A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  “So much to learn!” Elizabeth shook her head and shoved the crate toward the back. “And who are these going to?”

  “Some farmers’ markets in Amherst. This is peak season for them, and for us, so I’ll be making this run quite a few times this week.” And until Bree was cleared by her doctor to resume lifting. Meg knew how much this first harvest meant to Bree, but it was up to her to prevent Bree from doing anything foolish.

  “How did you find vendors?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I got lists from the local organic groups, and Christopher—although when he was managing this, he just turned them all over to a local co-op to sell and didn’t pay much attention. I put together a list of vendors and then I went and talked to them, one at a time. Some were pretty well fixed with apples, but there were enough who were interested in giving a new grower a chance. We’ve got some unusual varieties in the orchard, which helps. There’s increased interest in heirloom varieties these days.”

  “And the restaurant in town buys some?”

  “They do. Remind me to call them about booking dinner one night, when we get back.”

  “They’re that busy?”

  “I hope so. Of course, this is their first week, so they’re still a novelty. But they picked a good time to open, between the parents bringing their kids back to the local colleges, and all the leaf-peepers passing through.” It hadn’t been easy, meeting the September opening deadline, but it had definitely been worth it financially.

  “You mentioned something about cider?”

  “Oh, right. I don’t make it, but I sell the less-than-perfect apples to some of the places that do. Including Dickinson’s, where we’re going now, but I’ve got only the good apples today.”

  “My, there are certainly a lot of Dickinsons around here. Are they all related, do you think?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t had time to check.”

  Elizabeth frowned, “Isn’t that where . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Meg said. Where Daniel Weston’s body had been found.

  “Did you plan to ask about . . . Daniel?”

  “Probably, if it’s not too awkward. Would you rather not go?” She wondered if the location would dampen her mother’s interest in accompanying her.

  Apparently not.

  Elizabeth settled herself in the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. “No, I want to see it. Look, Meg, you don’t have to tiptoe around the subject of Daniel and his death. Whatever I felt for him once, it was over long ago. And I rather resent being considered a suspect in his murder, so I welcome the opportunity to see where it happened, and I would encourage you to find out anything you can. Maybe someone can tell us why Daniel was there.”

  “One can but hope.” The absurdity of the situation struck Meg suddenly, and she had to suppress a giggle. She and her mother were sleuthing together? How weird was that? “Well, you can take a look at Dickinson’s, and then we can drive up to the town center, so you can see how far it was. It couldn’t have been more than a ten-minute drive, especially at night without traffic.”

  From the house the ride to Dickinson’s Farm Stand took less than fifteen minutes, and Meg pulled into the busy parking lot. “Farmers’ market” seemed inadequate as a description, as the complex sprawled over perhaps a hundred feet of frontage. The public portions were cobbled together out of multiple small, ramshackle structures of indeterminate age. Somewhere in the midst was what appeared to be an old colonial house, long since swallowed up by its later additions. The business was highly successful, if the number of cars in the lot was any indication. Hand-lettered signs advertised a wealth of products, both natural and processed: the usual late-season tomatoes and zucchini; pumpkins, squash, and exotic gourds; local honey; baked goods, primarily pies; firewood; and of course, cider. In fact, the cider operation occupied its own small building, off to the right of the rest of the hodgepodge. It, too, was doing a thriving business.

  “I assume it’s a bit less crowded at night?” Elizabeth ventured.

  “No doubt. Well, it’s right on the main road, but I’d bet security is a joke. Nobody expects someone to break in and steal pumpkins or pies. There’s a certain amount of trust around here. I hope that doesn’t change now. Well, I’d better go hand the apples over. Are you coming?”

  “Of course.”

  Meg hauled one crate of apples out of the back of the truck and her mother grabbed a second one. Meg led the way into the main building. At the cash register, she asked the young girl working, “Is Joe around?”

  “He’s out back,” she said, nodding to the rear before turning to the next customer.

  Meg went out the back door and set her crate down just outside the door—she wasn’t sure what Bree’s usual practice was. “Joe?” she called out.

  A lanky man in faded jeans and a plaid shirt, its sleeves rolled up, answered,

  “Right here. You Meg Corey? Your manager called, said you’d be making the delivery. Two crates of the Gravensteins, right?”

  “Yes. This is the last of them. And the Spartans should be ready by next week.”

  “Good, good. You’ve got a nice place there in Granford.”

  “You know it?”

  “Sure do. Grew up a couple of miles from there. You’re next door to Seth Chapin’s place, right?”

  Did everybody in the local universe know Seth? “That’s the one. You’re taking some of our heirloom varieties, right?”

  “Oh yeah. People are snapping up all kinds of heirloom fruits and vegetables these days. The heirloom tomatoes went really well this year, and we had maybe twenty to thirty of the old kinds.”

  “That’s good to hear. I understand some of the orchards have cut down their heirloom trees, just because nobody was interested and it didn’t make economic sense to keep them.”

  Joe shrugged. “I can sell ’em. Here, let me give you a hand.” He reached for the crate that Elizabeth had set down.

