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Won’t you tell me where your garden grows? |
| Detective Brent Kurtz stood at his bathroom sink, letting the tap flush the sudsy water off of his hands and swirl down the drain for the eleventh time that morning. He couldn't stop thinking about the germy disasters that would ensue if the soap ran out, and peeked into the linen closet to count the number of extra SoftSoap dispensers. They were lined up like elixirs, potions for health and wellness hidden in some wizard's cupboard, alongside neatly folded towels sorted precisely by color and size. He surveyed it all and turned back to the mirror. Where's the Drakkar Blue? Oh goodness, what if I can't find it? I can't go to work without it—I have a terrible body odor! I'll be fired! Oh, there it is in the corner. Why isn't it on the counter between the toothpaste and the jar of Q-tips where it's supposed to be? Brent shrugged on his blazer, stuffed his ID card in his pocket, and went out to his car to head to work. What if there's an accident on the road? What if I'm late? What if it starts snowing? A blast of icy wind nearly took his hat off. He checked his phone again before putting it aside, for any texts from his sister Aurora. Still hasn’t answered my messages. It's been three days. She always keeps in touch. He turned down her street and past her house. Her car wasn't in the driveway. Brent swung into his labelled parking space at the Greenwood, North Carolina police department. It was exactly three spots away from the corner of the fence and two spots from the handicapped parking allotment. He couldn't explain why it had to be that way, but he refused to park anywhere else and insisted they mark the spot for him. "Hey, Tom," he said to Officer Brown as they signed in at the front desk. "We need to do a welfare check on my sister. I haven't heard from her." They headed out in Brown's Charger and pulled into the short driveway of her two story townhome, tucked neatly into a row of cloned buildings with no yards to speak of. No one answered their knock. "You sure she isn't just out of town on business or something?" "Yes. She never goes a day without sending me a note, a GIF, a little message. We're pretty close." Brent fiddled with his blazer buttons, shuffled his feet and adjusted his collar against that chilling wind. "Last point of contact?" "Three days ago. I called Mom—she doesn't know. She hasn't heard from her in a week. Lives two states away." "Maybe your sister doesn't feel like talking to anyone." "But she's not home. Where is she? We need to see if she left a message, or her belongings." "We'd have to get a warrant on basis of reasonable concern to open the house," Tom said with a frown. "Our PD rules state a normal adult isn't a missing persons case until five days with no contact." "Five days is too much!" Brent's voice quivered. "You know as well as I do how many adults have disappeared and never been found because we had to wait that long." "What are you suggesting we do, break in?" Tom's eyebrows arched. "You happen to have a key?" "No…" Brent's shoulders slumped. "Aurora's my sister. I need to know if she's safe, man!" "I should think if there was something wrong, she'd let you know." As they argued, an old blue Ford Fiesta pulled up hesitantly alongside the driveway. The driver's window rolled down to reveal a petite Hispanic woman. "Is there a problem?" she called out. "I'm Ms Kurtz's housecleaner." It turned out she had a key to let herself in, and she allowed Brent and Tom to come inside with her. Goodness, it looks like a laboratory. Everything was white or pale gray, from the walls to the carpet, undecorated pillows and angular sofa in front of the flat screen TV. Instead of shelves or art on the walls, there were blank oblong screens of different shapes and sizes, digital picture frames. It smelled slightly dusty, as though no one had been there recently. The atmosphere was sterile, impersonal, and lifeless—except for a windowsill lined with flourishing houseplants, a welcome spot of green amid the white. "She took her purse, phone and keys," Mrs. Rodriguez announced from the hallway. "They're always on her dresser when she's home." "Well, nothing untoward seems to have happened," Tom leaned on the kitchen counter. "Where does she work, Brent? What's she do for a living?" Brent sat down on a dining chair and pulled a matchbox out of his pocket. He dumped the sticks (which all had their red chemical tips carefully removed) out on the table and began counting them into groups. Tom shook his head but refrained from making a remark about the oft-repeated ritual. "Honestly, I'm not entirely sure." "You were so close, and she didn't tell you her occupation? Has she ever invited you over?" "I don't socialize much, even with my family. We