Red Delicious Death

by Sheila Connolly

She found the farm with no trouble, but when she knocked on the door, it wasn’t Jake but his wife who opened it. The sound of a radio blared behind her. “Oh, hi—Meg, is it?” she said, looking harried. “You looking for Jake? He might be out back with the pigs. Is his car here? Oh, right, there it is—he can’t have gone far. Maybe you could check the barn out back? I don’t know.” She yelled back over her shoulder, “Jessica! Turn that thing down!” Then she turned back to Meg. “Sorry. Look, if you don’t find him, stop by here on your way out, and you can leave him a message.” She shut the door before Meg could respond.

  The sun was lower now and a cool breeze had sprung up, and Meg had spent too much of the day either in the car or standing around and talking, so a walk might do her good. She set off along the lane that led toward the pig field.

  It was, she decided, a good day for a stroll. She was pleasantly tired but satisfied with what she had accomplished. The air was warm but not hot, thick with pollen, and lots of colorful weeds she couldn’t identify bloomed wildly in the ditches that flanked the lane. She rounded the gentle curve that hid the house from the pigs, or vice versa, and almost stopped: there was someone there already, leaning against the fence, apparently deep in communion with the pigs, and it wasn’t Jake. As she drew closer, she realized it was Caroline Goldthwaite.

  Mrs. Goldthwaite looked up when she noticed Meg approaching, but her stance didn’t change. Up close, Meg realized that she held what looked like a long walking stick, and she was using it to scratch the back of the nearest pig, who looked ecstatic.

  “Hello, Mrs. Goldthwaite. That pig looks happy.”

  Mrs. Goldthwaite’s rhythm didn’t slow. “I believe she is. Aren’t you, Lulu?”

  Lulu appeared to be grinning. “What brings you out here?” Meg asked, mainly to forestall being asked the same question. Knowing how Mrs. Goldthwaite felt, she didn’t want to bring up the restaurant and set off a new round of unpleasantness, unless she had to.

  “I live at the other end of the lane—the house is on East Road. I don’t think this lane has a name, as is the case for many farm roads hereabouts. I walk over this way whenever I have the opportunity, weather permitting, of course. My daily constitutional.” She gave one of her characteristic sniffs. “I assume you’re here to talk to Jake about his pigs, for . . . that place.”

  There was no avoiding it now. “Yes, for the restaurant. You never mentioned that you used to live in the Stebbins house, Mrs. Goldthwaite.”

  “Didn’t I?” Mrs. Goldthwaite kept her eyes on the pigs. Lulu had wandered off, but a smaller pig had trotted over and was begging for attention. “That’s right, you’re a new-comer. You wouldn’t know the history of a place, would you?”

  “I’m doing the best I can to learn about it. I asked Gail Selden about the history of the building. She said I should talk to you.”

  Mrs. Goldthwaite nodded silently, still watching the pigs.

  When she didn’t volunteer any additional details, Meg cast about for a change of topic. “Did you know the Warren sisters? The ones who left the house to my mother?”

  “Yes, although I was a child at the time. My father bought apples from them, if I remember correctly. We lived in town, and we didn’t farm, but my father believed in supporting the community. He was on the Select Board for a time, years ago. Although then they called it the Board of Selectmen. It was, in fact, all men in that era.”

  “When did you first run?”

  “After my husband died, a few years ago. I was . . . bored, I suppose. I thought it would be wise to seek out an activity that demanded that I get out of the house now and then, or I would turn into one of those crazy old ladies that children used to call witches. Heaven only knows what they call them now. Children have become quite rude, which I think reflects poorly on their parents. I’m sorry I never had the chance to set a better example, but Herbert and I were not blessed.”

  “Did you and your husband farm?”

  Mrs. Goldthwaite shook her head. “We didn’t have enough land for that—Herbert’s parents were forced to divide their holdings to accommodate several sons. Herbert managed the hay and feed store on the highway outside of town, not far from your place.”

  Meg struggled to find something else to say. She assumed she was probably already in Mrs. Goldthwaite’s condemned column for her public association with the restaurant project—and for her implicit criticism that Granford needed the money that a restaurant or any other commercial project would bring in, thereby sullying the historical purity of the place.

