Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery)

by Sheila Connolly

  “Amen to that!” Gail replied fervently.

  3

  “How did your board decide to do this now?” Meg asked Gail, as Gail led her around the room, pointing out changes. “By the way, how many people are on it?”

  “There’s the president, the vice president, the secretary, the treasurer, and four additional trustees. You’ve probably met them all at one time or another.”

  “You’re not on the board?”

  “Nope, I just run the place. But back to your first question, about the timing?” Gail giggled. “I kind of drove the point home when I suggested they hold a board meeting here one evening. You’d be surprised how rarely board members actually set foot in here.”

  “They got cold?”

  “No, that wasn’t too bad. But then the board chair really, really needed to go, if you know what I mean, and I pointed out that we didn’t have any facilities in the building.”

  Meg stared at her blankly for a moment until she figured out what Gail meant, then she laughed. “Oh, you mean ‘go,’ not leave.”

  “Exactly. Let me tell you, the meeting broke up pretty fast after that, but I think I’d made the problem clear. So we started talking about how we could add a bathroom, and I told them retrofitting plumbing like that could get expensive, and if we were going to spend that kind of money, we really ought to do as much as we could all at once.”

  “Makes sense. But adding a bathroom and digging a whole new basement aren’t exactly the same thing,” Meg commented.

  “No, but by that time I’d jump-started the discussion. Like I’ve said, right now our collections are scattered all over town, and frankly, we aren’t even entirely sure what we have and where to find it. That’s just not right. If we’re supposed to be a public institution, serving the people of this town by preserving our history—not to mention attracting a few outsiders—then we’re falling far short. But the icing on the cake was discovering that we could actually afford it.”

  “Seth mentioned something about that. What’s the story with the other house?”

  “We were ‘gifted’ that house across the street almost twenty years ago now. I’m glad that people want to see their heritage preserved, usually a home or building that’s been in the family for generations, but any property brings its own problems with it. Taxes, maintenance, and so on. Still, this one was close by and right on the green, so we couldn’t say no. Anyway, it came with no strings attached, and we hold the title.”

  “And you didn’t want to use it for display or storage space?” Meg asked.

  “Hey, it’s a nice house and in good shape, so we rent it out and make some money that way, although we do reserve the right to use the barn behind it for storage. But it wasn’t until we added a new board member who works for a bank that we realized we could take out a mortgage on it to finance our other plans. Not a big one, just enough to cover expenses. And the rent covers the mortgage payments. Everybody wins. He’s already drawn up the papers, and he’s just waiting until we have a firm plan and a final figure.”

  “Sounds like this project is meant to be,” Meg said. “You know, even if you do have the money, it might not hurt to do a small fund-raising campaign. You don’t have to ask for much, but buying a board or a brick or getting their name on a plaque gives people a sense of ownership in the project. Maybe it will attract more attention.”

  Gail looked off into a dusty corner, thinking. “We’d be competing with the library fund-raising, but I think we could make it work, especially if we pitch our appeal to local historians and genealogists. I’ll talk to the head librarian. Thanks for the suggestion.” She looked over at Meg. “How’re you doing with the orchard?” she asked.

  Meg knew Gail was truly curious, not just asking a polite question. “Busy, as always. My trees came through the drought well enough, although it took a lot of work from Bree and me just keeping them watered. The apple crop may be down a bit from last year, but I don’t know if this is normal or last year was. The house hasn’t fallen down around my ears—yet. And the wildfires this summer missed us, thank goodness.” Gail didn’t know the half of that story, and Meg didn’t plan to share it with anyone.

  Gail laughed. “Well, you’ll have Seth to help keep an eye on things, won’t you? I’m assuming he’ll move into your place, but where’s Bree going to go?”

  “That’s one of those questions we’ve been putting off. We kind of mentioned the idea of her moving into Seth’s house, but that’s a lot of space for one person. On the other hand, it would be free housing and she could still walk to work. It might be better all round to find a family to buy his place, but since it was built by his ancestors and has been continuously occupied by Chapins for the last two hundred–plus years, Seth isn’t exactly eager to sell. So we’re still thinking about it. You’ve seen his place, haven’t you? It’s a lot like mine. And like his mother’s house, too. Those early Chapins and Warrens probably all shared the work on all those houses, since they were near neighbors. Most of the other old houses in Granford are pretty much the same.”

  “Ah, but that’s part of the charm, isn’t it?” Gail said. “I shudder to think what would happen if some mogul decided that Granford was the perfect place to build his latest McMansion and all his friends followed him out here.”

  “Don’t worry—Seth would lean on the Zoning Commission to stop them.”

  “Nothing like having friends in high places!” Gail agreed, laughing. “So, you ready to go home?”

  “I’d better be, or Bree will skin me alive. She gave me the morning off, but we’re smack in the middle of picking, and shorthanded. One of our pickers found a better job this year.”

  “I sure don’t want to trade places with you,” Gail said fervently. “Manual labor is not my thing.”

