Sour Apples

by Sheila Connolly

  “Did you know her well?” Meg asked, curious.

  Gail shook her head. “Not really. I met her no more than once or twice, at public events, but she was working so hard to get her business going that she didn’t have time to socialize a lot—you know how that goes. I knew she was married, but don’t think I’d even recognize her husband on the street. Honestly, she seemed pretty busy, and so was I. She didn’t have kids, so there was no reason for us to run into each other at school events. I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance—everyone who did know her said she was a nice woman, and a hard worker. It’s such a shame, her dying that way. From everything I’ve heard, Joyce really loved dairy farming, and not a lot of people can say that these days. And the business was just starting to do well, too.”

  Meg hesitated before saying, “You do know she was murdered, don’t you?”

  Gail nodded. “I saw it the paper, although it hasn’t gotten a lot of press. Who on earth would want to kill her?”

  “That’s what we’re all wondering. Her husband has an alibi, but I don’t know how solid it is. I don’t know Ethan any better than I knew Joyce, but he seems honestly distraught, and I have trouble visualizing him doing anything like killing his wife. He’s still pushing Seth for information on the land and any possible pollution. If he’d killed Joyce, wouldn’t he just let it rest? And now he’s stuck with all those cows to milk, and he can’t just ignore them and walk away. No insurance policy, apparently, and no family fortune to inherit. I can’t see how he’d benefit from Joyce’s death.”

  “Unless he just snapped because Joyce loved her cows more than she loved him,” Gail said, laughing. Then she quickly sobered. “Oh dear, I shouldn’t be joking about this. After all, Joyce is dead, and it wasn’t an accident.”

  “I know.” Meg sighed. “I was hoping that maybe there was something about the land that could help provide some answers.”

  “What, you’re thinking there’s some long-lost heir, come back to reclaim his territory? Remember, the Truesdells bought the place only a few years ago, and I’d wager that the title search was pretty thorough then.”

  “What about the land she leased from the town?”

  “Ah,” Gail said, “that’s where it gets interesting. Here, let me show you.” Gail pulled from the folder a photocopy of what looked like a nineteenth-century map and laid it on the table. “Okay, here’s what became Joyce’s farm”—she pointed to an area north of the town center, about halfway to the ridge that separated Granford and Amherst—“and here’s the town pasturage they leased, just to the north of that. It’s not on the main road, but there’s an old road that leads to it here. There’s also a pond that you can’t see from the road, and a stream that feeds into it.”

  Meg leaned over the map. “What are those big, industrial-looking buildings?”

  “They’re not there anymore, but they used to be part of Wood’s Paint Factory.”

  Meg shook her head. “I never heard of it.”

  “You wouldn’t have. It closed down in the 1920s, and the buildings that hadn’t already fallen down were razed, so there’s nothing to see now. But back in the mid-nineteenth century it was one of the largest paint suppliers in the country.”

  “How did the town end up with the property?”

  “You’ll have to ask Seth about that, but I think ultimately all the owners died and no one wanted it, so the town seized it by eminent domain. But they had no use for it. Mainly they kept an eye on it so it wouldn’t be a hazard. You know, neighborhood kids swimming in the pond, for which the town would be liable.”

  “Nobody else ever wanted it for farming or grazing?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gail replied. “Not the near neighbors, anyway, and farming has been on the decline in Granford for a long time. I think the town was thrilled when Joyce asked to lease it. At least they’d finally get some income from it.”

  “Huh.” Meg thought for a moment. “Wait—paint? Back then? That means lead, doesn’t it?”

  “In the nineteenth century, sure, plus a lot of other nasty chemicals. Why?”

  “I don’t know if it’s common knowledge, but Joyce was having trouble with her cows getting sick. One of them even died. When she had the blood tested by an outside lab, the results showed lead poisoning.”

  Gail sat back in her chair. “Oh-ho! The plot thickens.”

