The Hour Between One and Two

Prologue

Promotional Brochure from the American Tofu Company

The Year of the Monkey

This is the year to say Yes! and expect miracles. Mimic the agile Monkey who won’t stop till he swings from every branch and tests every angle. You’ll land on your feet with a happy surprise in your hands and a smile on your face.

Enjoy this year as one big poker game. The one who gets the best deal will be the one who outsmarts the other. If you lose a hand, laugh. Monkeys shrug off their mistakes and find amusement everywhere.

Don’t even try to keep track of who’s ahead: the Monkey’s left hand rarely knows what the right hand is up to. Not to worry—it’s a year of huge rewards.

Help comes from the oddest places. Astonishing gifts arrive by coincidence, even from your enemies. Go ahead, say Yes, Yes, Yes! Be unpredictable, stretch and swing far. Have fun and you can leave the low-hanging fruit for the groundlings. Seriously, it’s playtime.

From The Year of the Monkey

Chinese New Year  Promotional Brochure

American Tofu, Inc., Clement, New York

www.AmericanTofu.com

Chapter One

Becky MacDaniel

MY BIG 3–0

I jumped into his car as excited and happy as I’d ever been. He kissed me quick and bit my lip. He smelled like he’d put away as many Margaritas as I had.

It’s sad or crazy or love, but every time I see him, I can’t resist touching him. I shouldn’t, but … Like I can’t control myself. He’s not good for me, I know. But what else can I do?

We drove out of town, down a gravel road that followed the river, bumping along under a forest canopy drizzling with moonlight, my fingers caressing his bare hairy arm. Warm breeze from the river seeped into the car as we crept lights out toward wherever we were going.

What a birthday today. First, a surprise breakfast made with all the love my kids could give their mom. Lumpy pancakes and soggy bacon all drowned in maple syrup, just the way I like it. And perfect coffee—half milk, half sugar.

Then, tonight, thirty rowdy friends at my house ringing in my big 3–0. Nobody will ever forget that party, even if I did send everybody home early. They all believed my excuse that I had to be at work by four.

Now, celebrating in the full moon night with him. We might stay up all night. Before we climbed out of the truck, I touched his cheek and asked, Don’t you feel like a fish tonight?

Wrinkling his nose, he said, Not really. He raised his thick eyebrows and poked his fingers at my ribs. More like a stallion.

I caught his fingers in my fists and held them in mid-air. No, seriously. See those shadows? How they wiggle between the moon-beams? Like we’re sitting in a three-dimensional fish net made of light and dark.

He grunted, Yeah, and that’s all, like he had something else on his mind. I knew what that was.

I uncapped my thermos of frozen margaritas and we sat drinking and toasting each other. Before long, we started laughing and shrieking like idiots. We’d both had plenty to drink before we came out to the river.

We hopped down the root-stairs on the riverbank and stood in the pale shade of an enormous oak.

Let’s cross the river, he said. I want to give you a present in style.

I have a present for you, too, I whispered, kissing his ear.

He ogled my breasts like he always did and said, I bet you do. I slapped his cheek, maybe a little too hard. He smiled. Not that, I said.

A jumble of rocks and boulders lay exposed above the shallow August stream. It looks slippery, I said.

That’s shadows, not water. I can cross with my eyes closed.

My feet stayed planted so he pointed across the water. See that patch of moonlight? I want to see my princess dressed in just her new present.

He dug into his pants pocket and brought out a velvety little box. Flipping the lid back, he showed me two tiny green jewels glowing like stars in his moonlit hand. I reached for them, but he shut the lid and stuffed the box back into his pocket.

That’s all you want me to wear? I couldn’t believe he’d buy me something so expensive.

You don’t need anything else. He held out his arms. Jump on. I’ll carry you over.

Like a groom?

Like a stallion.

We laughed until we bent over, bouncing off each other. I leapt up and swung my legs around his waist. Embracing his neck with both arms, I threw my head back and howled.

Mmmm. You’re heavy, he said, adjusting his grip. Too much cake?

You’re weak. I teased him back. I love those extra-strong stringy muscles in his arms and back.

He threw me up into a moonbeam slanting through the trees and flipped me around and settled me across his arms where I lay like a bride.

