“I’ll do my best.” Meg meandered into the kitchen, where Lolly greeted her lazily, meowing for breakfast. She poured coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and then stood by the sink to eat it as she admired the view out the kitchen window. The sun hadn’t yet burned the September mist off the Great Meadow. What was it that Keats had said? Something like “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”? That certainly fit: she was staring at the mist, and the “fruitfulness” was waiting for her up the hill.
As she watched, Bree’s car pulled in and she clambered out. She caught sight of Meg at the window. “Yo, Meg! You ready?”
“Just waiting for my father to come down,” Meg called back. “Will he be in the way if he joins us in the orchard?”
“Can you show him how to pick?” Bree said as she came into the kitchen and helped herself to coffee.
“I think so. I’m sure he’d be careful. My mother wants some free time to work on the family history.”
“She’s really getting into it, huh? Next thing you know she’ll be joining the DAR.”
“Is that such a bad thing? From what I’ve heard, the Daughters of the American Revolution aren’t the blue-blood snobs people think they are. And I gather that most of the patriots were ordinary citizens—farmers mostly. Probably the Warren who built this house fought in the Revolution, because most able-bodied men did then.”
“Hey, you don’t have to lecture me. I’m sure your mom would fit right in.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Phillip boomed as he arrived in the kitchen. “What a marvelous day!”
“Hi, Dad. I was going to ask if you wanted to come up to the orchard with me this morning. I can show you what goes on with the picking.”
“That sounds grand, once I’ve had my caffeine. You’re quite a stern taskmaster, Bree—or should I say taskmistress? It’s so hard to know what’s politically correct these days.”
“Manager will do just fine, Mr. Corey. Gender-neutral, you know.”
“Of course. You’re mother seems quite absorbed, Meg. More genealogy?”
“I warned her it was addictive. There’s always just one more thing to check. But she said she might have some results on the Dickinsons by lunch.”
“So she asked you to entertain me? I understand. Anyway, I’d love to see the orchard.”
“I’ll put you to work,” Meg warned.
“All the better. Must keep fit.” Phillip patted his still-flat stomach.
“Did you actually do any fishing on your trip, or was it mostly lounging around with a cold beer?” Meg said.
“My dear, fishing was not the main objective, although we did have some grand meals al fresco. Mainly we figured we old coots wouldn’t have too many more chances to play hooky like that.”
“Don’t you have work to get back to?”
“Nothing urgent. I’d cleared my calendar for the boat trip, and it’s not like any of my corporate clients need me to defend them on murder charges or any other pressing issues. One of the reasons why I didn’t go into criminal law, which is so unpredictable.”
“Well, I’m told that learning something new helps keep you young. Apple picking should be an interesting addition to your résumé.”
“Meg?” her mother called out from the dining room. “Can you help me for a moment?”
Meg cast a helpless glance at Bree. “One minute, I promise.” She joined her mother. “What do you need?”
Elizabeth barely looked up from the sheets in front of her. “I won’t keep you, but you said you had some nineteenth-century maps? And could you print out the local censuses for 1850 through 1870?”
Clearly Elizabeth was getting the hang of this fast. “How many towns? I’ve already got them for Granford, and I can show you how to access the rest online. Let me find the files.” Meg rummaged through the file boxes she had stacked against the wall, drew out several manila folders, and handed them to her mother. “We’re heading up the hill now, okay? Daddy’s coming with us. We’ll be back down for lunch.”
“Fine, dear,” Elizabeth said absently, leafing through a folder. “Have a nice time.”
Up the hill in the orchard, Meg introduced her father to Raynard. She was glad to see that Phillip wasn’t too winded by the climb—he seemed reasonably fit. She picked up one of the apple bags and showed him how it worked, slipping her arms through the straps and demonstrating the drawstring at the bottom that released the apples into the bin. “You have to be careful that you don’t bruise the apples, Dad—that lowers their value, and also makes them susceptible to rot. You want to try?”
“Certainly, my dear. Lead me to a tree.”
Meg fastened the bag on him. “Now remember—twist gently, don’t pull. I don’t want to damage the branches.”
“No ladders?” Phillip asked, surveying the row of trees.
“Not often. Modern trees are grown on dwarf rootstock, to keep the size down and make the apples easier to pick. We do have a few older trees, where we still need ladders.”
“But how does that affect the apple varieties?” he asked.
“The variety depends on the graft, not the rootstock.” Meg settled her own bag on her shoulders and, as they worked side by side, explained to him the traditions and science of modern apple cultivation, checking periodically to see if he actually was interested and not just humoring her. He seemed to be following, and he was filling his bag carefully with apples.
“What are these?” he asked after Meg wound down.
“Empires. They’re a relatively new variety, about fifty years old. It’s a cross between Delicious and McIntosh but it’s better than either one, and it holds well.”
Phillip asked some intelligent questions and then said, “My bag is full. What do I do now?”
Meg pointed. “The apples go in that bin over there, which is then hauled down the hill. From there, it depends on who’s buying the apples, and also on what variety they are. I sell mainly to small grocers and farmers’ markets around here. And to the restaurant. Did Seth show you the storage chambers in the barn?”
