A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  Where would she be in another year, or five years? Meg asked herself as she brushed her teeth. She had saved the orchard from destruction, but what kind of obligation did she have to it now? She’d arrived in Granford with every intention of selling the property, and gotten sucked in by it, and by other things. But did she have a long-range plan?

  She gave herself a shake. She did not have to decide the future of Warren’s Grove right this minute. She had a plan for tomorrow, and a plan for the next few weeks. Once the harvest was in, she could sit back and assess the situation, both financially and personally.

  It was only as she was falling asleep that she acknowledged she had once again failed to bring up Seth to her mother. Well, tomorrow would be time enough.

  The next morning Meg peeled open one eye: since her bedroom lay on the west side of the house, she didn’t get morning sun, but from where she lay she could see the shadow of the house on the hill toward the orchard. When she rolled over to get up, every muscle protested. She flopped back and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Apple picking used muscles she hadn’t known she had; all that reaching and twisting, over and over again. Picking wasn’t on her schedule for today, but hauling crates of apples was—from barn to truck to market, which would use a whole different set of muscles. How had people managed, in the early, premechanized days? Even in the house, how had women handled vast piles of laundry, not to mention carrying the water around? The amount of physical work was staggering, at least by modern standards.

  She listened for a moment, and heard voices outside—Bree was apparently already out trying to boss Raynard around. Meg could hear the rumble of his replies, and thought she caught a note of amusement. No sound from the kitchen, or her mother’s room. She got herself out of bed, dressed, and ambled downstairs. Elizabeth was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a mug of coffee and reading the newspaper, with Lolly asleep on her lap. She looked up when Meg came in.

  “Good morning, dear.”

  “Hi. You’re up early. I see you’ve made a new friend.” She nodded toward the sleepy cat.

  “I find as I grow older, I need even less sleep than I used to, and that front bedroom catches the sun. As for Lolly here, we get along fine.”

  “I didn’t think about that, since I don’t spend much time there. You’re lucky you have curtains at all, although I’ve been meaning to change them. I can’t even guess how old they are.”

  “I found it rather lovely, waking with the sun. There are so many birds here!”

  “You should hear the peepers in the spring—they’re as loud as the birds.” Meg filled a mug for herself and sat down. “Breakfast?”

  “I can find something. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “I was thinking of something simple, like an English muffin.”

  “Then I would appreciate that. I won’t need to disturb the cat.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Meg laughed, going to the refrigerator. When she emerged, she asked, “You still want to talk to Patricia today?”

  “I already have, and we’re all set. You know, strike while the iron is hot and that sort of thing. And Kenneth won’t be around too much longer, if we need his opinion on something.”

  “You can find your way there?”

  “I and my trusty GPS system. I’ll let you get to work.”

  Five minutes later Meg watched her mother pull out of the driveway, then she set off up the hill, where Bree was waiting for her.

  “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, sorry. What are we picking today?”

  “Meg, you’ve got to pay attention! Cortlands, Spartans, McIntoshes. Oh, and Christopher and his gang planted some Honeycrisps about five or six years ago, before my time, and they’re looking really great this year.”

  “I don’t know that variety,” Meg said.

  “They’re kind of new—it’s a 1960 cross from Minnesota, and you have to have a license to plant them. But they’ve sold well.” Bree handed her a picker’s bag. “Let’s go.”

  It was after six when Bree finally declared the day’s picking over. Meg had long since lost count of how many bags’ worth of apples she had deposited in the crates, and she knew that more than one of the crates had been shuttled down to the barn. The Honeycrisps were tasty—of course Meg had sampled one—but they were large and heavy. Meg was hot, sweaty, and tired, and wanted nothing more than a shower and some food. She hadn’t noticed her mother’s car return, but when she saw it in the driveway, she entertained a small hope that Elizabeth had started dinner.

  Inside the door it was clear from the good smells that Elizabeth had read her mind. “Mother?” Meg called out, her mouth watering.

  “In the kitchen, dear. Dinner in fifteen. You go wash up.”

  Bree gave Meg a thumbs-up. “Dibs on the shower first.”

  “Go on, but leave me some hot water.”

  As Bree bounded up the stairs—where did she get the energy?—Meg made her way to the kitchen. Lolly was perched in her usual place on top of the refrigerator, watching Elizabeth’s every move eagerly. “How was Patricia?”

  “Let’s wait until we’re all settled before we get into it. Unless Bree doesn’t need to hear all this?” Elizabeth replied, stirring something on the stove.

  “That’s not a problem. And it might be good to get her perspective on this—she’s closer to the academic world than either of us.”

  “Oh, Detective Marcus called again while I was at Patricia’s, so I couldn’t pick up. He left a message. I haven’t had a chance to return the call. But I will, I promise.”

  “If you don’t, he’ll just keep trying, you know.”

  “I’m sure. Now go clean up and I’ll have things ready when you get back.”

  Upstairs Meg passed Bree in the hallway, and took her own abbreviated shower. She was hungry, not to mention curious about what her mother had found out.