Nobody ever called me weak before. Laughing, he tossed me up and down as he stretched his leg across the gap between the shore and a flat boulder in the river. Stopping on a flat boulder near the middle of the river, he slipped a little and hugged me tight to his chest while he stopped, regaining his balance.

I kissed him on the nose. These rocks. Watch out. They’re slippery. He didn’t move for a moment. Are you awake? I said.

In answer, he nibbled my neck and mumbled, Gotta be careful of moss. It bites.

Placid water trickled around luminous round rocks that lay scattered randomly between the banks the way my daughter drops biscuits onto a baking sheet. Below the surface, sharp rocks and pebbles fluttered like leaves in a breeze.

Let me down. I can walk. I arched my back, trying to twist out of his arms.

Hey, stop that. I got you.

I want down.

Quit wiggling like that, I might drop you.

I straightened my legs and pushed against his chest with the heels of my palms.

Take it easy, he said, swaying back and forth. please.

Let go. You’re too soused to carry me.

He took another step. As his foot touched down, he wobbled, stretched between two rocks.

You want down? Be careful. My toes touched the boulder while he held onto my shoulders. He lost his balance and his leg skidded out and shot across the rock. His hands flew apart, flailing, he tipped backwards, my body slid away.

He shouted, Becky! No! Becky!

He tried to catch me, but when his fingers clutched at my back, I fell, face-first, through a moonbeam, into dark ... the rock ... oh …

Chapter Two

Charlie Greer

DEATH SPEAKS ALL LANGUAGES

midnight phone ringing

who else but Benko?

the call that shattered my dream

I was sailing in the Caribbean. Warm silky water flowed between my toes as I lay dangling my feet in a turquoise sea. Playful steel drum melodies drifted across the yacht from the Jamaican group playing on the stern, lolling me into euphoria.

Without warning, the wind shifted. The boat shuddered and the sail whipped, cracking the air inches from my head. The drums clanged, showering sharp, cold notes into my naked ears.

The phone rang four times before Nora got it.

Charlie, wake up. It’s Benko.

What time is it?

Three fifty two.

She poked me in the shoulder with the phone.

OK. OK.

I took the phone. Nora usually slept through middle-of-thenight calls from my tofu factory, but she woke up for this one. Her intuition must have told her that this was that dreaded call everybody gets sometime.

Benko wouldn’t call if it was just a brown-out or production error. He was the best production manager I’d ever had and I totally trusted his judgment. I figured it wasn’t a tragedy, because the police come to your door to tell you about that.

Charlie, Benko growled in his heavy Russian accent, Trouble, we got. Big.

What’s up, Benko? It’s four in the morning. Half-asleep, I felt

more annoyed than worried.

Better get over here. Little problem it’s not. Too much for me. I don’t know what to do.

Slow down. I can’t understand you.

Sorry. Cops. Cops I called. His normally confident voice trembled, frightening me. Sometimes I’m just paranoid, always worried about someone behind my back, but this time my radar was right.

Somebody died.

My God. Who?

Good-looking redhead? Becky. Cook, you know.

I jumped up out of bed. What? What? Shit? Damn! How? God!

Her eyes wide, Nora asked, What?

Something bad happened at the factory.

I spoke into the phone.

Benko, where is she?

Right here. I’m looking at body. Laying on floor by big tank.

I’m out the door. Leave everything alone.

Don’t worry, Charlie. I got all covered.

Flashing blue and red lights, a patrol car and an ambulance idled in front of the American Tofu Company. The colors of blood pulsed in and out of the low office building’s windows. The three-story factory loomed overhead, pale and gleaming in the security lights.

I approached the cop at the front door. I’m the owner. Let me in. He started to ask me something but I rushed past him.

I ran through the dim offices lit only by streetlights shining in the windows and opened the swinging doors to the plant and smelled the musty odor of soybeans cooking. The scent distracted me for a second with a sense of comforting normalcy—the tofu factory chugging along.

On the far side of the fluorescence-bleached production room, another cop, some EMTs, my production manager Benko, and the half-dozen or so morning production workers dressed in white uniforms and caps stood in a circle staring at a body on the green floor. No one spoke. Steam billowed against the slick walls of the processing room where rows of tall, stainless steel caldrons and pipes glistened. Every few seconds, the tofu machinery pumped out loud booms followed by rhythmic hisses in the otherwise silent factory.

