Red Delicious Death

by Sheila Connolly

  “It widens the field of suspects,” Art said. “It means that it wouldn’t have taken a lot of strength to hold him down, if he was already in shock. A woman or even a child could have done it.”

  “Poor Sam,” Nicky said softly, her head against Brian’s shoulder. “What a terrible way to die.”

  “Is there a good one?” Art said. “Well, I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing. Meg, Seth.” He nodded, then left.

  Seth followed him out, leaving Meg feeling like a third wheel in the kitchen.

  She stood up. “Look, this is a difficult time, and I don’t want to rush you into anything. Think about what we said. We can move forward if you want, but don’t feel you have to. Talk it over tonight, and let me and Seth know.”

  Nicky brushed away a last tear and said, “Meg, we don’t have to talk about it. I love your idea, and I want to see if it’ll work. If it doesn’t, at least we tried. So maybe you can stop by in the morning and we’ll have a shopping list for you. I’ll give you breakfast.”

  “How can I pass up an offer like that? See you tomorrow.”

  Seth was still talking to Art when Meg went out to the porch. “Art, Marcus didn’t have anything more to share with you, did he?”

  “Nope. They’ve got the size and make of the shoe, but it’s a common one. It’s hard to say how badly Sam was affected by the bee sting, and how easy it would have been to hold him down. So I guess we’ve got more information but still no answers. I wish there was more I could do.”

  “Seth and I will be talking to a lot of the local farmers, for the restaurant,” Meg said, glancing at Seth. “We can keep our ears open, find out if any of them ever saw Sam. I know Carl Frederickson mentioned running into Sam, when I talked to him today.”

  “The beekeeper? Hmm. You never know what will turn out to be important, Meg. I’ll pass on that bit of information. Well, I’ve gotta go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Meg moved closer to Seth, leaning her shoulder against his. “Nicky’s right—it’s a horrible image, someone holding him down and watching him struggle. I can’t imagine anyone doing that. I hope Marcus finds something to go on.”

  “So do I, Meg.”

  23

  Seth stopped by early the next morning to pick up Meg, who was waiting in the kitchen while Bree finished breakfast. “Hi, Bree,” he said. “Did Meg tell you about our new scheme?”

  Bree swept crumbs off the table into her hand, then went over to the sink to throw them away. “The rough idea. Interesting, if it works. You know, I could ask the pickers if they know of any other people who might want to sell small lots. They do get around, and they hear things.”

  “That would help. And ask Michael, too?” Meg said. “If you give me that list of small markets that Michael gave you, I can get started on that tomorrow.”

  “Done—I’ll leave it on the table for you. You two have fun.”

  As Meg settled herself in Seth’s car, she said, “Seth, do you see any holes in the idea, by the light of morning?”

  “Nope,” he responded cheerfully. “I think people would be happy to get involved—makes them feel part of the restaurant, which would be a big boost for Nicky and Brian. It’s a win-win situation.”

  “You know, this is kind of fun. I’m not the type to walk up to strangers and introduce myself, but this is a terrific way to get to know people in town, both for me and for Nicky and Brian. You sure it won’t take up too much of your time?”

  “What time?” he joked. “Seriously, it’s good for the town—I want the restaurant to work, and I want the people around here who still care about farming to have a reason to go on doing it. And heck, I get a free breakfast out of it.”

  “That you do, and it should be a good one.” They had reached the town green. Meg gazed out over the green, where a few churchgoers were straggling into the tall white church. “It’s so lovely. It is kind of like a postcard, and it’s hard to accept that there are all sorts of problems lurking right under the surface.”

  “Like a killer?”

  “You know, I can’t get a handle on Sam’s death. Nobody around here knew him, so why would anyone want him dead? It just keeps getting worse. I mean, if somebody wanted to kill him, no way could they have counted on that bee sting and Sam going into shock. Which makes it sound like a random spur-of-the-moment thing. But who?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Nicky was waiting for them in the kitchen, with a lavish spread on the table. “I hope you’re hungry!” she greeted them. “I can’t seem to cook for small numbers. And every time I try a recipe, I think of something else I need to find. I added more maple syrup to the list just this morning.”

