The Mystery of the Almond Assassin

by Ron Katz

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” asked Barb Silver of her husband Bernie, who stood, somewhat unsteadily, before her with a drugstore cane in his left hand. “It’s only been four weeks.” They were about to get into their car, which was parked in front of their Palo Alto, California home.

The Silvers had been married for forty years. They had attended the same college, gone their separate ways after graduation, and then renewed their acquaintance a few years after college when they both were employed as investigators at the Alpha Insurance Company. 

“It’s not like I’m working a case for Silver Investigations,” he responded, referring to the detective agency they started after leaving Alpha. “Not likely to run into bad guys at Filoli,” an historic home in a nearby town. “In fact, given the stately home’s name, based on the motto ‘Fight, Love, Live,’ I think it’s a very appropriate destination for my first post-knee-replacement outing: I’m fighting to live my normal life, which I love. As a bonus, there are no metal detectors at Filoli for my left knee to set off.”

“If you say so, dear,” Barb responded, “but please take my stress level into account.”

“My knee is as good as gold,” said Bernie. Moving toward the car door, he started to stumble as his cane caught in a sidewalk crack. He righted himself awkwardly at the last second, then executed a mock bow.

“We should definitely wait for the platinum model,” deadpanned Barb, as she headed back toward their house.

Reluctantly following her, Bernie conceded “Perhaps in one more week I’ll have enough on the ball to make this trip.”

“Indeed,” said Barb. “You might have a little on the ball right now, probably enough to play T-ball.”

***

In fact, two weeks had to pass before Barb was satisfied that Bernie was ready for the Filoli trip. 

“I’d say today you even have a little bounce in your step,” she said with a smile. “But I’m not sure that metal bounces.”

“There’s some plastic in there too,” observed Bernie, “so you might be right.

“I’ve been so caught up in rehab and physical therapy, I forgot to ask why we’re heading to Filoli, having ignored it for the past 25 years.”

“Well,” Barb replied, “it’s lovely, which is reason enough. Aside from the grand old home—best known because it was featured in the opening credits of the old TV show, Dynasty—it has 16 acres of gardens, which, in this season, are blooming with tens of thousands of tulips.”

“Just what we need in our drought-ridden state,” responded Bernie. “Who pays for all the water needed to care for those tulips?”

“We’ll probably find out,” Barb answered, “because we’ve been invited for a free VIP tour led by Filoli’s Chief Development Officer, Cara Woodson.”

“Chief Development Officer?” mused Bernie. “Isn’t that just another name for Chief Donation Officer?”

“Cara is also a friend of mine,” said Barb. “She’s in my book group. I don’t think she’s going to make a hard sell for a donation, although I’ve already prepared a check. She’s just pleased to show off her spectacular new workplace.”

“Whatever…” sighed Bernie. “It’s a good cause, and somebody’s got to pay to water all those tulips.”

***

Cara Woodson was a tall woman with pale, blond hair, cut in an attractive bob. Standing at Filoli’s entrance in a stylish, tan linen pantsuit, she gave Barb a warm hug. “And you must be the famous Bernie,” she gushed. “Just how did you manage to solve all those mysteries?”

“In fairness,” he replied, blushing despite himself, “Barb and I have been

successful because we knew how to yin and yang the cases. One of us was never enough.”

“Very refreshing,” responded Cara. “Usually marriage and mysteries don’t mix too well.”

“Well,” said Barb, “we’re not expecting any mysteries today, so let’s get started in the tulip fields.”

“Not so sure about not expecting mysteries,” answered Cara. “We have been getting some threatening notes recently about the amount of water it takes to grow these tulips.”

“Tulip terrorists, perhaps?” joked Bernie.

“I wish it was so lighthearted, Bernie. The notes supposedly come from a group called Situational International, which was mainly active in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. They were responsible for, among many other things, the May, ‘68 uprisings in France.”

Bernie got uncharacteristically serious. “We’ve heard of that group,” he said. “One of the upperclassmen in our college was a member, Calvin Vanderbilt.”

“If memory serves,” added Barb, “the motto of the group was ‘We will not lead; we will only detonate.’ Terrorism related to ecology would be right up their alley.”

“Hmmm,” mused Cara, “one would think that a Vanderbilt would be dancing, not detonating.”

“He was from a distant branch of that family,” noted Bernie. “Too distant to be famous but not distant enough to be poor.

