“But Bauer & Bullock sells hundreds of these cookies every week. How could they farm that many organs?”

“Heartfruit is so potent that one fruit can flavor an industrial vat and there isn’t much jam in each cookie. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. Bauer & Bullock pulled in fifty percent of its take from the sale of these cookies.” Excitement rose in his chest. They might just be able to prove Lancelot’s innocence. “This isn’t about cannibalism. That was just a fringe benefit. It’s about money. It’s about jam.”

“That doesn’t connect Sounder,” Gunther warned. “Or Lancelot.”

“No, it doesn’t. But we know Bullock was in a business relationship with Sounder already. Maybe…”

“Maybe it was a trade,” Gunther said. “Maybe Sounder traded something with Bullock.”

“Like what?”

“If we assume that Sounder provided the bodies for Bullock, which is a pretty good bet, she must have agreed to do something for him. Standard pact,” Gunther said.

“You think she or her accomplices, since she clearly had some, agreed to set Lancelot up in exchange for bodies?”

“Right. But there’s no connection between Sounder and Lancelot either.”

Keith thought about this. Finally he said, “If Lancelot has no direct heirs, who will his goblin market table go to?”

“I don’t know. Getting into those markets is really competitive but…” Gunther suddenly smiled. “But I bet they have a waiting list. But that is insane. Killing over a table at a market?”

“It’s not a table. The food industry is incredibly competitive. Fifty percent of all food-related business ventures fail in the first year. That table represents market penetration. It’s exposure for the product. It’s direct sales. It’s—”

“It’s money,” Gunther finished for him. “Regardless, we still have no evidence of anything but a legitimate business arrangement between the steakhouse and the dairy.”

“You’re right. We need to find the grow operation. Somebody there will know who drops off the ingredient for processing,” Keith said. “Is the jam made locally?”

Gunther flashed a smile. “It’s Portland. What do you think?”

Chapter Eleven

The manufacturing facility for Cascadia Jams and Preserves was located in a light industrial area in Hillsboro. As it turned out, the flavoring agent for Bauer & Bullock’s exclusive house jam was shrouded in such tremendous secrecy that the company’s owner, Mike Grady, had to be called back from his afternoon orchard tour in order to speak to them.

Mike was a rotund man with dark circles under his eyes and quick, aggressive body language. Keith had met literally dozens of guys just like him. Cooks with ADD and one-track minds. This guy’s brain had been consumed by the idea of jam early on so that every culinary idea that occurred to him, savory or sweet, had to be expressed in the form of jam. Or jelly. Or syrup.

Other cooks he’d met had been obsessed with pizza or hot sauce or ice cream as an expressive format. Keith had often wondered if this kind of focus constituted a form of autism. One-dish thinking combined with inevitably poor social skills created one of the most unpleasant, yet widely dispersed, character types in the culinary world. Often they were very successful business wise specifically because they stuck to one product.

Chances were good that Mike, though ambitious, was too self-absorbed to be directly involved.

Keith knew exactly what would happen next. Mike would try to make them try every product in his entire line while evading their questions about Bauer & Bullock.

“Our newest product is a line of savory honey syrups,” Mike said, unscrewing the lid from a tiny jar of golden liquid. “White pepper truffle honey is going to go through the roof. I can feel it. It’s just amazing on chicken. Here, try some.”

“Sounds great.” Gunther politely accepted a toothpick dipped in the fragrant syrup.

Keith demurred. “We need to see the ingredient list for the Bauer & Bullock private label jam.”

Mike smiled the typical, sneering smile that all guys like him never knew they were making. “No can do. That’s top secret. I had to sign a legal agreement and everything. Sorry, boys.”

“I can get a court order, but that’s going to bring a lot of unwanted attention to your facility. Especially when it’s about to be revealed that Cindy Bullock was butchering humans at her restaurant,” Keith said.

Mike paled. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“Not at all,” Gunther said. “In a couple of days anybody with even the slightest connection to Bauer & Bullock is going under the magnifying glass. If I were you I’d start distancing myself now. And I’d start by giving us a full ingredient list for that jam.”

“I don’t know…” Mike began. His cheeks went gray and waxy.

“Look, would it help you if I told you that I already know what’s in it?” Keith said.

“Then you’re one ahead of me,” Mike said. “It’s flavored with a secret liquid compound. She said it was feijoa, but it isn’t.”

“Who brings you the flavor compound?” Keith asked. “Was it Bullock herself?”

“It’s delivered by courier. I just got a bottle yesterday.” Mike pulled out a key ring and unlocked his lower right desk drawer. He removed a two-pint plastic screw-top jar that had the words “Bauer & Bullock” written on it in Sharpie. “I have the receipt here. You can have it all.”

Mike held up his hands, shaking his head slowly as if denying that the jar had ever been in his possession. This was why Keith didn’t like guys like Mike. The cowardly pendulum of their emotions only swung between bullying people and rolling over and pissing on themselves.

With the courier’s receipt it was easy to find pickup address—another industrial park only half a mile away—and a business called B&B Extract Company.

Like most industrial parks, this one consisted of a series of low, large buildings whose sides were intermittently punctuated by bay doors. Occasionally a regular door appeared in the corrugated siding, and it was on one of these that Keith found a small, dull sign that indicated the existence of B&B Extract Company.

“You want to ring the bell or just go ahead in?” Keith asked.

“I think it would be wise to let ourselves in.” Gunther pulled a skeleton key from his coat and inserted it into the lock. The spells etched into the key’s surface blazed to life—first showing red, then slowly turning to green.

Gunther removed the key and Keith carefully tried the knob, moving his hand only slightly, to make sure the knob was unlocked.

Keith opened the door. Inside was a regular-looking front office with an old desk and a couple of chairs. Beyond that was a closed door. The faint sound of music could be heard thumping from beyond it. They moved forward, mage pistols drawn, standing on either side of the door frame. Keith could smell the dense, lush perfume of heartfruit flowers in bloom. The fragrance made him salivate instantly and nearly managed to cover the sweet stink of rotting meat. How many plants did they have in there?

“Please don’t let it be trans-goblins running this operation,” Gunther muttered.

For the first time since he’d joined the Irregulars, Keith found himself hoping the same thing.

They burst through the door into a dank, humid, sweet-smelling greenhouse.

At the back of the room Keith could see a bank of grow lights. Seven slim heartfruit stalks rose beneath them. Five of these ended in white flowers. The other two had already developed fat, white seedpods.

Three pallid individuals, who had been apparently been engaged in tending the drip-irrigation system, looked up at them in what Keith could only describe as muted alarm. All wore black. Two had fangs. The third wore red cat’s-eye contact lenses that Keith imagined greatly impaired his vision. Downbeat electronica pulsed through the air. A stack of Theater of Blood flyers and a staplegun sat on a metal table.