Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery)

by Sheila Connolly

  “Can the library help?”

  “They’ve got a lot on their plate at the moment, with the new building, but maybe down the line. I need to look into grant funding, too, if I ever find the time. Listen, I’d better get home and feed the family. Thanks for having us, Meg. Talk soon!” Gail went out the back door, leaving Meg sitting alone at the table.

  She continued to sit for a while, turning over what she had just learned. The man buried under the former church had been African. That idea took some getting used to, especially given that she now knew the Moodys had been slave owners and it was likely that the skeleton was that of a slave, since slavery was still legal in Massachusetts in the middle of the eighteenth century. He’d been buried with some dignity. The land had been donated for the purpose of building a church in the 1760s—or, no, she amended, a meetinghouse. A multiuse building. The need for a church had prompted it, but it had also been sort of a town hall. In any case, this so-far-nameless slave must have died before that date—but by how much?

  Her tired mind skipped to a different track. Gail could certainly use some help at the Historical Society. Now all the records would be coming home to roost, but who was going to deal with them? If everything went according to plan, the building would be ready before winter, and after the harvest. Meg would have more free time then, so she could help out. After this renovation, it would even have heat, so it would be possible to work in the building during cold weather, which hadn’t been the case before. Assuming Jeffrey was available, Meg wondered if he’d like to help out as well, sort of as an unpaid intern? If he really did like history, he might enjoy it. And it would look good to any colleges he was applying for.

  Was there a chance he wouldn’t be available? She still couldn’t visualize the possibility that he’d had anything to do with that unknown boy’s death, but she had to keep reminding himself that she didn’t know Jeffrey well. She’d only met him a couple of times and never had a significant conversation with him. Bree, who’d never even met him, had written Jeffrey off as a wimp, based solely on Meg’s description. Maybe there was something dark beneath his surface. Would his teachers at the high school know? Was that what Rick Sainsbury was worried about?

  But she hadn’t sensed any violence in Jeffrey. What she had seen was a lonely boy who’d seemed kind of lost in the world of high school. He was clearly intelligent, but out of step with a lot of his peers. He’d probably fit better in college—if he went to the right school, not a huge university that specialized in parties and football games like UMass, but one where he could find like-minded people. There were good classes and faculty at UMass, but it didn’t strike her as the best place for someone like Jeffrey. Amherst College might be better, if he wanted to stay close; any of the Ivies, too. But first he had to avoid being arrested.

  Meg was still sitting and thinking when Seth came in a little after six, followed by Max. “Hey,” he greeted her as Max went to his water bowl. “You okay?”

  She smiled. “I’m fine. I’m just thinking. Does it look like it hurts?”

  Seth found a bottle of water in the refrigerator and downed half of it. “I don’t know—I don’t remember what it’s like to have time for it.”

  “Any word on Jeffrey?”

  “I assume that’s what you were thinking about? He’s at home. Jeffrey keeps saying he has nothing to hide. He found the boy, he called the police, period. But his family arranged for a good lawyer, in case he needs one, and he told Jeffrey to keep quiet.”

  “I asked Bree to see if our pickers knew or had heard anything about the dead boy. The dead man? I don’t know how to refer to him. When does a boy become a man?”

  “Now, there’s a loaded question. But I know what you mean. What did Bree say?”

  “She wasn’t happy I asked. She accused me of implying that all people with black skin around here all knew each other. That certainly was not what I intended. But as far as I can recall, there simply aren’t any other black residents in Granford. Am I wrong?”

  “Not according to the census,” Seth told her. “That’s not to say that there aren’t blacks in any other nearby communities—in Holyoke that group makes up closer to five percent. But practically speaking, yes, the Jamaicans are the only likely candidates here in town.”

  Meg nodded. “That’s what I thought. I asked Bree because I figured that the local Jamaican community would be more willing to talk to one of their own than to me—an employer—or the police.” She sighed.

  “They should know you’re just trying to help. You get along well with them, don’t you?”

  “I think so, but it looks like I’m trying to help a local white boy who may have killed a black boy. I think it’s a no-win situation.”

  “Where is Bree?”

  “With Michael. She said she was giving us a little space.”

  “Ah. How does pizza sound?”

  “If I don’t have to cook it, it sounds wonderful. Remind me to put the pizza place on speed dial.”

  13

  Meg refused to open her eyes the next morning. “They tell me that there are places where Sunday is a day of rest.”

  “Not for farmers,” Seth replied. “Be thankful you don’t have to go out and milk a herd of cows before breakfast.”

  “You may notice that I vetoed that idea a long time ago. At least when apples have to wait, they don’t bellow at me. In chorus.”

  “Still picking today? Sorry, stupid question.”

  “Yes, dear, we’re still picking today,” Meg said, with exaggerated patience. “And tomorrow, and next week, and next month. And then I will hibernate for three months, work on my family history, and balance the books. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?”

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a wedding in there somewhere?”

  “So I’m told. You’re sure we can’t elope?”

  “There are a lot of people around here who would be disappointed.”

  “Including you?” Meg asked, suddenly serious.