“But, if you’d like us to take a look at the threatening notes,” he said with a smile, “we can make our generous donation to Filoli in kind rather than in cash.”

“If things get worse, I might take you up on that,” said Cara. “Hopefully, the Situational International bad actors were in their heyday so many years ago that they’re mainly terrorizing retirement communities now.”

“Let’s not talk about business,” said Barb. “Here’s a $10,000 check for Filoli, Cara. That should keep any remaining, doddering terrorists off the property.”

“Thank you so much, Barb. I never intended for this to be a fund-raising tour; I just wanted a good friend to see what I’m up to.”

“We’re delighted to do both,” said Bernie. “Hopefully I will soon join this circle of friendship, Cara, having heard so much about you over the years.”

“You’ve already joined, Bernie,” said Cara. “These 80,000 tulips are going to provide some incredible memories for us.”

***

Two hours later, they entered a large greenhouse away from the main gardens. 

“What a wonderful tour, Cara,” said Barb. “An unbelievable profusion of blooms of so many different colors and varieties.”

“Thanks, Barb. I knew you’d love it, and now for the grand finale. This is the experimental greenhouse where we develop new varieties. It has a state-of-the-art irrigation system controlled by artificial intelligence that can sense light, temperature and wind.”

Cara signaled to a waiting gardener, who pressed some buttons on a wall-mounted keyboard. The irrigation pipes shuddered a bit as the system started. Then they began spewing what looked and smelled like raw sewage. 

***

When they returned home, they disposed of their clothes, took long showers, and sat down in their garden with some stiff drinks. Bernie said, “Nice to smell some fresh air.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Barb. “Poor Cara was in a state of shock from all that sewage. It was all she could do to hand us back our $10,000 check and ask if we could consider that money a retainer for providing investigative services to Filoli.”

“There must be more hygienic ways to develop new investigation business,” noted Bernie. “But under the circumstances, we had to be supportive and take the gig.”

Barb agreed, and added, “She pulled herself together enough to text us pictures of those threatening notes she had mentioned that Filoli received from Situational International. 

“Surprising that SI is still around, but, judging from these threatening notes, it seems that water use is now their big issue, and eco-terrorism is their new approach. This note is just as chilling as those they wrote in the ‘60’s: WATER FOR PEOPLE, NOT PETUNIAS, for example, or the distinctly more threatening DESERTMAKERS MUST DIE.”

“SI was never one for nuance,” responded Bernie. “and that could be helpful in our investigation. On the other hand, trying to track down members of a 1960’s organization won’t be easy.”

“What about starting with Calvin Vanderbilt?” Barb suggested. “We know he was an SI member.”

“Given his fondness for LSD,” said Bernie, he may no longer be with us. “But it’s worth a try.”

***

A few hours later, Bernie returned from his study, radiating disappointment. “Nothing on the Internet,” he said, “or from our usual informal sources at the police department, the phone company and credit card providers. Any bright ideas?”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Someone with Calvin’s track record may well have changed his name and appearance several times in the last few decades. So, while you’ve been upstairs, I’ve been researching criminal incidents relating to water use.”

“Good thought. Any luck?”

“A lot of dry holes, so to speak,” she said, “but this one may be of interest. It takes a minute to explain, so I hope you’re interested in alfalfa.”

“I may be interested when I find out exactly what it is,” said Bernie. ”I know it’s a plant, and I also know…nothing else about it.” 

“Well,” said Barb, “the first thing you should know is that it’s a very thirsty plant that’s used to feed cows—you’ve probably been calling it ‘hay.’”

“Ah, ‘hay,’” said Bernie. “Now at least I know what you’re talking about, but this may be the first time in my long life that I’ve actually had a hay-related conversation.”

“Well, my dear boy, you’re about to find out some pretty astounding facts. Although Situational International is not an organization I’d recommend to anyone, they do seem to raise some legitimate issues about alfalfa, even if their attempts to resolve those issues are illegal.”

“Do tell.”

“First, did you know that it takes 1.5 million gallons of water per acre per year to grow alfalfa?”

“Among the infinite number of facts I don’t know about alfalfa, Barb, that’s one of them. So enough rhetorical questions. I agree that that’s a surprising number.”

“OK, but, just for effect, let me try a few more rhetorical questions. For example, do you know that huge amounts of alfalfa are grown in the Arizona desert?”

