Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery)

by Sheila Connolly

  “Bree, I don’t know,” Meg told her. “Heck, aren’t you the one who took classes on the economics and politics of farming in this country? I sure never did. You should know more than I do.”

  “I know what the problems are, but I don’t see any easy solutions. And Congress isn’t being much help either. They want more jobs for Americans, and that’s good, but the jobs they’re messing with, Americans don’t want.”

  “Well, as for staffing needs in the future, we’ve been planting the new trees on dwarf rootstock, and closer together than in the past. Does that make a difference?”

  “It means that the apples will be easier to pick. But you still need some people to do it. There’s no way to mechanize the fruit picking, because you lose too many apples when they’re damaged.”

  Meg sat back in her chair, feeling depressed. “And here I hoped today might be a nice day. Well, let’s go.”

  They spent a busy few hours in the orchard, breaking only for sandwiches and drinks up the hill with the workers. Meg watched the men for any signs of hostility, but saw none.

  Mid-afternoon, her cell phone rang: Art. She was far enough away from any of the men that they couldn’t overhear, so she answered.

  “You were right. Your guy Dixon just ID’d the kid as his nephew Novaro Miller, from Jamaica. Only been in the country for a few weeks.”

  “What a shame. How’d the uncle take it?”

  “He’s sad. I don’t know if they were close, but from what I gather he was trying to help the kid, bring him along. Apparently Novaro just wasn’t interested.”

  “You sound tired, Art.”

  “It’s never easy when you’re dealing with families. Dixon told me on the way over that his nephew Novaro had been acting out ever since his father died back in Jamaica. The uncle thought a real job might help straighten the kid out and fixed him up over here, but Novaro didn’t want any part of it and kind of dropped off the radar. Now the next thing Dixon knows, his nephew is dead. And he feels responsible, all for trying to give a family member a chance. It’s too bad.”

  “So now that you know who the victim is, does that make a difference?”

  “Some. At least Marcus can put some guys onto tracking down the boy’s known associates and seeing if they can tell him anything. The pickers in the area probably don’t know much about him because he was new, but there are some kids who squat in Holyoke who might. If they’ll talk.” Art paused. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to start trying to interview street kids in the city.”

  “Of course I won’t go looking for this Novaro’s friends. I’m not stupid. Marcus is much better equipped to handle that.”

  Art was still talking, almost as if to himself. “It doesn’t seem like a mugging—at least, whoever killed him didn’t take the cash in his pocket or that gold cross. We still don’t know why he was at the feed store. Maybe he was thinking of robbing the place—it’s pretty isolated.”

  “Art! Suddenly he’s gone from victim to potential criminal? Do you have any reason to believe he was thinking of breaking in?” Meg protested.

  “I’m not assuming anything, Meg. I’m just trying to find a reason why Novaro was where he was when he died. From what his uncle said, the kid’s recent activities seem kind of sketchy—no known address, no known income, and he blew off a regular job and dropped off the radar. Marcus will have to consider it. Look, I’ve gotta go. You going to tell the pickers about the ID?”

  “I guess so. The uncle worked here at my orchard last year, so my crew knows him, and Raynard helped track him down. They deserve to hear it from me,” she said. “Hey, is Raynard still there with Hector?”

  “They left together, but neither said where he was going. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

  Bree had approached while Meg was on the phone, and was watching her expectantly.

  “Yes. It’s confirmed,” Meg told her. “The dead boy was Hector Dixon’s eighteen-year-old nephew, Novaro Miller. I should tell the rest of the guys.”

  Bree shook her head, and pointed down the hill to where Raynard’s truck was pulling into the driveway. “Raynard’s back—let him do it.”

  Meg was embarrassed by the relief she felt. “I’ll go down and talk to him. You don’t need me back up here, do you?”

  “No, you go. I’ll finish up.”

  Meg went slowly down the hill to intercept Raynard. “I heard from Art, Raynard. Is there anything I can do?”