  The drive home took only minutes. They passed Meg’s orchard, where she saw the pickers working steadily. Each one would reach up to deftly remove an apple from a branch with a quick twist, then place it carefully in the bag strapped to his chest. When a picker’s bag was full, he would then transfer the load to a nearby bin, taking care not to bruise the apples.

  “You still haven’t decided to try your hand at cider-making?” Gail asked as they pulled into Meg’s driveway.

  “Not yet. Maybe someday. I figured I’d better get the basics down before I add anything else. At the moment I’m selling the less-than-perfect apples to a local cider-maker for next to nothing. At least, I think he’s making cider. He mentioned something about trying to make apple vodka . . .”

  “Nothing new under the sun,” Gail said. “In case you’ve wondered—and I’m sure you haven’t—there used to be not one but five whiskey distilleries in Granford in the early 1800s. Didn’t last long, though.”

  “Don’t tell me this was a dry town?” Meg asked in mock horror.

  “No, nothing like that. After all, hard cider was the drink of choice in colonial America. The distilleries failed because of economic ups and downs. Just like today.”

  “Speaking of drinking, you want to come in for something to drink?” Meg asked. “Although it’s a bit early in the day for whiskey.”

  “You’re just being polite, but no thanks. I’ll let you get to work. And I can’t wait to hear what Seth has to say about our building plans—I really want to get started on this.”

  “In case he forgets, I’ll remind him later. Good to see you again, Gail.”

  Gail pulled away with a backward wave of her hand. Meg went inside, greeted Max and Lolly, pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge, and started up the hill to join the pickers.

  * * *

  By six o’clock Meg and Bree were back in the kitchen, sitting in a daze of fatigue. Meg tried not to count how many crates they’d filled with apples. It was great that they had a crew of skilled workers who made the picking go quickly. But why was it that the apples would decide to ripen all at
once for a short time, and then simply stall for no particular reason? Feast or famine in picking, Meg thought.

  Thank goodness the weather was cooperating. While it was still in the high seventies during the day, the nights cooled nicely. And after the blazing-hot days and prolonged drought in August, it was a welcome change. Still, the heat during the day took its toll on her, too.

  “Do we have to cook?” Meg asked.

  “Yes,” Bree said reluctantly. “Where’s a good genie when you need one?”

  “There are still plenty of veggies in the fridge, and lots of lettuce. And we should grill while we still can.”

  “Ugh,” Bree replied. “That means standing up and finding meat and building a fire and all that stuff. I’d rather just sit here and complain.”

  “About what?” Seth said, coming in the door, looking energetic. Better yet, he was carrying several supermarket bags.

  “Is that food?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, it’s food,” Seth said, smiling at her plaintive tone. “I picked up some premade stuff at the market on the way home. What are you complaining about, Bree?”

  She grinned. “I was wishing for a genie to show up with food, and bingo, here you are! Maybe I should make wishes more often.”

  They spent a few minutes opening containers and finding plates and cutlery and cold drinks. Meg fed her cat, Lolly; Seth fed his dog, Max. Bree bounced with impatience until they finally all sat down. There followed several silent minutes devoted to intense eating.

  Finally Meg leaned back in her chair and stretched. “So much better! Thank you, Seth. So how was your day?”

  “Busy, although probably less physical than yours.”

  “Gail told me to ask whether you’ve had time to look over the plans she gave you. So I am. Asking, that is. I know you probably haven’t had more than three minutes of free time all day.”

  “What’s that all about?” Bree asked.

  Meg recounted the meeting at the Historical Society that morning. “So what do you think, Seth? Is it doable?”

  “I think so. The engineers have declared that the building is rock-solid, even though it’s over two hundred years old, and I agree—I’ve looked at all the supporting beams and the sill. I think the soil beneath it is stable enough to support temporary shoring. The concrete pour wouldn’t take long, once the framing is in place. And as for the excavation, I talked to a couple of local contractors I’ve worked with before. The vacuum process is cheapest overall, and they said it was appropriate for a project of this scope, since it’s a relatively small building. So I guess that’s the way to go.”

  “Gail will be thrilled,” Meg said. “What permits and approvals does her board need to move forward?”

  “There’s a long list that the town requires, but most of them don’t apply here, like a wetlands review.” He started ticking off on his fingers, “We don’t need to bring in the highway department since there are no street or curb changes involved. No food service, no flammable or hazardous materials. No perc test if they’re hooking into town water. They will need a plumbing permit, but I think I can handle that for them. The only thing I’d have to verify is whether the town has to hold a public meeting or need a site plan review. Since the footprint and the elevation of the building won’t change, I think we can limit ourselves to the structural issues only. I’ll talk to the building inspector about what he’s looking for, but I don’t think he’ll stand in the way. I’ll verify a few things tomorrow, and then I’ll talk to Gail.”

  “I love it—everybody wins. Granford gets to maintain the appearance of its quaint little green, the Historical Society can finally pull all of its records and artifacts together in one place with state-of-the-art storage standards, and they’ll be able to make it available to the public—plus they’ll have an indoor bathroom for the first time in the history of the place. And heat. Any other miracles you want to work before bedtime?”

