Annabelle tugged off her apron, wishing she had worn something nicer than the plain cotton dress she always donned when working with soil. She raced to the sink to scrub her hands but still felt uneasy talking to a reporter.

Dickie Shuster from The Washington Post was nothing like what she expected a journalist to look like. He wore a shockingly bright green bow tie embroidered with tiny ladybugs and knotted in generous loops of fabric that dangled down his chest. His flamboyant attire made him seem younger than he was, but on closer study, a spray of lines fanned from his eyes, and his hairline receded so far back that he would soon be considered bald. Nevertheless, the delightful floppy tie put her at ease.

They met in the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Department of Agriculture. There weren’t many people there at this time of day, and Dickie, as he insisted she call him, managed to snag an entire custard tart for them to share.

“The chef in the kitchen here is beyond compare,” he said as he cut a large wedge for her and slid it across the table. “Don’t hold back. Anything that doesn’t get eaten is coming straight home with me.”

“I gather you saw the Good Housekeeping article,” she said, too anxious to eat.

He nodded. “The Delacroix family has been trying to take down the Magruders for ages, but you are brand-new in town. I’m curious how you became involved in this matter.”

How did he know she was new in town? She wasn’t comfortable answering personal questions and immediately retreated behind her official position. “It’s hard to work here and not be aware of the issue. The Department of Agriculture has been trying to pass food purity laws for years.”

“Decades, actually,” the reporter corrected her. He took another bite of custard, chewing thoughtfully as he framed his next question. “Now, let’s move on to the subject of Luke Delacroix. He’s had it in for the Magruders—what did I say wrong? You just flinched.”

“I didn’t flinch.”

“You most certainly did. The moment I mentioned Luke Delacroix. Why?”

She didn’t have to answer these questions. If The Washington Post wished to discuss food purity or the Magruders’ applesauce, she would be happy to do so, but she had absolutely nothing to say about any of the Delacroixs.

“I barely know Luke Delacroix.”

“Do you know where he is? He’s usually such a man about town, but lately he seems to have vanished.” He scrutinized her like a cat stalking prey. He knew something.