“Was Iris afraid of being caught?”
“She worried about it constantly. She lived in fear of being deported, always looking over her shoulder. You saw her, she was so quiet, she learned to be invisible.” Aunt Barb paused, and her eyes glistened anew. “There are so many undocumented workers here, and everywhere.”
“But that doesn’t make it right.” Judy believed in the law, even if it meant siding with her mother.
“I know, but they’re here, living in a parallel universe. They’re an open secret.”
Judy thought of the undocumented workers she’d seen in the city, the busboys smoking outside the back door of the restaurants, or the men who delivered her takeout pizza by bicycle. “We know and we-don’t-know.”
“Yes, and the interesting thing about an open secret is that people look the other way, literally. Iris became the kind of woman whom people looked away from. Unmemorable and marginalized, even more than the average middle-aged woman.”
Judy could hear the resentment in her aunt’s voice. “Where did she work before Mike’s?”
“She cleaned houses for that service, which is when I met her, as I told you. She also did yard work, and she washed and mended horse blankets. At one point, she worked three jobs.”
Judy slid the keys from the ignition. “Okay. So why are we here?”
“You’ll see. I have a plan. Just follow my lead.” Aunt Barb reached for the door handle.
And Judy wondered when it got to be so hard to keep up with someone almost twice her age.
Chapter Nine
“So what’s your plan?” Judy took her aunt’s arm, but she needed no help, standing straight and tall, her step fueled by a new determination.
“To see the boss and get to the bottom of this, that’s what. Iris works here and she should have been here tonight.” Aunt Barb gestured at the cinderblock buildings. “These are the growing rooms, and the packing area and office are behind them.”
Judy grimaced at the disgusting odor of manure that permeated the air. “They really use manure to grow mushrooms?”
“Yes, horse manure and some chicken, but they call it compost. That’s why there’s always mushroom growers next to horse farms. Chester County produces almost half of all mushrooms grown in the United States.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“Everybody does. It’s a source of local pride, and Iris used to tell me all about the business, and she gave me the inside track.”
“But how did she work with this smell?” Judy couldn’t imagine anyone breathing that stink, twenty-four/seven.
“God knows.” Her aunt wrinkled her nose. “The men pick the mushrooms, and the women pack, but it’s gross in the packing room here, too.”
Judy didn’t know much about how mushrooms grew, except it had been a joke at her old law firm that the partners treated the associates like mushrooms—keep ’em in the dark and feed ’em shit. “How is that sanitary, to grow food in horse manure?”
“They pasteurize it. You’ll see, we’re going inside.” Aunt Barb charged past battered trash cans and broken wooden pallets. “This place is such a dump. I don’t know how they pass inspection.”
“Who inspects?” Judy asked, as they approached the door to the building.
“The state and federal agencies, and the mushroom growers have their own independent council that inspects as well. Someday I’ll figure out how Mike gets away with what he does.” Aunt Barb reached for the metal handle on the battered door, which had a thick spring. “He must pay somebody off.”
“I’ll get the door,” Judy said, but her aunt had already opened it and they entered the building, where the manure stink was stronger, turning Judy’s stomach. They found themselves in a cold, rectangular hallway with a grimy gray utility sink and blue plastic trays scattered on a concrete floor. “It’s so chilly in here.”
“Because we’re close to the growing rooms. Let’s keep going. The office is behind the growing rooms.”
“I got the door.” Judy crossed to another door, also with a metal handle and a spring. Wrinkled paper signs were taped to the door in English and Spanish: HAIRNETS MUST BE WORN, REDECILLA DEBE USARESE EN ESTA AREA. NO SMOKING EATING OR DRINKING IN THIS AREA, PROHIBIDO FUMAR COMER O BEBER EN ESTA AREA.
“This is a growing room,” her aunt said, charging through the door into a freezing-cold, dark room that reeked of manure. A mechanical thrumming filled the air, the sound of refrigeration units atop the building.
