Red Delicious Death

by Sheila Connolly

  “Who found him?”

  “Jake. He went out to feed the pigs, and bang, there was a body. Gave him a scare.”

  Meg couldn’t remember if she’d met Jake Kellogg. She wasn’t even sure where the Kellogg place was. Was he one of the vendors Nicky had mentioned? Had Sam gone out there to look over the pigs, with an eye toward future dinners? But if so, why hadn’t he asked Jake to show him around? Wandering through someone else’s property, even in this rural area, was at best considered rude, and at worst, an invitation for a load of buckshot. Sam couldn’t have been that naive, could he? How deep was a pig wallow? Could a man fall in and be unable to get out? Meg realized that her mind was wandering, and was surprised to find Seth’s arm around her shoulders.

  She glanced over at Brian, who looked like he was coming out of a fog himself. He and Nicky finally pulled away from each other, and Brian said, “Hey, could I make everyone coffee or something?”

  Art nodded. “Good idea.”

  With evident relief, Brian fled to the kitchen. Apparently Art decided that Nicky had finally wept herself out. “Mrs. Czarnecki? Can I ask you some questions about your friend?”

  Nicky ran her hands through her tangled hair, then wiped her cheeks. “Nicky, please. Of course, I’ll tell you anything I know. What happened to Sam?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know for sure yet. He was found in a field on the other side of town. Was he in the habit of hiking? Taking long walks in the country?”

  Nicky straightened her back and sniffed. “No, he was a city boy. But he’s been talking to local farmers about supplies for the restaurant. That’s what he said he was doing today.”

  “Did he happen to tell you where he was going?”

  “No. He’s keeping track of all that by himself. I just tell him what I’d like him to look for, and off he goes.”

  “You’re not open for business yet, are you?” Art said, looking around the empty room strewn with construction debris.

  “Not yet, not until September—we hope. But Sam wanted to find out what there was to work with, so we could map out a seasonal menu. He really seemed to be enjoying it, too. He’s been going to the local farmers’ markets as well. Sort of reconnoitering.”

  “Where was he from originally? Boston?”

  “No, we met in Providence, a few years ago, but his family’s from Maryland.”

  “The state police can look into that. This was his current residence?”

  “Yes, we’ve all been living here, upstairs, to be closer to the restaurant and to save money. There’s so much going on, with the construction, and stuff getting delivered, we thought it made sense to stay here. Do you want to see his room?”

  “I’ll wait. The detectives from Northampton will have my hide if they think I tried to interfere with their investigation. I just wanted to get the rough outlines for my own sake, since this town is my responsibility. You don’t happen to know if he had any enemies, do you?”

  “No! He’s one of the sweetest men I know. Knew. He loved what he was doing, he loved working with us. He’s a really good cook, too. Oh”—Nicky’s face fell—“now we’ll need a new sous chef.” Tears loomed again. “How’m I supposed to train a new sous chef? Sam and I worked so well together . . .”

  Luckily Brian emerged from the kitchen with a tray laden with coffeepot, cups, and accessories, to divert the storm. “I’m sorry we don’t have chairs yet—they’re on order,” Brian said.

  Once they’d all awkwardly gulped down their coffee, it fell to Seth to break the impasse. “Sorry, guys, but I’ve got a job lined up in Springfield today, so I’ve got to go. Meg, do you need a ride back home?”

  Meg looked at Brian, who said, “We’ll be okay. Thanks so much for coming when Nicky needed you.”

  “I’m happy to help. Art, you’ll let us know what you find out?”

  “Don’t I always? Go on, before Detective Marcus shows up.”

  Meg turned back to Nicky. “Nicky, you can call me any time. And I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for what happened to Sam.”

  “Thanks, Meg,” Nicky said damply. “You go ahead. Brian and I will do . . . whatever needs doing.”

  Meg and Seth hurried to Seth’s car. Once on the road, neither said anything until Seth pulled into Meg’s driveway and turned off the engine. “Well,” he began.

