The Detective and the Woman by Amy Thomas

and Holmes enjoyed the pleasantly overpowering aroma of the fruit. The workers were not yet tired from the day, and the serene organization of the harvest gave no hint of the owner’s dark purposes.
    Holmes led Irene around row on row of trees to the small shack on the far side of the grove. No one accosted them along the way, and he surmised that the foremen knew he was expected. ‘I wasn’t anticipating the smell,’ said The Woman.
    ‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. Tom Perkins was a taciturn fellow. His ‘wife’ carried a bag of cigarettes in one hand and held his arm with the other, while he hoisted a box of canned soup on his shoulder. Together, they formed a less-than-savoury picture, he with his sagging eyes and florid face, and his wife with unkempt hair and soiled dress.
    Holmes pushed open the door of the office, and Bill, the tall, broad grove supervisor greeted him with a less-than-enthusiastic eh . ‘Good morning,’ said the detective, his voice ingratiating. ‘My wife and I have brought the items you requested.’ Bill ushered them into the tiny building, pointing to a dusty room covered with piles of non-perishable goods.
    ‘We’ve no mind to leave these until we’ve agreed on a price,’ said Irene shrilly, holding tightly to her tobacco and nodding to a dull-acting Holmes not to relinquish his cans.
    ‘I told you yesterday,’ said Bill, glowering at Holmes and ignoring Irene, ‘that I can’t set a price until I’ve asked the Boss.’
    ‘Well, then, I guess we’ll have to take these things back to town,’ said Irene, staring boldly at the foreman and hugging her sack like a prized turkey.
    ‘Aye,’ said Holmes after a pause. Bill stared at the couple for a long moment in which he seemed to be contemplating inflicting bodily harm before stomping into a room at the back of the shed and leaving them alone. Holmes winked at Irene.
    After a moment, two voices could be heard, one Bill’s angry growl, the other quieter and calmer. Bill’s irate complaints were easy to understand, but Holmes couldn’t make out the contributions of the other man until the door opened and both emerged.
    The second man was considerably shorter than the foreman, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with a well-kept moustache and immaculate clothing. He smiled at Holmes and Irene, showing rows of perfect teeth that somehow put the detective in mind of a self-satisfied shark.
    ‘Sir, Madam, what may I do to assist you?’ The man’s English was perfect, too perfect for a native, too well enunciated. He touched his chin and contemplated the pair placidly.
    ‘Look, Mister, do you want our things or not?’ Irene stepped forward defiantly.
    ‘My associate (he indicated Bill with a nod) informs me of your offer. I hope this will be sufficient.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, peeling two off the top and handing them to Irene, who eyed them greedily before surrendering them to Holmes, who glowered at her wordlessly.
    ‘That’s…satisfactory,’ said Irene, attempting to look as if she were excited and trying not to appear so.
    ‘Aye,’ said Holmes.
    ‘Come back next week with more of the same,’ said the Central American, smiling and throwing out his arm theatrically. ‘I’m Sanchez, the owner.’ Irene nodded sycophantically and took Holmes’s arm. The unprepossessing couple left the shack with many thanks from the animated boss and glares from his second-in-command.
    The detective led Irene away from the grove, as silently as befitted his character, until they had reached the wagon and he had unceremoniously dumped her into it, like an unprized sack of potatoes. ‘I thought you might have made a hole in my arm,’ Holmes finally ventured, once the scrawny rented horse had begun the trek back to town and carried them a safe distance from prying eyes. ‘You held on so tightly a crowbar couldn’t have dislodged you. I’m not entirely sure Jane Perkins is quite so enamored of her lord