Surest Poison, The by Chester D. Campbell Page A

children, too. That made
it all the more tragic. From the looks of the houses, the people here clung
to the lower rungs of the economic ladder. He had learned such people
responded better to outsiders who left the impression of being more on their
side of the financial divide.
    He turned to Jaz. “I’d like to talk to
some of these folks and see what they have to say. But I don’t think a fancy
Lexus would provide us with the kind of intro it takes. I’ll come back in my
pickup.”
    She cut her eyes toward him and took a
deep breath, looking ready to chew glass. “Next time I’ll eat an extra
helping of humble pie before we start out.”
    “Hey, what the—?”
    “I’m damned tired of people implying I’m
some kind of stuck-up socialite. I’ve gotten that from cops I used to work
with. I expected better of you.”
    He looked at her and shook his head. Why
did women get so touchy?
    “I didn’t mean to imply anything of the
sort,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “You can drive a Lexus or a
Lamborghini, whatever you like. It’s only logical that this isn’t the right
car to approach these people in. If they came to the door and saw it, they
probably wouldn’t talk to us.”
    She exhaled a noisy sigh. “Maybe so. But it sure struck a nerve with me. Do
whatever you like. I need to get home and prepare for a board meeting in the
morning. It may be contentious.”
    More contentious than this, he thought?
    Jaz had little to say the rest of the way
back to the restaurant.
    “Good luck with your meeting tomorrow,”
he said as he got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Let me know if you
hear anything else from Bobby Wallace.”
    “I will,” she said.
    And roared off like a NASCAR driver
coming out of the pit.
     
    Back at the
road behind the HarrCo plant, Sid
made his first stop at the old white frame two-story. He had on his usual
informal attire, black pants, knit shirt, and tan windbreaker, which seemed
adequate for the task. The house had a wide front porch with a vintage swing
and two wooden rockers. The dried brown remains of several large ferns
zapped by a recent freeze dangled from hanging baskets. A dying odor of
another sort lingered in the air, likely from an animal carcass nearby. The
deep-throated bay of a hound echoed through the woods in back.
    A short woman with stringy gray hair and
the mournful look of a troubled past opened the door and stared out at him.
    He gave her a gentle smile. “I’m Sidney
Chance, a private investigator. I’ve been hired to look into the pollution
problem at the HarrCo plant just over the hill.”
    She grunted, then spoke. “You ask me, there’s been enough lookin’ into. It’s high time somebody done something about it. My husband died last
month from cancer. They said he probably got it from that stuff they put in
the water at that plant.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. . . . ?” He paused.
    “Jeffords. They ought to put that place out of business. They hire you to come down
here and tell us we’re just imaginin’ things?”
    “No, ma’am. I’m quite sure you’ve got real problems. And so does—”
    “My daughter, Emily,” she continued,
“lives just down the road. She’s been having headaches and gets real dizzy
at times. The doctor says it’s that tri-whatever-it-is stuff.”
    Sid gave a sympathetic nod. “Trichloroethylene. You’re right, it’s bad stuff.
But the company that dumped it occupied the plant back before HarrCo came
along. It was called Auto Parts Rehabbers. Do you remember anything about
them?”
    The lines deepened in her forehead. “That
was a long time ago. How could it cause all this trouble now?”
    “They say it takes several years for the
chemical to drain down through the soil and the rock until it reaches the
water supply. Do you remember anybody who worked for Auto Parts Rehabbers,
or maybe who managed the plant?”
    “They didn’t stay all that long, seems