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.J.P.and I got out of the car, looking out of place in our coats and ties, and walked into the only building that wasn’t a plastic-sheeted greenhouse.A young man greeted us from behind the service counter.“You need any help?”“Yeah,” I said.“We’re looking for some information about a really rare tree—a ginkgo.You know anything about them?”He pulled a face and shook his head, smiling.“I can handle the run-of-the-mill stuff, but that sounds more like Jay’s department.Hang on a sec.”He reached under the counter and retrieved a portable radio.“Jay?” he said after keying the mike.“Yeah,” came the answer after a pause.“I got two gentlemen here asking about ginkgo trees.”“Be right there.”The young man replaced the radio with a laugh.“You must’ve pushed a button with that one.He’s knee-deep in mud, working out back.”A woman approached with a tray full of small plants, and we faded back so the clerk could work the cash register.A few minutes later, an impressively tall, skinny man wearing a baseball cap and an open face ambled into the building, rubbing his hands on a mud-encrusted pair of khakis.He smiled broadly as he drew near.“Hi.I’m Jay Wilson.You the ones interested in the ginkgos?”I walked with him to an unpopulated corner of the room, speaking quietly.“Probably not in the sense you’d like, I’m afraid.We’re from the Brattleboro police—sort of on a research trip.”Wilson’s bright disposition remained undaunted.“Neat.What do you want to know?”“I guess for starters, do you sell them?”“I do when I can find ’em.They’re pretty hard to get.Even as high-priced as they are, they move like crazy.”“So there’re a lot of them around?” J.P.asked, disappointed.“Oh, no.Offhand, I’d say fifteen to twenty tops in the whole county.Their rarity’s part of the appeal.Not that they’re fragile or anything,” he added quickly, as if we were customers.“They’re quite hardy—grow almost anywhere.Interesting tree, actually, and a real beauty.One of the oldest on the face of the earth.I read they were, around two hundred and thirty million years ago, native to North America, which is ironic, since their only native habitat these days is eastern China.That’s what makes ’em so pricey.”“I gather they come in male and female varieties,” I commented.He seemed to dismiss the idea.“Well, they do, but that doesn’t really matter.People only buy the males.It’s all I ever sell.”We both stared at him.“Why?” J.P.finally asked.“The females have seeds—orange grapey things about an inch long, coated with a messy pulp.They not only litter the ground, but they stink to high heaven—the pulp does.They’re famous for it.”“How many females do you think are in Windham County?” I asked.He considered that for a moment.“Probably no more than three or four, but that’s just a guess.They’re a little sneaky.For the first twenty to even fifty years, the males and females look pretty much the same.It’s only after they fruit that the females come out of the closet.So there’re probably several supposed males out there that’re getting ready to surprise their owners.I got called about one just recently.Guy wanted to know how to deal with the seeds.I told him he was screwed.Even picking them up won’t work, since they’re designed to break open when they land.The season only lasts six weeks, though, starting in late summer.I said he should try to work it to his advantage.Make it a selling point to his guests somehow.Asians actually eat the seeds—consider ’em a delicacy, after the pulp’s been removed—and they’re hot right now in the herbal medicine market.Supposed to treat everything from Alzheimer’s to hearing problems.”He gave a sly smile.“They’re also sold as a sexual enhancer—that’s why I thought he could turn it into an advantage.He didn’t sound too convinced, though.Maybe he couldn’t figure out how to phrase it in the brochure.”“Brochure for what?”“He runs the Windham Hill Inn, just outside West Townshend.”Chapter 6THE DRIVEWAY TO THE WINDHAM HILL INN is modest enough—a dirt lane branching off from the road between Route 30 and the tiny village of Windham some seven miles farther north.There is an official state sign advertising the place—small, sedate white letters on a dark green background.Vermont does not permit billboards, a decision with which the inn had obviously tastefully concurred, since not even the mailbox continued the message.The darkened lane meanders a short distance past a house or two, closely shaded by a crowd of trees before cresting a small hill and issuing into the light of a vast opening.It’s a theatrical setting.From right to left, on a gentle downhill slope, are a pool, a tennis court, a huge converted barn, a discreetly landscaped parking area, and the main house of the inn itself—old, brick-clad topped by white clapboard—all looking like a watercolor of the English countryside.Beyond it hovers a view of thousands of acres—fields, forests, and haze-blurred mountains—and standing front and center, visually connecting the barn and the main building, towering in sharp contrast to the breathtaking but hazy horizon, was a tremendous, fan-shaped tree, unlike any I’d ever seen.I had stopped the car on the crest, and now cast a glance at J.P., whose eyes were glued to the tree [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]