  Meg noticed that Mrs. Goldthwaite was quite content to let the silence between them lengthen. She seemed focused on the pigs. Obviously she had visited them before, maybe had been doing so for years. Had the pigs always been in this field?

  A faint alarm bell rang in Meg’s mind. This was Mrs. Goldthwaite’s regular walking route, she had said. Did the state police know that? Had they questioned her about Sam’s death? She could have seen something, heard something, when Sam died. Someone could have come through from her end of the lane, and few people would have made the connection.

  Or maybe she hadn’t just seen something. Maybe she had done something.

  No. That was absurd. Meg studied Mrs. Goldthwaite out of the corner of her eye. She was a tall woman, although age had bowed her back, despite her erect carriage. Meg realized that she hadn’t realized how tall Mrs. Goldthwaite was, since generally she had been seated at the meetings Meg had attended. Mrs. Goldthwaite also did not move like an eighty-year-old woman—clearly a recommendation for regular exercise, fresh air, and clean living. Meg tried to imagine the scene: Sam had been stung by a bee and he was woozy, going into shock, unsure of what was happening to him. He would have leaned on the fence for support—because the fence was the only support at hand. He was tall, and the top of the fence would have reached his waist. He could have fallen—or it would have been easy for someone to give him a push and topple him over the fence to join the pigs.

  If—and it was a big if—he had been pushed, wouldn’t Sam have been surprised? Wouldn’t he have struggled? But she had no way of knowing how incapacitated Sam had been. No one did.

  Meg realized she was dancing around a thought that she didn’t want to put into words: Mrs. Goldthwaite might have killed Sam, or at least facilitated his death. Surely she hadn’t sicced a bee on him, but she could have been there when it happened. She would then have been faced with a choice: seeing Sam in trouble, she could have sought help, hurried back to her place or to Jake’s and called for an ambulance. Maybe it would have been too late, but she could have tried. That would have been the right thing to do.

  Or she could have stood where she was standing now and looked at Sam, gasping and wheezing, maybe pleading for help, and taken advantage of the unexpected situation. She could have given him a nudge—just the smallest nudge—and knocked him over into the pigsty. And then what? Clambered over the fence? Meg looked more carefully around the perimeter of the field. Of course: there on the perpendicular side was a gate. Mrs. Goldthwaite could simply have walked over and let herself in. She knew the pigs, and they were accustomed to her.

  Meg looked at Mrs. Goldthwaite’s shoes. Sturdy, supportive boots, suitable for walking over rough ground. With a thick, heavy sole. They could easily have been her late husband’s. Would that tread match the footprint found on Sam’s back? Had prim and proper Caroline Goldthwaite stood over prostrate Sam as he fought to breathe, placed one foot on his back, and waited until his struggles stopped?

  It was a horrifying thought, and Meg wondered if she had finally gone over the edge. She forced herself to look directly at Mrs. Goldthwaite, who was regarding her with a faint smile.

  “Are you feeling well, Meg? You look a bit pale. Perhaps you aren’t quite accustomed to the physical demands of farming, especially in the summer heat. It must be a challenge, to take on that house and the orchard, all at once. And still you find time to involve yourself in other activities in the town.”


  Meg swallowed. “I believe in contributing to any community I belong to—surely you approve of that. I have expertise that may be helpful, and I’m happy to volunteer my time.”

  “I do indeed. I wish only that you had chosen a more worthy undertaking.”

  “You still believe the restaurant is a bad idea?”

  “I do. It cheapens the character of the town. Oh, I acknowledge that people will need to eat, and often they like to go out for a pleasant evening, but surely there are other suitable locations, out along the highway perhaps. There is no reason why it must be in the heart of town.”

  In the house that you must have loved at some point in your life. “Plans are going forward, you know.”

  “Are they? That remains to be seen. I still have some supporters in this town, you know. And those young people may yet fail. Your Mr. Chapin does not always get his way.”

  Meg no longer knew what to believe. Had her fantasies gotten out of hand? Mrs. Goldthwaite appeared as she always had, a proper old lady. A little stiff, perhaps, and set in her ways, but a pillar of the community. Not a murderer.

