Red Delicious Death

by Sheila Connolly

  “I can come back later if you’re busy, Nicky,” Meg said from the doorway.

  Nicky tore her gaze away from Derek and took in Meg’s presence. She straightened and pulled her apron down. “Oh, hi, Meg. Did you want something?”

  Meg hesitated, looking at Derek. “I, uh, just wanted to see how things were going.”

  Derek’s lip curled. “You mean, you heard about the little brouhaha on the green yesterday? My, news does travel fast in Hicksville. I’m Derek Woodfield.”

  “Hi, Derek, I’m Meg Corey. We actually met Tuesday night, although I guess you don’t remember.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You were with that guy who strong-armed me. I don’t think we had time to observe the social niceties. I was a bit under the weather.”

  Nicky interrupted. “You were roaring drunk, Derek. And you were yesterday, too. I will not accept this. I know you’re hurting, but you can’t just show up here and make trouble—I’ve got to live with these people, and I want them as customers.”

  Derek recoiled in mock dismay. “Well, excuse me for caring.”

  “Derek, please . . .” Nicky said helplessly.

  Derek slumped against the counter, his expression contrite. “I’m sorry, Nick. I know how much this place means to you—and what it meant to Sam. I don’t want to screw it up for you. But don’t you get the feeling that nobody cares that he’s dead? That nobody’s doing anything?”

  “That’s not true, you know,” Meg said mildly. “It’s just that people around here didn’t know Sam well enough to miss him. And the case is being handled by the state police, out of Northampton. They are investigating.”

  “Sure they are,” Derek snarled.

  Meg stiffened. She understood his anger, but he wasn’t being fair to Granford. “Derek, you’re wrong. The police are doing their jobs. These things take time.”

  Derek sighed. “Okay, okay. It’s just hard to accept. I mean, Sam was so alive, so excited about what he was doing. So interested in everything. He was really looking forward to learning about country living, and finding all sorts of good natural food. And I hate it that somebody squashed that—squashed him, like a bug.” Derek turned and stalked out of the kitchen, and Meg heard the screen door slam.

  “I’m sorry,” Nicky said. “Damn, there I go again, apologizing. I’m not responsible for Derek. I wondered if maybe one reason Sam was so happy to leave Boston was to get away from all of Derek’s drama.”

  “I thought you said Derek had moved on?”

  “He had, but as you can see, he likes to make scenes. I just wish he wouldn’t do it here, now.”

  “Nicky, I’m sure the police have asked you this, but do you think there’s anyone from Sam’s life in Boston that could have wanted him dead?”

  “You mean, like Derek, or one of Sam’s earlier boy-friends?” Nicky shook her head vigorously. “No, no, nothing like that. Sam was monogamous, strictly one guy at a time. He and Derek had been together for a year or so, and then it ended, a few months ago. We were talking about moving out of Boston and Derek didn’t want to, so that was that. Sam wasn’t involved with anyone else, and when he knew he’d be moving out here, he didn’t push it. He figured he’d have time . . .” Nicky swallowed a sob. “I miss him,” she said softly.

  Meg was torn. She wanted to comfort Nicky, and she wanted to know more about Sam, and what his life had been like before he moved to Granford. But she also wanted to keep an eye on Derek, who had gone storming out of the building. Who knew where he would go, what kind of trouble would he get into? Maybe he wasn’t a suspect in Sam’s death, but he was still capable of making trouble for Nicky and Brian. She settled for a compromise. “Listen, why don’t we go sit on the porch and talk? You need to get out of the kitchen now and then.”

  Nicky saw through her ruse. “And we can make sure Derek doesn’t stir anything else up? Sure, good idea. You want something cold to drink? I’ve got iced tea with mint.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Meg waited while Nicky filled a couple of glasses, then followed her out to the porch. “I like the new chairs. They suit the place.”

  Nicky threw herself into one, without removing the plastic. “I want people to be able to sit out here and sip wine and eat little yummy things, you know? I want the whole dining experience to be seamless—relaxed, comfortable. Like you’re in your own home, only the food’s a whole lot better and you didn’t have to cook it or clean up.”