  “Well indeed,” Meg replied. “Chalk up one more sudden death in Granford.” When Seth nodded, Meg continued, “I suppose we could hope he had a long-standing heart problem or something? An allergy to pig manure? No, that’s cruel—I shouldn’t be joking about this. After all, he’s dead. He seemed like a nice guy, what little I saw of him.”

  “I agree, and I spent more time with him than you did. Smart, funny, knew the business. I wonder how the kids will manage now? I gather it takes a team to handle a restaurant, and the three of them had things pretty well worked out between them. Hard to drop someone new in, at this late date.” “What do you think they’ll do now?”

  Seth shrugged. “I don’t know them well enough to guess. I know they’ve sunk a lot into the building, and I don’t know what they’d get back if they walked away now.”

  “I wonder,” Meg began, then stopped.

  “What?”

  “It’s just . . . Sam seemed too young and healthy to just keel over like that. Although I know it happens. Maybe he ate nothing but butter and his arteries just closed down on him. Poor Sam. What a way to go—in a pigsty.”

  “You’ve got that right. I have trouble believing this was any kind of accident. But I’ll leave the detecting to Marcus.”

  “Amen to that. And thanks for coming along, Seth. I don’t know why Nicky thought of me first.”

  “Because she knew she could count on you to help. That’s a good thing, Meg.”

  “I’ll accept that as a compliment. You must be rubbing off on me, Seth. And I’m glad Nicky and Brian have each other; they’re going to need someone to help getting through all this. It won’t be pretty.”

  Back at her house, Meg watched Seth pull away, and wandered over again to check on her goats, in their enclosure on the other side of the driveway. As usual, they trotted over to greet her. She felt guilty that she still hadn’t named them. “Hi, goats. Yeah, I know, I really need to name you two. But I wanted to get to know you first, okay?”

  She looked around her. This pen couldn’t be too different from Jake Kellogg’s pigpen, could it? She tried to imagine a body toppling into it. No doubt, her goats would’ve come over to check out any interesting addition to their space. What would pigs do? She had no idea.

  Shaking her head, she bade good-bye to her goats and retrieved her paintbrush. How many more windows were there?

  7

  Bree came in the back door as Meg was trying to figure out how to combine the ingredients in her refrigerator into something resembling dinner. Too bad the restaurant wasn’t open yet. Would it ever be now, with Sam’s death hanging over it?

  “Something moving in there?” Bree asked.

  “No, I was just looking for inspiration. Did you hear about . . . ?” Meg wasn’t sure what to say about Sam’s death. She still harbored the hope that it had been some kind of sad accident. Sam had tripped and hit his head on a really hard pig? Stupid, Meg, stupid.

  “Hear what?” Bree was rummaging in a cupboard looking for a snack.

  “Sam Anderson was found dead in a pig wallow.”

  Bree shut the cabinet door and turned to face Meg, leaning against the counter. “No kidding? That’s terrible. He was a nice guy. What happened?”

  “I don’t know yet. Apparently he was found facedown in the mud, and the police asked Brian to identify the body. Nicky called me, and Seth and I went over to the restaurant to comfort her, but nobody knew anything yet. They were there with Art, waiting for the state police and the ME when we left.”

  “Not that Marcus creep again?”

  “Probably. I don’t like him either, but he’s what we’ve got. And he�
��s not stupid, even if he is a jerk,” Meg admitted. She’d had more experience in the past than she’d wanted with the unpleasant Detective Marcus.

  “Are the cops thinking accident?”

  Meg shrugged. “I don’t know. We can ask Art, once the state guys finish. And before you ask, the pigs didn’t do it.”

  “Of course they didn’t. Pigs don’t kill people.”

  “Maybe he committed suicide by mud? Sorry, that seems kind of flippant.”

  “Don’t worry about it—making jokes is one way of dealing with bad stuff. But suicide? I don’t think so. Sam seemed like a real happy guy. Loved his job, really got excited about food, you know?” Bree said.

  “That was my impression, too, although I didn’t spend much time with him. Had he made any friends in town?”

