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have to stop growing them?”
    He leaned back in his chair and tossed the papers on his desk. “He didn’t.”
    I caught the emphasis and asked, “Did someone else tell you?”
    â€œYes, but I don’t take much stock in someone who calls and doesn’t have the decency to identify himself. I ignored the call.”
    â€œWas it a man or a woman?”
    â€œIt could have been either. We didn’t have a lengthy conversation. The person told me to stop buying flowers from the Amish man. He hung up. So did I.”
    â€œDid you mention this to Isaac?”
    â€œSure. Why not?”
    â€œNo reason. How did he react when you told him?”
    â€œI don’t know. Surprised.” Moth rethought his answer. “No, not surprised, more like resigned. I really don’t remember.”
    â€œWhen was this?” I asked.
    Moth shifted restlessly in his chair. “A few weeks ago.”
    â€œDid you know there’s a plan among some of the florists to cut you out as middleman?”

    His pointed chin shot up. His eyes closed to slits. “Where’d you hear that?”
    I took a page from Hodges’s prolific repertoire of words. “I see people. Talk. Get around.”
    Abruptly, Moth stood up. “This is a waste of my time. I don’t know what you’re up to, but if it’s to cause trouble, you’ve come to the wrong man. Isaac and I had an agreement. No one”—his voice deepened dramatically—“and I mean no one but me will be able to buy anything Isaac Miller had a hand in growing.” He came around the desk. “If that’s all, Mrs. Solomon,” he said, “I have to get home and change.”
    Slowly, I walked to the door. “With Isaac’s death, won’t your agreement become invalid?”
    â€œNo, it will not. I have the situation well in hand.”
    In the doorway, I turned with another question. Before I could ask it, Moth exclaimed, “Get back in here, you little rascal.”
    I knew he wasn’t talking to me. Harvey must have made his escape. I did the same. I hurried down the corridor, past the vending machines, down the staircase. I didn’t take a full breath till I was sitting in my car.

Chapter Six
    I carried the stepladder out of my garage and set it by the front steps. With my hands on my hips, I gazed above me. There it was, my newspaper, teetering on the edge of the gutter.
    With each step up the ladder, I swore I’d get to the bottom of these shenanigans. What had I done to this kid? I racked my brain but couldn’t come up with a single thing. At first, I’d figured the boy was going through puberty, and his mind was on something else. But after talking to a couple of neighbors, I discovered that the placement of my paper was a calculated prank. None of them were experiencing this kind of treatment.
    I tucked the paper under my arm and put the ladder away. I didn’t know the kid. He’d been on the route for about six months. I had a telephone number and a name: Jamie Fenton. I’d seen him only once, about a month ago. I’d come home early from the shop with a sick headache. When I heard the thud of the paper hit the side of the house, I’d gone to the front door. He was too far down the street to call to, but I’d seen a pudgy kid, a
ball cap, and chubby legs pedaling for all they were worth.
    A confrontation was in order. I could complain to the newspaper office, but I wanted to look this kid in the eye.
    Shaking my head, I sat down at the kitchen table, unfolded the paper, and picked up my fork. Eating and reading at the same time is a diet no-no. With a limited amount of food, I’m supposed to savor each bite. Delight in the texture; thrill to the taste. In short, get as much out of the food as I possibly can. A tough assignment when faced with a can of tuna dumped on a bed of shredded lettuce. I might have been more creative, but I