Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery)

by Sheila Connolly

  The examination of the old skeleton would be nice and clean compared to last night’s discovery, Meg reflected. It was reasonable that Jeffrey had been bloodied, if he had been trying to help the victim, right? Head wounds were bloody, or so she had heard. Jeffrey, on an errand for his mother, had found someone in distress and had done all the right things. End of story. She hoped.

  Seth would no doubt know more when he came home. Now she had to get back to work—which she found she was reluctant to do, since apparently she’d ticked off Bree without meaning to. Still, wasn’t it a reasonable assumption to make, that if an unknown African-American teenager was found dead in this town, that he might be somehow connected to the only group of local black males—the itinerant pickers? And Meg wasn’t the only orchard owner in the area who employed them; Jamaican workers had been coming to Massachusetts to pick fruit for decades. Which also reinforced the assumption that they might know something about the young dead man. It was a question that needed to be asked, even if it made Bree uncomfortable.

  Meg squared her shoulders, went out the back door, and headed up the hill to the orchard.

  When she arrived, Bree sent her a warning look and shook her head quickly. Meg took that to mean either Bree hadn’t asked, or that she’d asked and nobody knew anything—or that no one was willing to talk about it. Whatever the case, Meg decided not to push it: she needed the goodwill of the workers to get her crop in, and she didn’t want to antagonize them, especially now, after they’d spent some pleasant time together. “Where do you want me, Raynard?” she called out. He pointed toward a tree with a waiting ladder farther down the row. Meg pulled on her bag and got to work.

  A couple of hours later her cell phone rang: Gail. Meg answered, “Hi, Gail. What’s up?”

  “The excavation is done, and the forms are in place. But they won’t pour concrete until Monday, Seth said.”

  “Wow, that was fast!”

  “Heck, they said this was small potatoes for them. I’m just glad it’s moving forward again. And I talked to Miranda—she said she was going to be in Granford to drop off her official reports on our skeleton, just to dot the Is for Art, and said she could stop by late in the day and update me on what she’d found. I kind of offered your place, since I figured you’d want to hear what she had to say. Do you mind?”

  “Well, she’s a woman who’s used to dirt, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Did she tell you if she’d found anything interesting?”

  “She said she’s just got the bare outlines so far, and there’s more to be done. So I’ll see you at five? Oh, any word on Jeffrey?”

  “You’re more likely to know than I am—I’ve been up in the orchard all morning, and I’m headed back there now. I’ll expect you at five.” With a sigh, Meg turned off her phone and went back to work.

  At four, as she was walking slowly down the hill, feeling every muscle, Raynard fell into step beside her. “Bree told me what you asked,” he said quietly, when he was sure they couldn’t be overheard.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that any of your men had anything to do with . . .” Meg began to protest, but Raynard held up a hand.

  “I took no offense. None of the men here know anything about that young man, but I will talk to some other people working around here, see what they might know. They are more likely to talk to me than to you, or to the police, I think.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said, relieved. “I didn’t mean to put anyone in a difficult position. I mean, we don’t even know if the boy is from around Granford—he could be from anywhere. But if he’s got relatives or friends around here, they deserve to know.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself. If he is one of ours, we will find out.”

  Meg decided this was a good time to change the subject. “Did Bree talk to you about which apples would be ready for the Harvest Festival?”

  “She did. I will be sure we set aside some fine ones for you.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the hill. “Thanks again, Raynard. This will be my first time there as a vendor, and I’d like to put my best foot forward.”

  “Of course. I’ll speak with you tomorrow.” He made his way over to his faded pickup truck, opening the doors to cool the interior, and waited for a few of the other pickers to reach the driveway—he always provided rides for some of them.

  Bree was the last one down, after all of the pickers had left. Meg said, looking after the departing vehicles, “Do you know, I never did find out where they’re living.”

  “Wherever they can. They’re here for only a few months each year, and it’s almost all guys, so they don’t care much.”

  “Still, I kind of feel I should know things like that.”

  “Whatever makes you happy.” Bree shrugged.

  “By the way, Miranda Melvin is coming over to report on what she’s got so far on that skeleton from the green, any minute now.”

  “That’s the anthropologist lady? Do you need me to be there?”

  “Of course not. Oh, right—it’s Saturday. Do you and Michael have plans?”

  “Nothing specific. He’s got some new roomies, now that the term has started at the university, so things are a little crowded at his place.”

  “You know you can bring him here.”

  Bree shrugged again. “He feels funny about that, and I guess I do, too. Don’t worry—we’ll work it out. I’ll meet him in Amherst, and you and Seth can have some alone time.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  12

  Bree had left by the time Miranda arrived a few minutes after five, still full of energy despite putting in a full workday examining an old corpse. As Meg went out to greet her, Gail also pulled into the driveway and parked behind Miranda’s car.

  “Welcome, both of you,” Meg said, when they were both out of their cars. “Come on inside.”

