(Q).
What would you do you're driving past hundreds of citrus trees. With a better look, they're mandarins, or, more precisely clementines. On the roadside is a truck selling crates of them for 1 euro a kilo. You stop, right? And buy a crate of 10 kilos. Even though you have to get on a plane the next day. I couldn't help myself. Marco, who I had already made turn 180 degrees to drive back to the truck, gave me that look of disapproval when I want to do something totally unreasonable like impulse buy citrus fruit that we can't keep. "What are we going to do with these?" He questioned. I wasn't sure. I wanted to taste them, I wanted to photograph them. And maybe I could even squeeze some of them into our tiny bag to take home. "It won't be a waste, I'll give the rest away!" I reasoned. He just shook his head, giving in. I bought them, a big grin on my face. We were just outside the port city of Taranto, on the western coast of Puglia in Italy's deep south, where we spent a long weekend recently and where clementines have special IGP (Protected Geographical Indication) status. These clementines a hybrid of oranges and mandarins grow in the fertile soil around the gulf of Taranto, particularly around the town of Palagiano (also known as "the city of clementines" they celebrate the symbol of their city with a sagra, a food festival, every December) and the delicate fruit is harvested by hand. We don't get these in Florence, it was my only chance to taste them they are small with very few, if any, seeds, and they are very sweet. Who disapproved of buying the oranges? - The seller - Marco - The narrator - not enough information
(A).
Marco

(Q).
The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town. He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom. Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill. When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?" One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth. Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door. "Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." What is likely to be the reason why the farmers had red faces? - not enough information - They were playing cards - They were working out in the sun - They were European
(A).
They were working out in the sun

(Q).
I remember back in the late 1970's when I first started investing in property as a young guy, being taken to a house that felt EXTREMELY cold, strange, and rather chilling. Okay it was an older house that need some renovation work, but there was something about the place that just did not seem right. But despite that, it was available for purchase at what seemed to be a very attractive price always a good starting point. Anyway, the real estate agent finished taking me around the property answering the questions that I had, and I left with a plan to do some costings before making a decision. But something was niggling me and making me feel a little uncomfortable, so I decided to investigate the property further. A couple of days later I was around at a friends house. He was in the Police force and as it happened he was in the same neighbourhood, I mentioned this particular property that I was looking at buying. He asked me the actual address after which he 'kindly' informed me that that that house had been the scene of a murder 6 months previously. It turned out that the property had been rented to a homosexual couple and that after an argument, one had murdered the other in the bath and then proceeded to cut his head off. Apparently the head was subsequently discovered a week later in the trunk of a car that had been abandoned up by a local golf-course. Less than impressed that the real estate agent had been less than forthcoming with me, I made the decision to not to proceed with the purchase. As they say in the property business 'Location, Location, Location' is always an important factor in determining the value of a property. However despite that being a good location, it was reputation that deterred me on that occasion. Sometimes there are situations where even the best makeover will not work. Where was the head of the murdered person found? - not enough information - in the trunk of a car - on the property - in the bathroom
(A).
in the trunk of a car