A Late Frost

by Sheila Connolly

  “I figured you could handle Marcus, so I stayed out of it. Anything unexpected?”

  “Not really. He knows about the colchicine poisoning, duh. He knows Larry has worked with the stuff, and that Christopher advised him on it. He knows we know about the colchicine, although he didn’t say anything outright, but he knows we’re close to Christopher. He hasn’t talked to Larry yet because he hasn’t been able to find him. I told him in all honesty that I had no idea where he was, although I kind of forgot to mention that I’d seen him earlier today. Marcus already has his cell number, but Larry’s not picking up. But I’m not going to make too much of that. Yet. And that, sir, is all I know.”

  “What now?”

  “Got me. It’s too late in the day to call Ginny—I’ll wait until tomorrow to call her. Oh, has anyone said anything about a funeral for Monica? Is Douglas up to handling that?”

  “I doubt that the state police are in any hurry to release her body,” Seth told her, “and I also doubt that Douglas is pushing for it. I wonder where he’d like to see her buried?”

  “I hope somebody is looking after the poor man.”

  “I’ll see if I can push the town to help out, but I’m not sure what we can do. Which reminds me—you and I need to revise our wills, what with the changes in our status.”

  “Uh, I’ve never made a will. I didn’t own much of anything until I moved here—well, sometime after that, because my mother transferred the property to my name a year or so ago. And I had no one to leave anything to. I guess that was ducking the issue—if a tree had fallen on me and killed me, it would have been up to my parents to sort things out. Unless Massachusetts laws say something different. Wow, I’m feeling more and more stupid. What about you? If I thought about it, I would expect you’d like to help out your mother, or maybe your sister. I don’t exactly need your property or your vast bank account. God, I feel like we’re playing at being grown-ups. Do you have any suggestions? Do you even have a lawyer?”

  “I could ask the town lawyer to help us out—I know him, and he’s a good guy. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Just something along the lines of ‘I leave all my worldly goods to my beloved wife’—I think Nicholas Biddle did that.”

  “The Nicholas Biddle? Didn’t he finance the American Revolution?”

  “He certainly had a hand in it.”

  “I’m not sure why you happen to know that. He must have been a trusting soul. But then, maybe he had an exemplary and competent wife. So, should I put ‘draw up wills’ on our to-do list?”

  “Before or after ‘solve this latest murder’?” Seth grinned at her.

  “Uh, at the risk of repeating what you keep telling me, that’s not our job. But I still don’t think Larry did anything to Monica.”

  “Let Marcus figure out who did.”

  “I plan to.” Meg sighed. “So I’ll set up something with Ginny in the morning. You have any plans I need to know about?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Maybe we should invite Mom over for dinner.”

  “With or without Christopher?”

  “Her choice.”

  22

  The next morning it took Meg only a couple of minutes online to find Ginny’s phone number in Granford. She punched in the number, and Ginny answered. “Morris Orchards, Ginny speaking,” she said brusquely.

  “Ginny, this is Meg Corey, uh, Chapin.” She really should make up her mind what name she was using. “Remember, we met at the WinterFare?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. You’ve got that orchard on the south side of town. What can I do for you?”

  “I thought maybe we could get together and have lunch, and compare notes on running an orchard? Or, heck, just get to know each other, since we’re in the same business. I’m guessing your schedule right now isn’t too full, if mine is any indication.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds good. The kids are in school and won’t be back until three. Where you want to go?”

  “Can I take you to Gran’s? You mentioned you hoped to sell the owners some apples, but I don’t know if you know the full history of the place. Anyway, they’re good people there, and you should get to know them better.”

  “I haven’t had a lot of time for lunches and socializing. I’m sorry about that, because you and I should have met sooner.”

  “Look, I know how that goes. I was overwhelmed when I first moved here, and I didn’t know anything about growing apples. If I’d had a choice . . . Well, why don’t we get together and talk?”