“No, but I’m even more distressed to hear that.”

“Well, here’s the topper: do you know that most of the alfalfa grown in the Arizona desert is exported to Saudi Arabia, which feeds it to Saudi Arabian cows?”

“Seems crazy,” Bernie said, “but I assume all this information comes from respectable sources.”

“New York Times, among others,” she replied. “No one really disputes these facts. In addition, Saudi Arabia imports alfalfa from Arizona so that Saudi Arabia doesn’t have to use up its precious groundwater.”

“Let me guess,” said Bernie. “Arizona is using up its precious groundwater to grow this crop.”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” he continued, “I just have one further question: So what?”

“So what,” she responded, “is that there appears to have been a Situational International-type crime associated with alfalfa. Very cleverly done, as usual. Someone spread some poison in a shipment of alfalfa heading abroad, resulting in the untimely death of over 100 Saudi Arabian cows.”

“Any suspects?”

“So glad you asked. Because there were some smudged fingerprints on the threatening notes associated with this case—like ALFALFA FOR ARIZONANS, NOT ARABIANS and the traditional favorite, DESERTMAKERS MUST DIE—the police in Arizona were not able to pinpoint one suspect. However, they could narrow it down to twenty possibilities. They interviewed all twenty but have not been able to make any progress beyond that.”

“Was one of the twenty, by any chance, named Calvin Vanderbilt?” asked Bernie.

“Close, but no cigar,” said Barb. “One name that I got off the Internet, however, was Calvin Vance.”

“That’s close enough,” said Bernie. “The conventional wisdom when you change your name to disguise yourself is to keep your first name, which is what you’re used to responding to. Although the last name Vanderbilt has some similarities with Vance, it’s not really close enough to draw suspicion, except from people like us who knew Calvin, know his radical background and--much later at Filoli-- became innocent bystanders to a particularly smelly act of eco-terrorism.”

“Better to be lucky than smart,” said Barb. “Can I interest you in a trip to Arizona?”

“Let’s do a little more research on Calvin’s exact location, but I think it’s a great idea,” said Bernie. “Many Major League Baseball teams are in spring training in Arizona right now too, so, even if Calvin Vance doesn’t work out, we can still take in a game or two.”

***

The next morning Bernie came into Barb’s study with a smile. “I called Joe Kelly,” he said, referring to their detective friend in the San Francisco Police Department, “and he had little trouble getting us information about Calvin Vance from the time Vance was questioned by the police in, of all places, Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“Amazing that a radical like Calvin is living in upscale Scottsdale,” observed Barb. “Not many radical activities there, but perhaps the large homes, lush lawns, and dramatic mountainscapes provide him cover for a secret, radical lifestyle.”

“He’d be in his seventies now,” added Bernie, “so, given the relative harmlessness of most people that age, he might not need that much cover for eco-terrorism. Also, as a Vanderbilt, he might be partial to practicing eco-terrorism out of a luxurious place, providing even more cover for his radicalism.”

“He was always quite clever,” said Barb. “Never acted in a straightforward way easy to trace. These two things we know about—switching circuits on the Filoli irrigation computer system and poisoning cows thousands of miles away—sort of sound like his modus operandi.”

“Well,” Bernie responded, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves. According to Joe Kelly, Calvin lives in a retirement community called—would you believe it?—Desert Springs. Joe gave me Calvin’s mobile number, so why don’t we try the direct route of calling him to see if he’ll agree to meet with us? 

“No downside in that,” he added, as he turned on the speaker on his phone and started to dial.

“Vance here,” said a soft, low scratchy voice on the other end.

“Voices from the past here,” said Bernie. “Your old college mates, Bernie Silver and Barb Raskin, now, I’m proud to say, Barb Silver. Thanks for picking up an unknown number.”

“Sometimes unknown numbers provide the most excitement in my day,” said Calvin. “That said, what can I possibly do for you after fifty years of stony silence, and how did you find me under my new name?”

“It’s a bit of a long story,” chimed in Barb. “The short of it is that we’re private investigators who’ve been asked to look into an incident at Filoli Gardens that seems to have some connections to Situational International. Since you’re the only person we know who ever belonged to that organization—which I’m sure you’ve long since grown out of—we thought it might be helpful to speak with you.”