  He regarded her steadily. “I appreciated your counsel earlier. I only wish the outcome could have been different.”

  “Well, let me know if you need anything,” Meg said. It felt like a stupid response—what could they need? But she did feel bad that the victim had proved to be related to one of the pickers—one she had known herself, however slightly.

  Meg continued down the hill, while Raynard went in the opposite direction.

  She reached the driveway and waved to Seth, just emerging from the shop at the rear. When he was near enough to read her expression, he said quickly, “What’s wrong?”

  “We know who the dead boy was—Novaro Miller. He’s the nephew of one of the guys who worked here last year, Hector Dixon. Hector and Raynard just identified the body.”

  Seth folded her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “He was just a kid!” Meg said into his chest. “What a waste.”

  “I know. It always is.”

  When Meg and Seth returned to the kitchen, Bree was cooking something that Meg couldn’t identify but which smelled good. Meg was startled to realize that most of the afternoon had evaporated. Since neither Lolly nor Max budged from their usual places, Meg assumed Bree had fed them.

  “Anything new?” Bree asked, without turning away from the stove.

  Meg sighed. “No. Look, Bree, we told Rick Sainsbury and Karen Green that we’d help Jeffrey, if it turned out he needed help. It’s still not clear whether he’s a suspect, but he may be. So Seth and I are still going to try to sort this out—for Jeffrey’s sake. I’m really sorry that the dead boy turned out to be Jamaican, and related to someone we know. I feel like I’m caught in the middle.”

  “It’s okay, Meg. I get it. Jeffrey’s an only child, right?” Bree asked.

  “I think so. Why does that matter?”

  “Well, maybe that’s why he joined the Boy Scouts—he’s looking for a family.”

  “Maybe,” Meg said dubiously. “Seth, were you ever a Scout?”

  “Nope. No time, what with school and sports and helping my dad out with the business.”

  “And plenty of friends, I’m sure,” Meg said. “Poor Jeffrey—no siblings, and we haven’t heard anything about friends, although we haven’t seen him at school. But we should stick to the basic problem: if Jeffrey didn’t do it, who attacked the boy? Why there? Why then? And what do we do now?” Meg asked.

  “We could use some more picking bags,” Bree said.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Meg asked, startled by the abrupt change of subject.

  “You can get them at the feed store,” Bree added.

  Light dawned slowly. “So maybe I should stop by the feed store in the morning and pick up a few? And maybe talk with the owner?”

  “Bingo,” Bree said, filling three plates.

  “Are those things heavy?” Seth asked. “Because maybe I should come along and help you load up the truck.”

  “Lunchtime?” Meg said.

  “Works for me,” Seth replied.

  14

  The sun continued to shine, for which Meg was grateful. A couple of months earlier, drought had been a real concern and rain welcome; now she wanted the wet weather to hold off so that she could keep picking and get her crop in. Unfortunately there was no way to rush ripening apples. Bree tested them daily for sugar levels, and she made the final decisions about what to pick and w
hen. Maybe it was a good thing that there were fewer pickers this year—at least she didn’t have to pay them to sit around and wait for the apples.

  When Meg came down for breakfast Monday morning, Seth was already cleaning up his dishes, and Max was standing by the back door, quivering with anticipation. Bree was seated at the table, looking at some sort of spreadsheets.

  Meg helped herself to coffee, then asked Seth, “Where are you off to today?”

  “We’re pouring concrete, remember?”

  “Oh, right. I’d love to see that. Bree, may I go watch the concrete pour?”

  “I guess. We’re pretty much caught up, but check back with me this afternoon, okay? With this sunny weather, things can change fast.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Seth, are we still going over to the feed store later or will you be too busy?”

  “It’s right down the road from the green, so I can get away, I think. Why don’t you meet me at the Historical Society around noon and we can go over together.”