  At the table in the kitchen, the first five minutes were devoted to eating rather than conversation. When Meg came up for air, she said, “Bless you—can you stay on as a housekeeper?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I think your father might have something to say about that.”

  “Speaking of whom, have you talked to him yet?”

  “No, but he should be home by the weekend.”

  “It’s cool that you give each other so much space,” Bree volunteered.

  “We’ve been together for a long time. Sometimes space is rather nice, now and then. You’re seeing someone?”

  Bree chewed and swallowed. “Yeah, my boyfriend, Michael, works in Amherst. We’re both kind of busy, but that’s fine—works for us. For now anyway.”

  “As long as you’re both happy with the arrangement, that’s what matters. So, are you ready to hear about Patricia?”

  “Was she friendly?” Meg asked.

  “Reasonably so. In any event, I told her that we had wondered if there might be something in Daniel’s papers that could shed light on his death.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she had no idea, but she didn’t care if we looked.”

  “Had the police asked about them?”

  “Apparently they looked them over, both the files at the college and at his home office, but didn’t see anything that they thought was relevant.”

  “What, no note that said, ‘In the event of my suspicious death, check out Mr. X’?” Bree said, grinning.

  “Hardly. Apparently what they saw was a lot of notes and drafts for articles. Nothing that they construed as a clue to murder. And they didn’t bother to call in an outside consultant, which I take to mean that they didn’t think they were important.”

  “Did they leave everything where they found it?”

  “I have no idea, though Patricia didn’t say they’d taken anything. The college hasn’t asked her to clear the office yet.”

  “Did you talk to her about Kenneth Henderson?”

  “I mentioned him, and her reaction was interesting. Correct me if I’m wrong, b
ut didn’t Kenneth imply that he and Daniel were more or less cordial colleagues?”

  “That was my impression,” Meg agreed. “Why?”

  “Because to hear Patricia’s side of it, they were bitter enemies, at least on a professional level. She confirmed that they had never met face-to-face, but she certainly knew of him, from various rants of Daniel’s. That was the word Patricia used: ‘rants.’”

  “Interesting.” Meg forked up the last of her meal. “Was it like Daniel to rant about things, or people?”

  “Not as far as I knew—Daniel was generally quite even-tempered. Although he could have changed over the years.”

  “So Daniel had some sort of conflict with Kenneth,” Meg said slowly, “that Kenneth didn’t tell us about. I guess that means she’s not going to let Kenneth go through Daniel’s papers?”

  “Not for love or money, to hear her tell it. But she did have a suggestion. Oh, did you want dessert, you two?”

  “Always,” Bree said.

  “Sure, fine,” Meg said absently. “Who?”

  “Apparently Daniel had a graduate student who worked closely with him—not from the college but from the university. Is that common, Bree? Going outside your own school?”

  “Sure. I know UMass has a pretty good English department, but sometimes students request an outside person for the thesis committee, especially if he or she needs someone with a specialty that UMass doesn’t cover. So I’d guess that the student must be working on Emily Dickinson?”

  “Yes. Patricia knew about this student, Susan Keeley, mainly because she called Daniel a lot, at home.” When Meg raised an eyebrow, Elizabeth went on, “No, nothing like that. No hanky-panky.”

  Bree snorted.

  “Patricia didn’t seem concerned about their relationship,” Elizabeth insisted. “She saw this Susan person as a nuisance, very insecure and needy, not a threat to the marriage. Apparently Susan needed a lot of reassurance, thus all the phone calls. But she would be well qualified to go through Daniel’s work. She might want to, for that matter—there might be information pertaining to her thesis work buried in there somewhere.”

  “Was Daniel neat or sloppy?” Meg asked.

  “Again, I can’t say. Years ago, I would have said sloppy. It was quite a contrast to your father, but probably lawyers are more organized than English professors. I wouldn’t care to guess now. The materials could be in an incredible mess, or they could be neatly organized and labeled. There is only one way to find out.”

  “So we’ve got Patricia’s green light to go ahead? Will she call Susan?”

  “She will, but she said she wasn’t going to babysit her. Patricia has a key to Daniel’s office, and if the police are done with it, there’s no reason why Susan can’t get in there. One of us can go along.”

  Meg said, “Then it had better be you, Mother, since Bree and I have plenty of work to do here.”

  Elizabeth dished up dessert, and Bree volunteered to do the dishes. “Why don’t we go into the parlor? You know, I have real trouble calling it a living room,” Meg suggested to her mother.

  “That sounds nice. Do you want coffee? Tea?”

  “Whichever you want. These days, nothing keeps me awake anyway.”

  “I think tea, then,” Elizabeth said.

  “I’ll make it. You two go chat,” Bree said, shooing them out of the room as she pulled on a rubber glove to protect her cast.

  In the parlor, Elizabeth settled herself in one of the old chairs. “It would be lovely to have a fire in here, when it cools off a bit more.”

  “Sure, once I spend a few thousand dollars relining the chimney,” Meg replied.

  “Ah. Well, that could be a problem, but it’s something to think about. And you really should do something about this furniture.”