“Plus,” continued Bernie, “we hope to see some spring training games when we’re in Scottsdale.”

“Still going the haute bourgeois route, I see,” responded Vance. “Save the world and see a ballgame—don’t you see the contradictions?”

“We’ve had this talk many times before, Calvin,” said Bernie. “We didn’t resolve our differences then, and we won’t resolve them now. But, to sweeten the pot, we’ve heard that you were a suspect in an eco-terrorism scheme involving cows in Saudi Arabia. Maybe we could help clear you of any suspicions.” 

“Okay, Bernie, you win,” Calvin replied. “I’ll see you for old times’ sake, but you’ll see when you visit that I really no longer need any help avoiding the finger of suspicion.”

***

In contrast to the brightness, modernity and luxury of the public rooms of Desert Springs, Calvin’s room was dark and dank. He opened the door for Barb and Bernie with a remote control device, because he was sitting in a wheelchair at one end of the room, opposite the door. 

He had an unkempt mane of hair and a long beard, both the color of slush. He wore some ancient sweat clothes, with a none-too-clean blanket drawn over his lap.

Dispensing with any niceties, he spread his arms and said, “Now you can see why the Scottsdale police have ceased pointing any fingers of suspicion at me. Pretty obvious that my terrorist days are behind me. Not only will you not be seeing me on The Golden Bachelor any time soon, but also I’m even invisible to the lovely ladies who live at Desert Springs and who outnumber the males by a multiple of at least ten to one.”

“You might be right about the Desert Springs ladies,” said Bernie, “but the police haven’t closed the dead Arabian cow case yet, so I think we can help you by getting them to do that.”

“Yes,” added Barb. “One doesn’t have to be physically fit these days to commit a crime.”

“Wrong!” exclaimed Calvin. “One has to be quite physically fit to spread poison over several truckloads of alfalfa.” 

“Or one has to pay someone who is physically fit to do that,” said Bernie.

“But there’s no evidence that I did pay anyone,” insisted Calvin.”And there’s no evidence that I have ever been anywhere near Filoli Gardens.”

“True,” said Barb, “although, with the miracle of computers, one doesn’t have to be anywhere near Filoli to tamper with the computer system there. But we’re getting into the weeds, so to speak, too deeply too soon here. We were college friends and haven’t seen each other for decades. Why don’t we catch up over a cup of coffee?”

Softening, Calvin said, “Well, as you can see, I’m really not in shape to go out, but I do have a coffeemaker in the kitchen if you are willing to play hostess.”

***

Barb brought in some coffee, to which Bernie added some muffins he was able to procure from the Desert Springs cafeteria. 

Bernie decided to get right to the point. “Barb and I, like many of our peers, have certainly mellowed over the years, Calvin. What about you?”

“Why would I mellow?” he responded combatively. “I was right in the ’60’s, and, unfortunately, my views have been borne out over the years. 

“Capitalism kills. Take climate, for example, specifically, in this case, one of the foundations of life, water.

“Does it make any sense at all for Arizona, which is drying up, to allow agribusiness to deplete our precious and dwindling groundwater for the sake of Saudi Arabian cows? It’s not a trivial question, because, if agricultural use were at sustainable levels, there actually wouldn’t be a water problem in Arizona.”

“We never had a problem with you expressing your opinions on these subjects,” said Barb, “or taking political action to change things. Where we parted company with you is methodology—if everyone who thought they had a righteous cause resorted to the kind of violence advocated by Situational International, there would be chaos.”

“We had this conversation decades ago,” said Calvin. “In my humble opinion, chaos is preferable to millions dying of thirst.”

“That seems pretty unlikely here in the lap of Desert Springs luxury,” observed Bernie.

“To your bourgeois eyes, it may seem contradictory that I live here, but it’s irrelevant to me. Although I can never fully repent for being a Vanderbilt, I am going to do what I am going to do whether I’m living at Desert Springs or in a desert shack.”

“So,” responded Barb, “it would seem that you don’t need or want our help to get the Scottsdale police to close their investigation of you.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Calvin. “Although they only came here once for a brief interview, I don’t want them coming again, because this place is more gossipy than a high school sorority. So, if you can put in a word, I’d appreciate it. But, bottom line, it won’t change anything. Although they haven’t closed the investigation, they don’t seem to have much interest in a wheel-chair-bound old coot.”

