Even if half the lot proved unusable, sixty tons for almost nothing represented calories.
Water.
Carbohydrates.
Something.
Earl lowered his voice dramatically.
“Ten dollars.”
No response.
“Five.”
Mariabel raised her gloved hand.
“Sixty.”
The auction went silent.
Even Earl stared.
Mariabel immediately realized she had made a tactical mistake.
She could have bought them for five.
Someone behind her laughed.
Then someone else.
Earl looked toward her.
“Mariabel, you sure you didn't mean six?”
“No.”
“Sixty?”
“Yes.”
The crowd erupted.
Harlon Thorson turned around so quickly he nearly knocked the hat from the man beside him.
Harlon was Daniel’s older brother.
Forty-one.
Tall.
Thin.
Permanent suspicion in his eyes.
He pushed through the crowd.
“What are you doing?”
Mariabel kept her hand raised.
Earl called:
“Sixty dollars once.”
Harlon grabbed her sleeve.
“You lost your mind?”
“Apparently.”
“Sixty dollars twice.”
“Mariabel.”
She looked at him.
“Let go of my coat.”
Harlon released it.
Earl’s gavel came down.
“Sold.”
The crowd laughed louder.
Mariabel lowered her hand.
Earl shook his head.
“Buyer gets the whole lot.”
“I know.”
“Sixty tons.”
“I heard you.”
A farmer named Red Coleman shouted from the front:
“Better build yourself the biggest rabbit pen in Wisconsin.”
More laughter.
Mariabel walked toward the produce lot.
Harlon followed.
“What are you going to do with sixty tons of carrots?”
“Feed some.”
“Some?”
“Maybe sell some.”
“To who?”
“I don't know yet.”
“That usually comes before buying.”
Mariabel picked up one carrot.
It had split into two thick roots.
She snapped off the narrow end.
The inside looked normal.
She smelled it.
Fresh.
She bit into it.
Harlon stared.
“You're eating auction garbage now?”
Mariabel chewed.
Sweet.
Firm.
No rot.
She looked toward the crowd.
Near the back stood a man in a dark wool sport coat.
Merl Blackwood.
Head of purchasing for Vernon County Cannery.
Everyone knew him.
Merl determined which contracts farmers received.
He determined whose crops met specifications.
He determined which loads were downgraded.
Farmers smiled when Merl walked into cafes.
They bought him coffee.
They laughed at his jokes.
Not because Merl was funny.
Because one signature from Merl could decide whether ten acres of vegetables became income or compost.
Merl was not laughing.
He was watching Mariabel.
Their eyes met.
He looked away first.
Mariabel took another bite of the carrot.
Harlon noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You've got that face.”
“What face?”
“The face Daniel hated.”
Mariabel almost smiled.
“What face was that?”
“The one you make before doing something expensive.”
She tossed the carrot into a crate.
“Find me a truck.”
“What?”
“We need to move them.”
“You bought them. You move them.”
“I'll pay fuel.”
“With what?”
“Carrots.”
Harlon stared.