Red Delicious Death (22 page)

Derek settled himself on the porch stairs. “I feel
so
welcome here,” he drawled.

Meg didn’t see any good reason to mollycoddle him. “What did you expect? Nicky and Brian are upset about Sam’s death, but on top of that they’ve moved to a new place and are trying to get a new business started, all at once. The last thing they need is to hold your hand.”

Derek stared at her as he slouched against the stair rail, then shrugged. “Point taken. But Sam deserved better.” He studied Meg critically. “What’s your game here?”

“I don’t have a game. I’m pretty new in town myself, and I know how hard it can be. I like Nicky and Brian, and I want to see them succeed. You wouldn’t know anything useful about Sam’s death, would you?”

“Fancy yourself a small-town sleuth?”

“Not at all!” Meg wondered what he’d heard about her. “I’m just trying to help. Brian and Nicky have got enough on their plates without worrying about a police investigation.”

“Well, I don’t know anything, and I have a cast-iron alibi: I was on a beach about a thousand miles from here, with plenty of witnesses. And my meager budget doesn’t extend to hiring hit men. Besides, I bore Sam no ill will. My, that sounds Victorian, doesn’t it? What Sam and I had had run its course, end of story. We parted friends, more or less. I had no reason to want him dead, and I don’t know of anyone who did. Satisfied?”

“I don’t think you were involved in his death, if that’s your question.”

Derek sprawled back in his chair, looking out over the tranquil green. “So which of the fair citizens of this backwater
do
you suspect?”

Meg was startled into silence. It was a question she had avoided asking herself. But Derek had a point: if he and Sam’s other friends from Boston were ruled out, Sam’s killer had to be someone local. But who?

Derek looked at her with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Makes you uncomfortable to think that one of your precious neighbors might have had anything to do with it, doesn’t it?”

“What makes you think
anyone
had a hand in it?”

Derek gave a short, derisive laugh. “Oh, come on—you know, and I know, that Sam didn’t die from natural causes. Those ham-fisted state police of yours wouldn’t have bothered tracking me down if poor Sam had just keeled over one day. So it’s murder. Somebody here helped him die.” He cocked his head at her. “Who’s your candidate for killer?”

“I don’t have one. You’re right—I don’t want to believe it’s anyone from here, but it almost has to be.” Meg recalled what she had told Lauren: the killer had to be someone who knew the layout of Kellogg’s farm, and knew pigs. “If I knew, I’d make sure something was done about it. I liked Sam, you know. And I want to see whoever did this caught.”

Derek turned back toward the green, slumping back against the cushions. “Thank you. I believe you do. And Sam would be grateful to you,” he said quietly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Derek jumped to his feet. “Well, given the warm welcome I’ve had here, I suppose I should take myself back to Boston. I’ll just say good-bye to Nicky.” He gave her one last look. “Thank you, Meg Corey, for our enlightening chat. And good luck.”

He went back into the building. Meg felt a twinge of distress over his attitude but decided to let it slide. Instead, she focused on enjoying the last of her iced tea and the peaceful view. This really was an ideal setting for a restaurant, and right now the town laid out below her looked like every postcard she had ever seen for scenic New England. Once Sam’s murder was solved, there was no reason why everything shouldn’t go smoothly for Nicky and Brian. She hoped.

Meg’s tranquil mood did not survive the trip home. She had enough problems of her own, with trying to keep her apples growing and healthy, trying to manage a crew of pickers, and trying to figure out how she was going to sell her apples. “Trying” was the key word here, and she wasn’t sure how soon she was going to be able to move any of those tasks to the “Accomplished” column. She pulled into her driveway and turned off the engine. As always, the goats had trotted over to the fence, eager to see who was there.

Meg went over to the goat paddock to say hello. The larger goat cocked her head at Meg and gazed at her with her golden alien eyes. Smaller goat came over and bumped against her companion, demanding her fair share of attention. She really needed to name them; the goats deserved that much. She had come to recognize their distinct personalities: the larger goat was older and more dignified; the smaller goat was inquisitive and a real clown.

Did she know anyone she wanted to honor—or insult—by naming a goat after them? She racked her brain for any useful literary references to goats, and came up blank, although she could name any number of cats, dogs, pigs, rabbits, and mice who rambled through popular fiction.
Billy Goats Gruff
was not going to be much help—wrong gender.

Bree emerged from the house and joined Meg at the fence. “You were gone awhile.”

“I stopped to see how Granford Grange was coming, and ran into Seth and Art. Then I went to the restaurant and had a chat with Derek.”

“Derek?”

“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met him. He’s the latest fly in the ointment—Sam’s ex, here from Boston, loudly lamenting Sam’s death to the world at large. Which annoyed our local homophobe, so there was a fight and Art had to toss them both in the pokey to cool off.”

“And here I thought small-town living was peaceful,” Bree said. “So you thought you’d talk to the goats instead?”

& “That’s about it. They don’t talk back. Got any ideas for names?”

& Bree studied the goats, and they stared back solemnly. “You know that if you name them, you’ll never be able to eat them.”

Meg laughed. “I wasn’t planning to eat them.”

“Okay, then: Isabel and Dorcas.”

“Why?” Meg asked.

“Well, Shakespeare had these two lady goatherds in one of his plays—
Winter’s Tale
, I think. Dorcas was one of them, and I always kind of liked the name.”

“What was the other goatherd named?” Meg asked cautiously.

Bree wrinkled her nose. “Mopsa. I wouldn’t wish that on a goat, or anybody else. But Isabel’s the name of my mother’s older sister, and I always thought she sounded like a goat.”

Meg laughed. “Works for me. So which is which?”

“Isabel’s the larger one—she looks more serious.”