“We appreciate your agreeing to meet with us,” said Bernie, “so we’ll see what we can do. Next time we get together, let’s have a drink, to see if we can jumpstart that mellowing process. You’ll be pleasantly surprised how liberating it is not to take responsibility for curing all the world’s ills.”

***

“Shall we take in a spring training game,” Bernie said as they headed out of Desert Springs.

“If capitalism kills, what’s the point?” Barb responded.

“The point is…” he paused, then brightened: “Capitalism is what also helped the Giants acquire their new star shortstop.

“Also, the spring training tickets are cheaper than the regular season and you get to be closer to the players, so I’m saying Calvin would approve of that kind of power to the people. 

“Finally, and most important, we can save water by drinking beer.”

“OK, I’m in,” Barb said. “But, seriously, do you intend to try to get the Scottsdale police to close Calvin’s case.”

“We can’t do that, but perhaps SFPD’s finest, Joe Kelly can help. He’s at an offsite training today, but we can reach him tomorrow.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Barb, “regardless of Calvin’s guilt or innocence. First of all, I highly doubt that the Scottsdale police are a match for Situational International. 

“Secondly, the Scottsdale police could get in the way of our investigation for Filoli.”

“Sounds good,” Bernie said. “But how do we get Joe Kelly to do this?”

“The usual—make him think it’s his idea. He already knows from the Scottsdale police how feeble Calvin is. Also, he can tell the Scottsdale police about the Filoli incident, which has a similar M.O., and state, truthfully, that there’s absolutely no evidence Calvin was near California at the time. Finally, local police departments don’t like having files open for long periods of time. Joe would be doing Scottsdale a favor.”

“And giving himself a chance to solve a big case,” added Bernie. “Let’s go for it! 

“Also, it takes pressure off Calvin, which, if he does have any connection to these crimes, will perhaps give him enough of a false sense of security to make some more mischief while being more closely observed by us.

“You’re on your game today, Barb. Any other words of wisdom before I go back into semi-retirement mode?”

“How about,” she said, “‘take me out to the ballgame!’”

***

Back home the next day, Bernie visited Barb in her study. “What’s with these random pictures you just emailed me?”

“Not that I expected much,” she replied, “but, out of habit, I took some photos of Calvin’s kitchen when I was back there fixing coffee.”

“Looks like just what you’d expect form an elderly bachelor: half-eaten takeout containers and random snacks.”

“More natural than processed snacks,” she said. “I’ll give him that. But I just sent the pictures to you so that we have a common base of knowledge. Any ideas where we go next with this investigation?” 

“Working on it. Since our perpetrator seems to be interested in agricultural water use, I’ve been going online to search local newspapers in agricultural areas. Looking for bad behavior that could be related to water.”

“Find anything?” she inquired.

“Possibly. Here’s an article from the Ripon Times.”

“Ripon?”

“Not surprising that you haven’t heard of it. It’s a town of about 15,000 located in California’s big agricultural area, the Central Valley.”

“And what caught your attention about it?”

“Strange story,” responded Bernie, “the kind you sometimes see in small town newspapers. A small dog drowned in a fairly large bucket. Here’s a picture of the poor pooch.”

“Accident or dogicide?” Barb asked.

“That’s exactly what the newspaper reporter is asking. It’s possible that the dog was on a shelf above the bucket trying to get at some food and fell in. But they can’t rule out foul play. Must’ve been a slow news day in Ripon.”

“Since we’re having a slow news day in our investigation, let me ask where exactly this occurred in Ripon?”

“In a barn on the grounds of a place called the McKelvey Almond Farm. I looked it up, and they’re the biggest almond grower in California, which produces 80% of the world’s almonds.”

Barb tapped ‘Mckelvey Almonds’ into her computer’s search bar. She printed out one of the pictures in the article she generated, and handed Bernie a picture of a large bag of almonds with a distinctive green circular logo containing a large stylistic “M.”

“And this is relevant to what, exactly?” Bernie asked.

Barb handed him her phone. On the screen was one of the pictures she’d taken in Calvin’s kitchen. She enlarged the image of a bag sitting on a counter. It was labelled with a large green circle containing a stylized ‘M.’

“Don’t you think this is a little too thin to qualify as a clue?” he asked.

“Don’t you think this is a little too much to qualify as a coincidence?” she countered.

