The inspector photographed serial markings.
Then walked toward his vehicle.
Clara followed to the boundary.
“What?”
He opened a case.
Pulled out a binder.
Old enforcement records.
Not something he happened to carry for fun.
Thomas had called ahead after seeing the drum.
The inspector searched.
Found a page.
Compared numbers.
Then stopped.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Clara asked.
He looked at Thomas.
Then Clara.
“This batch appears in a historical distribution record.”
Ray had stopped smiling entirely.
Clara's voice tightened.
“Distributed where?”
“Still checking.”
“By who?”
“Mercer.”
Silence.
The orchard suddenly felt different.
Same trees.
Same mud.
Same pigs shouting twenty yards away.
But the past had moved beneath Clara's feet.
The inspector said:
“We're not drawing conclusions from a distributor label.”
Clara nodded.
He continued.
“Containers move.”
“People reuse them.”
“Serial records can be incomplete.”
“I understand.”
“We need laboratory work and ownership history.”
“I understand.”
Ray did not.
“Are you saying Wade buried chemicals here?”
The inspector looked at him.
“I specifically said we are not saying that.”
Ray raised both hands.
“Fine.”
Clara turned toward him.
“Don't start.”
“What?”
“Don't turn this into gossip.”
Ray looked offended.
“I wouldn't.”
“You absolutely would.”
He paused.
Fair.
Within forty-eight hours, everybody knew anyway.
Not from Ray alone.
Too many official vehicles.
Too many neighbors.
Too many small-town eyes.
Wade Mercer called.
Clara stared at the phone.
Let it ring.
Again.
Third time she answered.
“Clara.”
“Yes.”
“I heard.”
“I’m sure.”
“Those drums aren't mine.”
She closed her eyes.
“I didn't say they were.”
“People are.”
“Then talk to them.”
“My father's company distributed thousands of containers.”
“I know.”
“The label means nothing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Clara’s voice hardened.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Tell people not to imply we dumped anything.”
“I am telling people to wait for the investigation.”
“That isn't enough.”
Clara laughed without humor.
“What would be enough?”
“Publicly say the Mercer company had no involvement.”
“I don't know that.”
“You know me.”
“That isn't evidence.”
Wade became quiet.
Then:
“Your father knew me.”
“My father is dead.”
Silence.
Clara immediately hated the cruelty of the sentence.
But she did not retract it.
Wade said:
“I helped Daniel for years.”
“You sold him products.”
“I gave him advice.”
“And he paid you.”
“That’s insulting.”
“Why?”