  He looked at her steadily. “Yes. I don’t want to just run off. I want to stand up with you in front of my family and friends and declare that I love you and that I want to make a life with you.”

  Meg burrowed against his chest. “Oh, Seth—I want that, too, but everything I read or hear about planning the event makes it seem so complicated. You know: booking the church a year ahead, finding a reception hall, ordering doves with our initials on them.” When he looked confused at that last comment, she laughed. “I’m kidding. About the doves, at least. But society has made this so difficult, not to mention expensive. Can’t we do it like they did in the nineteenth century? Find a preacher, put on clean clothes, and get married in the parlor?”

  “Only if we can still have a party for the rest of the town afterward. Besides, do you know a preacher?”

  “Not exactly.” Meg rolled onto her back and leaned against the pillows. “You don’t feel strongly about getting married in a church, do you? Because I did have one idea . . .” She wasn’t sure how good an idea it was, though.

  “Yes?” Seth prompted.

  “According to my research, in Massachusetts it is possible for an individual to obtain a short-term license from the state enabling him or her to perform marriage ceremonies.”

  “And you have someone in mind?”

  “I was thinking of Christopher. He’s been so important in helping me keep the orchard going, even though he’s been busy with teaching and overseeing the new construction at the university. He’s already blessed the orchard, sort of. He’s been involved with some of the other troubles we’ve had here”—that was an understatement, Meg reflected—“and I count him as a friend. What do you think?”

  Seth rolled over so his position mirrored hers, and he put his arms behind his head. “Interesting idea. He’s a great guy. Have you talked to him about it?”

  “No, because I thoug
ht I should run it by you first, to see if you hated the idea. Would you prefer a man of the cloth?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m not close to one, and I guess I’d prefer to be married by someone I know, rather than someone picked at random. Let me think about it, but I like the concept. And if we go ahead with this, I think we should ask him together.”

  “Deal.” Meg felt obscurely comforted. They had moved the wedding glacier an inch or two forward.

  She could hear Bree clattering around down the hall. “I guess we should get up. What are you planning for today? The concrete pour is tomorrow, right? That’s what Gail told me.”

  “Yes. Today is for catch-up. Paperwork, like invoices, if I want an income. Doing some inventory and probably placing some orders online. I’ll probably be around most of the day, but in and out.”

  “Oh, you want to hear something interesting? Miranda and Gail were here yesterday, and I never told you what we talked about. Miranda said that the body they found under the Historical Society was African. Which means he was almost certainly a slave, and probably belonged to the Moody family, because they show up on the 1790 census as slave owners.”

  “Now, that I didn’t expect to hear! How did he die?”

  “Consumption, apparently.”

  “I’d never thought of that—that he could be African, I mean, not the consumption. There was plenty of consumption around. I don’t recall anyone mentioning slaves in Granford.”

  “Well, in 1790 John Moody was the only one with slaves. But since it was his family that gave the land under the Historical Society, it kind of fits neatly, don’t you think?”

  “And I assume people will be looking into the history?” Seth asked.

  “Once Gail gets all the local documents assembled in this wonderful new space you’re building for her, and confers with the library, and I finish harvesting so I have time to help. And maybe Jeffrey will want to finish his badges. If he can. No news on that front?” A question she was getting rather tired of asking.

  Seth, now dressed, sat on the bed to lace up his work boots. “As of last night, Jeffrey had not been arrested, and no one had yet come forward to identify the dead boy. And that’s all I know. See you downstairs.”

  Seth disappeared into his office at the end of the driveway after breakfast, and Bree and Meg were lingering awhile in the kitchen talking about plans for the day when there was a rapping at the door. Meg opened it to find Raynard there.

  “Good morning, Raynard. Is there a problem?” Meg felt a moment of panic: had she inadvertently insulted the pickers and they’d all walked off on strike this morning?

  “Not with the orchard, no, ma’am. It’s about that dead boy.”

  That sounded like trouble. “Please, come in. Would you like some coffee?” Meg stepped back to let him enter.

  “A glass of water would be good, thank you.” He dipped his head at Bree, who didn’t say anything.

  “Coming up. Please, sit down.” Although Meg was itching to know what he had to say, she carefully filled a glass with water and set it in front of Raynard, then resumed her seat. “What did you want to tell us?”

  Raynard looked down at his hands, which were wrapped around the glass. Meg looked at them, too, noting that they were rough and scarred from years of pulling apples off trees. “I asked around a bit. Have the police said anything to you about who the boy might be?”

  “Not lately. The last I heard, they still didn’t know his name. Do you have any idea who it is?”

  “I think I do. You know, those of us who come here for the harvest, we’re scattered all over the area, and we don’t often gather. But last night was Saturday night, so we met in this place we go, in Holyoke. I happened to run into Hector Dixon—you remember him?”

  When Meg looked blank, Bree volunteered, “He worked here last harvest, remember, Meg? Middle-aged guy, mustache, not too tall? But he didn’t come back this year because he was offered more money at another orchard. Right, Raynard?”