The dead woman sprawled on the tile. It was Becky MacDaniel, a woman too familiar, intimately familiar, but nobody else was aware of that, I hoped. Seeing her there lying dead on the floor weakened my knees.

Water from the processing area flowed constantly across the green production room tiles. It pooled against one side of the body . I stared at her hand as the fingers bobbed up and down. Chilly water soaked my pants from my knees down to my socks.

Tough luck, Greer. You should have known better than to fish off the company pier.

I know. I know. My personal Jiminy Cricket never lets me off the hook. I can’t shut him up, even if I try.

Becky, Benko said in his gravely tones. Morning shift bean cook. He put his arm around my shoulder.

I see that. My neck relaxing against the grip of his muscular fingers. Jesus, Benko. Your goddam accent on the phone confused me. I thought you said our chef—Gen, Genevieve.

Shit, Charlie. Becky I said. Becky.

I shrugged off his arm and shouted. Christ, Benko. You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought it was Genevieve. Genevieve O’Connor—we all depended on her to make the sales that paid the bills. Everyone knew how devoted I was to her.

One of the EMT’s or cops mumbled, He thought it was somebody else.

Good, they see it as a simple accident. That we can handle. I knelt down on the wet floor next to the body, my staged relief that it wasn’t Genevieve fading in the harsh light of the dead Becky laid out on the floor

I wanted to pick Becky up and carry her out into the night and send everybody home and start the night over. Go back to the time before the company party months ago when I drove her home when she was drunk and I stayed too long.

She was the prettiest tofu worker in the company, but lying dead, she had the swollen face of a teenager who spent too much time in front of the TV set nibblng chips and chocolate.

Greer, you’ve got ice in your veins. You’ll need it now. You’re in for nothing but pain.

Sometimes you have to be cold. Don’t need to get distracted by the pain, mine or anybody’s. Benko squatted down beside me.

Checking beans in tank, she slipped on platform. Keeping his voice low. Knocked her head on the edge of tank. She had big birthday party last night. Could be she’s still drunk this morning? Everything else in the factory ship-shop-shape. Right?

Thanks, Benko. You’re probably right. All the cleanup records straight? I stared at him hard. He had to make sure our records were in order. A blizzard of investigations would come our way police, state worker health and safety board, state food manufacturing inspectors, insurance companies.

Benko nodded at me. Records in good shape. I make sure.

I nodded and exhaled for the first time since his call. He’d handle it.

The young policeman squatted beside me. He held his hat in his hand. You the boss?

Yeah.

Chief Buhrman’s on his way. We gotta investigate.

Sure. We don’t have many accidents. My God, we have safety training. This is awful. Tears began to leak down my cheeks, surprising me with their volume and warmth. With the cop beside me, I said to Benko, I thought she worked on the loading dock?

First week on new job. She wanted out of warehouse. So try cooking I told her. Chen found her upside down in tank. Called me. He nodded toward Chen, the tofu maker we’d hired from our New York City network of Chinese migrant workers. Pump wouldn’t draw beans so he checked tank. There she was. Head stuck in drain. He dragged her out. Called me. Like crazy man I ran here.

Empty-headed, I stared at the body. The shadow of black bra and panties on pink skin showed through her soaked uniform. A wave of dizziness rolled through me. After less than an hour of sleep, I’d raced here, my adrenaline pumping and blood sugar going nuts.

Cops I call from home, Benko added. I run here hoping she’s knocked out maybe. Right away I see she’s dead so I call you.

Benko had followed proper protocol. Thank God for him. His cool head hadn’t failed me yet. He handled problems easily, fixed any machine, got production done on schedule and within budget. A good-looking guy, he smiled a lot, charmed me when he first stepped into my office, grinning like a kid. He reminded me of me if I were a mechanic. He could handle seventy production workers like they were his little kids. Especially the women, most of our crew.

I glanced up at Chen, the somber Chinese worker, for confirmation of Benko’s story. His English almost non-existent, he shrugged. His whites were pressed and clean, except for a tan smudge across his chest. He must have crushed beans against himself when he dragged Becky out of the tank.

The other Chinese and the Latino production workers avoided my eyes, not wanting to volunteer any information, in English, Chinese, or Spanish.