  “That works for me,” Meg answered. “Bree, anything else I need to pick up or order while I’m there?”

  “Goat food,” Bree said, without looking up.

  “Oh, right. Seth, I’ll walk you out.” Seth went out the back door, Max dancing around his ankles, and Meg followed. “You think Jeffrey’s back in school today?”

  “Maybe. Who knows, maybe he’d score points with his peers for being suspected of beating someone up—how often can you do that? Or maybe he’s just conscientious. He’s got to be thinking about college applications.”

  “He could have a really unusual essay for those applications, depending on how this plays out. Tell me, do you think he’s given us—or anyone else—the whole story?”

  Seth walked over to his work van and was sorting through some of his equipment in the back, so he didn’t answer right away. Meg had followed and stood waiting to see what he would say. Finally he turned to face her.

  “Do I think he got into a fight with an unemployed Jamaican kid he didn’t know? I can’t see why—if this Novaro jumped him, or Jeffrey interrupted him trying to break in the back, Jeffrey would have told that to the police, because it would put him in a better light. Do I think he’s told us everything? No, I don’t. But I don’t know what he’s not saying, and I don’t know him or his family well enough to guess.”

  “You think there’s any chance Marcus could arrest him?”

  “I doubt it. He doesn’t have anything like real evidence as far as we know, and he’ll be fair. Jeffrey’s story hangs together, more or less. And the fact that he’s Rick Sainbury’s nephew will come into play, one way or another. I don’t think he’s a flight risk or likely to do harm to anyone, so I’d guess that Marcus will tread lightly. For now.”

  “Understood.”

  Seth came over to her, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. “I’ll see you at noon, in town.”

  Meg, rendered momentarily speechless by the kiss, stepped back to let him pull out of the driveway and watched him go.

  Bree came out the back door, the screen slapping shut behind her. “Yo, Meg—I’m going up the hill. You coming?”

  “In a couple of minutes,” Meg called back. “You go ahead.”

  Bree left, and Meg went slowly inside, reviewing her plans for the day. She wanted to talk to the pickers about Novaro Miller, especially now that she knew his uncle had worked in her orchard, but she’d been through only one season with these men, and she still didn’t know all the ins and outs of their local culture. Heck, they’d all been around the area far longer than she had. She knew they were proud of their skills with the orchards, and proud of their reliability, returning year after year. But she wasn’t sure how they would react to a crime among their own—and how they would feel about her getting involved. She’d been glad to help discover the identity of the dead boy, but she wasn’t sure how far she could push her advantage. Maybe she should ask Art about any other crimes involving the local immigrant population. She hadn’t heard of any.

  Not that it was her business anyway—except that she wanted to help Jeffrey. He seemed like such a good kid. If she was honest, he probably reminded her of herself at his age. Decent, hardworking, earnest—and nerdy and forgettable to all the “cool” kids at school. Did Jeffrey have any friends? Had he joined the Scouts in order to find some? Was the fact that his uncle was a public figure making it better or worse for him?

  Meg drained the last of her coffee and put the cup in the sink, patted Lolly, who was perched on the refrigerator, made sure she had her cell phone, and headed up to the orchard. Three hours of picking, then back to get her car and meet Seth over at the green, and then they’d talk with the guy at the feed store and she would buy goat feed. Then back for some more picking, and dinner, and bed. What an exciting life she was leading! What would her former banking colleagues in Boston think? But she was pretty sure they didn’t think about her at all. Not that that bothered her. That had been another life, one she’d left behind, and she had a new life here in Granford, one she was happy with.

  She headed up the hill, and by the time she reached the orchard, the pickers were scattered among the trees, doing their jobs. Meg made a mental note to find a quiet moment to talk to Raynard, to see if he’d heard anything new. Then she checked in with Bree, who handed her a picking bag and pointed to a row, and Meg went to work. Shortly before noon she transferred her latest bagful into one of the big apple crates and told Bree by way of hand signals that she was going to go down the hill and leave. Bree nodded and kept right on working.