  “It sounds like exactly the kind of place where I’d like to eat.” As Meg sipped her tea, she realized that this was the first time that she and Nicky had been alone together, without something else demanding their attention. “So, how long did you know Sam?”

  “Years. I met him the first week in cooking school, before I met Brian, even,” Nicky replied. “Sam was so much fun! And it rubbed off on other people when we were all working in Boston, sometimes a bunch of us would get together in our free time and cook; Sam was usually the one who suggested it, and he’d come up with wacky themes—like go to Haymarket and bring back one item you’d never seen before, much less cooked. Or go stand on a dock when the boats came in and find out what the fishermen had caught, and try something new. And then we’d make something out of the ingredients and share. We had some disasters, but we all had a really good time.”

  “Did Brian participate?”

  “After a while. I think it was more to do something with me, than about the food. Brian used to be sort of shy, kind of the opposite of Sam. And he was always more into the management side. Once he suggested that we set a dollar limit on what we brought, like maybe two dollars, and see how many people we could feed well on next to no money.”

  “What made you first realize that you wanted to be a chef?” Meg asked.

  Nicky relaxed into her chair. “I told you I grew up in New York, right? It was just my father and me, and we ate out a lot, at wonderful restaurants. And I learned to cook young—because I wanted to, not because he was helpless. We cooked together for years, and gradually I took over. So he wasn’t exactly surprised when I told him I wanted to go to cooking school, though he wasn’t too pleased about it at first.”

  “So why’d you start working in Boston, then, instead of back in New York?”

  “The competition in New York is wicked. Boston used to be kind of stodgy, but in the past decade or so they’ve really turned around the food scene, so I thought I’d catch that wave, get in on the ground floor rather than butting heads at all the New York restaurants. And the cooking school had better connections with the Boston restaurants. So then we all—me and Brian and Sam—moved to Boston together after.”

  “Did you always know Sam was gay?”

  Nicky glanced at her. “Of course. He didn’t hide it. It was just part of who he was. Nobody cared.”

  “Did you ever wish he wasn’t?”

  Nicky turned in her chair to face Meg. “You mean, then the two of us might’ve . . . ? No! He was a friend, but, not to speak ill of the dead, I couldn’t imagine living with the guy. He was so high energy! I am, too, and the two of us together would have been a disaster. Brian—he’s the opposite. He grounds me. He calms me down when I start bouncing off walls. He’s good for me.”

  “You two sound like a good fit.” Meg wondered briefly if an outsider would say the same about her and Seth. Seth was outgoing, relaxed but energetic at the same time. He liked people, and people liked him. She was more shy, more reserved; it was harder for her to make friends. She gained a lot from his companionship, but what did she have to offer him?

  Apparently Nicky was on the same wavelength. “How about you and Seth?”

  Meg sighed. “I’ve only known him a few months, and I’m not the kind of person to rush into things. And I guess I worry that I’m taking advantage of him—I mean, he’s introduced me to half the town already, and he’s a great builder and plumber, and he really cares about Granford. Sometimes I feel like a leech.”

  “He cares about you,” Nicky stated bluntly
.

  Meg wrestled with conflicting emotions. Some silly girlish part of her wanted to ask why Nicky thought that. A more mature and responsible part declared that she really didn’t want to look too closely at whatever their relationship was and where it might be going. She dragged her attention back to Nicky’s plight. “Do you know how long Derek’s staying?”

  Nicky shrugged. “I don’t think long. He really hates the country, so I suspect that his whole trip out here was mostly for show, so that we’d all know how much he’s hurting. But now he’s had his little adventure—I’m sure he’ll regale anyone who will listen with the story of being tossed into jail by the yokel police officer. And I do think he loved Sam, in his way. But I’ll be glad to see the last of him!”

  “Just can’t wait to get rid of me, eh?” Derek said, sauntering around the corner of the building.