But death speaks all languages. At that minute, everybody in the room was reading everybody else’s mind. I emptied my mind of any thoughts about Becky, except the fact that she was dead and I was the boss and I had to keep myself and everybody else under control.

Chapter Three

Charlie

DOUBLE MURDER?

buried in soaking beans,

she forgot to wash her hands—

 bloody fingernails

The afternoon after Becky died, Police Chief Aaron Buhrman asked to see me in my office at the factory. Got some pretty serious questions for you. Can’t do it on the phone. You available now?

My heart nearly stopped. Did he find something? I distracted myself with making phone calls to assure some of our vendors that all was all right with American Tofu, sad, but we’d bumble through, doing our best for the family and our employees.

By nine this morning, the street in front of the factory was jammed with vans, cars, pickups, and journalists insisting on talking with me. Channel 13 and Channel 10 and three other channels, reporters from five radio stations—even the university station every newspaper from Syracuse to Buffalo including The Shoppers clamored to get me to say something I’d regret.

I’ll never know how, but that day’s New York Daily News online led with a sickening headline Suspicious Death in Upstate Tofu Factory. Rumors flew among our customers and competitors. Several of my friendliest competitors had called me to express concern about what this scandal-mongering would do to our sales. I even got a call from Xanadu Tofu in the Bay Area. Messages swamped the company’s Facebook page. I considered taking it down.

I hoped the story would become a simple industrial accident before the Enquirer published something humiliating and sensational about us. I prayed that in a day or two, TV news would squeeze all the family tragedy they could out of the death and give up its coverage of American Tofu.

Despite the storm of bad publicity, my business mind wondered if, after the media calmed down, the constant repetition of American Tofu in the news would have a positive effect on sales. The old saying, any publicity is good publicity. I hoped so.

Genevieve O’Connor, my faithful and brilliant marketing director, called all of our customers before Channel 13 and the others broadcast the news around the region. She assured them that it was an accident, a tragic loss of one of our treasured employees, but it was not due to poor working conditions or mismanagement. She told them about our sterling safety record—tops in our industry.

Our customers trusted Genevieve so they pitied us and stuck with us, despite reducing their orders for tofu. No one could fault them for that—we’re all practical business people.

Without Genevieve, I don’t know how I’d have managed. Her warm and professional manner assured Becky’s shocked factory friends the company would do its best to take care of Becky’s family. She focused on how sad we all were, and made sure Becky’s children were tended to by family and a minister.

I offered to call off production for the day, but the workers insisted on working. Becky’d want us to. Even when I said it would be a paid day off, they persisted in wanting to work. Smart, down-to-earth folks. Keep the routine going to lessen their pain.

Gen managed Facebook with her usual brilliance and aplomb and tweeted all our followers with the news, condolences to the family, and notice of the foundation I told her we’d set up.

She set up a memorial page for Becky and her family with pictures and sympathetic comments from Becky’s co-workers. She made a short video for Facebook of the company meeting I called, zooming in on the women’s tears and the men’s helpless expressions. Gen aimed the camera at my face, caught me sobbing, then quickly sobering up to show the staff how strong we all had to be.

Gen handled Twitter messages by posting empathetic notes and updates as any news came in. I referred the local media to her when I was finished answering their questions.

Before officially meeting with Chief Buhrman, I planned to give him the blue ribbon tour of the factory. At my office door his small hard hand gripped mine while he challenged me with his glassy brown eyes.

Buhrman was six inches shorter than me, trim and fit. He wore his navy blue uniform with padded shoulders. From the collar of his starched blue shirt to the cuffs of his pants, his outfit brooked no creases or lint. A polished brass badge jutted from his breast and a smaller badge rode just above the glossy brim of his hat.

Up close, decked out in full regalia, he reminded me of a Manhattan limo driver. But the fierce glare he shot at me from close-set eyes under beetled eyebrows warned me not to expect any servitude.

The herringboned mahogany butt of Buhrman’s pistol bulged off his hip in a gleaming but aged and scarred black leather holster. Heightening the threat of the gun, he wore a shiny wide belt with a German Shepherd’s narrow-eyed face embossed on the silver buckle.

A squalling cigarette pack-sized radio competed with a jangling ring of silver and brass keys to give his measured stride a clashing noise that reminded me of a school janitor’s benign jingling as he pushed his broom.

All bluff and bluster, but see his billy club? It’s been used. Careful, buster.

