Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (9 page)

“We go anytime we can get in,” Monica responded to the CNN reporter when asked if they attended the “secret” clubs. “Of course it’s hard to get in. We never know where it’s going to be until an email invite shows up giving the time that reservations can be made, but there’s only room for thirty per dinner,” she continued. “Most of time we can’t get in even though we click right when it opens. We even synchronize our clocks with time dot gov just to be sure we’re on time!” she added.

“Heck, we’d pay to be on the short list if there was one,” Kevin blurted before the talking head could ask the next question.
Exactly
, Blake thought.
Don’t worry; Nick will take your money with 50-Forks if you want in.

The second man at the bar responded to the other man’s question. “I not only believe it, I’ve been to one of those secret dinners! Right here in Athens, a secret dining club...well, it isn’t really a secret. I mean they have a website and all, but you know, there’s no schedule and you just get an email the week of the event, sign up on a Friday and if you get in the dinner’s the next night inside someone’s home,” he said. “Four course dinner and everything! But that’s IF you get in.”

The CNN segment switched from the Colberts back to the talking head where the caption now read “Food Safety Questions.”

“Joining us now from The Southern Nevada Health District is inspector Tom Masterson,” the reporter said, “and from the Food Safety Inspection Service in Atlanta, Senior Compliance Investigator Clint Justice.” An image of the guests appeared on each side of the talking head as the screen split into three sections. In a live interview, the reporter asked Mr. Masterson if these impromptu dinners were safe.

“Well, we just don’t know. If it’s a private event for friends and family there’s no requirement to regulate, but the minute strangers attend or are invited we believe they should be regulated. But they’re not, and if they’re not regulated then we don’t know where they get the food, or whether it’s properly labeled, stored, inspected, or handled.”

“Who is responsible for regulating these dinners?” the talking head demanded.

The health inspector repositioned himself in his seat and went on a rampage about local health departments, the USDA and the FDA, but the talking head summed it up best.

“So, no one inspects these dinners?” she asked the inspector directly.

“No, not exactly,” he confessed.

“What about that, Clint,” the reporter began, “does the USDA or FSIS inspect these dinners?”

“Well, that’s not part of the USDA’s jurisdiction. That’s really a local health department issue. The Food Safety Inspection Service, or FSIS, ensures the safety of meat, poultry, and egg products. Our aim is to monitor inspections and require that all food items pass inspection with the resources we have.”

“Resources you have?” the reporter asked.

Clint stared at the camera and said nothing.

“Can you elaborate on that, Clint?”

Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Silos. That’s what Clint called them, silos. Every entity to itself, no one working together. But he had been coached on what to say and what NOT to say so he measured his response.

“Well,” Clint began, “it’s just that we have our job at FSIS, which is ensuring meat is inspected at the federal level. Of course, each state can also oversee inspection for meats that don’t cross state lines. But FSIS doesn’t deal with the restaurants or supper clubs. The local health departments oversee that.”

“What about the FDA?” the talking head asked.

“The FDA deals with product labeling, fruit and vegetables. They don’t actually inspect dairy farms, the states do that. But, then again, the FDA must verify that they comply with regulations...does that make sense?” Clint stopped talking and held his best smile, which on camera looked like a perfectly straight line across his lips.
Different people, different standards, different agencies, different objectives, no communication. Silos
, Clint thought to himself as his face began to redden.

The producers switched to a split screen with the talking head on one side and the Colberts on the other. Monica was smiling at the camera as if she had been coached or had made a point to Kevin that
we must be sure to smile all the time because we won’t know when the camera is on
.

“Mrs. Colbert,” the reporter asked. “What do you think about the fact that neither the food nor the dining establishment is regulated and hasn’t been inspected?”

“We trust the chefs,” she replied. There was a moment of silence. Kevin’s eyes darted around, seemingly unsure where to focus. Monica concluded that she hadn’t said enough and added, “They’re all James Beard award-winning chefs, you know.”

The men at the bar looked at one another. “Who the hell is James Beard?”

The talking head seemed a little surprised by how lax Monica was about food safety concerns. She pressed harder.

“But—you don’t know where the vegetables, dairy or meat came from? What if the milk is raw and not pasteurized? What if the meat wasn’t inspected? What if wild mushrooms weren’t properly identified?”

Kevin started to speak, but Monica leaned forward, signaling to Kevin that this was an opportunity for him to sit back and listen. “We all...everyone who goes to these dinners knows that stuff. That’s part of the intrigue, that the chefs can use whatever they want, that they’re not so restricted. One of the best dinners we went to featured Beluga sturgeon caviar and exotic truffles that you can’t
legally
get here. The chef smuggled them over from France in some diapers that he—” Monica stopped as she realized that her mouth had sped ahead of her mind.

As Monica spoke the CNN graphic had changed to read “The Last Supper?” The talking head tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a nervous laugh. “You ate food that was wrapped in diapers and smuggled illegally into the country?”

A few seconds remained in the two-minute segment, but it seemed much longer to Monica. She thought about saying something clever but concluded that she would look best if she just laughed nervously. That’s what she did. The men at the bar laughed hysterically. “Oh man, she paid, what, a few hundred bucks to eat dirty diapers!” The other man chimed in. “Did you see the husband’s face when she blurted that out? No doubt she’ll blame him for that interview when she watches the recording, and he didn’t say a damn thing!”

Even Blake managed a chuckle, but it was far too real to him. If CNN and these folks thought these little supper clubs were a big deal they had no idea.
50-Forks will make these little dinners seem like the children’s birthday parties they are
, he thought.