“You got me there,” he responded. “Let’s do some more research. I’m guessing that almonds are a very thirsty agricultural product. Why don’t you continue your computer search, and I’ll go over to Stanford and chat with someone I know in the new Doerr School of Sustainability, Then we can circle back to that nice bar at MacArthur Park for a post-research drink.”

“Good thought,” Barb responded. “I suspect I’ll need something stronger than water to help us absorb this new info.”

***

MacArthur Park was an historic restaurant in the heart of Palo Alto not far from the tall tree that gave the city its name. The restaurant had gone through many iterations, starting as a Hostess House for visiting families of World War I Armed Forces members. A spacious building constructed of brown siding with lofty whitewashed ceilings and an old-school feel, it featured a large bar of polished wood, where Barb and Bernie met.

“3.5 gallons” was Barb’s cryptic greeting, based on her recent research.

“To grow one almond, I know,” added Bernie. “Crazy. I thought my professor friend was going to say that 3.5 gallons would at least grow 10 pounds of almonds. Even worse, he said that California’s almond crop uses up as much water in one year as Los Angeles uses in three years.”

“And all this cheap water generates a gold mine,” said Barb. “Almonds account for 25% of California’s annual farm exports, bringing in $5.1 billion and indirectly contributing $21.5 billion to California’s economy.”

“The numbers are genuinely traumatic,” observed Bernie, “but whether that amount of water usage is legal or not has to be determined by our governmental processes, not by eco-terrorism. I suggest a scenic trip to Ripon, California, the Almond Capital of the World.”

“I thought that’s where we’d be heading, so I did some research on McKelvey Almond Farm. It’s still owned by the McKelvey family.” Handing Bernie her phone, she added, “The CEO, Bryce McKelvey, is pictured here.”

Looking at the picture of the middle-aged man in an expensive western shirt with pearl buttons, a 10-gallon hat, and designer cowboy boots, Bernie said, “Looks like almond royalty, not someone in our normal circles. How do you suggest we approach him?”

“He’s not going to accept a cold call from us,” said Barb. “so I was able to dig up his email address and to take a stab at drafting something that might get his attention:

‘Dear Mr. McKelvey:

‘We are private detectives investigating the recent eco-terrorism regarding water use at Filoli Gardens (see attached article). 

‘Having read about the recent demise of your dog under suspicious circumstances, we think that there might be some connection with what happened at Filoli, and that you and others at your farm may be in danger.

‘We think it would be mutually beneficial if we could visit your farm to further our investigation.

‘Would you please give us a couple of dates when you would be available for such a meeting?

‘Very truly yours,

‘Bernard and Barbara Silver’”

“I like it,” said Bernie. “Short and to the point. I don’t see how he can refuse.”

***

By the time they had driven home, Bryce McKelvey had refused, in a very terse email:

“Thank you for your email.

“Dog incident was an accident.

“Your presence here would stir up our close-knit community for no reason.”

“Would you like to revise your opinion that he can’t refuse our invite?” asked Barb.

“Not yet,” said Bernie. “He’s trying to play this down because he doesn’t want a panic to start in his small town, which supports his almond growing. He answered your email so quickly and so negatively that I’m more convinced than ever that the Filoli tulip, Arizona alfalfa and McKelvey almond incidents are linked. Let’s draft a short response to his email. Since you sent the first email, let me type a draft on your phone.”

After a few minutes, he handed the draft to Barb: 

“Dear Mr. McKelvey,

“Thank you for your prompt response.

“We apologize for bothering you. We thought that you might be in danger, but, so long as you are not a DESERTMAKER, you are probably safe.

“Best wishes,

“Bernard and Barbara Silver”

“Bold gambit,” said Barb. “You’re assuming that he got a note similar to the Filoli and Arizona notes, using the unusual word DESERTMAKER.”

“In 70 years, I had never seen that word,” responded Bernie, “and now I’ve seen it twice in the last week. And I bet we’re about to see it for the third time, so let’s break out our cowboy boots for a visit to Ripon.”

***

“He sure changed his tune fast,” said Barb, “as she and Bernie sped south on I-5. The landscape alternated between fallow, barren fields and vineyards completely filling one’s line of sight. 

“He wants to preserve calm in Ripon, for sure,” responded Bernie. “But, in order to do that, he has to save his own DESERTMAKER skin first. That’s why he’s willing to see the likes of us, city slickers completely ignorant of the agricultural way of life.”