Trying to lighten up the encounter and gain a little power in this new relationship, I grinned. We never had so much ordnance in our tofu factory before. We’re mostly pacifists here.

He frowned and drew himself up.

Just joking. Glad you’re here.

He said, We met before.

I remember, I said.

That Boys and Girls club fundraiser. You ran it, right? Yeah. It was the YMCA.

Buhrman frowned.

We raised almost a million dollars for the new therapy pool. I remembered how the guys at the Rotary Club joked how Buhrman insisted on being called Chief.

The Chief nodded, pursing his lips.

For the elderly. You know, lots of old folks get arthritis, need to work out in the water. It’s easier on the bones. I wasn’t getting through to him.

Disabled kids, too. My kids are healthy but I felt getting that pool into town was a pretty important mission.

The Chief scratched his neck and said, Yeah. My mother-in-law goes there every week. Does some kind of water acrobiotics. I grinned.

He stared into my eyes. You know, we got us a pretty important mission right now, Mr. Greer.

Nodding, feeling that sinking feeling I get when things start to get out of control, I agreed. We sure do. Gotta take care of that poor little family.

I noticed the Chief stood three feet from me, but his glare made it feel like he was about to crush against me.

Stretching a hairnet down over my ears and offering him one, I changed the subject, curbed his intrusion into my mind-space. I’d stick to my plan of impressing him with our professionalism and attention to details.

Sanitation’s our number one focus, Chief.

Buhrman grumbled Food plant, it better be, and tugged the net down over his neatly parted brown hair.

We started with viewing the three forty-foot tall silos attached to our building where we stored up to three hundred thousand pounds of soybeans.

Inside the factory, we traced the route the beans followed as our machines processed them into tofu, past the soaking tanks where they found Becky, down the processing line to the cooking and the slurry area, to the extracting, where bean juice becomes ‘soymilk.’ We watched our state-of-the-art machinery change the soymilk into curds and whey.

It’s sort of like making cheese, I said. We make curds and press them together into a soft cake.

He scowled. Wouldn’t catch me eating this stuff, especially not for dessert.

It’s not that kind of cake, Aaron. I laughed, always pleased to explain my unusual way of earning a living by making and selling a strange oriental food. Some people do make pies and desserts out of it. We mostly eat it like meat—same way the Asian people do.

Big place you got here, Charlie.

Yeah. About an acre under one roof, with storage and offices. Lotta places for somebody to hide.

He’s not here to grieve. Something up his sleeve.

Waving off my suggestion that he wear earplugs, the Chief had also refused my offer of rubber boots. I in my galoshes, the Chief in his spit-polished, round-toed shoes, we sloshed through water that flowed half an inch deep across the production room floor.

Heavy soy-scented mist swirled around the cooking room and cold fog rose off the tanks where we iced down the finished tofu. The machine noise of bean grinding and the high-pressure steam-injection drowned out my words. Buhrman wasn’t in a listening mood anyway. He moved slowly and stopped every few yards to observe.

Did you notice the rows of panels on our roof? I asked.

Yeah. Solar. Must be tough to get enough sun this far north.

You’d be surprised, I said. We use it for hot water. Warms up the well water before it goes into the boiler. Energy efficiency. Saves money. Good for the future. I’m in this business for the good of society. I lowered my voice. Want my kids and every kid to have a good future.

The Chief grunted, circled his finger in the air, motioned for us to carry on with our tour.

After circling past the chilling tanks and following the filled cases of tofu into the cooler, we stood on the loading dock watching a fork lift driver zip in and out of shipping trailers with pallets of tofu.

The Chief nodded his chin and flipped the hair net up in back, as if he finally understood something that had bothered him. We’ll get the photographers over. I want to see all your records, who came and went the other night.

‘Getting the photographers over’ meant hiring the only professional photographer in town away from his wedding and high school yearbook business. Later, when this thing blew over, maybe we could use some of the shots in our brochures or the web site.

You better get real, or Buhrman will bury American Tofu. How will if feel when you go down, too?

Sure thing, I said. We’ll check the time clock records. Would you like to speak with the workers? It made sense to take a cooperative stance. In my business dealings, I practiced win-win negotiation, and the Chief clearly had to win something here.

He said, You bet. I hope they speak English.