  “Nah. But how about you come for a walk with me and we can let Max run a bit?”

  “Sounds lovely, if I can still stand up. Bree, anything we need to go over before tomorrow?”

  “Did you order those crates?”

  “Oh, shoot, I forgot. Do you need me to do it right now?”

  “No, but you’d better do it tomorrow, lady. I’ll remind you in the morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Meg gathered up a light jacket while Seth whistled for Max. Outside the sun had fallen below the horizon, and the air felt deliciously cool. Meg took a deep breath. Autumn was the time of year she liked best; warm days, cool nights, and ripe apples. They headed out toward the Great Meadow, which ran alongside and then back beyond her house. Some years it was boggy, she’d been told, but this year it was lush with tall grass. Meg checked to be sure that her goats had enough hay and water before they turned toward the faint path that led toward the tree line at the rear. Seth tossed a stick for Max, which the dog fetched eagerly.

  “He’s full of energy, isn’t he?” Meg said.

  “He hasn’t been outside working all day. That’s why I brought him out now, so he can burn it off.”

  “We need to figure out where to keep him here during the days.” Seth had put in a dog run at his own house up the hill, so he could probably do the same down here, Meg thought. “Maybe off to the side of the old carpenter’s shop?”

  “I’ll put it on the list,” Seth said. “I should get to it by, oh, March. Of next year.”

  Meg let out a snort of laughter. “Just about the time I build a distillery and start making apple brandy.”

  “Hey, that’s something to think about. Maybe not brandy, but cider could be a nice little profit center for you.”

  “Gail was saying the same thing to me, basically. Who do you have in mind to run it?”

  “I’ll think about it. Maybe there’s someone at the university that you could talk to? That could fit under either agriculture or hospitality—maybe they could supply you with an intern, or at least a consultant.” They’d reached the end of the open meadow, and Seth put his arm around Meg’s shoulders and turned her to face the house. “You know, you can almost believe it hasn’t changed since it was built.”

  “It hasn’t, really,” Meg said. “Except for the heating and plumbing, which don’t show.”

  “Do you ever feel any of those generations of Warrens who lived here before you? After all, they’re your kin.”

  “You mean, like ghosts? I . . . I’m not sure,” Meg hedged. “Don’t people leave something behind, when they’ve lived in a house for a long time? What about at your house, or your mother’s?”

  “Maybe,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. “There must be a lot of former Chapins and Warrens running around here, then.”

  “Well, if there are, I hope they’re friendly. I think they are.”

  “So do I,” Seth said. “They must like us. Ready to turn in?” When Meg nodded, he whistled to bring Max back, and then the three of them rambled back to the house in the near-dark.

  4

  The next morning Meg, once again up early, was seated in front of her laptop in the dining room with a cup of coffee when Bree came down the back stairs.

  “Look! I’m ordering those crates!” Meg called out.

  “About time,” Bree grumbled.

  Meg made a rude noise. “You know, I think the reason I’ve been putting this off is because I think the new ones are ugly. Plastic may be lighter in weight and will last longer, but I like the old wooden ones. They seem more appropriate somehow.”

  “But they fall apart. You love ’em so much, make ’em into furniture or something.” Bree poked around in the refrigerator in search of breakfast.

  Meg hit Send to place her order, then shut down the computer. Bree’s suggestion had merit—maybe Seth could find some use for the recycled apple crate boards, which were nicely weathered. T
he new plastic ones wouldn’t look the same, but no point in buying special-order wooden crates purely for sentimental reasons. Not a wise business decision, and growing and selling apples was a business.

  Meg went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. “Bree, can I ask you something?”

  Bree finished buttering her muffin, then sat down. “That always sounds ominous. There a problem?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Meg sat down at the kitchen table across from her. “I was just thinking that even though we’re working with the same crew of pickers as last year, I don’t even know their names, except for Raynard. I mean, I write the checks, but I don’t know who’s who.”

  “Why do you bring this up now?” Bree asked.

  “I feel guilty about it, I guess. I mean, we work side by side all the time, and I don’t even know what to call them. And to them, I’m just ‘Ms. Corey.’”

  “Liberal guilt, eh? What do you plan to do about it?”

  “Could we set up something so we could all share a meal or something? Just talk? I don’t expect us to be friends, but I’m uncomfortable with whatever we are now. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Maybe. I’m not all that comfortable either,” Bree said, not looking happy.

  “Shoot, I didn’t mean to open up a whole can of worms. You’re Jamaican by origin, but you’ve spent most of your life here, gone to college here. You’re part of both sides, aren’t you?”

  “Or part of neither. The pickers don’t trust me automatically just because my family comes from the same island. I have to earn that trust. But I see people around here look at me funny now and then because of my skin color. Not you, Meg, or Seth, but more than one other person.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hired you because you were qualified for the job.”

  “Not because I came cheap?” Bree grinned.

  “Well, don’t think that wasn’t a factor, because you know exactly how much money we’re making here. But mostly it was because Christopher vouched for you, and you’ve proven he was right. But to get back to my first question, are you saying I shouldn’t try to get to know the pickers, just a little?”