  Meg sighed. “I know. But it all costs money.”

  “Are you having money troubles?”

  “To tell the truth, I won’t even know until after the harvest. The renovations and improvements, plus the equipment I had to buy, have eaten up most of my severance pay, so I’m counting on selling the apples for income.”

  “I’d be happy to help you out, you know.”

  Meg fought down her irrational annoyance. “I appreciate that, Mother, but I’d really rather make it on my own. If this orchard isn’t financially viable, I need to know it, and then I may have to rethink things. But not until December probably.”

  Bree came in with a small tray bearing two mugs, tea bag tags dangling, and sugar and cream. “Microwave,” she said tersely.

  “Thank you,” Meg said. “Bree, are we going to have any break in what’s ripening?”

  “Can’t say. We test daily, you know, for sugar content. So no promises. But I might be able to let you off for a couple of hours—if you work really hard.” Bree grinned.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you! I’ll do my very best!” Meg retorted, tongue in cheek.

  “I’ll hold you to that. Well, I’m going upstairs. Meg, don’t stay up too late—you’ve got a busy day ahead. Night, Elizabeth.”

  When Bree had gone, Meg turned to Elizabeth. “Are you going to call Marcus?”

  “In the morning. Do you think I should tell him about looking at Daniel’s papers?”

  Meg sighed. “It’s probably better to tell him too much than too little. At least if you mention them, you might get some idea whether they’ve already looked at them or whether they haven’t bothered. That should tell us something.”

  “It might. You know, I’m not avoiding the detective, Meg. I don’t have anything to hide. How odd to be a murder suspect—that’s something I never expected. But then, you’d know about that.” She paused. “Were you frightened? That they wouldn’t get it right, or that they’d make a case against you, just to clear the books?”

  Meg sat back in her chair. It had been a difficult time, for more than one reason. Had she ever believed she would be arrested? “No,” she said finally. “I was kind of incredulous at first, like you. But I guess I do still believe in the integrity of the system, and I hoped they’d get it right in the end. Which they did, even if it took a little nudging from me. And I had friends, which helped.”

  “Like Rachel?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, like Rachel. And others around here.” Time to mention Seth? No: it was late, she was tired. Tomorrow, she promised herself. “I think I’ll follow Bree. Are you coming up?”

  “I think I’ll stay down here and read for a while, if you don’t mind. Or maybe do some more research on your computer?”

  “Good idea. Don’t stay up too late—it’s easy to get sucked into following a trail when you’re doing that kind of research, and the next thing you know, it’s hours later.”

  “Noted. But all the people I’m looking for have been dead for quite a while, so I’m sure they’ll wait. Good night, dear.”

  “Good night.”

  17

  “You’re going to meet this grad student?” Meg asked her mother at the breakfast table. Her muscles still ached from yesterday’s efforts, but she knew that Bree wasn’t about to let her off the hook today.

  “Yes. Patricia called on my cell phone after you went to bed, and said she’d talked to Susan, and we’re all set. I said I’d meet Susan on campus tomorrow afternoon—apparently she has classes or something today. Patricia will give her the key to Daniel’s office. You’ll be picking apples all day?”

  “Yes, she will,” Bree said firmly before Meg could respond. “And I’ve got some deliveries to make.”

  “No, Bree! You’re supposed to be taking it easy with that arm,” Meg protested.

  Bree held up her cast, now rather grimy. “Hey, it feels fine. And somebody usually feels sorry for me when they see this thing, and offers to help. No problem.” She stood up. “You about ready?”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Bree went out the back door with a spring in her step, leaving Meg again wondering just how she did it. Youth help
ed, combined with Bree’s desire to prove herself up to this job. Meg, on the other hand, felt as though she had been pummeled with baseball bats. She still had a long way to go before she could match the work of even the oldest picker.

  “It’s hard work, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said.

  “It is. I have trouble imagining how farm families did it, back before mechanization. And it never ended—cows to be milked, pigs to be slopped, fields to plow or harvest. The longer I do this, the more I respect them.”

  Meg swallowed the last of her coffee just as she heard a firm knocking at the front door. She peered out the kitchen window to see Detective Marcus’s car. “It’s Detective Marcus. I take it you still haven’t called him?”

  “Good heavens, Meg, it’s barely eight o’clock. I thought I’d wait until nine, at least.”

  “Well, he’s here now.” She made her way through the dining room and parlor to let him in. “Good morning, Detective. Looking for my mother?”

  “She’s been ignoring my calls—again. Is she taking this investigation seriously?”

  “Calls? She’s only mentioned one to me. Well, come on back, she’s in the kitchen.” Meg led him to the back of the house. “Coffee?”

  Detective Marcus stood awkwardly for a moment, then took a chair. Meg set a mug of coffee in front of him. “Thank you,” he said formally. “Mrs. Corey, I thought we’d talked about returning my calls?”

  Elizabeth looked contrite. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you, but I meant to today. Is there something new?”

  “Have you heard from your husband recently?”

  “Phillip? No, but he should be back home this week sometime.”

  “Do you normally communicate this infrequently?”