We have translators. Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese. Our Cambodian workers speak English.

Good. I need to talk with everybody.

We’ve always had an international crew, the way it is nowadays. Globalism, you know.

Yeah. That’s smart. Get ‘em cheap. Illegals, too, I bet.

No illegals here, Aaron. I smiled. When I started the company, we had Zen monks working here. Best workers I ever had.

Buhrman furrowed his brows. You got monkeys working here?

No, no, I laughed. Monks, Aaron. Not monkeys. Zen’s a Japanese religion. Monks. Tofu is a big industry in Japan.

Monks? Oh, yeah, like priests. Ever heard of ‘anchorites’? Monks who live in the desert.

‘Anchorites?’ He was a Bible reader.

I’m Catholic myself, he said. We have monks, y’know. Call ‘em Trappists. Famous for their jams and honey and things. The wife’s on a kick lately, spreads blueberry jam from the monastery on my Sunday pancakes. Ever try that?

Sounds tasty.

After Mass, with a cuppa joe? Mmm. Ambling along the loading dock like old friends talking, Buhrman stopped in the shadow at the corner of the building and squinted up at me and said, What was that you said? Japs?

Yes. Japanese.

Thought so.

Japanese taught us how to make tofu. They’ve made it for centuries in shops and factories. To them it’s like milk or cheese. Big business over there. Tofu is like their dairy industry.

Buhrman challenged me again. I always thought Japs looked like monkeys. Little squirts hopping around in swarms, squeaking, taking pictures. Best thing Harry Truman ever did. I’ve seen all the Hiroshima clips on the History Channel. Too bad they’re black and white.

He was feeding me, testing my politics, testing my will with his belligerence. He’d gone right at the core of my belief that we have to open up to every culture if we’re going to save the human race from itself. Amicable as any Chamber of Commerce member talking to the town’s only security force, I grinned and said, You mean The Bomb.

That’s it. The Big One.

Shaking my head, I wondered how to adapt my progressive attitudes to this racist yokel. I had to take his guff, no matter what, stay on his side. If I upset him, he might want to make an example of me. Still, I had to appear spontaneous and natural. He’d made it clear that he expected me to be at least a little odd.

He turned away and examined the cars and pickups in the parking lot, then turned deliberately. Anything else you wanna show me, Charlie?

That’s about it.

What’s out back? he asked.

Oh, I forgot. Didn’t think it could have anything to do with the accident.

You never know.

Outside, the temperature had already climbed to the high seventies and the oaks that circled the industrial park showed early scars of tans among their deep green leaves.

Sun-glistened corn stalks ripened in the nearby fields waiting for the combines to strip and chop them into silage for the county’s abundant cattle.

Since cooperation was my only strategy until he revealed his intentions, I guided him toward the rear of the factory. Beautiful day. Indian summer’s early this year. Hope it stays like this for the funeral.

Never a nice day for a young person’s funeral. The Chief sounded angry.

Yeah. It was sad. Horrible for the kids. We’re doing everything we can for the family but, you know, we gotta keep the business moving if we’re gonna help anybody. It’s really sad, I said, unable to stop my voice from wavering.

Greer, he’s a snoop. Don’t show him your feelings. He’s not your dupe.

I’m not his dupe, either.

At the rail line behind the plant, six black open-topped rail cars hunkered in a line, waiting to be filled with ground-up soy pulp.

When I look at these rail cars, they seem like hogs the size of dinosaurs queuing up for feed, I said.

Buhrman grunted.

Beyond the tracks, our five-acre sludge pond filtered the gray water before sending it into the town’s sewage disposal system.

We call it the ‘Blue Lagoon,’ I said, my voice firm again. He didn’t get the joking old movie reference.

"See those rail cars, Aaron? They’re one of my biggest profit centers. See that stainless steel pipe coming out of the side of the building and the yellowish stuff dropping out? That’s okara, ground soy pulp, the waste from production."

He squatted and picked up a moist clump and sniffed it.

I said, Crushed soybeans with the soymilk removed. We fill the cars with okara and send them to a ConAgra hog farm a couple of hours downstate. They empty the cars and we get a nice price for it. The profit from okara pays employee Christmas bonuses.

We watched the okara drizzle out of the pipe and disappear like wet tan snow into the rail car.

Smart, Greer, he said. Waste not, want not.