  “Okay. Noonish at Gran’s?”

  “Sounds good to me. See you there.”

  Meg grabbed a quick shower, dressed warmly, and then, failing to find Seth in the house, left a note for him: “Lunch with Ginny at Gran’s. Back later.” She stuck it in the middle of the kitchen table and set the salt shaker on it, grabbed her bag and keys, and set out for the center of town.

  She arrived a bit before twelve. It looked like a slow day: there were only a couple of cars in the parking lot and, once inside, she noted that only three tables had any people seated at them, and two of those tables held only one person each. She decided to check in with Nicky if she was in the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and stood watching as Nicky and her sous chef worked efficiently side by side in a well-choreographed routine. Nobody noticed her, so Meg finally said, “Something smells wonderful.”

  Nicky look up and smiled. “Oh, hi, Meg. Was I expecting you today?”

  “Nope. I invited Ginny Morris to lunch. You talked to her about apples a while back, didn’t you?”

  Nicky stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “Uh, short woman, curly hair—grows organic, right?”

  “That’s the woman. How on earth do you remember these things?”

  “That’s a visual memory—recipes are harder, which is why I have scribbled notes all over the kitchen. I didn’t buy anything from her, did I?”

  “She said not. Any particular reason?”

  “I could guilt-trip you, because I buy most of mine from you, but I don’t think she had enough of any one variety to make one of our desserts and keep it on the menu. We couldn’t call it organic if some of the fruit wasn’t.”

  “Got it. Is organic a good selling point around here?”

  “To some people. You thinking of joining the other side?”

  “I’m still learning the ‘environmentally responsible’ side—I’ll think about it.”

  “She was at the WinterFare, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, at the end opposite me—closer to you, I guess. I didn’t get a chance to really talk to her then and I felt guilty, so I wanted us to get together and chat. Seth says it’s an old orchard but it had been neglected for a while.”

  “Before my time in Granford, Meg. Why don’t you go wait for her in front, and I’ll bring you menus when she arrives and say hi?”

  “In other words, you want me out of your kitchen. No problem. See you in a bit.”

  Meg returned to the main room and stood in front of the large windows that overlooked the town green. By any standards it was a quiet time of year. She counted only a handful of cars passing, and this was the main road through town. Finally she saw a battered pickup truck with some kind of apple logo on the door pull into the parking lot, so she went out to the wide porch to wait for Ginny.

  Ginny climbed out of the truck and hurried up the path. “Sorry I’m late—something always comes up at the last minute.”

  Meg laughed. “No need to apologize—it happens to me all the time. And I have to say if I’m not crazy busy I don’t know what to do with myself, so my timing is off. Have you eaten here?”

  “No,” Ginny said, without explanation. “Lovely old building, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I’m glad to see it put to good use. I was afraid someone would tear it down, or put in a blah insurance office. It really anchors this end of t
he green. Come on, let’s go in and sit down.”

  Nicky must have been watching, because she came out of the kitchen as soon as Meg and Ginny were settled. “Hey, ladies! I love winter cooking. There may not be a lot of fresh ingredients available, but you can do such interesting things with the old hardy ones! Ginny, I’m sorry we haven’t spoken lately. I wish we could have bought your apples, but we needed more volume. But come back to us again when your crop is in.”

  “Thanks, Nicky. I heard the same story from other restaurants and markets, so I don’t take it personally. My husband and I are working to bring our trees back to what they once were, but it takes time. As I’m sure Meg here knows. What should we order?”

  “I’ve got an amazing winter vegetable soup, from an antique recipe, and some house-made country bread. Sound good?”

  “Great,” Ginny said, and Meg nodded agreement.

  When Nicky had gone back with their order, Meg said, “You’ve actually lived here longer than I have. You bought your orchard? I mean, you’re not just renting it?”

  “Yes, and this past fall was our third season. You want the whole boring story?”