They exited the freeway and entered a paved road for a few miles, passing through what they now knew, through their research, were huge fields of 15-foot tall, flowering almond trees. They were buzzed through a large electric gate. It was bordered by brick pillars with an arch between them emblazoned with the now-familiar large circular green McKelvey logo.

They went another half mile and pulled up in front of what looked like a ranch house on steroids, elegantly sprawling over a huge lot with numerous porches and patios and a huge pool visible through the elegant etched glass porthole in the front door.

A tall, slender man, whom they recognized as Bryce McKelvey, gestured at them to park. He pointed toward an old pickup truck, and, without greeting, said “It will be better if we meet in my private office a mile or two from here.”

***

After a mile or so on dirt roads, they came to what appeared to be a humble 50 x 50 square foot cinderblock structure. Its plainness disappeared when they entered, however, what turned out to be an oak-lined study with modern furniture, a library and state-of-the-art computer equipment.

“This is where I get most of my work done,” said McKelvey, motioning them to a boardroom table. “Please sit down, while I get the piece of paper I think you’re interested in.”

He went over to a large safe, worked the combination and brought back a crumpled white sheet of paper with two lines scrawled on it: “3.5 GALLONS KILL” and “DESERTMAKERS MUST DIE.”

“Have you shown this to the police?” asked Barb. 

“As I indicated in my first email to you, I want to keep a lid on this in order to prevent panic in our community. I may not be very popular, but Nutsy—our toy poodle who was murdered in a bucket with approximately 3.5 gallons of water in it—was much beloved.”

“Thanks for trusting us,” said Bernie. “We feel your pain because we have a small dog ourselves. We might be able to help, because it seems that whoever killed Nutsy was involved in at least two other similar crimes we know about. Apparently, water use is a trigger for certain eco-terrorists. Is it true that it takes 3.5 gallons of water to grow one almond?”

“Idiocy,” sputtered McKelvey. “In fact, the idiotic so-called ‘analysis’ of these eco-terrorists makes idiocy look good. For example, have you had a hamburger recently?”

Puzzled, Bernie responded, “Yes, why?”

“Well, it took 660 gallons of water to get that to your table. And I could give you many similar statistics. Water is necessary for agriculture, which is necessary for food, which is necessary for life.”

“But are almonds necessary for life?” asked Barb.

“Almonds are a very nutritious food, and all the almond trees you see around here—aside from storing tons of carbon that would otherwise contribute to global warming—actually produce two products besides the nut: shells used for livestock bedding and hulls for dairy feed. 

“The dairy feed reduces the acreage needed to grow alfalfa by 386,000 acres, saving the equivalent of 440 billion gallons of water. That’s equal to the annual water use of four million U.S. households. 

“I could go on and on if you’re interested.”

“Surprisingly enough, it is actually interesting,” said Bernie. “But I’ll ask you to stop because it’s irrelevant—whether almond growth uses too much water or not, no one has the right to commit crimes to stop legal water use. Do you have any other evidence for us?”

“Possibly, but I can’t be sure.” McKelvey pressed a button, lowering a video screen and he projected on it the image of a man in a white polo shirt and khakis, walking on a road with a sun hat pulled low over his head and a jacket slung over his shoulder. The only thing that stood out were the tattoos that covered his arms to the extent that, from a distance, it looked like he was wearing a long sleeve shirt.

“The security cameras near the barn where Nutsy was killed captured this image,” said McKelvey. “Not much there, but those gross tattoos are definitely out of the ordinary for our small farm town. Lucky that it was over 100 degrees that day, so he had to take his jacket off, exposing this unusual feature.”

“Please email the video to us,” said Barb. “It doesn’t mean anything now, but the three incidents we know about seem to be tying together a bit, and that will probably cause our investigation to accelerate.”

“Also,” added Bernie, “I don’t want to alarm you, but the threatening note you received seems to indicate that Nutsy may not be the last victim.” 

***

At breakfast back home the next morning, Barb and Bernie contemplated their next move. “I think we should call Calvin,” said Barb. “He has to know more than he’s told us so far, and I’m afraid Situational International is not finished with its almond assassinations.”

“I agree,” said Bernie, punching in Calvin’s number on his smartphone.