  Meg nodded. “Seth said he’d look into the town’s records, but I don’t think he’s done that yet, and he might not know about the paint factory, since it closed long before his time. But that must be in the town’s records, right?”

  “Probably. But I sympathize with Seth. The town’s records and the Historical Society’s records are scattered all over the place, wherever there’s room. It’s not easy to find anything, much less something that’s not recent. But I guess he’ll have to, won’t he? If this is part of a murder investigation?”

  “Wouldn’t the town have done something about decontaminating the land, if they knew there was lead there?”

  “Got me,” Gail said. “Ask Seth—he’s the one who would know the regulations for that kind of thing.”

  “I will. But I’m still not sure why anyone would want Joyce dead. Maybe there was a competitor who wanted to sabotage her business by making the cows sick—but it’s a long step from that to killing her. Or if it was a lazy person dumping a car battery, it would be hard to track down that person, and it seems kind of extreme to kill Joyce just to avoid a fine or something.” Meg thought for a moment, then said slowly, “Of course, it’s remotely possible that someone shut Joyce up to keep her from pointing a finger at the town for tainted land. But I can’t see any of our selectmen doing something like that. Can you?”

  Gail laughed. “Not really. As for the other possibilities, murder’s an awfully extreme step. From all reports, Joyce was a nice person and a good dairy farmer. If she had sick cows, well, that’s the only thing out of the ordinary.”

  “True.” Meg sat silently for a moment.

  Gail looked at her watch. “I’d better be getting back. Thanks for the tour, Meg. Let me know if you find out anything relevant about the old paint factory land. It really does seem like too much of a coincidence not to be connected somehow—lead in the paint, lead in the cows—but I can’t believe the town didn’t know and do something about it. They must have known. Ask Seth.”

  “I will. It was good to see you, Gail. I’ll walk you out.”

  16

  At 6 p.m., Seth was still unloading supplies from his van into the bay beneath his office. Meg wandered out, feeling aches in unexpected places from her physical exertion of the last few days, and waited while he transferred the last load. He looked as tired as she felt.

  “Hey,” she said when he closed the van’s doors.

  “Hey yourself. Planting done?”

  “It is, thank goodness. You want to see?”

  “Not if it means climbing the hill right now. I’m bushed.”

  “Hey, I helped plant a thousand trees. Top that if you can. So how about dinner?”

  “I don’t know that I’ll be good company.”

  “You still have to eat, and so do I. Let’s do it together. Nothing fancy, believe me.”

  “You’re on, then. Let me lock up and I’ll be there.”

  What a fine romance, Meg thought as she went back to the kitchen and stared at the scant contents of the refrigerator. It was definitely time for a run to the market tomorrow, but that left tonight to deal with. The bare refrigerator mocked her.

  She was feeding Lolly when Seth came in and headed to the kitchen sink to wash up. “I’m short on both inspiration and supplies,” Meg said. “Any suggestions?”

  “Years ago we used to have a family tradition—dump everything that was left over into one pot, unless someone came up with a better idea.”

  “Nice theory, but I don’t have any leftovers. What have I got in the way of canned stuff?”

  Seth opened a cupboard and started ru
mmaging. “Beans, jalapeños, water chestnuts, tomatoes, bamboo shoots…I can’t see those working well together.”

  “You have no imagination. How about scrambled eggs? I do have eggs. I can throw in whatever else sounds good.”

  “I’m not going to argue. Here, catch.” Seth tossed a couple of cans at her, and Meg snagged them in midair.

  “Tomatoes and jalapeños. I’m sensing a theme here. Sort of a western omelet?”

  “Well, it is western Massachusetts. Why not?”

  “Your logic is impeccable. Wine, beer, coffee?”

  Seth sat down at the table and stretched out his legs under it. “If you want me to carry on anything like a conversation, it had better be coffee.”

  “I hear you.” Meg ground coffee beans and set the kettle on the burner before pulling out the carton of eggs, along with milk and butter, and a lump of cheese with only a little fuzzy green stuff on it. “Mold is good for you, right?” she said dubiously.