  “Sure—I don’t have any other plans for the day.”

  “Well, you asked for it. My husband and I were living the mid-level corporate life, working full-time, with two kids in school. We had two cars and a nice house, and we took a two-week vacation to a different place every year. Sounds perfect, right? So one morning I woke up and thought I would scream if I had to do the same damn thing every day forever. But then I had to decide what I did want to do. That took a while, and when I figured out I wanted to make something or grow something, it took a while longer to convince my husband. He thought everything was just fine the way it was.”

  “How did you land on apples as the answer?” Meg asked.

  “Well, I didn’t like cows,” Ginny said.

  Meg laughed out loud. “I hear you! Too messy. Did you have any background in agriculture?”

  “Nope. I was a public defense lawyer, and Al—my husband—was a mid-level manager at a midsize pharmaceutical firm outside of Providence. So once we had our dream picked out, we started alternating taking courses at night to learn what we needed to know. After a few semesters of that, we went looking for a place with an orchard, and that’s when we found Granford. Kind of like we followed the Connecticut River north.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen your place, or maybe I have but didn’t notice. Although I usually notice apple trees. Even in my sleep, I think. From what I’ve heard, the place was pretty run-down, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s a polite way to say it. But it was what we could afford. Once we sold our house, we set aside a chunk of the proceeds as a cushion, because we knew it would take time for us to get up and running. More than we expected, I’m afraid. If everything goes right, we might see a profit with this year’s crop. What about you? How’d you end up here?”

  “Backed into it, kind of. My mother inherited the place from two aunts or great-aunts or whatever who never married and outlived the rest of their family. She brought me out here to meet them when I was a kid, and I hated the whole thing—two dotty old ladies cooped up in a shabby farmhouse that hadn’t changed for more than a century. Not a good first impression! So when I got downsized out of a job in Boston, Mother thought it would be a great idea if I came out here and fixed up the house to sell it—she’d never even been back since she’d inherited it. Wow, that was two years ago last month! Things got a little more complicated along the way.” That was a massive understatement, Meg thought. Maybe Ginny had slept through the time when Meg had single-handedly upended a town meeting and torpedoed a planned development project—and that was in the first couple of months. “I learned a lot about the business, and in December I married the guy next door.”

  “Yeah, Seth Chapin. I’ve met him a couple of times, usually on town business. Seems like a good guy. Of course I’d have to say that to your face, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t get along in the beginning. He was a plumber when we met, but he’s kind of moved laterally into restoring old buildings and he’s much happier with that. I’ve managed to keep the orchard growing, and last year we collaborated and planted three acres of new trees—Seth’s land, my trees. Is your husband involved in the hands-on stuff?”

  “He does the heavy lifting, I guess you’d say. You’ve got what, fifteen acres?”

  “Plus the new three, but they won’t produce for a while,” Meg confirmed.

  “We’ve got ten, and we had a lot of work to do. Some trees were beyond salvage, and others needed a lot of pruning and feeding. I also wanted to make the soil around the trees healthier, and I’ve been adding beneficial plants between them. I think we’ve turned the corner.”

  Nicky arrived with a tray laden with heavy stoneware bowls of soup, and plates with hearty bread, both white and whole grain. When she set down the bowls, Meg laughed. “This looks amazing. Of course so did that last soup of yours that I tried—the bright red one. What’s in this?”

  Nicky leaned in conspiratorially. “What you’d expect after a long Massachusetts winter. But I threw in a lot of herbs that I grew last year, for flavor.”

  After a taste, Meg said, “Whatever you did, it works!”

  Nicky straightened up. “Can I get you anything else? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “Coffee for me,” Meg said. Ginny just nodded.

  Nicky went off to get their drinks, and Meg turned to Ginny. “You’re not going to insist on organic coffee?”

