Red Delicious Death

by Sheila Connolly

“I deal mainly with local growers around here, help them with what they can use on their crops, and also how to market them. And I try to educate local consumers, and that includes chefs.”

  “Really. Is Meg’s orchard organic?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, even though I tried to convert her.”

  “Lauren,” Meg protested, “apples are notoriously hard to manage, if you want unblemished fruit, which is what most buyers are looking for. I use what’s known as an integrated pest management approach, which limits the use of chemicals, but doesn’t eliminate them entirely. But that doesn’t stop Michael and me from arguing about it.”

  “Listen to you!” Lauren smiled to soften her comment. “Michael, are you helping Nicky and Brian find organic foods?”

  “Bree asked me about it, and I talked to Sam before . . . you know. To qualify as a true organic restaurant, you have to comply with a lot of rules, and I don’t think they’re interested in going that route. But I’m happy to put them in touch with local growers and producers.”

  “What grows well around here? Don’t you have pretty hard winters?” Lauren took a seat at the table; she looked honestly interested.

  Michael took a seat opposite Lauren, and Meg watched the two of them with almost maternal pride. “What doesn’t?” Michael said. “Apart from the local orchards like Meg’s, we’ve got a full range of vegetables around here. Heck, Hadley, one of the towns nearby, is well known for its asparagus crop. There’s even a farm over toward Amherst that’s growing ginger. Then you’ve got livestock—did you know that Hampshire College has a buffalo herd?”

  “Wow! No, I had no idea. I come from Boston, and I shop in supermarkets. I guess I’ve seen some signs there recently for local produce, but I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about where it all comes from. I apologize for my ignorance, though I do shop at Whole Foods, if that helps.”

  “Some. They still fall on the commercial end of the organic spectrum, but they’re trying.” Michael paused and checked Lauren’s expression to see if she was mocking him, but in the end he smiled. “I’m kind of enthusiastic about the whole thing. But organically grown food is better for you, and it tastes better, too. So think about it next time you go shopping, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Michael, we should get going,” Bree broke in. She turned to Meg. “We’re going to catch an early movie, then get something to eat. We figured you’d be busy anyway.”

  “That’s fine. You two go have fun.”

  “Bye, Lauren. Nice to meet you.”

  When they’d left, Lauren said to Meg, “Ah, young love. Were we ever that young?”

  Meg laughed. “They’ve had their ups and downs. But I like Michael—he’s a good guy, and Bree likes him, which is what matters. And he does keep me on my toes about organic farming.”

  “Ah, Meg, Meg . . . Like I said, you seem to be thriving on all of this.”

  “I like learning, and I like challenges. The fact that I’m supposed to make a living doing it makes it interesting—when I’m not panicking about it.”

  “I wish I could see myself making a one-eighty change like you, but I kind of like my creature comforts, not to mention an income.”

  “Coming out here was my mother’s bright idea, although she had no idea what she was getting me into.”

  “Has your mother seen the place since you moved here?”

  “No, not yet. I’m dreading the day I pick up the phone and she announces she’s arriving the next day. No doubt it’ll be right in the middle of the busiest part of harvest season.”

  “I don’t suppose she’d pitch in and help?”

  “My mother? No way. Although she might take it upon herself to instruct the workers on how to get the job done more neatly and efficiently.”

  “Maybe you should be proactive and invite her out at a time that works for you.”

  “I’ll think about it. When are you supposed to be in Amherst?”

  “Changing the subject, eh? Not until seven. I’d be happy just to take some time and smell the roses. Why don’t you show me the orchard?”

  Meg was surprised by Lauren’s request. “Sure. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “I don’t know if I am, but I won’t know unless I look at it, right?”

  “Okay, orchard it is.”

  Meg led the way up the hill to the orchard and stopped, silent, to let Lauren take it in.

  Lauren didn’t speak for a few moments. “So this is all yours?” she said finally.

  “Fifteen acres of trees. There’s more land that goes with the house, but it’s too wet to plant.”