  “Oh, sorry, Mother. Joe, this is my mother, Elizabeth Corey, who’s visiting this week. She knew the Warren sisters years ago.”

  “Is that so? They were a pair! I think my grandparents mentioned them. We’ve been buying apples from you folk for years.”

  “How long have you been running this stand?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Heck, I think my grandparents started it back in the thirties maybe? I’ve been doing this all my life, and I took over from my father. The land’s been in the family for generations back of that.”

  “Dickinsons?”

  “Yup. Plenty of ’em around here.”

  “Any relations to Emily?”

  “Got me. I’m not into all that family history stuff. Well, I’ve got to get back to work. You coming by next week, too?”

  “Probably. Bree broke her wrist so she’s not supposed to lift anything for a while.”

  “She’s a spitfire, that one. Smart kid, though, and a great haggler. She got me to go up on the price for the heirlooms.”

  Meg turned to go, but then stopped. “Oh, Joe—we supply some of the apples for your cider operation, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I’ve never seen cider being made. Can I take a look at your shed?”

  A look of discomfort flashed over Joe’s face. “You know about . . . ?”

  “The death?” Was it public knowledge yet that it was a murder? “Yes, I do. That was an awful thing. Who found him?”

  “My daughter, Jennifer. Nasty thing for anyone to see, and she was real upset.”

  “Well, of course she would be,” Meg said soothingly, wondering if there was any way she could talk to the daughter. She had to tread lightly: she wanted to keep Joe’s business, and pumping his daughter about finding a body was not likely to endear her to him. “But I would like to know how cider is made.”

  “It’s okay. The cops cleared the site, and the place is open to the public. They don’t know what happened here. Just wander over and take a look. See you next week.” Joe turned away, effectively ending the convers
ation.

  “Shall we?” Meg asked her mother.

  “I suppose. He wasn’t very friendly at the end there, was he?”

  “Well, he’s busy. And I didn’t want to make too much of the murder.” Meg led her mother out through the store, smiling at the teenage girl at the register—the daughter Joe had mentioned?—and then around to the stand-alone building. Meg could hear machinery. She stepped into the interior and waited for her eyes to adjust.

  The smell of apples was like a blow to the face; it was so thick you could taste it. A mechanical crusher reduced the apples to chunks, and a conveyer belt moved them along to the press itself, where pressure forced the juice from the pieces. Then the pulp was scraped from the press and the process began all over again. Three people were busy managing the machinery, and from their smooth and economical movements they looked like they had been doing it for a long time.

  Elizabeth was studying the process with curiosity. She leaned toward Meg and whispered, “Where . . . ?”

  Meg tore her eyes from the hypnotic machinery and scanned the rest of the space. There weren’t many options, because most the floor was cluttered with boxes of clean bottles, caps, and labels, among other things. She whispered back, “I’d guess we’re standing on it.”

  One of the cider makers—a high school or college kid, from the looks of him—sidled toward them. “This is where that guy died, you know,” he said, his tone conspiratorial. The tourists watching the cider process didn’t notice.

  “Wasn’t that a terrible thing?” Elizabeth said brightly. “You must have been horrified! You weren’t the one who found the body, were you?”

  The boy shook his head regretfully. “No, but Jen was having hysterics all over the place when she opened up, and then the police came and everything. I kind of hung back and listened, you know?”

  “Well, a healthy curiosity is understandable. But he wasn’t found . . . in the press?”

  “Oh, no. Jen said she kind of tripped over him in the dark when she came in. He was just laying there. But she knew he was dead, ’cause he was a funny gray color.”

  “What did the police say?”

  The boy shrugged. “Not much. They didn’t know what to make of it. They looked around—the cider works were shut down for a day, which pissed off a lot of tourists—but they didn’t find much. Then they said we could go back to business.”

  “And nobody had seen the man here before?”

  The boy shrugged. “I hear he was some professor type from the college. ’Sides, we get lots of people through here this time of year—nobody would have noticed just one random guy.”

  Another dead end, or maybe an open end with no resolution in sight. Daniel’s presence here was odd; his death even odder. What had he been doing at Dickinson’s Farm Stand? And who had been with him?

  Meg and her mother stayed around long enough to be polite, watching the mesmerizing flow of apples into the machinery, emerging as cider. They each sampled a small paper cup’s worth. “Well, we’ve got more deliveries to make, so we should be going,” Meg said. “Seen enough?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I suppose, given that I have no idea what I’m looking for. Smells wonderful, though, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. You want to get some to take home?”

  “That would be nice. Funny to think that some of your apples are mixed in here somewhere. You sure you don’t want to think about making cider?”

  Meg laughed. “Not for a long time. Let me get through one season and see where things are.”

  “Goodness,” Elizabeth replied. “Then we’d better get moving with these deliveries, right?”

  “Right.”

  After their deliveries, they returned to the house, and Meg went to take a quick shower, then joined her mother in the kitchen, where she was already cooking. Bree had left a note on the table saying she wouldn’t be back for dinner. It felt odd to sit at the table and watch someone else work, but at least Elizabeth was trying to make herself useful, and Meg didn’t want to discourage her.

