The morning the police came to my door, I was wearing a rubber apron that said PAPER OR DEATH and holding a stockpot of boiled kenaf bast. If you have never smelled kenaf bast cooking in soda ash, imagine a hay bale that has been crying for a long time. It was twenty to seven on a Saturday at the end of September. I had been up since five, because cooking fiber is a long, low job and you want it simmering before the day gets hot.
The doorbell went, and then a knock. It was the kind of knock that had been to a training.
I opened the door with the pot still on my hip. A woman officer stood on my step. She was mid-thirties, with a dark ponytail pulled tight enough to count as a facelift. Behind her on the walkway stood Darlene Fisk, president of the Larkspur Commons Homeowners Association. She was close enough to be part of the conversation and far enough away to say she wasn't. She had on a quilted lavender vest and full makeup, and she was holding the leash of a Pomeranian named Duchess.
"Morning, ma'am," the officer said. "Are you Eleanor Pruitt?"
"Nell," I said. "Yes."
"I'm Officer Kowalczyk with Kestrel Creek PD. Could you set that down for me?"
I set the pot on the bench inside the door. Steam curled off it and drifted out over the officer's shoulder toward Darlene, who stepped back and waved a hand in front of her face as if I had done it on purpose.
"Thank you," Officer Kowalczyk said. "We got a call this morning about narcotics found on your property. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"At the base of her mailbox," Darlene said. "Just sitting there. In the lavender." She said lavender the way other people say crime scene.
The officer held up a clear evidence bag. Inside it was a smaller bag, matte black, with a white child-resistant zipper and a small green leaf printed in the corner. Even from the doorway I could see the white label on the front, the kind with a barcode and tiny print.
"Is this yours?"