Squeezing the clump of soy pulp between his thumb and fingers, Buhrman said, I always thought soybeans were animal food. My cousin feeds his hogs and cattle soy and corn.

Yeah, well, the factory hog farm mixes the okara with corn and vitamins and antibiotics, anything else hogs need. Once the okara leaves here, no human touches it again before the hogs chow down. Feed’s all mixed together underground and conveyed to the hogs on a continuous belt. It’s an infinite swill trough. They call it ‘Hog Heaven.’

Buhrman shook his head. Never knew where your bacon comes from.

I thought about investing in hogs, I said. You only need one man to supervise two thousand hogs. The least labor intensive manufacturing business you can imagine."

The Chief turned away from the rail line and started back toward the front of the factory. To each his own. I’m not really much interested in livestock. I like my animals in the wild, like deer. You hunt, Charlie?

When I was a kid. Not since.

Been shooting since I was five. Always loved it. Those gun control idiots in Washington never had the pleasure of eating meat they spent all day tracking in the freezing woods. Buhrman raised his hand to his nose and jerked his head, indicating the rear of the plant. Stinks back there.

"Yeah. Okara decays fast, especially in warm weather.

He raised his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead. Like this case. The longer it sits around, the rottener it smells.

***

After walking the loop around the property line, we returned to my office to have our real talk.

Good tour, Charlie, he said. I always wondered what went on up here. But, goddam it, my feet’re soaked.

Instead of reminding him that he’d refused the boots, I tossed him the towel and a pair of thick cotton socks from my travel kit in the closet. He dried between his toes and pulled on the socks. We wiped off his soggy shoes and flicked drops off the glossy toes with the towel.

You know I don’t want to cause you any trouble, he said bending over his laces.

My heart sank.

We found some strange things. I have to come up with answers, he said, tying equal and precisely balanced bows that stood out perpendicular to the sides of the shoes. Sitting up and staring at me with his bulging eyes, he said, I never investigated a murder before.

Murder! I said. Who says it’s murder? Panic lanced my stomach. My thighs clenched and I had to grip the chair to stop myself from leaping up and bouncing around the room.

Nobody—yet. Some things about the body don’t add up to just a little accident.

Like what? I said, breathing deep to stifle my fear. Employing one of my sales techniques, I tried to act like his co-investigator so he’d feel I was on his side.

Cause of death. Bludgeon by a blunt instrument. Coulda drove a chunk of skull right into her brain. As it was, she hemorrhaged.

I thought a minute and said, avoiding the mistake of defensiveness, That’s news. We thought she drowned.

Buhrman grunted. Not only that. Her stomach was full of tofu. I mean, crammed full. Like someone shoveled it down her throat. Mixed with alcohol, beef, nuts. Big appetite for a little lady.

Oh, I chuckled, the tofu in her stomach, that’s easy. The first shift sautés up a batch of scrambled tofu. It looks and tastes like scrambled eggs. No cholesterol, though. Did you ever try it?

I gush about my favorite subjects when I’m nervous, but I caught myself and snapped back to my objective executive posture. Most of our people take advantage of our free tofu breakfast policy. She probably ate some. Or else she had it at her party the night before. No way I’ll ever try that. I like my eggs real, over easy. Cholesterol doesn’t worry me. Not like murder.

Buhrman’s melodrama pissed me off. "Aaron, this is not CSI Miami. You’re looking into small town, small factory industrial accident. I want to help you as much as I can. Please. Don’t act like some uptight city cop. We can figure this out. You have my total support."

My tough CEO side, the serious businessman who could see through everybody’s act, permitted no silliness. At the same time, he had to see that I was a solid citizen, thoroughly behind the efforts of our town’s diligent investigator: him. All the time my nerves tingled and the muscles in my legs twitched.

Relax, Charlie. So she had too much tofu for breakfast. I hear the stuff gives you gas. Do you think her own farts made her dizzy and she fell on her face? Buhrman cackled.

Stone-faced, gritting my teeth, I thought, what do you expect from the police in a town named Clement? Chief, if you don’t have anything more serious … How can I help you now?

Burhman’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the details. He’d never been anywhere decorated with so many exotic statues and fabrics and souvenirs.

He thinks you’re weird. Makes him suspicious. You better act calm, normal, and gracious.