  Meg was surprised when Edna emerged from the pantry at the rear.

  “Edna!” Seth exclaimed. “Good to see you here. Have you started already?”

  “Part-time for now, just getting a feel for the place.”

  So Nicky and Brian were confident enough of their strategy that they had given Edna the go-ahead? Meg hoped that boded well. “You have a list ready for us, Nicky?” she asked.

  “After you eat—pleasure before business, okay?”

  They dug in happily. Halfway through her stack of pancakes with fresh strawberries, Meg said, “There will be some things you can’t get locally, right? Like coffee. Please don’t tell me you won’t be offering coffee. And chocolate.”

  Nicky laughed. “No, we’re not fanatics. And we’ll have to buy liquor. Unless you know of a winery?”

  “Not offhand. I’ve been told I could make hard cider eventually, but that takes special permits. Right, Seth?”

  He nodded. “How about mead?” When Nicky cocked her head at him, he went on, “From honey. We’ll talk to Carl—you know him, right, Meg?”

  “Carl Frederickson, sure. He did say something about honey. But mead is alcoholic, right? Is that regulated, too?”

  “Probably. I’d have to check, but it might be worth looking into. And from a business perspective, Meg, you should check out not only hard cider but applejack. Or apple vodka.”

  “Please! Can I at least get one crop picked before I start expanding? But I admire your zeal.”

  When all plates were empty, Nicky refilled their coffee cups and handed out sheaves of paper. “Here’s what I’d like to find—a wish list—and I gave you some menus so you could see how the food we collect ends up in our dishes, and get a sense of the language we’re using.”

  Meg riffled through her stack. “Wow. Very professional You’ve got a good balance of simplicity and sophistication here. Seth?”

  “Looks good.” Seth drained his coffee, and scanned Nicky’s wish list. “I think we should talk with Jane Morgan for chickens and eggs—you had one of her chickens at Mom’s house, Meg. Nicky, you want veal?”

  “If it’s raised fairly.”

  “Strictly grass-fed—that’d be Elliott again,” Seth muttered to himself. “Bill Matthews for fish—he fishes the river, but he lives in Granford. And Caleb Morton supplies vegetables to some of the farmers’ markets—he’d be a good person to talk to about produce. Let’s start out at Elliott’s farm and the cattle—that’ll cover several bases at once. Nicky, that was a great breakfast. We’ll report back later. And remind Brian to put together those business plans, okay? We can pick them up later, too.”

  Outside the morning coolness was already giving way to summer humidity. Edna was sitting on the porch shelling something Meg didn’t recognize. “Things working out so far, Edna?” Seth asked.

  “Good enough. Those kids got lots of ideas, and I gotta pull ’em back now and then. But she sure can cook.”

  “Glad you think so, too. Listen, you heard what we were talking about, right?”

  “Hard not to.”

  “You think people in Granford will go for the idea? You’ve been serving food around here for a long time.”

  Edna stared out over the green. “I’d like to see it happen. Nicky’s right—the food’s better if you get it fresh
. I’ll leave the business plan to you folks. Me, I’m just happy to cook.” She stiffened, and Meg followed her gaze. Caroline Goldthwaite was one of the last stragglers leaving the church building, her erect stance recognizable even from this distance. What was that all about? Meg wondered.

  As they climbed into Seth’s car, Meg said, “Does Edna have some problem with Caroline Goldthwaite?”

  “Ancient history now, but yes. A lot of us think Mrs. Goldthwaite was behind denying Edna financing when she wanted to buy the diner.”

  I wonder why that would be? Meg thought, suspecting she already knew the answer. “I notice you didn’t mention the pigs. Are we not going to talk to Jake Kellogg?”

  “We can talk to him—I just didn’t want to upset Nicky by bringing him up. He’s the best around, no question.”

