Rotten to the Core

by Sheila Connolly

  Meg laughed. “Why don’t you ask Seth? Nobody seems to be able to say no to him.”

  “I have. I think it’s on his to-do list but behind a lot of other stuff, like paying for police salaries and ambulance service and school supplies.”

  “Well, I’m happy to help.”

  Gail cocked her head at Meg. “You have room in your trunk for a couple of file boxes?”

  Gail helped Meg load four bulging boxes, papers sprouting from the loose lids, into the backseat of her car. As she drove home, Meg realized she was looking forward to delving into Granford’s history. From what little she had seen, the jumbled papers and artifacts would probably tell her much more about her adopted town than reading any dry written summary.

  Back at the house, she unloaded and stowed her groceries, then returned to the car for the file boxes, which she carried into the dining room. She fought the urge to dig into them immediately. If she was going to present herself at the university, she ought to clean up and get moving. The files had waited this long, and they could probably wait another day or two.

  The parking lots at the university began to clear out at the end of the day, and Meg had no trouble finding a convenient parking space. She had forgotten to ask Christopher where the ad hoc event was to be held, so she checked his office, and finding it empty, followed the sound of muted conversation down the hall to a large classroom, where a mix of faculty members and students huddled in awkward clumps. The desk at the front of the room had been cleared and was spread with a couple of supermarket deli trays of cheese and cold cuts, plus a few bottles of inexpensive wine and soft drinks. The attendees were clustered around the food and held glasses of wine or soda while juggling paper plates of food.

  Christopher noticed her hovering in the doorway and beckoned her over. “Welcome, my dear. I’m glad you could make it. Have you met my colleague John Finkel?”

  Meg extended her hand. “No, I don’t believe so. I’m not actually enrolled here—I’m just auditing a class, trying to get a handle on orchard management.”

  Finkel glanced quickly at Christopher, who leaned toward him to say quietly, “Yes, that was the place.”

  Finkel’s face showed an odd mix of curiosity and sympathy. “Meg, is it? Sorry to hear about . . . that you . . .” He stopped, apparently struggling for an appropriate phrase.

  Meg took pity on him. “That I found Jason? I didn’t know him, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, right, well . . .” Finkel looked around desperately. “I should go talk to . . . excuse me.” He retreated quickly to the other side of the room.

  Christopher had watched the exchange with a glint of humor in his eye. When Finkel was out of earshot, he said to Meg, “Peculiar situation, don’t you agree? Not covered by any etiquette books, if such things still exist. ‘Proper condolences for those who discover corpses.’ In any event, I’m glad to see a few faces here. Jason deserves some recognition for his contributions to this department.”

  She had to admire Christopher’s diplomatic phrasing. “Christopher, will there be any . . . well, for want of a better word, eulogies?”

  “I had thought I would say a few words. Let’s wait a bit and see if anyone else arrives.”

  “Is there anyone else I should meet?” Meg asked. Most of the crowd appeared to be hungry graduate students, attracted, as Christopher had predicted, by the lure of free food and drink.

  “I think, perhaps . . . Ah!”

  At the sound of his exclamation, Meg followed his gaze to the door. There were two newcomers: a tall young man in his late twenties who needed a haircut, and a frumpy woman a few years younger, both wearing what Meg defined as grubby student clothes. Both seemed unsure of their welcome.

  Christopher, playing the good host, went toward them to welcome them, and Meg drifted along behind him. “Michael, I’m glad you came. And Daphne, is it?” Michael reached out to shake Christopher’s hand, and Daphne mumbled something. She looked as though she would rather be anywhere else, and hung on to Michael’s arm, radiating hostility.

  Christopher turned to Meg. “Meg, this is Michael Fisher. He was a colleague of Jason’s at GreenGrow. Perhaps I’ve mentioned the group?” Christopher all but winked at her. “And Daphne? I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”

  “Lydon. Daphne Lydon.” Daphne jammed her hands in her pockets, her shoulders slumping.