Judy followed, but the stench of manure overpowered her, triggering her gag reflex. Her step slowed, and she covered her mouth instinctively, trying not to throw up. She could barely see a thing, and the room was dark except for a single bare fluorescent panel on one of the wooden racks of brown mushrooms, which ran the length of the immense room, almost floor to ceiling. Narrow aisles ran between the racks, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the dim outline of twenty-some figures moving up and down the aisles, hunched over the trays.
She walked past, shuddering against the cold, her eyes tearing from the manure stink. They looked like shadows instead of people, but they were men dressed for the frigid temperature in heavyweight hoodies and bulky jeans, with baseball caps over their puffy white-paper hairnets. None of them looked up, but stayed face-down as they picked small brown mushrooms from trays of thousands, seeming not to see or hear her. She realized that they all had earplugs in against the mechanical noise.
Judy felt so disturbed by what she was seeing that she found her pace quicken. She couldn’t have imagined such awful working conditions, worse than hell itself, because of the manure. She caught up with her aunt, who was at a door in the back wall, with more Spanish and English signs, then one in a language she didn’t recognize: TOLONG TANGAN HALANGI PINTU! Do not block door! Judy placed a hand on her aunt’s back. “Go, please, I can’t take this smell.”
Aunt Barb opened the door. “This must be the packing room.”
Judy followed her into another massive cold room, filled with manure smell and mechanical noise. She blinked against the sudden brightness from fluorescent panels suspended from a grimy corrugated ceiling, illuminating twenty-odd women working at a long assembly line, packing mushrooms behind a wall of heavy machinery that had huge rolls of plastic wrap.
Her aunt hurried ahead, but Judy slowed to take it in, imagining poor Iris working here. None of the women looked up, their ears plugged against the refrigeration noise, breathing in the manure smell. They were white, Hispanic, and Asian, all dressed in dark blue smocks over hoodies and wool hats over hairnets, packing mushrooms into light blue containers, positioning them in the wrapping machines, stamping them, and placing them in large, unmarked cardboard boxes. The humans worked like robots, part of the assembly line itself, and the job horrified Judy as much as the growing room. She hurried ahead to keep up with Aunt Barb, past a time clock with yellow cards in trays, and reached a scuffed swinging door, pushed it open, and entered a short hallway leading to some sort of office.
“That was awful.” Judy took a deep breath, but the air was still smelly. She felt vaguely ashamed at herself, for beefing about the asbestos damages cases, but she knew that wouldn’t stop her.
“Finally, the office! Let me do the talking.” Aunt Barb flagged down an overweight man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, lumbering down the paneled hall toward them, a confused frown folding his fleshy face. His hair was a sparse brown, and he had on a light blue oxford shirt, loose tan work pants, and worn black sneakers.
“Ladies?” He waved back at them. “May I help you? The public isn’t allowed in the—”
“I’m sorry, but we’re looking for Julio,” Aunt Barb answered, as they reached the man. “He’s the boss, right? Or is Mike around?”
“They’re not here. I’m Scott Panuc, assistant operations manager. What can I do for you?”
“Scott, my name is Barb Moyer, this is my niece Judy, and I’m a friend of Iris Juarez, who works he
re—”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Scott folded his arms over his chubby belly.
“Look, I know that Iris worked here. She’s been working here for two months on the three-to-eleven shift, in the packing room. She should’ve been working tonight.”
“No, you have your facts wrong.” Scott shook his head, sticking out his lower lip. “I don’t know any Iris Juarez. Nobody works here by that name.”
Judy held her tongue, only because her aunt wanted to do the talking.
“Scott,” her aunt said, calmly, “I know she worked here. She started two months ago. I dropped her off here two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“I know she worked here. I picked her up here, too, the same day. That was when I met, or at least saw, Julio.”
