Chapter 12: The Country Code

Twenty years in the field had taught John Turner one indisputable fact: What sweatshop owners told you and what you found in their records were two entirely different things. He was certain that the Holly Wreath Man was no exception.

"My daddy started the business during the Depression. It was big business for a while," Pop Henderson said, pointing to a faded photo of a train bearing a "Holly Express" sign on a boxcar. "Back then, holly wreaths were the only way some of us made it through the winter."

"Interesting, I'm sure," said Turner. "But it's 1962. How does your business operate today?"

"Farmers, and some town folk, supply the wreaths. I supply the buyers," Pop said. "I'm just a middleman."

"No, Mr. Henderson, you're an employer," Turner said. He cursed Metcalf, his boss, for wasting his time when he could be staking out a crook back in the city.

"Listen," he said, impatiently. "I've heard every excuse there is, so let's cut to the chase. Let me guess. You're not making money. Heck, your workers get more out of it than you do. Why, with your overhead you barely break even. That it?"

"In a nutshell," Pop said.

"Right. And if you had to pay minimum wage, you'd have to shut down."

"You really understand the way things work around here."

"You bet I do," Turner said, opening his notebook. "And that's why I want to see your payroll, timesheets, work schedules, all of it. Feel free to call your lawyer, but you'll hear the same: You have to comply."

Pop felt a familiar heartburn spread in his chest. "I've got nothing to hide," he protested. He sifted through piles of paper, but the mess stopped him. His hands shook. "I might need a little time. It's our busy season."

Turner got to his feet. "Well, while you're looking, I'd like to talk to some of your employees. Where can I find them?"

For the first time, Pop laughed. "Home, I'd imagine. They harvest the holly from trees on their land, make the wreaths, and I pick them up and ship them out from here. I'd be happy to take you out to meet the folks."

"That won't be necessary."

"I'm not going to put a spell on them. It's just, well, I don't think they'll talk to you."

"I don't think I'll have any trouble," Turner said.

THE NEXT FEW HOURS Turner drove up and down Route 9, stopping at farmhouses. The first farmer he asked for information went back inside and returned with a shotgun that he leveled at Turner.

"Off my land."

At the next stop, the farmer looked up from the tractor engine he was working on.

"That's a rude question to ask a friend, let alone a stranger. How much do you make, mister? Whatever it is, you're overpaid."

At the third house, a farm wife turned on her heel without a word. Henderson must have called ahead. Turner got behind the wheel and pulled away in a cloud of dust.

Dwarfed by a pile of holly sprays on her kitchen table, Olivia Coffin, a heavyset woman in her 80s, surprised Turner with a friendly welcome.

"Can't stop working, sonny. Start talking."

"How much do you get paid?"

"That depends," she said, joining two boughs of gleaming holly with a length of baling wire.

"On what?"

"How much work I do, of course."

"Well, how much do you get paid an hour?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"How much I do."

"Well, how much do you do? Don't tell me," he said, closing his notebook. "That depends."

"You're catching on."

POP LOOKED UP from the ledger open on his desk. The pain in his chest had migrated to his left arm. He opened the desk drawer, fished out a business card and picked up the phone.

"Pritchard, I've changed my mind about the land," he said. "I'm ready to sell."

He heard a clatter on the stairs and Jeff burst in the door.

"Pop, where have you been?" he said, out of breath. "I've been waiting for you since school got out. I thought we were collecting wreaths today?"

"Been a bit tied up, son," Pop said, wincing in pain.

"Pop, are you OK?" Jeff said, alarmed by his grandfather's ashen face.

Inside Pop's chest, a burning fist squeezed. Tighter. And tighter. He tried to stand up, but fell back in the chair and reached helplessly for the phone.

Next chapter: Pop's Secret