  “No, too much hassle. Look, I believe in the whole concept of organic farming, and I’m sticking to the rules, but I’m not some wild-eyed evangelist. It’s a market niche and a healthy one, and I can get behind that. But in the rest of my life I do eat other food. Certainly my kids do, at least outside of our house, but I don’t tell them sugar and processed flour are evil or anything like that.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable approach. We’re probably not that far apart in our growing practices, but I haven’t felt up to going through whatever it would take to get certified. It’s been hard enough without it.”

  “You like it now, after two years?” Ginny asked. She spooned up a mouthful of the soup, swallowed it, and said, “Wow! This is terrific. Think Nicky will give me the recipe?”

  “Just ask. She’s good people, and so’s her husband, Brian. As for your question, yes, I think I do. I thought I liked what I was doing in Boston, but looking back on it now, it seems so stuffy—I was crunching a lot of numbers in a back room. I work a lot harder now—I’m sure you know what that’s like—but I feel stronger and more productive. A bushel of apples is a lot more interesting than a financial report, at the end of the day.”

  “No argument from me!”

  They chatted amiably through Nicky’s excellent lunch, until finally Meg said, “Would it be rude of me to ask to see your orchard? You said your kids wouldn’t be home for a while.”

  “Sure, I’d love to show you. Like I said, it won’t take long—it’s smaller than yours. And you know that the trees look pretty bare at this time of year.”

  “Yes, of course I do. I’d just like to see the lay of the land, how you handle the apples, stuff like that. I’ve got an old barn that came with my place, and Seth built some refrigerated storage units for the apples inside it, but I figure it’s good to consider other options.”

  “So we’re skipping dessert?” Ginny asked slyly.

  “Maybe we can ask Nicky for something to go,” Meg said, grinning.

  They settled the check, which Meg insisted on paying for, since she’d been the one to invite Ginny, and accepted two pieces of cake from Nicky. Then Ginny led the way out to her truck. “You want to follow me?”

  “Sure,” Meg told her. “I know the general area, but I might not find your place. Lead the way!”

  Ginny’s
home was about as far from Meg’s as possible within the boundaries of Granford. When they came close, and Ginny slowed, Meg realized she had in fact driven by the place plenty of times, but she couldn’t see the apple trees or the house from the road. The shrubbery surrounding the property was high and untrimmed, and there was a long driveway leading to a one-story house that looked like it dated from about 1900. Ginny parked at the side and waited for Meg to park and get out of her car. “You up for walking?”

  “Sure. I don’t get a lot of chances to walk without working, and I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve got here.”

  23

  “Well, this is it,” Ginny said. Meg found it hard to read her expression. Was she defensive? Proud? Worried?

  “You said ten acres?” Meg asked.

  “For the orchard, not including the house and buildings. It’s about ten, but they’re kind of spread out. If you look over that way”—Ginny pointed past the house—“you can see the ground gets marshy. We also left a lot of the native trees in place. You want me to walk you through it?”

  “Sure. I could use the exercise.”

  They strolled among the irregular rows. The trees varied in size, shape, and age, and Ginny treated each one like an old friend. “I know some of these will have to go, to make way for more productive ones, but they’ve hung on for so long, with so little care, that I feel guilty taking them down.”

  “I know what you mean. When you bought the place, did it come with any history?”

  “No. Yours?”

  “As I keep saying, I was lucky. The university managed it for at least a decade, and of course they collected whatever information they could—or more likely, asked students to do the research. They went back through property records and old maps, and even genealogies. Did I mention there’s a series of diaries, written by a woman who lived on my property in the later nineteenth century? The Historical Society in town has them now, but I’ve read through them. The author writes about the whole family—grandparents, parents, and their two girls—going out to shake the trees and harvest the apples. And then the husband would take some into town and sell them, and I guess they’d keep or somehow preserve the rest. I know the woman was manic about baking pies almost daily, more than her own family could possibly have eaten, so I’m guessing there were some hired hands to help with the harvest. You could find something like that at the Society, too.”