“I’m more than a friend!” Fred declared defiantly. Suddenly he got as red as a peony. “I mean I — she let me take her home.”
“You were there when Mr. Keems arrived?”
“Yes. We had just got there. And I insisted on coming along. It sounded to me like a frame-up. I thought he was lying; I didn’t think he was working for you. It didn’t sound — I’ve heard my father talk about you. He met you once — you probably don’t remember—”
Wolfe nodded. “At the Atlantic States Exposition. How is he?”
“Oh, he’s — not very good.” Fred’s color was normal again. “He gave up when we lost the plantation of rhodaleas — he just sat down and quit. He had spent his whole life on it, and of course it was an awful wallop financially too. I suppose you know about it.”
“I read of it, yes. The Kurume yellows.” Wolfe was sympathetic but casual. “And by the way, someone told me, I forget who, that your father was convinced that his plantation was deliberately infected by Lewis Hewitt, out of pique — or was it Watson or Dill he suspected?”
“He suspected all of them.” Fred looked uncomfortable. “Everybody. But that was just — he was hardly responsible, it broke him up so. He had been holding back over thirty varieties, the best ones, for ten years, and was going to start distribution this spring. It was simply too much for Dad to take.”
Wolfe grunted. “It seems to be still on your mind too. Mr. Goodwin tells me you invaded Rucker and Dill’s exhibit this afternoon and made off with an infected twig. As a souvenir?”
“I—” Fred hesitated. “I guess that was dumb. Of course it’s still on my mind — it darned near ruined us. I wanted to test that twig and see if it was Kurume yellows that had somehow got into the exhibits.”
“And investigate the how?”