  Nicky stood up abruptly. “Eavesdroppers deserve what they hear, Derek. Meg, I’ve got some more dishes to test out.” She stormed into the building.

  Derek settled himself on the porch stairs. “I feel so welcome here,” he drawled.

  Meg didn’t see any good reason to mollycoddle him. “What did you expect? Nicky and Brian are upset about Sam’s death, but on top of that they’ve moved to a new place and are trying to get a new business started, all at once. The last thing they need is to hold your hand.”

  Derek stared at her as he slouched against the stair rail, then shrugged. “Point taken. But Sam deserved better.” He studied Meg critically. “What’s your game here?”

  “I don’t have a game. I’m pretty new in town myself, and I know how hard it can be. I like Nicky and Brian, and I want to see them succeed. You wouldn’t know anything useful about Sam’s death, would you?”

  “Fancy yourself a small-town sleuth?”

  “Not at all!” Meg wondered what he’d heard about her. “I’m just trying to help. Brian and Nicky have got enough on their plates without worrying about a police investigation.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything, and I have a cast-iron alibi: I was on a beach about a thousand miles from here, with plenty of witnesses. And my meager budget doesn’t extend to hiring hit men. Besides, I bore Sam no ill will. My, that sounds Victorian, doesn’t it? What Sam and I had had run its course, end of story. We parted friends, more or less. I had no reason to want him dead, and I don’t know of anyone who did. Satisfied?”

  “I don’t think you were involved in his death, if that’s your question.”

  Derek sprawled back in his chair, looking out over the tranquil green. “So which of the fair citizens of this backwater do you suspect?”

  Meg was startled into silence. It was a question she had avoided asking herself. But Derek had a point: if he and Sam’s other friends from Boston were ruled out, Sam’s killer had to be someone local. But who?

  Derek looked at her with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Makes you uncomfortable to think that one of your precious neighbors might have had anything to do with it, doesn’t it?”

  “What makes you think anyone had a hand in it?”

  Derek gave a short, derisive laugh. “Oh, come on—you know, and I know, that Sam didn’t die from natural causes. Those ham-fisted state police of yours wouldn’t have bothered tracking me down if poor Sam had just keeled over one day. So it’s murder. Somebody here helped him die.” He cocked his head at her. “Who’s your candidate for killer?”

  “I don’t have one. You’re right—I don’t want to believe it’s anyone from here, but it almost has to be.” Meg recalled what she had told Lauren: the killer had to be someone who knew the layout of Kellogg’s farm, and knew pigs. “If I knew, I’d make sure something was done about it. I liked Sam, you know. And I want to see whoever did this caught.”

  Derek turned back toward the green, slumping back against the cushions. “Thank you. I believe you do. And Sam would be grateful to you,” he said quietly.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, then Derek jumped to his feet. “Well, given the warm welcome I’ve had here, I suppose I should take myself back to Boston. I’ll just say good-bye to Nicky.” He gave her one last look. “Thank you, Meg Corey, for our enlightening chat. And good luck.”

  He went back into the building. Meg felt a twinge of distress over his attitude but decided to let it slide. Instead, she focused on enjoying the last of her iced tea and the peaceful view. This really was an ideal setting for a restaurant, and right now the town laid out below her looked like every postcard she had ever seen for scenic New England. Once Sam’s murder was solved, there was no reason why everything shouldn’t go smoothly for Nicky and Brian. She hoped.

  18

  Meg’s tranquil mood did not survive the trip home. She had enough problems of her own, with trying to keep her apples growing and healthy, trying to manage a crew of pickers, and trying to figure out how she was going to sell her apples. “Trying” was the key word here, and she wasn’t sure how soon she was going to be able to move any of those tasks to the “Accomplished” column. She pulled into her driveway and turned off the engine. As always, the goats had trotted over to the fence, eager to see who was there.