kept up by texting. She went off to college in Pennsylvania and came back a few years ago with two degrees and a good job. It was something in horticulture or biotech." "That be vague," Tom said wryly. "We'll have to question the cleaning lady. You don't even know if she had a daily commute or if she worked from home…" Brent gathered up his matchsticks. I wish I didn't have to do that, it looks so ridiculous. But it helps diffuse panic. I need to think. According to Mrs. Rodriguez, Aurora told her she made her commute three days of the week and worked remotely the other two. The past two days would have been her commutes. The housecleaner only came by once a week. Brent and Tom began searching the house for clues about Aurora's occupation and whereabouts. "I feel awful poking through her stuff like this…" Brent said as he opened her bedroom door. "Hey, we're the police. That's our job. If you were only here as her brother, wouldn't you be poking about?" "If she came home and saw us, she'd probably have a fit." "It was your idea, buddy." He's right. I'm the detective. I have to find out if she's safe. Aurora's bedroom was as blank as the rest of her house, the only spots of life or customization being one of the art screens, another happy houseplant in one corner, and a line of antique botanical prints hung on the wall over her headboard. Brent realized her college degrees were framed and hung there as well. He leaned over to read them. A bachelor's in Horticultural Studies and a master's in Genetic Engineering. Wow. That sounds so… advanced. Brent couldn't find anything like a journal, notebook, or pad of paper which might have some scribbled notes or phone numbers on it. Aurora keeps a scrupulous home. I don't even see a pen or pencil. Or books! Does she do everything digitally? What is she, a robot? He opened one of her dresser drawers and found nothing there other than sweaters, neatly folded with a bag of dried lavender. Opening another one, he closed it again hurriedly when he saw undergarments. How totally awkward. There must be a clue somewhere. Doesn't she have any hobbies? Or paperwork? He stood in front of the plant and studied it. It grew in a white clay pot, with a plastic tag tucked neatly into the soil. Brent pulled it out. Spathiphyllum, Peace Lily. He noticed a QR code on the tag and used his phone to scan it. It brought up a website for a company called BioVidas. Their slogan was "Life, Reimagined." The page he'd landed on described the advanced air purifying qualities of their newly developed, genetically modified Spathiphyllum. Tom looked in the open door. "Any clues?" he asked. "No, but I might have found where she works." Brent showed him the website. "Well for Pete's sake, that's a clue right there." Tom took Brent's phone and flicked to the bottom of the page, where the boring links were: Careers, Newsroom, Privacy Policy, DEI Policy, etc. One of them was labeled Staff. He scrolled past a dozen or so smiling, nerdy young faces. "Look! There she is!" Brent tapped on the bio link to a lady with a honey blonde bun and sharp green eyes. "Aurora Kurtz, Lead Genetic Scientist in the Horticultural Lab. Good heavens, I had no idea. Look, she won an award." "One mystery taken care of," Tom chuckled, handing back the phone. "Now call the company and ask if she's there." *** "So you and your officer buddy are tramping around my nice clean house?" Aurora's voice was mildly amused over the phone. "I apologize for not being in touch. I'm working on a special project that requires me to spend my nights in an underground lab full of plants for a couple of weeks to monitor air quality and collect other time sensitive data. It's highly classified, and I've had to wait for permission to let anyone know my whereabouts." "Jeepers!" Brent tugged at the buttons of his blazer. "Are you kidding? You would've been a missing persons case in another two days! Couldn't you have at least let me know you were okay?" "If I did that prematurely, the paradox would be that I might lose my job. Then I wouldn't be okay at all." Brent heaved a sigh. "I swear, Sis… the more I get to know you, the less I know." "You've known me all your life, Bro. And when it comes to clandestine genetic engineering, the less you do know, the better." "I'm just glad you're alright. And hey, is there a reason why your place looks like the inside of a smartphone?" "That's how I like it. It comes alive when I turn on the art screens. You should see them. I need to go take some measurements now. Talk later. Love ya." Brent stood at her kitchen sink. He smiled when he saw she used the same variety of SoftSoap that he did. He turned on the water and began counting his hand-washing ritual. Word Count: 1711. notes ▼ lyrics to The Less I Know ▼ |
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