  “Sure,” Seth replied.

  As she started assembling their makeshift dinner, Meg asked, without looking at Seth, “What was going on last night?”

  “What do you mean?” Seth asked.

  Was he playing dumb? “You and your mother both made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to talk about Rick Sainsbury. I know Lauren noticed, and she was puzzled.”

  Seth sighed. “I guess I resent that Rick seems to think he can waltz back here to Granford after a couple of decades and count on our automatic support as a favorite son.”

  “Okay, I can understand that. You think he should earn that support, and you don’t want to be used. But what would it take to convince you?”

  “More than a handshake at the Spring Fling, I can tell you that.”

  “It’s not that you see yourself as Granford’s power broker?” she asked, her tone light.

  “I hope you know me better than that,” Seth replied in mock dismay.

  “Of course I do.” Seth was one of the most self-effacing men she knew, even when he was acting as a leader. He wasn’t the type to play pointless political games, certainly not for his own benefit. Meg diced jalapeños and said, “That doesn’t explain why your mother was so…curt to Lauren. It’s not like her.”

  Seth was silent for several moments, but Meg waited him out. Finally he said, “She’s never cared much for politics, and I think she was hoping to nip that conversation in the bud. You know Lauren has a tendency to take over.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Meg stopped chopping and turned to face him, leaning against the counter. “Seth, is this going to be a problem? It isn’t going to go away. If Rick is making a serious run for office, we’re going to be seeing more of him. I know Lauren can be a bulldog. I have no history with Rick, and I have no opinion yet. Is there something I should know about him? Or that Lauren should?”

  Seth shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not hiding anything, I just don’t like him. With me, it’s personal. Which doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do a good job as a congressman. It has nothing to do with you, and you’re free to make up your own mind.”

  “Gee, thanks. So you’re saying that Lauren has nothing to worry about?”

  “Not that I know of,” Seth said, his tone final.

  Meg bent down to find a skillet, then set it on the stove to heat. As she added oil and butter to the pan, she reflected that it probably wasn’t worth pursuing. Seth had an opinion, but as he said, she wasn’t obligated to share it. She had to admit she didn’t much like Rick either; she suspected that he was running more to boost his own ego than to help the people of the First District. But he wouldn’t be the first candidate to do so, or the last.

  Five minutes later Meg set plates on the table and sat down. Seth had already helped himself to coffee and filled a mug for her. They looked at each other across the table for a moment, and Meg guessed that they looked equally exhausted. She raised her mug. “Let’s toast our new orchard. Now all we need is good weather, healthy bees, and a lot of luck, and in a couple of years we might see apples.”

  Seth raised his mug. “Here’s to Chapin’s Corner. May it bear well.”

  “I like it. Should I design a new crate label?”

  “Why not?” Seth replied. They both dug into the food.

  After a few minutes of concentrated eating, Meg felt slightly more energized. “Gail told me something interesting today. That field the town leased to Joyce? It used to be a paint factory, in the last century.”

  Seth’s expression brightened. “Oh, right. I think I knew that. There was a notation in the file that I saw when we wrote up the lease agreement.”

  Meg set her fork down carefully. “Seth, paint could mean lead. You said that Joyce found that there was lead in the samples of her cow’s blood and that she had a report that confirmed it.”

  “I’m pretty sure the town paid to have that land treated, years ago. In fact, I remember the state told us that we had to, because it was a health hazard. I’m sure all of that was looked into when Joyce approached us about the land.”

  “I hope so. I’m not saying that the town slipped up, but it’s kind of a curious coincidence, don’t you think? The land sits there for decades, and then Joyce comes along and presto, her cows get lead poisoning?”

  “Meg, are you trying to point the finger at the town?” Seth parried. “The lead could have come from anywhere, or been put there in any number of different ways.”