Do I need to call my lawyer?

No. Take it easy. He smiled and leaned back, extending his legs and fiddling with a souvenir teacup from my stay in the Miyamasi Hotel in Tokyo. Just looking for ideas here. We have to examine at every angle. We found a high level of THC and alcohol in her blood. No Ecstasy or crystal meth. I suspected that when I first heard about the death, but no.

I didn’t want to discuss drugs, unless I could discover how important they were in his assessment of Becky’s death. I knew we had a problem, especially with the immigrant workers and the part-time high school kids, but Becky had told me she never got involved with it.Yeah. We’re all for abstinence, I said.

Buhrman raised his eyebrows.

Drugs, I mean. He nodded and relaxed his face. We make our annual donation to the police department's Drug & Alcohol Prevention program. Gotta keep the kids sober. You cops do the best job you can.

He coughed. Keep everybody sober. Keep your money coming, Charlie. Between you and me? Fighting drugs is a losing battle. What?

Keeps two men I need on the payroll is why the government keeps the program in town. Still, if it stops one kid from getting hooked, it’s worth it.

Everyone knew that about Clement's D&AP, but the Chief’s disclosure to a business taxpayer about its futility sounded like negotiation. An honest man who wasn’t afraid to reveal personal opinions different from the usual ones expected revelations about my reality. That made him a dangerous man to lead an investigation that was bound to implicate me, if he got some breaks. I’d have to get to his supervisor somehow. I gave Bill Murphy on the town council a decent contribution last election. He might help.

Taking the lead, I moved our talk back to Becky. Scuttlebutt here says she was probably still high from her birthday when she came to work. Drugs and alcohol: main cause of industrial accidents.

Yeah. If it was an accident.

Anything else in her blood?

Like what?

I risked self-exposure. HIV, or something?

He sat back. Why?

I don’t know. Maybe clues about the kind of life she lived? What do you want us to do? Check everybody who has HIV in the state and see if she slept with them? But good point. Any lovers of hers are suspect. Do you know who she was, uh, going out with? I kept my face blank, unblinking.

Y’know, illicit relations. Screwing. He looked away when he said screwing as if embarrassed.

No idea. I wasn’t really worried about HIV because I’d always used a condom, but you never know if you can get it from kissing. I never thought about it when I was with her, our whole affair felt so natural and wholesome—a calling from the goddess of love that nothing bad could touch.

That goddess of love is one scary dame. Lets you feel divine, then drops you into a tank of shame.

Now came my chance to find out what Buhrman knew, if anything, about her and me. The question could backfire. Did you find anything at her house that gave you any clues?

He didn’t answer for a long minute, his cheeks flat and his eyes cold as he held mine.

Charlie, I know you’re used to being the boss, but this is my investigation. You can help by keeping your nose out of it unless I ask you something.

Hold it, Aaron. I’m trying to help here. I waited for him to speak but we sat staring at each other for an uncomfortable silent minute so I changed the subject back to drugs. As long as my workers come to work and produce, I never wanted them to have those mandatory urine tests. Maybe I should start.

Yeah. They all smoke and drink. We know it. You don’t have to test for that. I’m sure you watch out for speed these days. What worries me is the bump on her head. Big as my thumb. Like someone clubbed her.

Most likely she fell and banged her head on the tank, I said. They lift sixty pound bushel bags of beans and carry them up the ladder. It’s kind of a steep ladder. She lost her balance and slipped.

Could be. He paused. It’s, well, we have some problems.

I waited.

Coroner says the woman had been dead at least two hours before they found her.

I’d thought about that and had my answer ready, but held back. Speaking slowly in a puzzled tone, I said Day crew gets started between two and three. She was the first one on the schedule. She could have come in at two, and been dead in ten minutes. They found her at what? Four?

Give or take. He stared at me. What about her wet clothes. Wet clothes? You’d have wet clothes if you were laying in a tank of beans that soaked all night in water.

This is no joke. I mean the clothes in her locker. Had some moss on the seat of her shorts. Mud. Pieces of leaves in the elastic. Twigs.

Mmm, I mumbled as if considering what he might think it meant. Must have sat on the ground at her party?

Hey, good idea, Charlie. They told me you were sharp. I’ll check it out.

Who told him that? I let it go. Pretty thorough investigation. "Background.