Chapter 7: The Warning From the Nursery
On Wednesday, an equipment dealer called to say a replacement regulator had arrived.
I drove to pick it up and stopped at a nursery outside town for soil amendments.
The nursery owner, Ruth Maddox, had sold trees to my father for thirty years.
She listened as I described the flooded orchard.
“That’s no accident,” she said when I mentioned the regulator housing.
“Those covers don’t open themselves.”
I told her that I could not prove who had done it.
She studied me for a moment and then shut the office door.
“Celeste came here last month asking which young trees are most vulnerable to standing water,
” she said.
“I assumed she was planning landscaping.”
Ruth found the transaction in her notebook.
Celeste had purchased ornamental pears and asked several technical questions without placing an order for orchard stock.
“Do you remember exactly what she said?” I asked.
“She wanted to know how long a tree could sit in water before the damage became permanent.”
Ruth frowned.
“I told her that depended on the tree and the season.”
I asked whether she would speak to Owen.
“I’ll tell him what I remember,” she replied.
“But don’t make me say I know what was in that woman’s head.
”
That distinction mattered.
I was learning that a case built on anger would collapse as soon as someone asked what we could actually establish.
At the farm, I planted new grass near the damaged line and marked the soil that still needed drainage.
The repair was practical work, but each shovel of mud made me more determined to learn why the property had become a target.
Chapter 8: The First Public Lie
Celeste spoke at the county planning hearing the following Thursday.
She wore a navy suit and addressed the room with the relaxed confidence of someone accustomed to being believed.
She described her project as a way to bring jobs, visitors, and investment to Bellhaven.
Then she displayed a photograph of my flooded orchard.
“This image illustrates the decline of nearby agricultural properties,” she said.
“Our development could replace neglected land with productive use.”
I stood before I had decided what I wanted to say.
The chair recognized me, and I walked to the microphone while the photograph remained on the screen.
“That is my land,” I said.
“The irrigation system was deliberately damaged, and I reported it to the sheriff.”
A murmur passed through the audience.
Celeste folded her hands.
“Mr. Price is entitled to his opinion about the cause,” she said.
“I have a repair report,” I answered.
“I also have photographs of cut hardware from a separate incident.”
The chair asked me to keep my remarks relevant to the land-use application.
“The applicant is using damage to my property as evidence that my property should be taken out of agricultural use,” I said.
“That makes the damage relevant.”
Several people nodded.
The chair instructed staff to note my objection and requested a corrected presentation without unsupported characterizations of my farm.
Celeste sat down with a rigid smile.
When the hearing ended,
she approached me near the exit.
“You embarrassed yourself,” she said.
“I corrected a statement about my land,” I replied.
“You don’t understand the people you’re dealing with.”
“Then tell me.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You’ll understand when the county stops protecting your little hobby.”
She walked away before I could answer.
