Once he passed the Voracci house and approached the end of the laneway, Scotty turned up the radio. Tom Petty was “Running Down a Dream” at top volume.
The old Camry had seen better days. Specks of rust elbowed their way through the dust on the blue paint. Exhaust escaped through the holes in the muffler. Inside, the car smelled of tobacco, grease and sweat. Crumpled Burger King bags and empty cans of Coke littered the passenger’s side of the floor. A faded paper pine tree swung impotently from the rearview mirror. Yet the black vinyl seats, dashboard and steering wheel had been treated with Armor All religiously once a month for the last two years. This was Scotty’s home and his only refuge through the busy season. It was the place he lived, ate and slept when he worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day from June to October.
“That fat slob Caines really screwed up my day,” Scotty said as he approached the highway. He turned the wheel and directed the car towards town. “I’ll tell ya, I thought I’d never get out of there.”
“Could be worse.” Taylor slid back in his seat and looked across through the driver’s side window at the steady line of trees bordering the road.
“Oh, yeah!” Scotty turned his head to Taylor with a sudden grim realization. “Did you hear they found Anna? Just fucking awful.”
“I know.”
“I found out just after lunch. Maria was crying at the picnic table and told me. Just awful. When did you find out?”
“When Juan and I found her this morning.”
“This morning?” Scotty did a double-take, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “That was you? I thought it was Juan and Michael Voracci. That’s fucking awful. I’m so glad I wasn’t there.” He whistled, loud and piercing. “I don’t even want to imagine!”
Scotty pushed in his cigarette lighter and pulled a cigarette from the pack between them. Taylor was craving a cigarette, but the smoke was still nauseating. His increasing irritability from the nicotine withdrawal combined with the smell of the smoke made his stomach turn. He clenched his fist and stared at the road ahead.
A dead raccoon lay torn on the gravel shoulder.
“And you’re sure you want to eat?” asked Scotty. “I don’t think I could eat for a week after seeing something like that. You really saw her, right? Was it the first time? I mean, have you ever seen a dead body before?”
Taylor nodded.
“Not me,” Scotty continued. “Just my grandfather and my mom’s aunt. Those were both in a funeral home, and that was bad enough.
I’ll tell ya, I don’t want to go near that end of the orchard ever again.
I don’t like cops, but that’s not why.” He wiped his forehead with his bare forearm. “That’s where she died, ya know? I couldn’t ever go around there again. Not even if you paid me.”
“Why not?” Taylor asked, already suspecting the reason.
“It’s just, I don’t know…all tainted now.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Nope.” Scotty, annoyed by the force of the wind in the car now, cranked the window closed, his arm vigorously pumping the handle to move the stiff gears. “Never seen one. Never want to.”
Beck’s Tavern was on the edge of Andover, about three miles southeast from Tanglewood Vineyards. Any traces of the farms that had dominated the area here when Taylor was a child had all but vanished in a ten-year frenzy of suburban building. Occasionally the skeletons of a couple of abandoned barns, or the remnants of split rail fences could still be seen from the highway in the midst of vinylclad split-level homes, and the maze of winding drives, streets and crescents, all enclosed by row upon row of cedar privacy fences.
The tavern was generally empty this early in the evening. The pre-dinner crowd had gone home, and the drinking crowd was still finishing dinner. With orange formica tables and vinyl chairs, it felt more like a diner than a tavern to Taylor. The seating area was the shape and size of a boxcar, but without as much character. The walls had been recently dry-walled, painted white, with beer posters tacked neatly between each of the four windows facing the parking lot. Two grey-haired farmers, dressed in green overalls, sat at the bar eating fish and chips. Scotty came here regularly, several times a week, when he had money in his pocket, enamoured as he was by Cindy, the blonde waitress.
The pair had their choice of seats and took the table closest to the door. They ordered two burgers and two beers. Cindy smiled at Ben but refused to look Scotty in the eyes. She either frowned or looked to the floor each time he grinned at her, showing his teeth.
Scotty never realized that she refused to look at him. He averted his own eyes each time she appeared to look in his direction, but he watched her carefully when she walked away. When he noticed Taylor watching him, Scotty huffed and began to slide the salt shaker from left to right and right to left across the table in a self-conscious game of catch.
“Any idea,” Taylor began, “what Caines is up to in that locked greenhouse?”
“Who knows?” replied Scotty. “Who cares?”
“Ever see anyone else in there?”
“Nah.” Scotty shrugged. “Caines is the only one with keys. I think he worked out a deal to have a place to do his own gardening or something. Oh. Carl might have a key.”
Taylor nodded. Carl Avery was the horticulturist and a friend of the Voracci family. He worked only a few hours each week to measure and test the use of pesticides and fertilizers. The hydroponic tomatoes were fully dependant on the chemical fertilizers pumped into them. While Abe Wagner handled most of the care for the vineyard, Carl Avery was the only one who knew how to care for the tomatoes.
“Last year,” Scotty said after some thought, “you know, when they closed it off, I asked Carl what they were doing in there. He said it was just a new kind of grape. Hydroponic grapes, he said.”
Taylor squinted at Scotty. “Hydroponic grapes. For wine? Was that a joke?”
Scotty shrugged and stared back without blinking.
“Soil is important for wine,” said Taylor. “Hydroponics won’t work.”
“But you’ll get more grapes,” Scotty said, staring at Taylor as if he were an imbecile. “They’ll be bigger too. More grapes means more wine. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“No, it isn’t good,” said Taylor. “You want to make the fruit work to get the best taste. You don’t want the vines to be full of fruit. Less fruit means better taste. Why do you think we spend so much time pulling at them? That’s why some of the best wines in the world grow on the soil no one else wants.”
Scotty continued to stare.
“Didn’t that strike you as being a bit odd?” Taylor asked. “I think Carl was pulling your leg, kid.”
“I never thought much about it,” Scotty said, looking bored now. “I don’t go in Michael’s house. I don’t go in his truck, less he asks. I don’t go in Caines’ greenhouse, less he asks. I just work there, y’know?”
Taylor could