  Meg stepped forward. “Why, yes, Christopher, I think you did. Michael, Daphne, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m very interested in the concepts behind organic farming. I’ve just taken over an orchard in Granford, and I have a lot to learn. Christopher has been helping me, but I gather that the philosophy behind the organic approach is somewhat different?” She stopped, trying to look sincere and eager for enlightenment.

  Christopher laid a hand on her arm. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to have a word with Professor Delgado,” he said and then retreated discreetly, leaving Meg with Michael and Daphne.

  An awkward silence fell. “How did you know Jason? Was that through GreenGrow?” Meg ventured.

  “Yeah,” was Michael’s reply. “We go back a ways.”

  “Were you a student here?”

  He nodded without volunteering anything more.

  Meg was beginning to feel frustrated by Michael’s unwillingness to hold up his end of the conversation. “I understand he was very committed to organic farming.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Michael was not going to make this easy for her. “Tell me about GreenGrow, then,” she asked. “What do you do?”

  He brightened slightly. “We work to eliminate the use of harmful chemicals that are destroying the earth and all its creatures.”

  To Meg’s ear it sounded like a canned response, but she didn’t want to judge too quickly. “How do you go about that? Do you have pamphlets I could look at? Or maybe you hold public meetings of some sort that I could attend?”

  Michael looked uncomfortable. “Well, uh, things are kind of unsettled now, after Jason . . . Maybe we could set up a time, and I could give you our info packet. Maybe go over it with you.”

  “I’d really like that,” Meg said. “I’m still very new to all this, and I can use all the help I can get. There’s so much to think about. I didn’t have any idea!” She knew she sounded like a babbling idiot, but Michael appeared oblivious to the falseness of her tone. Not so Daphne, apparently; the girl was staring at her speculatively, and the expression on her face wasn’t exactly friendly.

  “Do you want to set up a time now?” Meg hurried on. “I’m on campus a couple of days a week, for classes, or I could meet you somewhere here in Amherst. Maybe lunch? Tomorrow?”

  Maybe it was the idea of another free meal, but Meg’s offer spurred Michael into something resembling enthusiasm and he nodded.

  “Good! My treat,” she added, in case he had any doubts. “Where would you like to meet?”

  “Um . . . you know the place across from the bookstore?”

  “On the way to Emily Dickinson’s house? Sure.” Emily Dickinson’s home, a block or so from the center of Amherst, was one of the town’s most treasured landmarks, and even newcomer Meg knew where to find it. The restaurant was small and shabby, but Meg seemed to remember good sandwiches and coffee there.

  “How about noon?”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  “Michael?” Daphne tugged on his arm. “We should go.”

  “Oh. Right, yeah. Let’s grab some food first, okay?” He gave a shy nod to Meg, and he and Daphne moved toward the impromptu buffet. Meg realized that Daphne had said almost nothing during the whole encounter. What was her problem? Just awkward? Overcome with grief? If she was devastated by Jason’s death, it hadn’t hurt her appetite any, Meg noted, watching her fill a paper plate with cheese, bread, and slices of ham and turkey.

  She turned to find Christopher at her elbow. “I see you’ve managed to pry a few words out of Michael,” he said.

  “Yes. We’re going to meet
tomorrow so he can give me his pitch for organic farming. Is that surprising? I thought that was what GreenGrow did.”

  “Oh, I do believe he’s just shy. Michael was always overshadowed by Jason. I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking to him for a while—Jason managed to establish himself as the voice of the group and didn’t encourage others to make themselves heard. Perhaps Michael will rise to his full potential now that the way is clear.”

  “Was he a disciple?”

  “You mean, was he a blind follower of Jason’s? I think not. But if you’re meeting with him, you can get a better sense of his position.” Christopher scanned the crowd, which had not grown. “Well, I suppose I should make my speech and be done with it. You don’t need to stay, unless you wish to.”