  “Would finding a dead chef on his land put him off helping out the restaurant?”

  “The pigs weren’t upset, so he’s good. I think Nicky will come around once she tastes his bacon.”

  “He makes his own? Is that hard?”

  “Nope. Build yourself a smokehouse, which doesn’t have to be more than a raised shed, and you’re good to go. In fact, I helped Jake put his together. Only took a day.”

  Meg sighed. “The number of things I do not know continues to amaze me. I’ve got some unidentified foundations on my place. Do you know what they were?”

  “One was a corn crib, I’d guess.” When Meg looked blank, he explained, “People used to keep the corn up on stone piers, to keep the rats out.”

  Meg shuddered. “More than I wanted to know. I don’t have rats now, do I?”

  “I wouldn’t worry. No corn, no rats. Okay, we’re here.”

  The next several hours followed a pattern that quickly became familiar. They would drive up the long farm drive or, if a new house had been built on the land, pull in the driveway off the country road. Seth would knock, greet whoever answered by name, ask about the kids, the job, the boat, the fishing—any of a number of things. More and more it seemed to Meg that Seth knew not only everybody in town, but also their entire life histories. He was careful to introduce her, and many of the people they talked with already knew who she was; she could tell from the way their eyes darted toward her quickly. Oh, yes, the one who moved into the old Warren place. But Meg smiled and chatted, and under Seth’s umbrella, the sometimes-farmers warmed to her.

  And without exception, they all reacted positively to their idea of a collaborative restaurant. No one was ready to commit to real numbers, but everyone expressed interest, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. As they ran through the spiel for the fifth or sixth time, even Meg thought it sounded pretty appealing. And it certainly made her hungry.

  But after several hours, she was ready to call it a day. The day had been fine but hot, with little breeze. Meg had admired cows and calves and milking apparatuses. Apparati? She had discussed cheese, soft and hard. She had seen rows upon rows of crops that she couldn’t identify, and had noted a few that Nicky hadn’t mentioned. Would she want fennel? Leeks? She had been introduced to cherry trees, plum trees, even an errant fig tree growing in a sheltered corner. Meg had had no idea that there was so much food surrounding her—because she had never looked. She felt humbled by her ignorance, and secretly thrilled that she now had a part in it all, however small.

  And now she was tired, sticky, and hungry, and they still had to stop back and debrief Nicky and Brian.

  “Had enough?” Seth asked, starting the car.

  “I hope you’re joking.”

  “Hey, we’ve still got a few hours of daylight left.”

  Meg laughed. “I’m beat. You know, you’re amazing—you never seem to slow down. It’s hard to keep up with you.”

  “I’m just built that way—it used to drive Mom nuts. I always had a lot of energy—nowadays they’d probably label me ADD. Mom and Dad did their best to channel it to something useful. Anyway, you’re not the first person to complain. Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve walking anywhere or talking to anyone, fine. But remember we’ve still got to stop at the restaurant.”

  “Don’t worry—this won’t take long.”

  Meg no longer had any idea where they were, after following meandering farm lanes for hours, so she sat back and admired the passing landscape and enjoyed the air-conditioning in the car. They reached the base of the ridge that marked the northern end of Granford, and Seth followed a road barely two lanes wide, winding up the side of it until they came to a cleared area and a pull-out. He stopped the car, and they both stepped out. “There.” He waved his hand as the vista. “There’s Granford, laid out at your feet.”

  They were still shy of the top of the ridge, shaded by tall old trees, and a faint breeze cooled Meg’s damp hair. “It is lovely, isn’t it? It looks so peaceful.” She could see the steeple of the church, scattered white houses, many still with adjoining barns, and plowed fields green with crops. She could hear the distant lowing of cows—how strange that the sound carried all the way up there. “Like it’s never changed. At least, if you swap carriages for cars. But the roads are the same, aren’t they?”

  “Yup, most of them were laid out in the eighteenth century, like the one in front of your house.”