  Lauren took a few tentative steps forward, stopping in the first row of trees. “What’s it like, owning a whole bunch of living things like this?”

  Meg considered. “Scary. Reassuring. That sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? Scary because I know so many things that can go wrong before I can get a crop out of them—insects, diseases, natural disasters. But at the same time, there have been apple trees here since the seventeen hundreds, and here they are still. So they’ll hang on, no matter what I do. Maybe this year’s crop will be lousy, but there’s always next year. I told you my ancestors built this place? Well, it gives me a kind of connection with them, makes me feel more a part of the place.”

  Lauren reached out to lift a branch. “Look, baby apples. What kind are they?”

  “I have no idea yet. Bree might know, and Christopher certainly would. We’ve got a lot of different ones here, some heirloom. I’ll know better after they ripen.”

  Lauren was quiet for several moments, and Meg let her be. Finally she said, without turning around, “I think I’ve figured out something. All this”—Lauren waved her hand across the orchard—“it seems a lot more real than what I do. I mean, you put in work—and I mean hands-on, messy work—and in the end you have a product you can touch, hold, eat. It’s real. Me, I get a piece of paper with numbers on it.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you? You don’t believe in what you’re doing anymore?”

  Lauren turned around then. “I don’t know if I ever did, really. I mean, it was a challenge, and it was interesting—but it was all on paper, playing with numbers. And playing politics with the competition, in-house and at other banks. A big game. You know that; you were part of it.”

  “I suppose. I never liked the competitive side. I was a lot happier running numbers in the back office.”

  “Well, for a long time I liked being in the game. Now, I’m not so sure. I mean, it didn’t take much to make the whole house of cards fall down in the financial sector, did it? All that work we did, erased in a few months. Now nobody even trusts us, and nobody inside knows what to do about it. It sucks.”

  “It does. But I can’t see you as a farmer. What else do you think you’d like to do?”

  “I really don’t know. But thanks for letting me vent, and for letting me visit you here. It gives me something more to think about.”

  “Any time. You can come pick apples later, if you want.”

  Lauren smiled. “Maybe. But right now I have to go get pretty for my date with the scary policeman. You sure you don’t mind being left on your own tonight?”

  “Anything resembling free time is always a treat. Don’t worry about me.”

  12

  Meg had been in bed, although awake and reading, when Lauren returned that night, but since she hadn’t tapped at her door, Meg had decided not to bother her. The next morning the weather held—Lauren was lucky. She might not wax so poetic about the rural life if she was cooped up in the house while the lawn turned into a sea of mud.

  Meg had spent a quiet but productive evening going through yet another box of documents from the Historical Society. She had taken on the task of cataloging what she could, at the urging of Gail Selden, the Society’s overworked director, and had found she enjoyed it. It made a pleasant change from the manual work in the orchard and around the house, and she never knew what she was going to
find among the old and brittle documents. It was also nice that there was no urgency to the project: the documents had been waiting patiently in their boxes for decades, so anything Meg could get done was a big step forward.

  Last night’s find was an 1873 printed map of Granford, on which all the then-residents’ names were printed. She traced the road in front of her house: it was labeled “Warren,” and there was also another Warren next door—she’d have to look into that sometime. There was the brook that trickled through the Great Meadow, and kept it boggy. There was the Chapin place, over the hill. The town green, and the Stebbins house at the north end. And there was the Kellogg property, where Sam’s body had been found, over toward the north end of town, where there had been few houses in the nineteenth century. To the best of her recollection, there weren’t a lot more now. What had Sam been doing out there? If he had wanted to talk to Jake Kellogg, they had never connected—or so Jake had said. Did he have a reason to lie?

  In the morning, Lauren stumbled down as Meg was scrambling eggs. “There’s coffee.” Meg nodded toward the stove.

  “You are a goddess.”

  Meg handed her a mug. “I heard you come in last night,” she said tentatively.