His thoughts returned to Nick and to the stress and secrets in his life.
Just get Nick what he needs and walk away when you’ve met the terms of your deal. Then do what Angelica said and STOP trying to be someone you’re not
, Blake thought as he drained the last of his drink and put his glass on the bar with a thud. He finished his silent pep talk to himself, asked for the check and looked at his watch. 5:30, perfect, he’d be home just after 7:00.
Hopefully some peace and quiet at home tonight,
he thought. He paid the check and walked out.

Chapter 8

Angelica took the black, cast iron skillet out of the oven as it began to smoke, just as her Cherokee grandmother had taught her. Put some lard in the skillet, put it in a cold oven and take it out when the oven hits 400 degrees or so, she recalled. “Make sure there’s a good amount of melted lard in there, child,” Grandma would say, “about an eighth of an inch or so. That way, the grease will push up the side of the pan making the cornbread crispy all ’round.”

Anytime she thought of her grandmother, of the simple home life her grandparents had, Angelica smiled. Dinners together, not just on weekends, but everyday. Grandpa always there for every meal, or so she was told. He had died of heat stroke when she was only two. She loved the idea of the life her grandparents had lived in Dillard about twenty minutes away from where Angelica grew up south of Clayton.

“Then, pour the batter in and make sure it’s sizzling hot. Bake it for about 25 minutes then dump it out of the pan right away child so that it stops cooking,” Angelica could still hear Grandma coaching her with approval.

Quartered Yukon Gold potatoes from Angelica’s garden simmered on the stovetop. The knife tip met with firm resistance when she pierced them.
Not ready yet
, she thought. She got the hand mixer ready anyway and warmed the cream so she could keep the mashed potatoes hot when the potatoes were cooked through.

The kitchen phone rang. She looked at the clock and prepared herself for it to be Blake telling her that he’d be late or was going out or...

She took a deep breath and answered the phone.

“Hi Angelica,” her sister said on the other end of the line.

“Oh, hi Rose!” Angelica responded with genuine enthusiasm. “What are y’all up to?”

“We just got home from the Dawgs game,” Rose answered. “We lost to South Carolina, but the girls had a good time.”

“Oh no,” Angelica said half-heartedly. Unlike Blake or Rose’s family, Angelica didn’t care for sports or anything she considered frivolous.

“Yeah, well, we tailgated after the game to let the traffic clear a bit.” Rose said. “John turned the grill back on and heated some chocolate chip cookies for us. Yum!”

Angelica was somewhat jealous of Rose’s life, but in a loving way. Rose always seemed happy and had married well, almost eight years before, to John McBride. She and John went to most UGA home games, wearing red and black and shouting “how ’bout them Dawgs!” along with the other crazed fans.

Rose worked in public relations the first four years after she graduated with a journalism degree from UGA. By the time the girls were born, WallCloud, the Web hosting company John started, had grown to over twenty million dollars a year in sales with no end in sight. With John and Rose owning all of the company’s stock, other than thirty percent owned by a lone angel investor, they had plenty of security for Rose to stay at home with the girls. Angelica wanted the same thing for herself.

“What are you up to?” Rose asked, interrupting Angelica’s dreams of a family.

“Oh, nothing. Just making dinner. Cornbread, mashed potatoes, cube steak, and cream gravy.”

“Now don’t forget to let that lard sizzle in the pan,” Rose said with a smile in her voice as she recalled the memory of her grandmother. Angelica laughed.

“Guess what?” Rose asked.

“What?”

“We’re going to the Bahamas!” Rose said, her excitement running across the phone line straight into Angelica’s kitchen.

“My goodness,” Angelica said. “Wow! When?”

“Six weeks. We’re going for our wedding anniversary! Staying at a home on a private beach on San Salvador Island!”

“That’s amazing, fantastic,” Angelica said. “How long will you be gone?”

“Just a week,” Rose answered. “That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if—”

“YES!” Angelica answered, interrupting Rose.

“You didn’t even hear the question!”

“I know what you’re going to ask Rose. You want to know if I’ll watch the girls. And the answer is yes!”

“Thanks sis,” Rose said. “It’s a long time, I know. Are you sure?”

“No problem,” Angelica said. “Absolutely no problem. It’s only a week and the girls are no trouble at all.”

Rose’s voice became softer with a touch more sensitivity. “What about Blake?”

Angelica’s smile dissolved, but only for a moment. “It’ll be fine, Rose. He’ll be fine.”

“How are...things?” Rose asked as gingerly as she could.

Angelica paused and sighed louder than she meant. Rose knew her too well and could sense Angelica’s mood the way so many sisters could tell about their siblings. She never let Angelica forget that she was the first born, and Rose always watched over Angelica, informally, even before their parents were killed in their father’s small plane. Their parents had taken off after having breakfast with Angelica one autumn morning, seven years earlier. The Piper PA-28 Cherokee rolled down the 2,800 foot runway at Big Creek Flying Ranch south of Clayton as it ascended on a leisurely fall foliage flight over the mountains. They had hoped to touch down late morning at Sossamon Field in Bryson City in time to enjoy lunch in Cherokee, North Carolina before returning home that afternoon. They never made it to Bryson City and their aircraft was never located, even after an exhaustive search.

“Things are pretty good,” Angelica said. She knew that Rose would see right through this and would probe for more. She didn’t want to volunteer more, even to her sister, but she was ready to give in if pressed. She needed to talk to someone about her marriage, to get some direction. Rose was her confidant, but she would have to excavate Angelica’s feelings.

“Angelica...it’s fine. You can tell me. Are things okay between you and Blake?” The floodgates opened and Angelica sobbed like she hadn’t in a long, long time. Trying to talk at the same time, coming across mumbling and as unintelligible as if she had a mouth full of peanut butter.