“He did—he seemed quite proud of them. He’s certainly a busy young man—running his own business, serving the town. Spending time with his family. When do you ever find time to be together?”
“We kind of grab it on the run. Daddy . . . are you all right with this?”
“With you and Seth? Why on earth would I not be?”
Meg focused on twisting another apple off the tree, avoiding her father’s eyes. “Well, often fathers seem to think that no one is good enough for their darling daughters.”
Phillip laughed. “I raised you to think for yourself, love. I never assumed I had veto power over your choice in men, although I can’t speak for your mother. Is that why you waited so long to tell us about Seth?”
“I wasn’t sure what there was to tell. And I haven’t spoken to either of you much lately—I’ve been so busy here.”
“Meg,” he said gently, “are you making excuses? Are you not sure where this relationship may be going?”
“Maybe. I was so wrong about Chandler.”
“Well, then—learn from your mistakes. From all I’ve heard—and seen—Seth is nothing like Chandler. He seems like a good man who cares for you, and that’s all I’m going to say. You’re going to have to work things out for yourselves.”
“Thanks—I guess. At least for letting me blunder along my own way. Now, let’s get some more apples picked. If Mother finds anything useful, she’s going to want to share it with us, and Bree will be on my back if I take too much time away from the trees.”
“How long will this cruel pace continue?” Phillip kidded.
“Until all the apples are picked,” Meg replied.
“Well, then, let’s see how much we can get done today.”
Elizabeth was sitting in the same spot where they’d left her several hours earlier, although there were more piles of paper spread across the dining room table, and her hair was standing on end as though she
had been running her hands through it.
She dragged her eyes away from the computer monitor when she heard them come in. “Oh, please don’t tell me it’s noon already! This is going to drive me crazy!”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of genealogy, Mother,” Meg said with a smile. “Maybe a food break would help?”
“Maybe if I stood up and moved around, the blood would return to my head. Sorry, I didn’t make anything to eat.”
“We’ll survive. Did you find out anything interesting?”
Elizabeth gave an unladylike snort. “I found out that the Dickinsons, like almost everybody else in past centuries, reproduced like rabbits and kept moving around. Oh, and they liked to recycle the same names among family members.”
“That sounds about right.” Meg smiled at her mother. “Anything pop out at you, though?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Plenty. In Granford alone I counted at least six Dickinson families in 1860, scattered all over the place. It’s just as bad in the other towns. And none of them are any closer than second cousins to the famous Emily. Does that count?”
“It’s hard to say. I get the feeling that the way we use the term ‘cousin’ isn’t at all like it was in the nineteenth century. Maybe we should all take a break, and you can let your subconscious work on it?”
“I could use a break. Any ideas for lunch?”
Phillip rubbed his hands together. “Why don’t I take you lovely ladies out to lunch? Meg, your mother tells me there are some delightful places in Northampton. That’s not far, is it?”
“Why don’t we drive to Amherst instead? Then you can see just how far we are from Emily’s home. And remember, they had to hitch up a horse and buggy to go anywhere, so going calling was not taken lightly. And you were supposed to offer hospitality to your guests, which meant you usually had to keep some baked goods handy, in case somebody dropped by. You couldn’t call ahead.”
“Amherst it is. I promise I won’t keep you away from the orchard for too long.”
In the car, sitting in the backseat, Meg leaned forward and asked her mother, “Are you ready to talk to Susan? She’s been studying Emily for years, so maybe some of these names will ring a bell.”
Elizabeth turned in her seat, as far as her seat belt would allow. “I think that’s a good idea—I’ve done the first round, and I’d hate to waste time looking at dead ends, if she can help us avoid them. Emily must have mentioned other people in her known correspondence, and I’ll bet somebody’s done research on who was who. Susan should know.”
“We can call her from lunch. And maybe we should stop by and say hello to Emily?”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s buried in Amherst, within sight of the family home, remember? Maybe she can give us some spectral insight.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Elizabeth said fervently. “Now, where shall we eat?”
After a quick meal in one of Amherst’s smaller restaurants, Meg led her parents to the cemetery that lay a few hundred feet to the north of the former Dickinson home. “There she is,” she announced.
Elizabeth and Phillip exchanged an amused glance. “Uh, are we supposed to make a plea or something?”
Meg laughed. “No, Mother, I haven’t gone over the edge. I just thought you’d like to put her in some sort of context. You’ve seen the house, and she didn’t get very far even after her death. This was the extent of her world. Once her mother fell ill, she more or less limited herself to Amherst, and then to her room in the house.”
Her mother looked at the tombstone silently. “Sad,” she said finally. She took a breath. “Emily, if you’d like to help us, I’d appreciate it.” She glanced at Meg and her mouth twitched. “Should I expect a roll of thunder, or maybe a bird will land on my head?”
Meg laughed. “No, I don’t think it works that way. Let me call Susan and see if she can help us. At least she’s still among the living.”
26
When Elizabeth called her, Susan agreed to meet them back at the house in Granford, and arrived no more than five minutes after they did. “Have you found something?” she asked eagerly before she was in the door.