  Meg shrugged. “You go ahead. I may slip out before you’re done. But thank you for inviting me. You go give Jason a fitting farewell.”

  She watched as Christopher made his way to a podium in the corner.

  “Friends,” he began, “may I have your attention for a few moments? As you know well, the impetus for this gathering was the unfortunate death of one of our students, Jason Miller. While some of us may have had our differences of opinion with him, he was nonetheless a member of our small community, and we owe it to him to recognize his passing. As his thesis advisor, I must say I admired the sharpness of his mind and his dedication to the pursuit of his beliefs. He was not one to shrink from challenges, and . . .”

  Meg tuned out and watched the faces of the others in the room. She thought she saw traces of skepticism on several, as Christopher’s artfully crafted comments blurred the harsh edges of the truth about Jason. She moved quietly toward the open door, stepped into the hall, and was startled to find Detective Marcus standing just outside. Obviously he had been eavesdropping. He nodded to acknowledge her and then walked a few feet away. She followed.

  “Detective,” Meg said quietly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ms. Corey,” he responded. “Just doing my duty, following up on a suspicious death. I’m a bit surprised to see you here, under the circumstances.”

  Meg lifted her chin. “I’m paying my respects to the man who was found dead on my property.” And I wanted to see who his friends were. “What did you hope to find?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, looking beyond her as people began to drift out of the room. “Miller wasn’t a very popular person, although he was well known in certain circles.”

  “With local law enforcement, you mean?”

  “No, not really. He was too smart for that kind of trouble. But he did like to push people’s buttons. Can I see you to your car?”

  Was he telling her it was time for her to leave? Meg felt a spurt of annoyance, but she had no reason to stay longer. She had accomplished what she came for: to see what Jason’s colleagues looked like. And she had an appointment with one of them the next day. Which she didn’t see any reason to enlighten Detective Marcus about. She smiled up at him. “Why, certainly, Detective. How kind of you.”

  The detective waited until they had reached the sidewalk in front of the building before revealing his motive. “Ms. Corey, you didn’t happen to mention that your employee knew the dead man.”

  It took Meg a few seconds to work out what he meant. “You mean Bree? I didn’t know they were acquainted when I talked to you. She told me yesterday. Is there a problem with that?”

  He ignored her question. “You didn’t mention the pesticide in your barn, either.”

  So Seth had told him. “I didn’t know about that, either, until yesterday.”

  “There seems to be a lot that you conveniently didn’t know until yesterday.”

  Meg fought her impulse to give him a sarcastic answer. “Detective, I’ve been working on the house, and I haven’t had a chance to explore the barn—I was waiting for warmer weather to do that. I have no idea what else might be in there. Since you know about the pesticide, you must also know that it was Seth Chapin who found it, identified it, and disposed of it properly, all before I knew anything about it.”

  “So you say, Ms. Corey. Still, it’s a mighty handy coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Do you think Jason Miller came all the way out to my place and went snooping in the barn to find a means to kill himself? Or do you seriously think I used a pesticide from my barn to kill a man I had never met?”

  “We have only your word for that. And it’s early days yet. Nice to see you again, Ms. Corey. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait! Did you ever find Jason’s car?” Meg asked.

  Marcus gave her a long look that could hardly be considered friendly. “Parked in Amherst.” He didn’t volunteer any details, but strode off toward his car, leaving Meg standing on the sidewalk, fuming.

  How dare he? She had nothing to do with Jason’s death, and it had nothing to do with her. As far as she knew, at least. But the way the coincidences were piling up didn’t make her feel any better, and truthfully, she could see why the detective might have doubts. She sighed. Just what she needed: something else that had to be done immediately. Renovate house, learn how to run an orchard, solve a crime. If it was a crime. So, find out if Jason was murdered, then solve the crime. Sure, no problem.