  But maybe, just maybe, Mrs. Goldthwaite had been more deeply dismayed than anyone had realized about what she perceived as unwanted changes coming to her beloved town, to what was once her own home. Perhaps she had found herself presented with an opportunity to eliminate one of the three partners involved, and perhaps she had hoped that by eliminating Sam, the others would lose heart and leave town. It would have been a risk, and one that had not anticipated Nicky and Brian’s response.

  Well, there was no way Meg was going to confront Mrs. Goldthwaite here and now. She needed to think this through. And she should talk to Seth. He would know what to do. Meg was surprised by the wave of relief that swept through her at that thought.

  Mrs. Goldthwaite’s voice woke her from her trance. “You shouldn’t depend too much on Seth Chapin.”

  Was she a mind-reader? “What? Me? Why?”

  “I would guess he is what one might call ‘interested’ in you, if that’s the appropriate term. But Seth has a tendency to spread himself too thin, while at the same time he has a soft heart for those in need. I’m sure he’s pleased to act the gallant knight on your behalf, but that may not last.”

  Meg bristled. Mrs. Goldthwaite was presuming to give her advice on her love life? And worse, implying that Meg was some sort of charity case in Seth’s eyes? It took her a few moments before she could say in a reasonably level tone, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Goldthwaite.”

  Mrs. Goldthwaite straightened up carefully and stepped back into the middle of the lane. “You think I’m meddling. But I’ve seen a lot in my eighty years. I’ve watched children like Seth grow up, become men. I’m glad he’s stayed in Granford, because we’ve already lost too many good young people, to college and to jobs elsewhere. That does not mean I approve of his opinions. I believe that he is misguided in his commitment to this restaurant idea, but for that I blame you. I do not think he would be half so supportive of it were you not involved. But apparently there is little I can do to change his mind, which saddens me. Forgive me, but I should be getting home. If I don’t keep moving, my joints stiffen up a bit.”

  But before she turned away, she met Meg’s gaze and held it. “Meg Corey, you’re an intelligent young woman. I think we understand each other.”

  Mrs. Goldthwaite turned and began to make her deliberate way toward home, leaving Meg standing flabbergasted, watching her retreating back. No, she most definitely did not understand what had just happened. What had Caroline Goldthwaite been trying to tell her?

  “Meg!” A voice called out from behind her, and Meg turned to see Jake Kellogg walking toward her. “My wife said you were here somewhere, looking for me. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Jake. I wanted to talk to you . . .” Mechanically Meg went through her now-rehearsed spiel about the restaurant cooperative. “And I wondered if you could provide pork. Seth also said you had a smokehouse?”

  Jake cocked an eyebrow at her. “You sure those kids are going to want my pigs, after what happened here?”

  Meg had wondered how to bring that up, and was glad that Jake had opened the door. “Maybe not right away, but down the road I’d say so. Seth says your pigs are the best around, and I think they’re looking for quality.”

  “He’s right about that. Sure, I’d be happy to consider the idea, when you get the details hammered out. Let me know.”

  Meg smiled at him. “I’ll do that, and thanks. Listen, Jake . . .”

  “What? You still thinking about that boy, Sam?”

  “It’s hard not to, standing here. You’re the one who found him, right? What time of day was it?”

  “I came out here in the morning, after breakfast.”

  “You come out here every day?”

  “Pretty much. I like talking to the pigs. Easier than talking to my daughter. She’s sixteen.”

  “Caroline Goldthwaite likes chatting to your pigs as well. She was here when I arrived.”

  “Yeah, she’s out here almost every day. She’s one tough old dame.”

  “Did you mention that to the police?”

  Jake looked at Meg with consternation. “You think Mrs. Goldthwaite saw something? The killer, maybe?”

  Funny how he’d jumped to the more benign conclusion, Meg thought. “It’s possible. I’ll bet the state police don’t know that this lane runs right to her property, and that she likes to take walks.”

  “Huh. You might have something there. You think I should tell someone?” He looked honestly concerned.