“No answer, and not even a voicemail greeting,” he said. 

“Not surprising,” said Barb. “Our recent college reunion with him was neither warm nor fuzzy. I did notice, however, that there was a house phone in his apartment, as there usually is in these retirement communities. Maybe we can reach him through the switchboard before he realizes who’s calling.”

“You’re right, no caller ID on house phones,” Bernie said, while looking up the Desert Springs number, clicking on it, and putting the phone on speaker so Barb could listen in.

He brightened when the phone was quickly answered with the terse greeting “Reception.”

“May I speak to Calvin Vance in unit 2A?” he asked.

“I can ring him,” said the voice on the other end. “But I know he’s not there.”

“Do you know where he is?” said Bernie. “I’m an old college friend who’s in your area and would like to see him.”

“He’s always on the pickleball court when it opens at 9 a.m., trying to pick up a game,” said the receptionist. “He should be back in his apartment in about two hours. Can I take a message?”

“No, thanks. I’ll try again later.”

Barb and Bernie looked at each other, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know they had wheelchair pickleball,” said Barb.

“Neither did I,” responded Bernie. “I suggest we head to Arizona to see for ourselves.”

***

The next morning, they were on a bench at the gate of the Desert Springs pickleball courts at 8:30 a.m. With oversized sunglasses, floppy hats and loose-fitting athletic wear, they were not recognizable.

At about 8:55, a figure in a stylish sweatsuit approached and started a warmup routine. As it progressed, he removed his zip-up jacket, revealing heavily tattooed arms.

He approached Barb and Bernie, and said, “Are you interested in a game?”

“No” said Barb, removing her sunglasses. “We’re actually looking for a lost dog,” showing him a picture of Nutsy from a copy of the local Ripon newspaper.

Now it was Calvin’s turn to be shocked. “I...I can explain…” he stammered.

“No explanation necessary,” said Bernie. “Your wheelchair act worked for a short time on one-time visitors like us and the Scottsdale police, but that time is up. Here’s the non-negotiable deal.”

Barb held up her phone and said, “As you can see, Calvin, I’ve punched in 911. If you try any funny business, I will press 'call' and the police will be here before you can say ‘pickleball.’”

Bernie held up his phone and said, “On my phone is the Filoli website, which has a button you can click on to make a donation. You’re going to authorize your bank to make a $177,000 donation from your account in order to compensate Filoli for the repairs needed because of what you did to their computerized irrigation system. If you don’t authorize that banking transaction, we will call the police immediately.”

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a bus schedule to Mexico City and handed it to Calvin, saying “After you transfer the cash, I suggest you catch the 10:30 a.m. bus.”

“Why are you letting me go?” Calvin asked after making his “donation.”

“It’s not our old school tie, if that’s what you’re thinking,” responded Barb. “You were a better person then, not someone who, to make a point, would kill a dog or a cow, or who knows what would be next. 

“We’re giving you a chance to go because our job is to get Filoli its money, which wouldn’t happen for years once you got entangled in the legal process. This way Filoli gets its money now, and you have a little time to reach safety.”

“Not much, mind you,” said Bernie. “At 10:35, we are reporting you to the authorities.”

Reaching into his gym bag, he added, “You probably won’t be able to pick up lunch in your rush to the bus station, so this should tide you over.” 

He tossed Calvin a bag of McKelvey almonds.

***

“Do you think we let Calvin off too easily?” asked Barb two days later, as she and Bernie walked toward Cara Woodson’s corner office at Filoli.

“He won’t get very far,” responded Bernie, “because the U.S. has an extradition treaty with Mexico. Rest assured, Nutsy will get her revenge.”

They knocked on the office door and were greeted by a beaming Cara, who said, “Transforming your $10,000 donation into a retainer for your investigative services made me look great to the Filoli board of directors. How can I ever thank you, aside from gladly paying your fee, of course, and presenting you with this certificate for lifetime free admission to Filoli?”

“Our normal fee would be $50,000 for this sort of assignment,” said Bernie. “But for a non-profit like Filoli, we will cut that in half.”

“Also,” added Barb, “it’s a little unusual, but instead of paying the $25,000 to us, please use that money to start a project with our new favorite charity, the Environmental Defense Fund. We are confident that the EDF can help Filoli be more eco-friendly, without losing so much as one tulip”

***

Copyright 2023, Ron Katz