  Meg stopped at the house long enough to wash her face and hands, and decided her clothes were clean enough to visit a construction site and an agricultural supply store. She’d look like she fit in. She drank a glass of water, found her car keys, and drove the couple of miles to the town green.

  Seth was not the only observer there when she arrived. There was a small crowd watching the massive concrete truck at work. It took a couple of men to position the chute from the truck to the forms under the Historical Society building, which looked rather precarious perched on a scaffolding of large beams. A few other men were stirring the already-poured concrete, releasing any bubbles and settling it. Meg parked and walked over to where Gail Selden was standing.

  “So it’s not only guys who like watching the big machines?” Meg asked.

  “Hi, Meg. Hey, this is fun! And I keep getting excited about how much more space we’re going to have underneath.”

  “What’s the timeline, overall?”

  “I’m told we’ll have it sealed up in a week or two,” Gail said, “and then there will be finish work, plumbing and heating—all that good stuff. And then I’ll start assembling all the scattered collections—I’m really looking forward to that! You know there’s stuff here in town that I’ve never even seen? I know about it only from some old handwritten inventories. I just hope nobody has thrown any of it out, thinking it was old trash. Hey, you don’t have anything interesting lurking in your attic, do you?”

  Meg laughed. “I think you’ve asked me that before, and I still haven’t been up there to poke in all the corners. Maybe when the harvest is done.”

  “And you’re going to help me inventory what comes in, aren’t you? Over the winter, that is. After all, we’ll have heat! Is it silly to be so excited about things that most people take for granted?”

  “It just shows you care about what you’re doing, Gail. I get it.”

  Seth strolled over to join them. “How’s it going?” Meg asked.

  “Good. We’re on schedule, and these guys know what they’re doing. You want to head over to the feed store now?”

  “Sure,” Meg said.

  “What’s that about?” Gail asked. “Are you two visiting the scene of the crime?”

  “I’m buying food for my goats,” Meg said. When Gail looked disappointed, she added
, “And the other thing, too. We’re trying to help Jeffrey, whose family is . . . How can I put this? A bit at odds?”

  “I’d go with dysfunctional,” Gail said briskly. “Have you met Karen yet?”

  “Yes, on Saturday,” Meg answered.

  “Oh, good,” Gail said, relieved. “So you’ll know what I mean. I’ve worked with Karen on committees for a few years, and she is a piece of work. Do you know, I don’t think she has anything like a friend in this town? I can understand why her husband decided he’d had enough, although it’s too bad that Jeffrey had to bear the brunt of that.”

  “So you know about the split?” Meg asked. “Does everybody?”

  “Most of us in town saw it coming a long time ago. But things must have gotten really bad for Sam to bail when Jeffrey was so close to being out of the house.”

  “Both Sam and Karen grew up around here?” Meg asked.

  “Sure did. Except Karen went off to some fancy girls’ school.”

  “I didn’t know them,” Seth volunteered. “Rick and I were in high school at the same time, but barely, so I wouldn’t have overlapped with Karen—she was a couple of years ahead.”

  “Well, from what I hear,” Gail said, “Karen decided she was better than the rabble from Granford, and Sam had the biggest house and the cleanest fingernails in town, so she set her sights on him. It worked for close to twenty years, I guess. Listen to me, gossiping! Whatever his family situation, Jeffrey Green is a good kid, and I refuse to believe he could be involved in the death of a stranger. Or even hit anyone, in self-defense or otherwise. The police had better keep looking.”

  The three of them fell silent, watching the concrete flow into the forms. Then the truck shut down, and one of the workmen near the foundation gave Seth a thumbs-up sign. He nodded back. “Well, Gail, it looks like you’ve got yourself a new foundation, once it sets up.”

  “Oh, goody! Can I put my initials on it somewhere?”