  “How do you decide your day-to-day schedule?” Elizabeth asked as she whisked something into something else on the stove.

  “At this point it depends on how the apples ripen,” Meg replied. “Ray does the scheduling.”

  “Not Bree?”

  “Well, they do it together. But Bree is kind of like middle management: she hires the workers, but Raynard is the boss of the pickers and plans the day-to-day routine. He’s got far more experience than Bree and I put together, and he’s been working the orchard for years.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing. Can I get you a glass of wine while dinner’s cooking?”

  “I can get it,” Meg said, pushing her chair back.

  “No, no, don’t get up. You’ve had a hard day, and this is the least I can do.”

  Meg stayed put. “You did the same things I did today! You know, you sound like a classic wife. ‘How was your day, dear?’ ‘Can I get you a drink?’”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, that’s what I’ve been for nearly forty years.” Elizabeth filled a glass with white wine and handed it to Meg.

  “Oh, come on—you were more than that. You always worked—outside the home, I mean.”

  Elizabeth poked at something in a pan, then set a lid on it. She filled a glass for herself and sat down at the table. “Yes, I did, thank you for noticing. But believe it or not, your father is a bit of a sexist. He applauded my working, but he did expect to find food on the table and a clean house when he came home. You never noticed?”

  “I suppose, not that I thought about it much. But I guess I should apologize—I should have pitched in and helped.”

  “I never asked you to, dear. I wanted you to enjoy your growing up, and you’ll have plenty of time for housework in your life.”

  Meg shuddered. “Don’t look around. I’m not going to win any prizes for neatness.”

  “And why should you? You’re working hard. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been doing a bit of the structural work here. Didn’t you mention you’d refinished the floor in here?”

  Meg felt a spurt of pride. “I did, and I loved doing it. But it’s hard to keep up with old buildings—something’s always falling apart. Like the plumbing.” Meg hesitated: she’d just given herself yet another perfect opportunity to introduce Seth into the conversation. Seth’s office was on the property, a hundred yards away. Meg, you’re chicken!

  “I’m sorry I can’t be around more, now that you’re here. But I may have an idea to keep you busy,” Meg finally said.

  Elizabeth dished up dinner, setting plates in front of them and then sat down. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, you have to know more about the Warren family that lived here than I do—wouldn’t be hard, since I know next to nothing. Maybe you could write it down? And fill in some of the details from online sources? Are you comfortable with a laptop? You are computer-literate, right?”

  “Yes, Margaret,” Elizabeth said patiently. “I’ve been using a computer for years. Do you have dial-up or broadband, dear?”

  “I splurged on broadband, not that I get much time to use it. It came bundled with my cable package, not that I have any time to watch television either. I could set you up in the dining room, because the light’s better in there.”

  “I’d be delighted. I do feel rather badly now that I never came up here for all those years, at least to look the place over and make sure it was being taken care of. I hope most of the . . . detritus dates to tenants?”

  “What, you don’t think I picked the tasty overstuffed chairs in the parlor?”

  “Oh, I hope not!”

  “Don’t worry, they weren’t my idea. But redecorating has been low on my priority list. Did you say something about Grandmother’s wing chair?”

  “We’ll see. So, about this genealogy project . . . can you get me started?”

  “Sure, at least for the basics. Why don’t I show you now, and you can get an early
start in the morning?”

  “Can we finish eating first?” Elizabeth asked plaintively.

  Meg laughed. “Of course!”

  Fifteen minutes later they finished dinner, and moved into the dining room. Meg pulled out her laptop, plugged it in, and logged on. “Okay—it’s pretty self-explanatory: word processing here, spreadsheets here, Internet log-on here. Once you go online, the primary genealogy sources are Ancestry-dot-com and FamilySearch-dot-org. Or you can just search on keywords. I think some of the nineteenth-century histories of the town are available online, but I have paper copies of those anyway. Questions?”

  “Dozens, Meg darling, but you don’t have time to answer them right now. I’m sure I can muddle along. I think you made a good suggestion, to write down what I know first and use that as a starting point.”

  “Great. I’m going to go up now, but I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, dear,” Elizabeth said absently, her eyes on the computer screen.

  14

  When Meg came down the next morning, she found Elizabeth seated exactly where she had left her the night before. Meg went to the kitchen and helped herself to coffee, then came back to the dining room. “You did go to bed last night, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did, dear. But this is certainly absorbing.”

  “Don’t I know it! Anything interesting?”

  “Very interesting actually. It’s amazing how many of the old families are still here, more than three hundred years after they settled in Granford.”

  “Does that include the Warrens?”

  “I believe so. I’m just beginning to make sense of it, so I won’t bother you with details now. What do you remember about visiting the sisters?”

  “Not much. They seemed so old!”

  “My dear, they were! They were both close to ninety at the time. Tough stock, that. And they seemed to have outlived most of their family—I think they were the youngest of their siblings.”