  “Can’t say. Those three were so wrapped up in fixing up the restaurant, I don’t think they had a lot of time to get out and meet people. Although I think I saw him in Northampton once or twice.”

  “Checking out the competition?”

  “Maybe.” Bree gave Meg a sidelong glance. “You do know he was gay?”

  Meg stared at her. “No, I did not. It never occurred to me, but it’s none of my business. Are you sure?”

  “No, but I got that vibe, and then Michael and I saw him going into a couple of places in Northampton that lean that way.”

  “You think that’s what he was doing in Northampton? Cruising, or whatever you call it?” Meg asked.

  “Well, I’d guess the pickings are pretty slim in Granford. But Northampton—there’s something for everyone there. Think the cops know?”

  Meg shrugged helplessly. “They just found the body—I don’t think they’ve investigated his personal life yet. But I suppose it could have something to do with his death, if he got involved with the wrong person. Nicky and Brian would probably know.”

  Bree agreed. “It would be kind of strange if they didn’t. They all seemed pretty tight. I don’t know how well it would have gone over in Granford, though.”

  “Do you have a problem with the people of Granford?”

  “No. I haven’t met many of them. But this is Hicksville, right? Everybody’s been here since day one, and they’ve married a lot of cousins. The smart ones leave town and don’t look back.”

  “Bree!” Meg was honestly shocked at the younger woman’s apparent hostility. “That’s insulting. I’ve met plenty of decent people here. You can’t just label them a bunch of inbred cretins. You’ve got to live with them, too, you know. Why are you so bent out of shape about Granford? Have you had problems yourself here?”

  “Sorry—no, I haven’t had a problem with anybody from around here. It’s just that I know what it’s like to be on the wrong end of discrimination. But as long as the Granford folk stick to business, I’m good with them. You find anything that looks like food yet?”

  Meg noted the quick change of topic. “I was just thinking I wished the restaurant was open, because I really don’t feel like cooking, and I don’t feel like driving anywhere just for some lousy fast food.”

  As if in answer to her prayers, Seth knocked at the back door with a couple of grocery bags in hand. Meg could see Art, out of uniform, pulling into the driveway behind him. “Thought we could throw some burgers on the grill, if that suits.”

  “Sounds great—except I don’t have a grill,” Meg said.

  “You do now.” Seth pointed toward Art: he was wrestling a portable barbecue out of the trunk of his car. “And I brought all the fixings. Hi, Bree.”

  “Hi, Seth. Art going to dish about what happened to Sam?”

  “He might be persuaded, not that he’s really in the loop. Meg, you have mustard, ketchup, that kind of thing?”

  “Of course. That much I can handle,” said Meg indignantly, while mentally scanning her cupboards and hoping she wasn’t wrong. She turned to Art and greeted him. “You certainly came prepared. But won’t your wife be missing you?”

  “Nope, she’s got some kind of meeting tonight, and she told me to fend for myself. So here I am.”

  Half an hour later they were assembled in hastily commandeered chairs around the new barbecue, burgers sending tantalizing smells into the still evening air. Meg’s goats kept an eager eye on activities. “I’m going to have to get some lawn chairs, aren’t I?” Meg remarked to the world in general.

  “You should. You’d better enjoy it out here now, before mosquito season begins.”

  “Hey, don’t spoil it for me, Seth. Let me enjoy the moment. Art, isn’t it time to flip those burgers?” It was kind of fun, ordering the chief of police around.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Art complied. Smart man: he had brought not only the barbecue, but also charcoal, fire starter, and basic tools. Obviously he knew his way around a grill.

  Meg leaned back in her chair. “You know, I could get used to this kind of thing, where someone else brings the food and cooks it for me. But I have a sneaking feeling I won’t have this kind of time once the orchard starts producing.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Bree agreed. “Hey, Chief, those about done?”

  “Coming up,” Art replied, sliding the burgers onto a large platter, along with buns. He set the tray on an overturned bushel basket. “Dig in.”