  Meg went over to the goat paddock to say hello. The larger goat cocked her head at Meg and gazed at her with her golden alien eyes. Smaller goat came over and bumped against her companion, demanding her fair share of attention. She really needed to name them; the goats deserved that much. She had come to recognize their distinct personalities: the larger goat was older and more dignified; the smaller goat was inquisitive and a real clown.

  Did she know anyone she wanted to honor—or insult—by naming a goat after them? She racked her brain for any useful literary references to goats, and came up blank, although she could name any number of cats, dogs, pigs, rabbits, and mice who rambled through popular fiction. Billy Goats Gruff was not going to be much help—wrong gender.

  Bree emerged from the house and joined Meg at the fence. “You were gone awhile.”

  “I stopped to see how Granford Grange was coming, and ran into Seth and Art. Then I went to the restaurant and had a chat with Derek.”

  “Derek?”

  “Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met him. He’s the latest fly in the ointment—Sam’s ex, here from Boston, loudly lamenting Sam’s death to the world at large. Which annoyed our local homophobe, so there was a fight and Art had to toss them both in the pokey to cool off.”

  “And here I thought small-town living was peaceful,” Bree said. “So you thought you’d talk to the goats instead?”

  & “That’s about it. They don’t talk back. Got any ideas for names?”

  & Bree studied the goats, and they stared back solemnly. “You know that if you name them, you’ll never be able to eat them.”

  Meg laughed. “I wasn’t planning to eat them.”

  “Okay, then: Isabel and Dorcas.”

  “Why?” Meg asked.

  “Well, Shakespeare had these two lady goatherds in one of his plays—Winter’s Tale, I think. Dorcas was one of them, and I always kind of liked the name.”

  “What was the other goatherd named?” Meg asked cautiously.

  Bree wrinkled her nose. “Mopsa. I wouldn’t wish that on a goat, or anybody else. But Isabel’s the name of my mother’s older sister, and I always thought she sounded like a goat.”

  Meg laughed. “Works for me. So which is which?”

  “Isabel’s the larger one—she looks more serious.”

  Meg turned back to the goats. “Isabel?”

  The larger goat put her front hooves on the wire fence; at that height she could nearly look Meg in the eye.

  “Well, I guess that’s a yes. How about you, Dorcas?”

  The younger goat bleated, then wandered off in search of a tasty clump of grass.

  “Well, that’s a weight off my mind. Now the goats have names and I don’t feel like such a bad goat owner. Did you need me for something?”

  “Actually, yes,” Bree said. “I’ve asked the pickers
to come over tomorrow afternoon, so we can all take a look at what you’ve got and what you’ll need.”

  “Okay, let’s go over what we need to talk about with them . . .”

  The next afternoon Meg watched as a motley crew of mostly men, and a couple of women, assembled in the driveway outside her barn. Bree went outside to greet them, as Meg paced nervously around the kitchen and Lolly retreated to the safety of the dining room. How quickly would the pickers see through her? Bree possessed more technical knowledge, but would her youth stand in the way of getting them to listen to her? Bree said something to Raynard, then let herself in through the kitchen door.

  “Listen, this is just an introduction, okay? They know you’re new at this,” Bree tried to reassure her.

  “Do we have enough people? Too many?”

  “Meg, we’ve been over this. A good picker can pick maybe ten bins a day—that’s like four tons of apples. And they know how to pick the ripe ones, and the ones that are the right size, and how to handle them so they don’t bruise. They know how to take care of themselves—position their ladders, stay out of woodchuck holes. These guys are good, and they’ve been doing it for years. You’ve gotta trust them.”

  “I do,” Meg sighed. “It’s me I don’t trust. Well, let’s do it.” She squared her shoulders and led the way out to the driveway in front of the barn.

  Raynard stepped forward, then turned to the group. “This is Meg Corey, who owns this orchard. Briona Stewart here is the orchard manager. Meg is new to picking, but that does not mean that you can slack off, not while I’m in charge. She’s going to show you the improvements she has made this year, and then maybe we can walk through the trees, so we all know how close to picking we are.” He turned to Meg expectantly.