  “Like the orchard—that’s probably been there about as long, in one form or another. Why is it everything around here seems to have a long history except me?” And what is it about this lovely view that’s making me feel melancholy? Meg wondered.

  “You still worried about fitting in?” Seth tilted her chin up so he could look in her eyes.

  “Less so than I was, maybe. But I saw the way some of the people today reacted when you introduced me.”

  “Meg, give them time. They’re good people.”

  “I’m trying. You know, I wonder if being with you makes it too easy—they accept me by proxy. I get the Seth Chapin stamp of approval.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not. I’m grateful. As long as I’m not just one of your fix-it projects.”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  She studied his face. “No.”

  He pulled her closer and kissed her, and she forgot her surroundings, and her fatigue, and her worries about being accepted by the population of Granford. The kiss ended gradually, and she found herself leaning against Seth, her mind entirely empty. Her body, on the other hand, was very much alive, but now wasn’t the time to do anything about that. This was good, this was nice. This could work. And then maybe someday soon there would be a restaurant where they could celebrate the special occasions of their lives. She sighed.

  “What?” he said into her hair.

  “I like this. Do we have to go back to the real world?”

  “This isn’t real?”

  “Well, yes, it is. But we have other things we need to do.”

  “I know,” he said, but he didn’t let go immediately. “We’ll stop by the restaurant on the way home.”

  “Right.” She peeled herself away reluctantly, then turned to take one last look at the vista, gilded by the sinking sun. “How sad to think there’s a murderer down there somewhere.”

  “Not for long.”

  “You really think Marcus will find the killer?”

  “I think he’ll give it his best shot. Unsolved murders don’t look good on his résumé, and this one is sensitive. I think he’ll want to get this cleared up as fast as he can.”

  “I hope so,” Meg said dubiously. Trouble was, she’d seen Marcus at work before, and she wasn’t convinced.

  24

  Nicky and Brian had been suitably impressed with their progress, but neither Meg nor Seth had time to call on anyone else over the next day or two. Meg was working her way through the list of small markets that Michael had provided, and met with mixed success. Some already had contracts for as many apples as they needed; others were willing to accept some orders on trial, with the promise of accepting more if th
e first batch proved satisfactory. Since Meg was still puzzling over what kinds of apples she had, when they would ripen, and how many she could expect, she was grateful for any hint of support. It was a start.

  Tuesday morning she sat down to review the financial projections that Brian had provided. He had done a competent job, she decided, even though the details of this particular business were unfamiliar to her. Financial statements were more or less universal, and boiled down to expenses versus income. Of course, for a start-up that involved a lot of guessing, but from what Meg could tell, Brian’s guesses had been conservative and reasonable. She had seen for herself that he had kept the build-out simple, concentrating resources in bringing the systems—plumbing and electrical—up to code for this new use. Interior decoration had been held to a minimum, with Brian and Nicky doing a lot of the painting themselves. Obviously they had had to invest in kitchen equipment, but much of that had been acquired secondhand (located, checked over, and approved by Seth). There had been no way to avoid buying tables and chairs, and the numbers there had been dictated by the space available combined with the number of covers Brian projected that they needed to break even. Add to that the linens, china, glassware, cookware, and the other inescapable necessities of running a restaurant, and it was clear where the money had gone. There had been no waste, no extravagance.

  They’d started with the generous gift from Nicky’s father, but that was spent now. With no demonstrable cash flow until September at the earliest, the bank wasn’t about to give them a loan. And in any case, under current economic conditions, everybody was tightening belts. Small business loans were simply not happening these days. Not that it really would’ve been a good idea for Brian and Nicky to take on debt at this point anyway.

  Which left the gaping hole of inventory: food, beverages, and disposable supplies. Liquor was nonnegotiable, according to Brian, and Meg wasn’t going to disagree. Brian had walked her through the principles behind pricing an entrée, and the target cost seemed reasonable to her, if he wanted to attract a broad mix of customers. So, failing a lottery win, Meg’s plan for a collaborative effort was the best hope if this restaurant was going to open in September—or ever.