  After a suitable interval during which several burgers with condiments disappeared quickly, along with ample helpings of a potato salad Seth had brought and a few bottles of beer, Art finally said, “You ready to hear what I know, or would it spoil your digestion?”

  “Does it involve pig manure?” Meg asked.

  “No, I promise.”

  “Are you breaking any laws by filling us in?”

  “Nothing big, and I trust you three to keep quiet, right?”

  Meg sighed. “Okay, hit us with it. What happened?”

  “Preliminary findings show that Samuel Anderson died from suffocation, facedown in the mud.”

  Prepared though she was, Meg shivered at the news.

  “What an awful way to go. But how did he end up in that position? Was he unconscious? Did somebody knock him out?”

  “No sign of any blows, and the preliminary tox screen was clean—no alcohol or drugs.” Art hesitated a moment, then said, “It looks like someone held him down.”

  “What? That’s terrible. But how? I mean, Sam was a pretty big guy, young, in good shape.”

  “Hard to tell, but nothing obvious. Of course, they’ll run a more complete tox screen. That might turn up something, though Nicky and Brian swear he didn’t do drugs. No signs of a major struggle. No bruises or other marks on the body, as far as I know. As I said, no blow to the head. But there was one significant piece of evidence—a big muddy footprint on the back of his shirt.”

  Art’s statement met with a few seconds of shocked silence.

  Finally Seth said, “So someone shoved him into the muck and held him down until he suffocated?”

  “Oh, God, Art,” Meg whispered. “That means it is murder. How awful.”

  Art’s face was grim. “Exactly. I don’t have to ask you to keep this quiet, do I? I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you knew the guy and his friends. In fact, you’re probably about the only people in town who did.”

  Meg, Seth, and Bree exchanged wary glances. “Damn!” Meg said. “Does that mean that Marcus is going to want to talk to us?”

  Art sat back in his chair, his shirt buttons bulging. “Maybe. Depends on how he wants to handle things. I think he’ll probably downplay the whole murder angle, at least for now. The press is going to be all over this, you know. And it doesn’t make Granford look good.”

  Seth asked, “He wasn’t killed somewhere else and dumped there, was he?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Footprints were kind of messed up, but his car was found a mile or two away—of course, the state police are checking that out. No obvious tire tracks, although the lane to the piggery was pretty dry—the only muck was along the verge and in the pen itself, so maybe tire tracks woul
dn’t show. But I don’t think anyone could have carried him—he had to run a good 220 pounds. Most likely he died on that spot. Any idea what he might’ve been doing out there?”

  Meg finished the last of her beer, now lukewarm. “Nicky said that he was looking for suppliers, remember? I suppose that included pigs—pork. What kind of operation does the farmer run? I don’t know anything about raising pigs.”

  “Jake Kellogg’s got a real nice setup,” Seth volunteered. “A couple of acres, maybe a dozen pigs at a time. I think he sells to a couple of local restaurants. Anyway, his pigs live in little huts in a field, at least in warm weather, and they can roam around. He feeds ’em real well, too. All pig operations smell, but this one’s well sited, and there’s nobody downwind to complain.”

  “What’s Jake like?” Meg asked. “I don’t think I’ve met him.”

  “Probably not. He’s not the most sociable guy. He’s got to be fifty-odd now, but he’s in good shape. He and his wife raised four kids there—the youngest is still at home. The rest live in-state, but they aren’t interested in the farm.”

  “Is he the type to overreact to trespassers?” Meg asked.

  “Nah, not Jake,” Art responded. “He’s pretty easygoing. Besides, nobody’s going to wander along a back lane and walk off with a pig, are they? And before you ask, I don’t think physically he could have hauled Sam around himself . . .” Art finished dubiously.

  “Jake had a hernia operation a couple of months ago,” Seth added. “I’d wager he saves the heavy lifting for pig food.”

  “Seth, how do you know everything about everyone?” Meg asked, half-admiring, half-baffled.

  “I talk to people, that’s all. And Mom took them over a casserole, when he got out of the hospital. She’s known him forever, and his wife.”