Meg turned back to the goats. “Isabel?”

The larger goat put her front hooves on the wire fence; at that height she could nearly look Meg in the eye.

“Well, I guess that’s a yes. How about you, Dorcas?”

The younger goat bleated, then wandered off in search of a tasty clump of grass.

“Well, that’s a weight off my mind. Now the goats have names and I don’t feel like such a bad goat owner. Did you need me for something?”

“Actually, yes,” Bree said. “I’ve asked the pickers to come over tomorrow afternoon, so we can all take a look at what you’ve got and what you’ll need.”

“Okay, let’s go over what we need to talk about with them . . .”

The next afternoon Meg watched as a motley crew of mostly men, and a couple of women, assembled in the driveway outside her barn. Bree went outside to greet them, as Meg paced nervously around the kitchen and Lolly retreated to the safety of the dining room. How quickly would the pickers see through her? Bree possessed more technical knowledge, but would her youth stand in the way of getting them to listen to her? Bree said something to Raynard, then let herself in through the kitchen door.

“Listen, this is just an introduction, okay? They know you’re new at this,” Bree tried to reassure her.

“Do we have enough people? Too many?”

“Meg, we’ve been over this. A good picker can pick maybe ten bins a day—that’s like four tons of apples. And they know how to pick the ripe ones, and the ones that are the right size, and how to handle them so they don’t bruise. They know how to take care of themselves—position their ladders, stay out of woodchuck holes. These guys are good, and they’ve been doing it for years. You’ve gotta trust them.”

“I do,” Meg sighed. “It’s me I don’t trust. Well, let’s do it.” She squared her shoulders and led the way out to the driveway in front of the barn.

Raynard stepped forward, then turned to the group. “This is Meg Corey, who owns this orchard. Briona Stewart here is the orchard manager. Meg is new to picking, but that does not mean that you can slack off, not while I’m in charge. She’s going to show you the improvements she has made this year, and then maybe we can walk through the trees, so we all know how close to picking we are.” He turned to Meg expectantly.

She stepped forward and swallowed. “Thank you, Raynard. And thank you all for coming. You’ve heard I’m new at this, but I want to do things right, and I need this harvest. I appreciate your signing on, and I’ll take all the help I can get. And I promise I’ll listen to you, because you’re a whole lot more experienced than I am. Is everyone comfortable with that?”

A man at the back of the crowd spoke up. “Who we take orders from? You or young missy?”

“Bree is my employee and my representative. You do what she says. I’ll try to stay out of everybody’s way, but I want to learn about all aspects of harvesting, so I’ll be there watching. And tell me if there’s something wrong with the equipment, or something else I need to get. Let’s start by taking a look at the new holding chambers in the barn.”

Bree had opened the barn doors earlier, and the pickers turned and headed in that direction. Meg and Bree brought up the rear. Meg asked in a low voice, “Okay so far?”

Bree gave her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for backing me up. And Raynard’s a good guy. They all want to see a good harvest. They’ve got their pride—and they’re paid based on how much they pick. You want me to run them through the details of the chambers?”

“Please.” Reassured, Meg watched as Bree threaded her way through the small crowd and positioned herself by the control panel of the nearer chamber. “What we’ve got here is . . .”

The pickers departed before four, in a couple of rattle-trap pickups and a few cars. They had walked through the orchard, where it was quickly obvious that they knew the trees well. Some commented tree by tree, and Raynard usually nodded his agreement. He made a few notes in a tattered notebook he kept in his shirt pocket. Bree, less confident, trailed behind him, listening intently. Raynard was the last to leave.

“Looks like the Gravensteins will be ready maybe second week of August. You have a buyer lined up?” he asked Meg.

Meg felt another, now-familiar wave of guilt. “Not yet. Do you know who’s buying?”

“Talk to the big farmers’ co-op—introduce yourself. Bree, that boyfriend of yours, he have any ideas?”

Bree blushed. “Yes,” she said curtly.

Raynard turned back to Meg. “Best get that set up soon. Harvest will be here before you know it, weather willing.”

“I will, I promise. Thanks for all your help, Raynard. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Meg raised a hand in salute as Raynard pulled away. “That went well. Didn’t it? Everybody’s on board?”

Bree shrugged. “Seems so.”

“How’s it look, overall? I have nothing to compare this season with.”

“Apples are funny. Some bear alternate years—that’s one of the problems with the Baldwins. With others, sometimes all the conditions come together just right and you get a lot of apples, other years not so much. You’ve had good fruit-set, and the weather’s been warm. Nothing to worry about yet.”

Yet?
Meg didn’t like the sound of that, but she had to have faith—in Bree, in the pickers, even in Mother Nature. And she had no control over that last one. At least she was glad that her inexperienced eye hadn’t missed any obvious problems. The trees looked pretty to her, but that was a silly criterion. Leaves were lush and shiny, and there were lots of small green apples clustered among them, some beginning to redden where they caught the sun. All good. The orchard itself looked tidy—she had managed to learn to use the mower attachment to her tractor, and found she enjoyed driving up and down the rows. The barn looked pretty good, too. Much of the decades’—centuries’?—worth of defunct farm equipment and miscellaneous junk had been hauled out and disposed of, so now there was room for her apple bins, ladders, and other equipment. Even Meg had to admit she’d come a long way since she had first arrived in January.

Seth’s van pulled into the driveway. He parked, then came over to where she stood, in the barn door. “Admiring your domain?”

“Actually, yes. I think it looks great, especially considering what it looked like a month or two ago. This whole thing may actually work. The pickers were here, and we went through the orchard with them. It got a clean bill of health.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Bree came out of the back door. “I’m headed over to meet Michael in Amherst. Don’t wait up,” she said, not breaking stride.