Judy interjected, “Scott, we’re not from Immigration or the IRS or anything. We’re just personal friends of Iris’s, trying to figure out what happened to her. I don’t know if you heard but she was found dead in her car today, on Brandywine Way.”
“Oh no!” Scott’s eyes flared, his surprise genuine. “Oh, uh, jeez, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too.” Aunt Barb sighed, whether from relief or fatigue, Judy couldn’t tell. “Okay, so now we know. She worked here.”
“Yes, she did.” Scott buckled his lower lip. “I didn’t know who you were, well, you know.”
“I know. The police think she had a heart attack. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of it, because she should have been at work tonight.”
Scott hesitated, rubbing his face. “Yes, to be honest, she should have been here, but she didn’t come in today.”
“So you didn’t see her today at all?”
“No, she was a no-show.” Scott shrugged his heavy shoulders sadly. “It’s not like her, but then again, you never know.”
“Did you call her when you realized she wasn’t here?”
“No, I never do. I figured she moved on. They move around a lot and usually don’t say where they’re going. One day, they just disappear.”
Judy remained silent. Nobody had to ask whom he meant by they.
“That wouldn’t be like her, either, just to disappear without saying so.” Aunt Barb seemed to slump in her parka, and Judy could feel her leaning on her arm for support.
“No, it wouldn’t, but I didn’t change what I usually do.” Scott’s face fell into lines. “Iris really is, or was, a special person. My wife and I just had our second baby, and she brought in cookies for me to bring home.”
Aunt Barb smiled sadly. “That would be Iris to a T.”
“I didn’t know she had heart problems.”
“She didn’t, that I know of. That’s what I’m trying to figure out, that and why she was on Brandywine Way. You have any idea why she would be down there?”
“No, not at all. There’s nothing there.” Scott frowned, puzzled.
“She was friends with Daniella Gamboa, and I think Daniella used to work here, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, but she left.”
“Do you know why?”
“No idea. Like I say, they come and go. One day last week, she didn’t show up.”
Judy interjected, “Was Iris friendly with any of the other women in the packing room?”
Scott shook his head. “No, there’s so much moving around. They don’t even know each other’s names, and that’s the way they like it. The only exception is when the families come up together, like cousins will work together and they stick together. But I never saw Iris with any of them.”
Judy got another idea. “Did she have a locker or anything we could look through? Maybe it would contain something that would help us.”
“No,” Scott answered. “Like I say, there’s so many changes in the workforce, we don’t give them lockers. Only management has lockers. The employees keep their things in their cars or their fanny packs. They’re big on fanny packs.”
Judy made a mental note. “Scott, do you know who her doctor might have been?”
“No. I assumed she used the LCD. Most of them do.”
Judy remembered that Aunt Barb had said the same thing. “Did she ever say she didn’t feel well at work?”
“No, never. She never missed a day and she took all the extra shifts I could give her. She was a workhorse. They all are. They never complain. They’re the best workers you’d ever want, the Mexicans.”
Judy didn’t know whether to be offended, because his tone was so favorable.
Scott smiled crookedly. “You’re looking at me funny. You must not be from around here.”
“No,” Judy said, feeling her face flush. “I’m trying to wrap my head around the use of these undocumented workers. It’s an open secret.”
Scott nodded. “Oh, absolutely, but I don’t think we’re that different from a lot of other places in the country. I’d love to hire Americans, but they don’t want to pick mushrooms. It’s filthy, smelly work. We advertise on craigslist, Monster, everywhere, but nobody applies. We pay minimum wage, too, so it’s not like we’re exploiting anybody.” Scott opened his palms, in uneasy appeal. “Listen, you have to be realistic. We need the labor, and the Mexicans are happy to have the work.”
“Let me ask you one last question.” Judy was still trying to understand. “We were at the scene tonight, where Iris was found, and the police said they’ll follow up with you about her. Will you confirm that she worked here, or will you try to keep it quiet, like you did with us?”