  “Is Seth joining us?” Gail called out.

  “No, last time we talked he wasn’t sure when he’d be home. He’s been supervising your crew and trying to keep up with his other projects.”

  “Poor lamb. Don’t think we don’t appreciate it. Maybe we’ll inscribe a brick in his honor.”

  Once they were settled in the kitchen with iced drinks, Meg told Miranda, “I’m surprised you’ve had any time to look at our old bones already. Gail said you’d been away for a year and were trying to catch up for your classes this term.”

  Miranda laughed. “September’s always crazy at the university—I’m used to it. Besides, I can recycle a lot of earlier course notes, and then I throw in some juicy bits about what I’ve found recently and everybody’s happy. Besides, I’m kind of intrigued by your man. I haven’t gotten into any detailed analyses yet—I’m going to let my seminar class observe the procedures—but I thought you’d like to hear my preliminary findings.”

  “We’re all ears,” Meg said.

  Miranda began rather formally, “As you know, I told the state police that this body was not the result of a recent crime, so they gave permission for me to take it back to the university and examine it. In addition, I brought some of my students over to the burial site the next day to see if we could find the rest of the bones. I thought it would be a good opportunity for them to participate in a real dig. We found all the major bones and quite a few of the smaller ones—luckily the soil there allowed for good drainage, so the bones were well preserved. Back in my lab, I had the students lay out the bones in the appropriate distribution. As an aside, I have given my preliminary findings to the chief of police here in Granford, and sent a copy to the state police. I like to keep the professional lines of communication open, so that if they find something really interesting and old, they’ll call me in. This one is in fact very interesting, at least for New England.”

  “Come on, Miranda,” Gail said, “you’re teasing us. What did you find?”

  “The body was that of an olde
r male, in his sixties, I’d guess. Teeth were better than I’d have expected. No broken bones in his lifetime. I guessed earlier that he died from TB—which they would have called consumption back then. So it was a natural death, and the evidence of the bones proves it.”

  “Well, that’s good news. I really didn’t want to hear about another murder in Granford, even if it happened a couple of centuries ago,” Meg said.

  “Well, this poor fellow wasn’t killed, although consumption wasn’t a particularly nice way to die. Anyway, the burial was what I guess I’d call semiformal: no sign of a coffin, but he was buried well below the surface, not just thrown in a shallow pit. That would have taken a little time—he was interred, not hidden. But on the other hand, there were no mementoes left with him. From the few fragments we found, I’d say he was buried in a shroud, not in his clothes, and that’s why there are no buttons or buckles and such.”

  Meg interrupted, “What were the standards for burials in the eighteenth century around here? How many people were buried without a stone? I know I’ve looked for several of my ancestors and they’re nowhere to be found, although their parents and siblings are buried together not far from here. Or the husband will be there but not the wife.”

  “Good questions, Meg. I’ll see if I can track down some articles for you, since that’s not my area of expertise.”

  “And he’s always been where he was found?” Gail asked.

  “I’d say so,” Miranda replied. “My students and I looked at the soil, and there was no other sign of disturbance, apart from the shallow grave. I’d have to do a closer analysis of the soil on the bones, but my guess is that he was not moved from another location. He was buried where you found him. From what little I’ve seen, it doesn’t look like that location was a cemetery. If it was, we should have stumbled across at least a couple more burials in that area. I can’t see a family scattering burials around the property with no order. And often such family plots mark the burials with large rocks or boulders, even if they aren’t inscribed. Of course, those might have been displaced when the building was erected. But there’s one more thing . . .” She gave them a wicked grin.

  “What?” Meg and Gail said in near-unison.

  “The man was African.”

  It took Meg a few moments to process the implications of that fact. “An African man, here in Granford? In 1760-whatever? Or even earlier?”

  Miranda nodded. “That’s what I mean. I couldn’t tell until I had reassembled the skull, but the characteristics were undeniable once I put it back together. And given the way he was laid out, I’m thinking he wasn’t just someone passing through.”

  Gail looked uncomfortable. “Oh goodness, are you saying—”

  “Yup,” said Miranda. “He was probably a slave. As you probably know, there were slave owners even up here in Massachusetts during the early colonial days.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Meg went into the dining room, where she kept her laptop and most of her research materials in less than perfect order. She grabbed her laptop and rejoined the others in the kitchen. As she turned it on she said to the other two women, “I have an idea that may support that theory.” She clicked on a website, clicked a few more times, then turned it so the screen faced Gail and Miranda. “U.S. censuses are available online, even old ones. Here’s the 1790 census for Granford. Look at the column on the right.”

  Historian Gail got it first. “Slaves,” she said almost to herself. “And there were only two in the town then—and they both belonged to the same person, John Moody. Whose family gave the land for the church!” she finished triumphantly. “It fits!”

