“Madagascar has a unique environment,” Mr. Fairchild continued. “Its isolation from the rest of Africa means they have plants and animal species that are found nowhere else on earth.Rice is a mainstay of their diet. I suspect that the uniqueness of the island has caused the rice to grow and adapt in unique ways. I want to know more.”
Heaven help her, she knew what he was about to ask. Approaching Gray for a favor was unthinkable, but how could she turn down a request from the world’s leading plant explorer? There wasn’t a lot of money for plant exploration, and Gray could help them. All he had to do was collect some rice and put it in a test tube.
“He’s already going to be there,” Mr. Fairchild said. “I understand that he’s not an enthusiastic supporter of the Department of Agriculture, but if you have a special friendship...” From his bag he pulled a set of empty test tubes, offering them to her.
She didn’t want to touch them. “How did you know that? That he’s going to Madagascar?”
“He’s seeking cargo for his ship. Flyers are posted all over the port.”
“We don’t have a special friendship,” Annabelle said. “I may be the last person on earth who could persuade him to collect those samples.”
If Mr. Fairchild was disappointed, he did not show it. He merely set the wooden box of empty vials on her lap and refused to take them back.
“Huge swaths of our country are lying fallow because they aren’t suitable for wheat or corn,” he said. “Rice may be the answer. Rice is nutritious and easy to store and can feed millions of people. Whatever personal tiff you have with Delacroix pales in comparison to that.”
It was true. Somehow Annabelle was going to have to find the gumption to track Gray down and get him to agree.
Twenty-Five
At the rate they were moving, Gray figured he and Otis would conclude their clandestine task by midnight. They worked quietly in the townhouse kitchen after Mr. and Mrs. Holder had gone to bed, for he didn’t want any witnesses.
He still couldn’t help smiling as he pasted another label onto a jar of the Magruders’ “applesauce.” They had over a thousand jars to label, and it was slow going. Otis reported it had taken him and Luke two full days to steam the original labels from the glass jars, but Luke’s arrest had prevented them from moving on to the next step of relabeling.
Luke had designed the comical label using his own artwork. A full-color drawing showed a large pumpkin with the top cut off. A pair of happy mice perched on the pumpkin’s open rim and gleefully poured chemicals from test tubes into it. The name on the label was “Magruder Mash That Tastes Like Applesauce.”
Most damning was the list of ingredients printed on the back of the label:Pumpkin stewed in cider vinegar, sugar beet glucose, chrome yellow dye made with pure lead nitrate and potassium chromate, and a hint of formaldehyde to keep food eternally fresh. Product is guaranteed to contain noapples!
More happy mice applauded the last line. The plan was todeliver the jars to Boston, a city ideally placed to reach the publishing, culinary, and academic heart of America.
A knock on the front door interrupted their work. Gray froze, his glance darting around at the hundreds of jars.
“You expecting anybody?” Otis asked.
Gray shook his head, for it was past ten o’clock.
“I’ll dart upstairs and peek out the window to see who it is,” Otis said.
Gray reached for a sheet to drape over the stacks of labels and bowls of paste, but there was no way to cover the crates of bogus applesauce. Whoever was at the front door continued their incessant pounding, probably assuming the entire household was abed and needed awakening.
“It’s your sister,” Otis called in a harsh whisper from upstairs. “What do you want to do?”
Gray cursed under his breath. At all costs, he didn’t want Caroline within a square mile of this brazen caper, because, quite frankly, she would love it and want to dive in. He tugged the door to the kitchen closed, wishing it had a lock, for Caroline usually helped herself to a cup of tea whenever she visited.
“I’ve got it covered,” he called up to Otis. “Make yourself scarce until I can get rid of her.”
He knew it wouldn’t be easy the moment he opened the door. Caroline looked typically chic in a glamorous tailored suit, but her eyes were snapping mad.
“Why haven’t you sold thePelican?” she demanded.
He plastered a mild expression on his face and stood in the doorway. “That’s all? No good evening or inquiry about my health? Just rude demands?”
She shoved past him as she pushed inside. “I got a note from our banker just before dinner that said he can’t pay my bills because the anticipated infusion of cash hasn’t arrived in my account. Why not?”
Gray folded his arms over his chest, wondering what otherbills Caroline had run up since her gross over-expenditure on clothing. “However did you manage to restrain yourself during the hours since dinner?”
“I’ve been busy with the first lady,” she snapped. “What’s going on, Gray? Why haven’t you sold that ship?”
“Because Dad entrusted it and all its dealings to me, and I’ve decided not to sell. We’re keeping it.”