Elizabeth laughed. “I’ve found lots of somethings, and I’m hoping you can help to sort things out. Meg, dear, I don’t want to keep you if Bree needs you up the hill. I’m sure it will take Susan and me some time to go through all this.” Elizabeth waved her hand over the drifts of papers that covered the dining room table.
Meg was torn: part of her wanted to stay, and in fact, she felt rather proprietary about the history of the town and its people. On the other hand, as a responsible farmer she had work to do, and she couldn’t just drop it to follow a whim, even one that might lead to solving a murder. “You’re right. But I’ll take my cell phone along, in case you need me.”
“That’s fine, dear.” Elizabeth’s attention was already focused on the papers, and she began explaining to Susan how she had arranged the piles.
Meg and her father shared a complicit look. “Well, I guess I’m going back to work. Daddy, do you want to keep on picking, or do you have something else to keep you busy?”
“I’m sure I’ll manage to occupy myself. You go on.”
Meg climbed the hill reluctantly, feeling left out. At the top of the hill Bree greeted her. “You’re late.”
“I know. We stopped by to say hello to Emily Dickinson.”
“You do know she’s dead, right? You planning a séance anytime soon?”
“Ha ha. Let’s get to work.”
With the sun warm on her back, Meg fell into a rhythm picking her apples. Her hands were busy, but her mind was free to wander. What would it be like to have all the intimate and ordinary details of your life raked over by generations of scholars? Of course, Emily didn’t know, since she was dead. Would she have lived differently if she had anticipated that kind of scrutiny? And why were people so fascinated by her? She had lived a simple life, and had written simple poetry, and had never really expected to share it with the world. Were her letters anything like her poetry? Or had she written mainly about her sister’s cats and what was blooming in her garden and what was on the menu for dinner on any given day? Meg tried to conceive of a world without electronic communication, something she and her peers took for granted. Certainly letters in the nineteenth century would have held greater value in the scheme of things, keeping scattered families up-to-date on personal events—births, marriages, deaths. Local events, crop failures.
Maybe if she read more of Emily’s letters—surely some had been published?—she would have a better idea where to look. But she didn’t have the luxury of time to sit and read. If for some reason the hypothetical unknown letters were connected, directly or indirectly, to Daniel Weston’s death, the sooner they were found, the sooner the investigation could move forward. It had already been almost two weeks since his death. What would Emily Dickinson think about someone having died for her letters a hundred-plus years after she had written them? Maybe Elizabeth was right: poor Emily.
Meg’s phone didn’t ring. The sun sank over the hill, and her back muscles were telling her it was time to call it a day when she saw her father walking up the hill toward the orchard.
“Hi, Daddy,” she called out. “Any news?”
Her father smiled. “Much gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair, but that’s about all. I got bored—it looks like they’ll be at it awhile longer. Need any help up here?”
Meg scanned the orchard, looking for Bree. She caught sight of her at the opposite corner. Meg waved; Bree gave her a thumbs-up and waved her away. “I guess not. Looks like I can quit now.”
Phillip followed her gaze and gave a mock salute to Bree. “Do you want to jump into the Dickinson hunt, or would you rather find something else to do?”
“We should think about dinner. I guess I can cook tonight—I’d hate to interrupt Mother if she’s onto something.”
“Can’t we get takeout?”
“Sure,
if you want to drive twenty minutes in any direction. You’ve seen Gran’s—that’s the best and only real restaurant we have in Granford. There’s a small place in the new shopping center on the highway, but that’s open only for breakfast and lunch.”
“It’s a wonder all you hardy pioneers have survived this long!” Phillip said. “I’ll volunteer to make a foray to the market for provisions, if you’ll point the way again.”
“Deal.” They’d reached the back door of the house, and Meg pulled open the door. “Anybody home?”
“In here,” came her mother’s voice from the dining room. Meg followed the sound, trailed by her father.
“Hi, Mother, Susan. Any breakthroughs?”
“Some. Susan, tell her what you told me. Phillip, don’t disappear—we need all the brains we can muster to hear this.”
“Happy to be of service,” Phillip said, taking a seat.
“I went back through my notes,” Susan began, “and I think I may have found the flip side of some of Emily’s correspondence—the letters she received. They were in a subcollection at Amherst College—one of those that’s labeled something like ‘Miscellaneous Correspondence.’ Nobody paid much attention to them because they weren’t from anybody important, so they just dumped them all together. There weren’t a whole lot—maybe thirty—and I grouped them together by sender. Some of them were easy to eliminate, because they were from too far away. But there’s this one group of a dozen or so”—Susan opened a folder and retrieved a batch of photocopies—“and I wanted you to take a look at them. The envelopes were long gone, not that they would have done much good in that era. Some are dated, but they say only things like ‘Tuesday the twelfth.’ No year, or even month. You can infer the time of year, at least, from what the correspondent talks about—like what’s blooming, or what they’ve harvested.”
“And how are they signed?”
“‘Ellen.’ First name only. Sometimes ‘your friend Ellen.’ So no surname, no town, no year. No wonder nobody’s done much with them.”
“And you think we’re looking for the letters that Emily sent to this person?”
A Killer Crop Page 23