  “We had a nice time. He’s a reasonably intelligent guy, he actually has some interests outside of law enforcement, and no, I didn’t sleep with him.” Lauren took her coffee mug and sat down at the table.

  Meg set a plate with eggs and toast on it in front of her. “Well, that about covers it, doesn’t it?”

  Lauren gave Meg a hard look and burst out laughing. “No, I mean it. He’s pretty knowledgeable about food—he picked a great restaurant, and knew what to order. He’s kind of a history buff—the American Revolution. No kids, no pets, no alimony. And he actually likes his job.”

  “You going to see him again?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like we’re in love, or even in lust, and we live a hundred miles apart. But I think we both enjoyed ourselves, so it’s a possibility.”

  “Well, I’m so relieved!” Meg sat down with her own breakfast.

  “So, what’s on the calendar for today?” Lauren asked, ignoring Meg’s sarcasm. “You have to go till something, or chop something, or spray something?”

  “I think my schedule’s clear. What are you up for, city girl?”

  “How about taking a run up toward the Kellogg farm?”

  “Where Sam was found? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  “Oh, come on, Meg—you know you’re curious. Sure, Bill interviewed the guy, but you probably know better what questions to ask.”

  “So it’s ‘Bill’ now?”

  “That is Detective Marcus’s name, after all.” Lauren retorted. “Anyway, you’d be helping Nicky and Brian, right? Clear up this murder mess and find them some nice pigs, all at once.”

  Meg didn’t know what to say. “Lauren, let me get this straight. You’re volunteering to go with me to talk to a pig farmer?”

  “Maybe I have ulterior motives. And it’ll make a great story when I go back to Boston. ‘Guess what I did over the weekend? Worked on a murder investigation, at a pig farm!’ That’ll get attention.”

  “Did your pal Bill put you up to this? Suggest it? Hint at it?”

  “Not really. But from the way he talked, he doesn’t have access to a lot of local information, and I gather he’s not very welcome in Granford.”

  “Huh.” Had the natives of Granford really taken her side over Detective Marcus’s? That merited thinking about. “Okay, I can go introduce myself to Jake Kellogg, tell him I’m a local farmer, and find out if he wants to sell pigs—or pork—to the restaurant. And it’s certainly likely that Sam will come up in the course of this conversation. So your role would be . . . ?”

  “Faithful sidekick. Everybody needs one of those, right? I can ask lots of stupid questions. Hey, it’ll be fun.”

  “Right, Tonto.” Meg wasn’t convinced, but neither could she see any harm in it. And she did want to get to know more people in Granford. “It may be muddy, you know. I’ve got some boots you can borrow—I’ll stick them in the trunk.”

  “Great. Now, what does one wear to call upon a pig farmer? Can we just drop in?”

  “I’d wait until church lets out, just in case. Other than that, people around here do a lot of ‘just dropping in,’ and in case you haven’t figured it out, farmers don’t get a lot of downtime. The pigs have to eat every day, so he should be around there somewhere.”

  An hour later they were driving toward the Kellogg farm at the north end of town.

  “What’s that hill?” Lauren asked. She looked surprisingly interested in her surroundings.

  “It’s actually a ridge that runs east-west. That’s where the town ends—Amherst is on the other side. And the Connecticut River is over that way. I think we’re getting close . . . yes, here we are.” Meg pointed to a large mailbox with the name “Kellogg” written on it in faded letters. Next to it was a long unpaved drive, leading to a trim and well-maintained farmhouse, with a large barn behind. Meg pulled into the driveway and stopped next to the barn. A man in his fifties, wearing well-worn jeans and a shirt with its sleeves rolled up, came out from the barn and stood waiting. He was followed by a dog, who sat next to his feet. Both looked reasonably friendly, or at least nonthreatening.

  Meg got out of the car. “Hi. Are you Jake Kellogg?”

  “Sure am. And you’d be?”

  “Meg Corey. I’ve got an orchard south of town.”

  “The old Warren place. You here about the body?”