  “What does Detective Marcus think? Or is this a town problem? Is Art involved?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t really discuss it. If it was just the problem with the land, I guess it might be fraud. I don’t know if Art would be involved or not—probably I’d have to report it to the town select board and then we’d inform the MDEP officially. But since we know that Joyce was murdered, that throws it into Marcus’s court, since it goes to motive. Anything relating to the land might be relevant, so Marcus needs to know, and Ethan already told him about the problem. I told Marcus I’d check the town records, and I will, as soon as I have a free minute. Or a free couple of hours, because there are a lot of places to look. Marcus hasn’t been calling me daily to ask where the information is, so I assume he doesn’t think it’s critical.” Meg gave him a look and he sighed. “All right, I’ve promised I’ll track down the records, and I will. Will tomorrow do, or do you want me to start tonight?”

  “I didn’t mean to nag you, but Gail’s information got me thinking. Tomorrow is fine. Do you want me to help?”

  “Thanks, but you wouldn’t even know where to start looking, Meg. Once I’ve pulled the records together, though, you can help me out with them.” He sat back in his chair and twisted his head around, as if to remove kinks in his neck. “We’re a great pair, aren’t we? All we’ve been talking about lately involves either murder or politics.”

  “Don’t forget apples—we’ve talked about those, too.”

  “You’re right, we have.” Seth stood up. “I think I’ll call it a night. I need to go home and collect Max from Mom’s and give him a short run. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

  Was the bloom off the romantic rose already? “What? You’re turning down a night alone with me because you need to walk your dog?”

  “Meg…” he began, but at least he was smiling. “You know that’s not what I meant, but I, uh, couldn’t give you the attention you deserve tonight. Rain check?”

  “Of course. You know where to find me. Get home safely.”

  They shared a slow kiss at the door, and heat flickered only briefly before Meg accepted that they really were both too tired for fun. She watched as Seth went to his van, started it up, and drove off into the night. She locked up and trudged up the stairs to bed, with only Lolly for company.

  Morning found Meg enjoying a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen, with the Sunday paper spread out in front of her. Despite the disappointment at how last night had gone—or not gone—with Seth, Meg had to admit she rather enjoyed having a few moments of precious pe
ace, without anyone asking anything of her. The satisfaction of a job well done—yesterday’s orchard planting—lingered pleasantly despite her aching muscles, and there was nothing pressing on her agenda at the moment. The sun was shining; Lolly was purring contentedly on her lap. Life was good.

  She turned a page of the paper to find a picture of Rick Sainsbury delivering a speech. He did photograph well, Meg had to admit. She turned her attention to the faces of the group behind him on the podium. No sign of Lauren, but she was a behind-the-scenes worker bee, wasn’t she? Her smiling face wouldn’t win any local voters. Miranda, looking every inch the candidate’s wife, looked up with restrained adoration at her husband. A couple of the larger guys standing behind the couple could have been the bruisers she had noticed being turned away at the Spring Fling. His old buddies, Meg recalled Lauren telling her. Maybe he was packing the crowd, to give the illusion of a bigger group behind him for benefit of the cameras. She read the caption, which called Rick a possible congressional candidate. No surprise there: these little references were meant to soften up readers before the big announcement and would give him some name recognition when his ballot petitions were circulated. Meg wondered briefly if Lauren was doing his PR as well as everything else.

  Her peace lasted about half an hour, and then Seth came banging against her kitchen door, his hands full of tattered files. She let him in and stood out of the way while he juggled the files and finally succeeded in dumping them in an unruly pile on the kitchen table. Lolly fled to the top of the refrigerator.

  “Happy now?” he asked, gesturing toward the mess on the table.

  “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Chapin. Would you like some coffee?” Meg said mildly.

  “Sure, fine,” Seth said.

  Meg set a mug of coffee in front of him, in one of the few remaining clear spaces on the table. “If those are all the files for the Truesdell land, yes, I guess so. You didn’t need to rush. It’s Sunday.”