  Meg was in a foul mood by the time she let herself in the kitchen door. Then she recalled the battered file boxes Gail had given her, waiting for her in the dining room. Gail had once told her that prior to the untimely death of the hapless victim found in Meg’s septic tank not so long ago—and now, possibly, Jason Miller—the last murder in Granford had occurred in the nineteenth century, so there should be nothing in a heap of old paper to remind her of her current problems.

  She noticed that Gail had scrawled a large “#1” on one box, so Meg opened that first. On top she found a note from Gail, some sample entry sheets, and some pairs of white cotton gloves. She opened the note first and read it:

  Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ve included a CD with the cataloging software program and some instructions for you, and a few samples, but for now it’s a pretty simple spreadsheet system and I’m sure you can handle it. To do this right, try to handle the documents with the cotton gloves—maybe we can make them last a little longer. I owe you!—Gail

  Meg smiled: Gail had been pretty sure of Meg’s help.

  Meg looked around her dining room: the central table was bare, and the light fixture over it would provide adequate illumination, although maybe she should put brighter bulbs in. The cord of her laptop would reach the nearest plug. What more did she need? She sat down and put on the gloves, then pulled the first box toward her and fished out a three-inch stack of mismatched documents. An odor of mildew followed. She leafed through them, trying to make some sense of them. Deeds, newspaper clippings, broadsides, letters, maps—there was a little bit of everything here, in no particular order. She looked at one of the sheets Gail had sent and found she was supposed to record the item type, material, date (if known), and a brief summary of the contents. Might as well start at the beginning, Meg, she thought, and picked up the first item on her stack.

  An hour later she had reduced the pile by less than an inch, although she was getting better at crafting brief descriptions. Meg rolled her stiff neck around and stretched. She was about ready to call it quits for the night, but the next piece of paper on the pile intrigued her. It appeared to be a hand-drawn map, brown ink on what she assumed was rag paper, clearly old and more than a bit fragile. It measured no more than a square foot. She could make out a date scribbled in one corner: 1797. It was in fact a map of the area, at a time when there weren’t many roads in Granford. She studied it, and suddenly it seemed familiar. On a hunch, she opened a search engine on her computer and called up a map program, zeroing in on Granford. Yes! Looking back and forth between the two maps—the one hand drawn, over two hundred years old, the other pixels on a screen—she could see the bare outlines of the old town embedded in the new. There was the town green, which meant . . . Meg traced the roa
ds she knew southward from town, then east. Yes: County Line Road, running along the bottom of the map. And, yes, a row of circles, apparently indicating homes, and next to one, in tiny letters, “Warren.”

  And next to that, tiny hand-drawn trees. The orchard, two hundred years ago. Meg reached out a careful gloved finger and laid it on the spot, as if touching it somehow connected past and present. Absurdly, tears pricked her eyes. The longer she looked, the more details she noticed—she could make out the names of the neighbors, and of the roads, although most of the latter were prosaic descriptions like “Road to Muddy Brook.” There, just to the north of the Warrens, lay the Chapin property.

  Meg sat back in her chair. Gail had known what she was doing, handing this task to Meg. Here under her hands was history made tangible. Meg knew she was hooked. Too bad she had other things to do, like manage the orchard. And that, as she could see, was an obligation passed down through two centuries—so she had better do it right.

  11

  As Meg drove to Amherst for her lunch with Michael, she wondered what she hoped to learn from him. She did want to hear his story about the glories of organic farming, not only to get a sense of GreenGrow’s public position but also to satisfy her own genuine curiosity. All she knew was that organic produce seemed to cost more than the other stuff at the local supermarket. She had no particular preconceptions about it, and she felt obliged to at least consider it among her options. Ultimately, though, what she really wanted was to hear what Michael had to say about Jason, although she wasn’t sure how to steer the conversation that way.

  She was also beginning to worry that she hadn’t heard from Bree. Meg didn’t trust Detective Marcus, and he’d been known to be both wrong and pigheaded in the past. She hoped that her new orchard manager would at least let her know if she’d been arrested.