  At least Jake had been the one to bring it up. “In part. I’m also interested in your pigs.”

  “Okay. And your friend?”

  Lauren had climbed out of the car and advanced on Kellogg, her hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Lauren Converse, Meg’s friend from Boston. I just came along for the ride—I’ve never seen a pig farm.”

  Jake gave her a long look, and finally smiled. “I’ll bet. The pigs are maybe half a mile down that way.” He gestured toward the rutted dirt road that led past the barn and beyond. “Think you can walk it? We can talk along the way.”

  “No problem,” Meg said, relieved. “And thanks for being willing to talk to us. I’m sure you’ve already given your story to the police. And the press?”

  “Yes to the first, no to the second. I thought that might be who you ladies were. But I guess I’m not photogenic enough for our local paper.” He smiled, deepening the crow’s feet by his eyes. “Let’s go, then.”

  As Lauren picked her way among the ruts, she asked, “It wasn’t the pigs . . . ?”

  “That killed him? No way.” Jake set a brisk pace, and Meg had to hurry to keep up. “That’s a myth. Pigs might’ve nosed around a little, to find out what a dead guy was doing in their wallow, but that’s about it.”

  “Is farming your main occupation?” Meg asked.

  “Heck, no—I couldn’t make a living at it even if I tried. I’m a construction engineer for a company over in Springfield.”

  “Then why the pigs?”

  “Sentiment, mostly. I’ve got generations of farmers behind me who worked this land, and I kind of hate to see it end. Besides, I like pigs. They’re smart, they’re cleaner than you’d think, and they’re not hard to manage.”

  “Do you sell them?”

  Jake sighed. “Enough to keep my numbers down. There are a couple of restaurants in Amherst that buy the meat. I let somebody else do the killing and dressing.”

  Meg felt obscurely relieved. It would be hard, she thought, to kill an animal you’d raised. Apples didn’t inspire the same feelings, even when you bit into one. “Have you heard about the new restaurant opening in town?” She hoped “opening” was still true.

  “Sure. Hard not to, what with their chef being found dead here and all. You saying they might want pigs?”

  “I’d like to talk about it. You didn’t see Sam?”

  “Nope, not when he was al
ive. Of course, I’m not around all day. But it does seem kind of wrong to wander around a person’s property without permission.”

  And to die on it, Meg added silently. “We think he was looking for providers for the restaurant. Didn’t the police mention that?”

  “Might’ve, but since I never met the man, it didn’t make much difference. Here we are.”

  Meg looked out over a gently sloping field dotted with what looked like little tents. The field was bordered on two sides by sparse forest, on the third by the lane where they stood, which continued on past the pig field. The whole was enclosed with a sturdy wire fence, at least three feet high, and in good repair. She looked around but couldn’t see any houses, not even Jake’s farmhouse. She noted that there was a muddy patch at the lowest corner, and she thought she detected a pungent whiff of pig manure. There were perhaps fifteen pigs wandering through the field; maybe half had turned to look at the human intruders, and a few of those were ambling toward the fence for a closer look.

  “Tell me about the pigs,” Meg opened.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Assume I don’t know anything about them, which is pretty much true. For a start, I didn’t know you could raise them in an open field. What are all those little buildings?”

  “Pigs need shelter. They can sunburn, you know. Those shelters are called pig arks, and they’ve got bedding inside. You move them around now and then, to let the ground recover. Pigs keep their dung away from their living areas, as you can see.”

  “What do they eat?”

  “Mostly grass. It’s a good deal—they keep the grass down, and they churn it up with their feet. Their dung helps fertilize it. I supplement their diet with some feed, but I don’t have to do it every day. Heck, sometimes I come out just to talk to them. They’re good company.” He looked at Meg and Lauren, trying to gauge their interest. “And if you’re thinking about them as food, a pig raised like this tastes better. They grow slower, which lets the fat develop. You know, sometimes I feed ’em apples. If you end up with a bunch of windfalls you can’t sell, I’ll be happy to take them.”