the beverage cart came to us, all they had left were water and peanuts. I felt like a damn blue jay. Man, even prison does a better job of feeding its people.”

“If you like starch and sugar.”

“Those penitentiary wardens ain’t no dummies. All that starch and sugar puts their charges in diabetic comas. They, unlike the airlines, know how to keep the masses happy.”

THEY SAT IN the living room on chintz-covered chairs, the area painted a cheery lemon yellow. The floors were knotted pine, and the walls held dozens of family photos-black and white as well as color-along with a good-sized canvas of dripping abstract art that looked completely out of place.

A little something to eat included ham, cheese, fresh fruit, sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, avocados, and a variety of dark and whole wheat breads. Mustard was served in a yellow crockery dish.

At first, Oliver tried to be polite, but when Marcus Merry made himself one honking sandwich, Scott let his stomach do the talking. Willy Brubeck’s father-in-law could have been anywhere between midseventies and midnineties. He was stout with white kinky hair and pale mocha skin. He had on a denim work shirt, overalls, and rubber-soled boots. His hands and nails had been scrubbed clean.

Gladys seemed pleased by everyone’s appetite. “I have some cake.”

Marcus’s wife was petite with gray kinky hair cut close to her scalp. She had round brown eyes and a round face. Gamine-like, she could have been a tanned older version of Audrey Hepburn. She wore jeans with a white shirt tucked into her pants and white tennis shoes, and there were small diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.

Marge said, “Honestly, Mrs. Merry, this is just terrific.”

“So cake will make it even more terrific. You two go ahead and do your talking with Marcus. I’ll get the cake.”

“I don’t need cake,” Marcus complained. “I’m fat enough as it is.”

“Then don’t eat it.”

Discussion over.

Marge said, “Have you always been a farmer, Mr. Merry?”

“It’s Marcus, and the answer is yes. I can trace my relatives way, way back.” He spoke with a combination of southern drawl and black patois. “The name Merry comes from my great-granddaddy’s owner. After he was emancipated, Colonel Merry gave him fifty dollars and his name.”

Merry took another bite of his sandwich. “I think the colonel must have been my great-great-granddaddy. You see how light we are.”

Marge nodded.

“Comes from both sides. My daughter…Willy’s wife…everyone wanted to marry her. She was a real beauty…like my wife. Damn, I miss that girl. Willy ain’t so bad, either. Don’t tell him I said that.”

He laughed.

“It was my grandfather who picked up stakes and decided to come to California from Georgia. Back then, the state was filled with all different kinds of people: Mexicans, Chinese, Japanese, Indians…a couple of extra black men didn’t bother no one too much. Later on when Dr. King started talking about a dream…that’s when the tension started.”

“Is there still tension around here?” Oliver asked.

“No, sir. We do our job and mind our own business. Now we even got a black man in the White House.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Why am I telling you this? You see tension all the time.” A pause. “Willy tells me his area don’t have much crime.”

Marge said, “Not too bad.”

“Well, then that’s good.” Merry took another enormous bite. “No sense having my boy in danger. Don’t tell him I said that, either.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Marge told him. “So how did your daughter meet Willy?”

“At church.”

“Willy isn’t from around here,” Oliver said.

“No, but he served in Vietnam with a boy who grew up about three farms to the north of here. Willy came out for a visit and I was impressed that he bothered going to church.” He shook his head in fatherly consternation.

“What happened to Willy’s friend who grew up on the farm?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, he went back to his roots. He grows corn and is making money off biofuel. Me, I don’t grow crops for no cars. I grow crops for people.” Another bite. “Is that cake comin’?” he shouted out loud.

“Just hold your socks!” When Gladys came in with the cake, everyone oohed and aahed. It was chocolate with chocolate frosting and several layers of fresh berries in between. When she handed Oliver a slice, he noticed he was salivating heavily.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome. And I’ll give you both a slice to take home. He certainly don’t need the whole thing.”

“If you don’t want me to eat it, why do you bake it?” Marcus asked his wife.

“I do it as an artistic project,” Gladys countered.

“Then donate it to a museum.” He finished his slice in four bites. “I know you came here to talk to the sheriff. He won’t be able to see us for another half hour. In the meantime, you can watch us bicker.”

“Oh, you’re so silly.” She gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder. “Coffee?”

“I’ll have some,” Marcus said.

“I’m making up a fresh pot.” She went back into the kitchen.

Marge said, “How well did you know Rondo Martin?”

“Or did you even know him?” Oliver added.

“I knew who he was. Can’t say I knew him well. Did I ever have any business with him? Is that what you’re asking me?”