In their two hours this afternoon, they had talked about Caroline, thePelican, and strategy against the Magruders. The one thing Luke consistently avoided was anything to do with his legal status. Every time Gray asked, Luke diverted the topic. When Gray asked about getting him transferred to an American prison, he said not to bother. He refused to comment on the pending charges or even if there had been a date set for the trial. In exasperation, Gray gave up and asked the broadest question he could think of.
“Tell me what I can do to make this better.”
Luke tilted his head as he thought for a minute. No matter what he asked, Gray would deliver. Money to bribe the guards? Political favors called in? A prison escape? Gray would do his best, but when Luke finally answered, it wasn’t anywhere close to what he’d been thinking.
“There are three families in Philadelphia. You know who they are. Keep an eye on them for me, will you?”
Gray swallowed back his frustration. Those families had already been richly compensated, and no amount of money would ever ease Luke’s conscience, but it was the only thing Luke asked of him, and he would do it.
“Of course.”
Gray stayed as long as the guards permitted, but eventually they showed up to lead Luke back to his cell. With his wrists shackled, his brother couldn’t scoop up the newspapers and magazines, so Gray gathered them together and placed them atop Luke’s outstretched arms. The issue ofGood Housekeepingwas on top of the stack.
Luke glanced at it. “Don’t be too hard on Annabelle,” he said just before being led down the hall. “I’m guilty as sin, and this wasn’t her fault or anyone else’s.”
As he watched the door slam behind Luke, Gray couldn’t be so sure. Annabelle may have turned him in, but who had failed Luke in the years leading up to his arrest?
Thirty-Three
Annabelle’s first test in her new position supporting the food purity initiative came exactly one week after theGood Housekeepingarticle was released. She was measuring soil samples when the department’s secretary entered the lab to tell her that a journalist fromThe Washington Postwanted to speak with her.
“Does he really want to speak withme?” she asked the secretary. “Surely there is someone more senior than me to represent the department.”
The secretary shook her head. “That’s what I told him, but he says he wants more details on Magruder’s applesauce. I suppose you’re the right person to talk to about that.”
Annabelle looked at Mr. Bryant, who had worked at Agriculture for more than thirty years. “Should I go?”
Mr. Bryant nodded. “It is a challenge to get the popular press to cover anything from the Department of Agriculture, so jump on this opportunity. I’m sure you will comport yourself professionally.”
Annabelle tugged off her apron, wishing she had worn something nicer than the plain cotton dress she always donned when working with soil. She raced to the sink to scrub her hands but still felt uneasy talking to a reporter.
Dickie Shuster fromThe Washington Postwas nothing like what she expected a journalist to look like. He wore a shockingly bright green bow tie embroidered with tiny ladybugs and knotted in generous loops of fabric that dangled down his chest. His flamboyant attire made him seem younger than he was, but on closer study, a spray of lines fanned from his eyes, and his hairline receded so far back that he would soon be considered bald. Nevertheless, the delightful floppy tie put her at ease.
They met in the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Department of Agriculture. There weren’t many people there at this time of day, and Dickie, as he insisted she call him, managed to snag an entire custard tart for them to share.
“The chef in the kitchen here is beyond compare,” he said as he cut a large wedge for her and slid it across the table. “Don’t hold back. Anything that doesn’t get eaten is coming straight home with me.”
“I gather you saw theGood Housekeepingarticle,” she said, too anxious to eat.
He nodded. “The Delacroix family has been trying to take down the Magruders for ages, but you are brand-new in town. I’m curious how you became involved in this matter.”
How did he know she was new in town? She wasn’t comfortable answering personal questions and immediately retreated behind her official position. “It’s hard to work here and not be aware of the issue. The Department of Agriculture has been trying to pass food purity laws for years.”
“Decades, actually,” the reporter corrected her. He took another bite of custard, chewing thoughtfully as he framed his next question. “Now, let’s move on to the subject of Luke Delacroix. He’s had it in for the Magruders—what did I say wrong? You just flinched.”
“I didn’t flinch.”
“You most certainly did. The moment I mentioned Luke Delacroix. Why?”
She didn’t have to answer these questions. IfThe Washington Postwished to discuss food purity or the Magruders’ applesauce, she would be happy to do so, but she had absolutely nothing to say about any of the Delacroixs.
“I barely know Luke Delacroix.”
“Do you know where he is? He’s usually such a man about town, but lately he seems to have vanished.” He scrutinized her like a cat stalking prey. He knew something.
Her mouth went dry, and the sight of the sickeningly sweet custard tart made her feel ill. She pushed the plate back a few inches and stood. “My job is to analyze durum wheat kernels. Most people think it’s boring work, but my parents live on a struggling farm, so for me it’s vitally important. I don’t mean to be rude, but this conversation is pointless, and I need to return to my job.”
She felt the reporter’s stare boring into her back as she left the cafeteria. She’d bet her bottom dollar he didn’t care a fig about fake applesauce. He was after something, and it had nothing to do with food purity.