  Raynard nodded. “Yes, that is the man. We fell to talking, and he told me that he left us not only because of the money, but also because this year he wanted to bring over his nephew Novaro. He knew you did not need any extra help here, Meg, so he found someone who could take on the boy as well as himself. This nephew, he’s eighteen this year, and his uncle thought it was time he started to work. The boy was finished with school, and there were no jobs for him in Jamaica. His mother was tired of feeding him. So Hector fixed up a visa for him and Novaro joined the crew where his uncle was working, but he didn’t last long—he thought he was too good for this kind of farmwork. His uncle was not happy with him, but in the end the boy just stopped coming. Which was bad, because if you leave the employer that brought you here, you lose your right to stay in this country. Now he is here illegally, and he knows it. And of course, when he left the job, he had to find a different place to stay, who knows where. This was maybe two weeks ago? After he quit he didn’t come around to talk to his uncle, and Hector worried that he might be going around with the wrong people.”

  “And you think this boy who died could be the nephew Novaro?” Bree demanded.

  “The boy’s age is right, and Hector does not know how to find him. Hector did not know who to talk to, and is reluctant to go to his new employer, but he has decided that if Novaro is indeed this dead boy, he should be sure so that he can tell the boy’s mother. So he has asked me to find out what I can.”

  “Why not tell Hector to go to the police? They’re going to need an official identification,” Bree told him.

  “We don’t like to mess in police business. We’re legal, but it doesn’t pay to go looking for trouble.”

  Meg couldn’t entirely disagree. “All right. What do you want me to do, Raynard?”

  “Ask your police friends if they have found out who the dead boy is,” Raynard said. “And if they have not, ask them if he had a gold cross on a chain around his neck. If there is such a cross, tell me, and I’ll have his uncle come forward.”

  It seemed to Meg like a reasonable request, given the Jamaicans’ distrust of police in general. “All right, I can do that.” She stood up. “I’ll go call the police chief now.” She took her cell phone into the front parlor for privacy, and punched in Art Preston’s home number. The case would be the state’s jurisdiction, but she’d rather ask Art about this cross than wade through the bureaucracy of the state police phone system.

  “Yo, Meg, it’s Sunday morning, isn’t it?” Art answered after four rings, his voice still rough with sleep. “Or did I sleep through a day?” He paused a second or two. “Don’t tell me you have another body.”

  Meg laughed briefly. “No, not that. And it is Sunday. I apologize for butting in on your day off, but I have a question about the boy found at the feed store. Have you identified him yet?”

  “No,” Art said. “If you have a possible line on him, I’m listening.”

  “One of my pickers just came to me and Bree and told us he talked to a friend last night who works at a different orchard, and whose nephew was here for his first picking season, except he didn’t like the work and dropped out. The uncle hasn’t heard from him recently, but he was worried. If the boy’s not working, his visa’s no good.”

  “Does the nephew have a name?”

  “I’m sure he does,” Meg hedged, “but the pickers are all kind of cautious around police. But there’s one thing I was told to ask you: was the boy wearing a gold cross?”

  “He was.” Art sighed. “That wasn’t made public. Can you put me in touch with this uncle?”

  “I’ll send him to talk to you, and you can decide how to handle it with the state people. I can promise him that nobody’s going to get into any trouble about this, right?”

  “All we want right now is an ID for the victim. Tell your contact guy I’ll be in my office in town by noon, okay? I’ll be pretend
ing to be doing paperwork.”

  “Yeah, that paperwork does pile up, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Thanks, Meg. I’d rather not be working today, but if it moves this case forward, I can deal with it. Talk to you later.” Art rang off.

  Meg returned to the kitchen, where Raynard and Bree were deep in conversation. They fell silent when she walked in, and looked at her expectantly.

  Meg sat down and said gently, “I talked to the police chief, Art Preston, and there is a cross. I told Art that you could tell Hector to go talk to him at the station here in Granford—he’ll be there by noon. Can you do that?”

  Raynard sat up straighter in his chair. “Thank you, Meg. If you don’t mind, I will go look for my friend now. Bree, you can manage the men, right?”

  “Of course I can, Raynard. I’m sorry about all this, but thanks for coming to us about it.”

  Meg saw him out, and shut the screen door behind him. As he walked toward his truck in the driveway, she saw his shoulders sag lower than they had when he arrived.

  Meg went back to her seat at the table. “I guess it’s good news in a way—isn’t it better to know who the boy is?”

  “It’s better to settle this fast,” Bree said sharply. “The pickers don’t like trouble, and this kid sounds like trouble. Raynard and I were talking about it while you were on the phone. The guy came over because his family made him, but he was never happy about it, even though his uncle did all the paperwork and stuff. But he didn’t make much of an effort here, and he quit pretty fast. That’s going to be a problem for him, because he loses his visa—unless he’s the dead kid, and then it’s kinda moot. Oh, and bigger picture, it’s a problem for us, down the line.”

  “I don’t follow. What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you looked at the guys we have working here? Most of them aren’t young, and their kids don’t want to do farmwork. The U.S. government doesn’t want to make it any easier for migrant workers from anywhere, not just Jamaica, to get into the country to work, but there aren’t many Americans who want to do this kind of work either. So who’s going to pick the apples, huh?”