Where Love Grows

Really. The fop spent more on his appearance than she and her father spent on their monthly office lease.

And now she was stuck on the stand, testifying in the first federal criminal-fraud case she’d investigated. The case was a slam dunk, or so she’d assured the feds and the insurance company who’d hired their firm.

It certainly didn’t feel like that now.

“You even went so far as to say there were no tomatoes planted—”

She gritted her teeth. “No. I said there weren’t as many tomatoes planted as Mr. Palmer said. His insurance claim forms indicated he had several hundred acres—”

“Yes, yes.” He waved away her answer. “How much do you know of the weather in this part of the state?”

“I’m a private investigator, Mr. Andrews. I’m not a meteorologist.”

“Ah, but you based your findings on meteorological evidence. So is it going to rain today, Miss Reynolds?”

With the prosecution’s objection offered and sustained, and the laughter in the courtroom finished, Andrews came back. “Were you aware, Miss Reynolds, that this part of the county had heavy spring rains?”

Her stomach clenched. “No. My…recollection of the rainfall levels indicated that they were a little above average but not inordinately heavy.”

“But if your recollection—” Andrews’s emphasis of the word dripped with sarcasm “—was faulty, would that impact your analysis?”

Becca swallowed hard again and this time succumbed to the call of the water on the witness stand. No way had she goofed those rainfall levels. She’d looked at them, standard procedure. She glanced at her father, the senior partner of Reynolds Agricultural Investigations. It was only after he glowered at her in a way that screamed “Don’t screw this up!” that she answered Andrews’s question.

“Possibly. It depends.”

“You based your entire opinion on the analysis of photos. You said that you would be able to see evidence of tomato crops from satellite photos taken the week before, right? Isn’t that correct?”

“Uh, yes. The red—”

“Would show up.” Andrews spun again on his Testonis, this time to face the jury. “But if the fruit was unripened? If the tomatoes were still green on the vine…”

Becca wanted nothing more than to run from the courtroom and make it to the nearest bathroom stall. She didn’t have the luxury of that option, so she stuck it out. “If the rains were heavy enough to delay planting, the ripening could be delayed, as well. But it would have to be extremely heavy rains—”

“Something like these?” Andrews turned back and dropped the printout into Becca’s hands.

It was worse than she thought. She’d never seen this report—it totally contradicted her own research. If these figures were accurate, the farmers in the area would have needed an Evinrude on the back of their tractors to navigate these rains.

After he’d dragged the offensive numbers out of Becca and retrieved the printout, he said, “Your Honor, I would like to admit into evidence rain reports from the county extension agent in the early spring of that year.”

Becca sat, numb, twisting her hands in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms. Andrews smiled again.

“Did anyone from Reynolds Agricultural Investigations—um, how did you put it—go on-site?”

She closed her eyes.

When would I have had time? Would that have been between visiting my dad in ICU and keeping the firm open while he was out?

But she bit back the words, which she knew would open a whole other can of worms with Ag-Sure, their client. Opening her eyes, she forced out, “I did not personally go on-site, no.”

“Did anyone from Reynolds Investigations—eh, how did you put it—go on-site?”

“No. The satellite images showed clear evidence—”

“Of unripe tomatoes. Oh, yes. Right. Perfectly understandable. I mean, you just get paid to rip apart farmers’ lives. We wouldn’t want you to get dirt under your pretty little fingernails. You should leave that to the farmers who are trying to scrape out a living.”

Even before the prosecution could get out its objection, Andrews withdrew the question. “I’m done with this witness,” he said.

“NOT GUILTY.”

Becca’s blood pressure spiked as she heard the bite in her father’s voice.

“The jury’s back already?”

“Yeah, while you dashed out for a bite to eat.”

Her fingers tightened on the fast-food bag she had in her hand, supper for the both of them. “Dad, I wasn’t gone—”

But her protest that she had truly been gone for only ten minutes got interrupted by another of his impatient growls. “The federal prosecutor isn’t happy, and neither are the insurance-company suits. This verdict torpedoes their earlier turndown. They aren’t happy in the slightest, Becca. They’re talking about using another firm.”

“Because of one—”

“One verdict? Hell, no. It’s not the verdict that they’re mad about. It’s you.”

“Me?”

“Me?” he mimicked her. “Yes, you. You blew that case. You should have been on that farm, interviewing the workers, interviewing the neighbors. You damn sure should have had the right rainfall figures. That lawyer sliced you up like a deli ham.”

Becca gritted her teeth in an effort to hold her tongue. Not for the first time she asked herself why she wanted this job, why pleasing her dad was so important to her.

Uh, maybe because after the subject of a story you wrote sued you for libel, no other newspaper or magazine would hire you?

It hadn’t been libel. Becca had written the truth in that article, and the target of her investigation just couldn’t stomach it. She’d survived a humiliating lawsuit only to lose the fledging magazine she’d started up. In the countersuit she’d filed, the jury’s decision to award her damages had come too late, and still, Becca had yet to see any money.

She tried to calm down by reminding herself who she was: An award-winning investigative reporter. Her dad had been the one, after his heart attack, to ask her to join his firm. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Dad…you were sick, remember? You were in ICU with your heart attack. I couldn’t be in two places—”

“What I needed you to be doing was looking after the business. But I guess that’s too much to expect from you.”

“That’s not fair! I worked hard, gave you my best effort—”

“If that case was your best effort, then I am expecting too much from you. Honestly, I thought you’d season up. I thought you’d have gotten smarter after—”

Her father stopped in midsentence. He shook his head and turned to head down the empty courthouse corridor.

Becca’s anger bubbled up within her. She could not let her father’s dropped conversation go. “Say it, Dad. You might as well say it. I’m a failure. I’m a disappointment. You took me on only out of pity. Say it. Because that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Thinking? You really want to know?” He whirled around and stabbed a finger in her direction. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I’m thinking I’m a damn fool for ever thinking I could grow you into an investigator. I’m thinking I’m a damn fool for ever thinking you’d be grateful for me bailing your butt out.”