Dehydration?
Soup?
Seed?
She circled dehydration.
Then stopped.
Why would Merl care?
If the carrots were worthless to the cannery, Mariabel’s use should be irrelevant.
She could feed them.
Dump them.
Build a carrot church.
None of it should matter.
Unless Merl believed they had value somewhere else.
That thought changed everything.
Mariabel drove to the county extension office in Viroqua.
The agricultural agent was a man named Dr. Walter Preston.
Everyone called him Walter even though he had spent six years earning the right to be called Doctor.
Walter wore thick glasses and smelled permanently like coffee.
Mariabel placed three carrots on his desk.
He looked at them.
“Lunch?”
“Question.”
“That usually costs more.”
“The cannery says woody core.”
Walter cut one lengthwise.
A pale center ran through part of it.
“Yes.”
“Dangerous?”
“No.”
“Poison?”
“No.”
“Animal feed?”
“Fine in appropriate amounts.”
“Human food?”
Walter shrugged.
“Texture isn't good.”
“Meaning?”
“Tough center.”
“Could you juice it?”
“Probably.”
“Dry it?”
“Yes.”
“Grind it?”
“Yes.”
“Cook it?”
Walter smiled.
“You planning to interrogate the carrot until it confesses?”
Mariabel sat.
“Why would a cannery buyer care who owns rejected carrots?”
Walter stopped smiling.
“Which buyer?”
“You know.”
Walter leaned back.
“Merl?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Mariabel told him.
Not everything.
Enough.
Walter tapped the carrot with his knife.
“Different processors have different specifications.”
“I know.”
“Canning line hates irregular shape.”
“Who doesn't?”
“Dehydrators don't care as much.”
Mariabel leaned forward.
“Where’s the nearest one?”
Walter thought.
“La Crosse had a vegetable dehydration operation during the war. Mostly closed now.”
“Now?”
“I heard there's one near Prairie du Chien doing soup ingredients.”
“How far?”
“Hour and a half.”
Mariabel wrote it down.
Walter watched.
“Don't get excited.”
“I’m not.”
“You look excited.”
“This is my normal face.”
“Mariabel.”
She looked up.
“Sixty tons is a lot of product.”
“I know.”
“You need buyers before hauling around Wisconsin.”
“I know.”
“And bad carrots don't become good carrots because you own them.”
“I know.”
Walter smiled.
“You always this pleasant?”
“No.”
Mariabel left.
The next morning, she drove south.
She found Prairie Valley Foods behind a railroad siding near Prairie du Chien.
The building looked unimpressive.
Brick.
Metal roof.
Steam from a vent.
Trucks parked behind it.
A secretary told Mariabel purchasing manager Frank Delaney was busy.
Mariabel waited.
Forty minutes.
Frank appeared wearing a white processing coat.
“What can I do for you?”
“I have carrots.”
He stared.
“We all have problems.”
“Sixty tons.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What grade?”
“Rejected.”
“Then I don't want them.”
“Cannery grade rejected.”