  “I’ll do it,” Meg said. “It probably doesn’t matter much. Well, I should let you get back to your pigs, and I’ve got to get home myself. I’ll let you know when we get some sort of agreement put together with the restaurant.”

  They said their good-byes and parted ways, as Meg turned to go back to her car. Maybe it was nothing, she thought as she walked along the dusty lane. Maybe she was reading too much into a coincidence, or maybe she just didn’t like Mrs. Goldthwaite and was happy to remove her as an obstacle to this restaurant project. Meg had to admit that she felt very proprietary about it, and she resented Mrs. Goldthwaite’s stubborn resistance. She had to be careful to separate her own personal hostility from the facts. Still, someone in authority should talk to Mrs. Goldthwaite about what she might have seen, or not seen, and when.

  If she was lucky, Seth would tell her she was wrong about Caroline Goldthwaite. Caroline Goldthwaite could not be a killer. Could she?

  28

  Meg had been waiting for ten minutes, sitting on Seth’s back stoop and staring at nothing in particular, when he came home. She hadn’t known where else to go. She didn’t want to go home and face Bree, so she had sought out Seth’s house and had settled herself to wait for as long as it took. She had spent the time turning over in her mind what Mrs. Goldthwaite had said. Their conversation might have been brief, but it was the longest personal exchange they’d ever had. On the surface, everything Mrs. Goldthwaite said had been innocuous. So why couldn’t Meg shake the nagging feeling that there was something off-key?

  “Hey there,” Seth said as he joined her on the stoop. “You look upset. Something wrong?”

  She fought the urge to lean against him, to seek out personal comfort through the contact. “I’m not sure. I may be going nuts, so I want you to listen and tell me if I’m off track.”

  “Okay. What’s this about?”

  “Well”—she took a deep breath—“I went calling on the rest of the local markets, and after I got done, I had a little time left, so I thought I’d go talk to Jake Kellogg. He wasn’t at the house, but his wife said he might be out feeding the pigs, so I went looking for him. He wasn’t there, but Caroline Goldthwaite was.”

  “Yeah, she lives out there,” Seth said absently, and then his expression changed. “Ah. You think she might have seen something? Did she mention anything like that?”

  “No. She
said she liked to take walks along the lane by the pigs, but that was all.”

  “And?”

  “Seth,” Meg said slowly, “I’m wondering why she didn’t come forward and talk to Art, or Marcus. She said she walked that way regularly, so she probably did the day Sam died—it was a nice day, right? Even if she hadn’t seen him or anyone else, she should have mentioned it, because it could narrow the time line down. Art might not have thought about it, and am I right in thinking that Marcus wouldn’t know how all the lanes connect around here? So he could have addresses for neighbors, but if he looks at a map, he’d have seen that Mrs. Goldthwaite’s house is maybe a mile or two away from where Sam was found. And the farm lane wouldn’t show up on the map, so he might not know it went all the way through.”

  Seth wasn’t looking at her, but staring at the path at his feet. “I’m with you so far. But what are you saying? That Mrs. Goldthwaite had something to do with Sam’s death? Because she didn’t say anything?”

  “This is where it feels like I’m out on a limb. But follow my thinking. One, I just found out from Gail that Mrs. Goldthwaite was born and raised in the former Stebbins house, now Nicky and Brian’s place. Two, she’s set in her ways and doesn’t like modern changes. She’s argued publicly against the restaurant.”

  “I’d forgotten that she grew up there—before my time,” Seth mused. “Go on.”

  “So Mrs. Goldthwaite doesn’t want to see a restaurant in her childhood home. Say she goes out for her constitutional, as she does every day, and she comes upon Sam admiring the pigs. She’d feel that he was invading her personal territory, wouldn’t she? First he and his friends take over her former home, and now he’s in her backyard, too.”

  “Meg, where are you going with this?” Seth turned to look at her now.

  “I think you can guess. Mrs. Goldthwaite runs into Sam, whom she already hates, even though she’s never met him. He’s been stung by a bee, and he’s in shock. She would recognize that. And she’s faced with a choice: she can go for help, or she can do nothing and see if Sam recovers. If he recovers and wonders why she didn’t act, she can just claim that she got flustered.”