Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Page A

meeting with Maggie.
    More serious now to answer Trip’s question, Maggie continued, “Gerty’s farm has been goin’ downhill ever since her husband Lester and son died. She’s ‘bout one twist from losin’ this place. When you’re as old as Gerty, Lester, you kinda expect to bury your spouse. But, when you bury a child? When Lester and Gerty had to bury their son, that’s when this place started goin’ to pot. That’s why you’re here.”
    Composure now mostly regained, Trip pulled his spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and said, “Made a project list. Tryin’ to get organized.”
    “Good idea. I keep a list on my refrigerator. You’ll have to stop by and see it sometime. You’re being a big help to Gerty. There’s more spring in her step ever since you arrived.” She looked around, motioning to the barnyard. “And look at this. Paint on the fence. Some,” she snickered. “Weeds pulled. You’re making a difference.”
    Not quite knowing how to respond, Trip shuffled his feet. The short, awkward pause was thankfully interrupted as Gerty stepped out of the kitchen and beat a pan with a wooden spoon.
    “Maggie, thought you were gonna help me snap some beans. Stop bothering the help and waddle your fat tush over here.”
    Maggie shouted across the barnyard, “Comin’.” She walked a few steps away from Trip. Trip saw too much bottom crammed into jeans straining under the assigned task. Maggie tossed her hair and left Trip, seductively reminding him, “Don’t forget about that personal tour, Buzz.”

Chapter Eleven
    The Mercedes screeched to a stop in the airstrip parking lot. Robinson, with his young photographer in tow, walked briskly to a BMW parked in front of the hangar. Sam Butler, a developer of multi-million dollar commercial projects, was finishing a business call where the party on the receiving end was definitely on the receiving end. This royal chewing-out would probably leave a scar. Sam finished his instructional tongue-lashing and hustled to greet Robinson. The young photographer gathered up his camera equipment. Brief pleasantries were exchanged. Brief meaning ‘not sincere,’ merely required by the status of the moment. All three entered the Sky Gypsy Café.
    Deb abandoned cleaning the lunch counter to greet the trio. She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled, “Good afternoon. Ya must be Buzz’s one o’clock photography flight. Mr. Robinson?” she extended a hand that was rudely ignored.
    Robinson looked beyond her, as if she didn’t exist, surveyed the cafe and gruffly inquired, “Where’s our pilot? We’re on a tight schedule.”
    Lowering the rejected hand to her side, scratching her thigh with her tall-man middle finger, Deb motioned to the tarmac.
    “That’s Buzz now. Somethin’ to drink while you wait?” as she scratched her cheek with her middle finger.
    Robinson ignored the drink offer, walked to look out over the tarmac and runway. Deb shook her head, returned to finish cleaning the lunch counter.
    Buzz climbed out of his plane and did a cursory plane walkaround. He was intercepted by a female college student photographer carrying camera gear. Buzz patted her on the shoulder. They shared a laugh as they approached the cafe.
    Huddled at the tarmac window with developer Sam and his young photographer, Robinson left no doubt as to who was the boss. “Keep your mouths shut,” he ordered. “I’ll do the talking. We need to get pictures of lots of farms. But listen up, all those other farms,” poking a finger in his young photographer’s chest, “those other farms are a cover-up. Get the Murphy farm. You’ve seen it on the plat maps and Google Maps a dozen times. No screw ups.”
    The young photographer nodded nervously. He knew better than to utter a peep. He avoided eye contact and faked an unneeded check of his camera bag.
    Buzz and his photographer entered from the tarmac. Buzz walked to greet his three customers and extended a hand to Robinson that