  Too bad Jeffrey isn’t here to see this, Meg thought. Maybe he could help do some more digging into the local Moodys, if he wanted to follow through on this project. Maybe there were documents available that would include the dead man, put a name to him, and Jeffrey could hunt them down. Maybe there was a Boy Scout history badge in it for him. “So why was this man buried all by himself? You didn’t find any other burials nearby, right?” Meg asked.

  “Not directly under the building,” Gail answered before Miranda could. “But it’s not like anyone has explored every inch of the land there, and it’s not in the society’s budget to do it now. Of course, if we found out it actually was a cemetery, I’m not sure what we’d do.”

  “Don’t panic—we didn’t find anybody else under the building. But when you’re ready, there’s GPR,” Miranda said promptly. When Meg and Gail looked blankly at her, she went on to explain, “Ground-penetrating radar. You can see if there are burials under the surface without disturbing the soil. There’s a group that’s been doing that in Old Deerfield, not far from here, and they’ve had good results. There are companies that do that kind of thing these days.”

  “Well, there you go,” Meg said. “Can you rent a GPR unit?”

  “Sure. It might cost you a couple of hundred bucks a day. But you’d need somebody to interpret the results. An amateur like you could probably distinguish between disturbed and undisturbed ground, but an expert would be able to tell you whether you’ve got a casket or an open burial, and roughly how long the body had been there based on the deterioration of the grave itself. Hey, if you’re really interested, let me know and I can set you up with someone.”

  Meg and Gail exchanged a glance. “That sounds like a great idea—once we get through rebuilding our building and getting all the records moved and sorted,” Gail answered. “Maybe in the spring? As long as you’re sure there’s nobody else under the building.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Miranda reassured Gail. “We looked very carefully. But if it was the original town meetinghouse, it would be logical that there could be other burials nearby. Like I said, let me know if you want to find out more.”

  “This is so interesting,” Meg said. “Technology meets history. I wonder if Seth would have any use for one of those GPR things.” Meg imagined how enthusiastic Jeffrey would probably be about this GPR project. Well, maybe he would be soon again, if things worked out.

  “Sure,” Miranda replied. “You can use them to find conduit, underground wires, pipes, maybe even rocks that’ll mess up your excavation. Or if a builder has dumped rubble and old tree trunks just to get them out of the way—and they could shift and settle if you build on them. It’s easy to check if there are any hidden items like that where you want to build.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” Meg said—adding to herself, And then I could borrow it to look at some old cemeteries.

  “Thanks for the suggestion, Miranda,” Gail said. “We’ll definitely think about it.”

  “Glad to help. Was there anything else you needed? Because otherwise I should get going. I’ve got to prep for a lab next week.”

  “That should do it for now,” Gail said. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us out here.”

  “Hey, that’s my job. And I’m glad it turned out to be something interesting. Do you still want me to do a DNA analysis?”

  “Is that hard to do? Or expensive?” Gail asked.

  “No, not if you do the most simple tests. I’ve got all the samples I need.”

  “Then do it,” Gail said. “You never know what might turn out to be important.”

  “You’re right,” Miranda said. “Oh, and I was thinking—that Jeffrey kid seems smart and eager, and I know he was looking for projects. If he could find out more about the history of the Moody family, and of the land, or even of the church, it might help us fill in some blanks and figure out why this man ended up where he did. Think he’ll be interested?”

  “I’m pretty sure he would be. I’ll ask him, the next time I see him,” Gail said. Meg noticed that she didn’t mention the recent assault in town and Jeffrey’s role in it, but Miranda didn’t need to know that.

  Miranda stood up. “Okay, I’ll go ahead with the DNA. But remember, it’s only useful if you ha
ve someone else’s DNA to compare it to.”

  Meg and Gail stood up, too. “I know,” Gail said, “but who knows what we might find? Thanks again, Miranda.”

  “I’ll get back to you with the results,” Miranda said. Once she had pulled out of the driveway, Meg and Gail looked at each other.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Meg said.

  “You didn’t know there were slaves in Granford?”

  “Maybe in the back of my head, but I never gave it much thought. I’ve probably seen those slaves mentioned on the census at some point—I mean, there are only two pages for all of Granford in 1790—but it didn’t sink in. I certainly never expected to come face-to-face with one, dead or alive.”

  “Well, don’t jump to any conclusions yet,” Gail cautioned her. “I’d like to know more about slavery in that era. And weren’t there freed slaves as well? The man could have been a local freeman that the Moodys allowed to be buried there, or a slave that they owned, or someone just passing through.”

  “I’d like to see what Jeffrey can turn up, if he gets a chance to do the research, and I hope he will,” Meg added.

  “If he can find the original documents,” Gail said with a sigh. “I so wish the Society had the funding to hire a cataloger, part-time at least. Maybe after we get the new space built out and all the records together again, we could scrape together funds for a short-term position for that. Or maybe Miranda could find some sort of intern at the university. And if the records were better organized, then I might have a little more time to work on things like lectures for the schools, or displays in the building.”