Page 72 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

“Alice,” Bible said. “She might’ve come from Denmark, you think?”

“Probably, but as I said I don’t know. Europe has always been leaps and bounds ahead of us in the environmental arena. Particularly the Scandinavian countries.” Wexler leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I started during the eighties. Might as well have been the Stone Age. Carter had his faults, but he understood the environment was in danger. He asked Americans to make sacrifices and, as usual, they chose color televisions and microwaves.”

Bible noticed, “I see you don’t have a television in here.”

“Useless pabulum for the masses.”

“You got that right.” Bible slapped his knee. He was so damn good at this. “Now, fava beans. Are those the same as broad beans? I thought they had some kind’a toxin.”

“Yes, phytohemagglutinin is a naturally occurring lectin.” Wexler paused, but only to take in a breath. “There are low concentrations of the toxin in the bean. What you do is you boil them down for ten minutes. But that’s where the process gets interesting.”

Andrea waited for Dean Wexler to hit his stride. She slid out her iPhone. She wanted a photograph of Star. The girl had parents somewhere. They would want to know that she was still alive.

Wexler droned, “In their wild state, they’re around the size of a fingernail, which is too small for the consumer market.”

Andrea wondered how she could track down Star’s parents. Or if it would even matter. The woman was standing in a room with three law enforcement officers. If she wanted help, all she had to do was open her mouth.

Unless she was too afraid.

“Favism,” Wexler continued, “is an inborn error of metabolism. Fava can break down the red blood cells, which can be very dangerous, particularly in newborns.”

Andrea guessed that Wexler had been the type of teacher that kids found cool but adults found stupefying. She turned her head. Star openly stared back at her. The woman’s eyes were like glowing crystal balls in her sunken face. Her lips were parted. The sickly sweetness of her breath smelled like cough medicine and rot.

She was looking at Andrea’s phone.

“Star,” Wexler commanded. “Bring me a glass of water.”

Again, Star moved robotically, as if following a sub-routine. Walk to the cabinet. Stop. Take out a glass. Stop. Walk to the sink.

Andrea turned her back to the woman, which was exactly what Wexler seemed to have been waiting for.

He told Bible, “Let’s get to the point. I have work to do.”

“Sure,” Bible said. “So, tell me about the application process for your volunteers.”

“It’s not very complicated. Entrants write an essay. They must have an interest in organic farming, preferably some studies already completed in the field. You might have gathered we’ve got a stellar international reputation. We get the cream of the crop.”

“Must be hard to winnow it down to a dozen or so every year.”

Wexler saw where this was going. “Bernard, the farm manager, goes through the applications. He’s the one who chooses the volunteers.”

Bible asked, “They all women?”

“What’s that?”

“All the applicants,” Bible said. “Are they all women, or does Bernard weed out the men?”

“You’d have to ask him that.” The smug look was back on Wexler’s face. He clearly accepted all of the credit and none of the blame. “For the last thirty-five years, Nardo has been completely in charge of the selection process. I helped set up the parameters in the very beginning, but I can’t tell you the last time I read an application, let alone performed an interview.”

“Nardo interviews ’em?” Bible asked. “What, he flies over to Europe and—”

“No, no. It’s all through the computer. FaceTime or Zoom. I don’t know the particulars. Where the ads are placed. What questions are asked. Why some people stick around for another year, why some decide to go home.” Wexler looked up at Star. She stood beside him with a glass of water. He pointed at the side table and waited for her to place it on a coaster. “Once Nardo chooses the lucky few, he sends them the details and they book their tickets and fly over. I barely even meet them anymore.”

Star walked back toward the kitchen. Flour dabbed her shallow cheek. Her skin was so white that it barely left a shadow. Andrea heard the swish of her bare feet across the floorboards. She moved like a ghost. Again, her eyes went to Andrea’s phone.

Bible asked, “The volunteers have to pay their own way?”

“Of course. We’re not their employers. We provide them with the opportunity to learn a high-level skill that has practical applications to their ongoing coursework when they return to university.”