“No, we cooperate with the East Grove police. They get it.”
“Don’t they report you for hiring undocumented workers? Do you ever get raided?”
“We don’t get raided because nobody files a complaint, and the local police tend not to give us too much trouble.” Scott glanced over at a clock on the wall. “Well, I better get back to the floor. Can I show you ladies out?”
“Yes, thanks.” Judy put an arm around her aunt, who looked suddenly thoughtful.
“Come with me.” Scott motioned toward a brown metal door near the office area. “And please, accept my condolences. Iris was a very special lady, and we’ll say a prayer for her tonight.”
“Yes, thanks,” Aunt Barb said quietly. “Good night.”
“After you, Aunt Barb.” Judy opened the door to let her aunt out, and they walked together toward the car.
“I think we need to text your mother again. We’ll tell her we decided to go out for an ice-cream sundae.”
“What? Aren’t you tired yet?” Judy chuckled, in surprise.
“Hell, no.” Her aunt pulled down her knit cap and shoved her hands deep into her pockets. “I’m just getting started.”
Chapter Ten
Judy pulled up, cut the ignition, and looked around. The apartment complex where Iris lived was too run-down to be well-lighted, and the only light came from a street lamp, which dimly illuminated a large, square parking lot that seemed to be the focal point of the apartments, a connected series of two-story buildings wrapped in a U shape around the lot. Old cars filled the parking spaces, some with missing hubcaps and others with dented doors, and the lights from the apartments showed people leaning on the cars and sitting on their front steps or on plastic beach chairs, visible only in silhouette, laughing, talking, or smoking, the red tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark.
“Judy, you ready to go?”
Judy looked over. “Sure, but what are we trying to accomplish, again?”
“I told you, you’re not going to talk me out of this. I have one day of freedom left. Even if the police follow up, there’s things they might miss. They didn’t know Iris the way I know her. And I’m sure the roommates will be much happier talking to me than the local constabulary.”
“On it.” Judy pulled the key out of the ignition, and they both got out of the car and walked to the driveway of the apartment complex, where she took her aunt’s arm.
“I can walk, you know.” Aunt Barb’s gaze slid slyly to Judy under her knit cap. “My legs are fine, it’s my breasts that are the problem.”
“Yes, but if I hold your breasts, people will talk.”
Aunt Barb laughed. “Look around you, they already are.”
Judy looked at stoops and beach chairs, where heads were turning. The residents had grown quiet as the two women made their way down the center of the square parking area, and a short man nearest them flicked his cigarette into the air, where it arced like a falling star.
“It’s because we’re gringas,” Aunt Barb said, lowering her voice. “By the way, like my accent?”
“Nice. How good is your Spanish?”
“Let’s put it this way, your mom is the linguist, not me. But I understand it better than I can speak it.”
“Which apartment did you say it was again?”
“This one, right here.” Her aunt turned right between two parked cars and walked until they reached a path of cracked concrete that served as an interior sidewalk.
“Aunt Barb, do you realize they might not know about Iris’s death?”
“I know. I’ll do the talking, okay?”
“Fine with me. You’re on a roll.” Judy squeezed her arm, and they turned onto a crumbling concrete path that led to the front door of one of the buildings. Everyone on the step or the beach chairs fell silent, and in the lights from inside the first-floor apartments, Judy could see that they were younger than she had realized, maybe in their twenties and thirties, a group of men and women, all of them Hispanic, in an array of T-shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans.
Her aunt stopped short in the middle of the path. “Hello, my name is Barb Moyer and this is my niece Judy. I’m a friend of Iris’s and I’m here to see her roommates Maria Elena or Hermenia.”
“I’m Maria Elena,” said one of the women, in slightly accented English. She was sitting in a beach chair, holding a phone and wearing a white sweatshirt and jeans, but it was too dark to see her facial features. She sounded young, and her long, glossy curls shone in the light from the window.