Called Home (An Orchard Mystery)

by Sheila Connolly

  Praise for the Orchard Mysteries by Sheila Connolly

  “There is a delightful charm to this small-town regional cozy. . . . Connolly provides a fascinating whodunit filled with surprises.”

  —The Mystery Gazette

  “A true cozy [with] a strong and feisty heroine, a perplexing murder, a personal dilemma, and a picturesque New England setting.”

  —Gumshoe Review

  “There’s a depth to the characters in this book that isn’t always found in crime fiction. . . . Sheila Connolly has written a winner for cozy mystery fans.”

  —Lesa’s Book Critiques

  “A warm, very satisfying read.”

  —Romantic Times (Four Stars)

  “The premise and plot are solid, and Meg seems a perfect fit for her role.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A wonderful slice of life in a small town. . . . The mystery is intelligent and has an interesting twist.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  Books by Sheila Connolly

  from

  Berkley Prime Crime

  Orchard Mysteries

  One Bad Apple

  Rotten to the Core

  Red Delicious Death

  A Killer Crop

  Bitter Harvest

  Sour Apples

  Museum Mysteries

  Fundraising the Dead

  Let’s Play Dead

  Fire Engine Dead

  Called Home

  Sheila Connolly

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Sheila Connolly

  Material excerpted from Sour Apples copyright © 2012 by Sheila Connolly

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-08-0

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  “Called Home”

  Meg Corey stood in front of the sink and stretched, trying to work the kinks out of her back. And her neck. And almost everywhere else. God, she was tired. And filthy, too: there was grime in all her creases, and at least three colors of paint under her fingernails.

  What do you think you’re doing, Meg? Trying to rehab a battered colonial house in the wilds of western Massachusetts, with no experience in renovation—and apparently little talent for it. But it hadn’t been her idea. She had enjoyed her job as a financial analyst at a large Boston bank, and she had been good at it. So if she was so smart, why had the takeover by an out-of-state bank been such a surprise to her? And why had she thought her job would be one of the ones that the new management would spare? She was indispensable, and she had seniority, right?

  Wrong. The new bank had moved in, and she was out. They had offered her a nice severance package, and even volunteered to keep up her medical benefits—for a while. As partings went, this one wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The problem was, she hadn’t ever given any thought to what she might do if she wasn’t crunching numbers all day. And it was a lousy time to be looking for a new job in banking.

  It had been her mother’s idea to fix up the house she had inherited but hadn’t seen for decades. After a couple of weeks, Meg had begun to wonder just how much her mother hated her. The kindest thought she could muster was that her mother had sadly underestimated the work that it would take to get this place ready for sale. Worse, in the current real estate market, she might have trouble giving it away—never mind selling it for a profit.

  Meg shivered. It was January: the average temperature for the month hovered in the single digits, and the bulky furnace was old and feeble. Its puffs of tepid air stirred up dust but did little to warm her.

  And she had a cold, or maybe it was the flu, because she felt achy and feverish and dizzy, not to mention extremely sorry for herself. She looked out again over the gently sloping landscape with its snowy billows and marveled at how well the bleak view matched her mood. Would she still be here in summer, or would someone find her frozen corpse in a few months?

  “The midges will be hellish come summer.”

  Why did I think of that, Meg wondered idly—and then she froze. She hadn’t: she had heard it. But that wasn’t possible—there wasn’t anyone else in the house. Was there?

  “Pretty is as pretty does, but the land’s useless.”

  Meg felt her heart accelerate. She had definitely heard that. She turned around slowly.

  A woman stood on the opposite side of the room. She was somewhere between thirty and forty, about Meg’s height, brown hair drawn back in a loose bun. No makeup, no jewelry. A long dress in some kind of dark sprigged calico, with a white apron over it. And . . . she was kind of transparent: Meg could see the pattern on the wallpaper behind her. Great, she really was losing it. Did her dwindling health insurance cover psychiatric treatment?

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked. If she was crazy, she might as well go with it.

  Now it was the woman’s turn to stare. “You heard me?”

  Meg nodded. “Yes. You said the midges would be hellish, and the land was useless.”

  Meg could have sworn that the transparent woman grew paler. “Dear heaven above! Oh, did you hear that?”

  “Yes,” Meg replied impatiently. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my kitchen?”

  The woman smoothed her apron with both hands. “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten my manners—it’s been that long. I’m Deborah Warren, and it was my kitchen long before it was yours.”

  Okay, she was looking at a ghost. “I need to sit down,” Meg said faintly, and dropped into a chair at the scarred pine table in the center of the kitchen. “You’re dead.”

  Deborah remained standing. “It would appear so, yet here I am.”

  “Sit down,” Meg commanded. “I don’t want to stare up at you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have no control over . . . real things.”

  Meg felt around under the table with her feet until she found the rungs of the chair opposite and pushed it away from the table. “There. Sit. Please.”

  The woman sat, her hands folded neatly on the table before her. Meg shut her eyes, but when she opened them, the woman was still there. She shook her head, but it didn’t help. Add “haunted” to the list of things her mother hadn’t mentioned about the house.

  Deborah’s low-pitched voice interrupted her thoughts. “Forgive me if I startled you, but no one has heard me before.”

  “And how long would that be?”

  “I was laid in the burying ground in 1823. Or perhaps I should say, my body
was.”

  “That’s”—Meg did her own mental calculations—“almost two hundred years ago.”

  Deborah looked surprised. “Has it been that long? It has been hard to follow—my days are so much the same.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since you, uh, died?” Meg asked.

  “Yes. It seems I cannot pass from within these walls.”

  “Good Lord.” Meg paused. “I think I need a drink.” She stood up and searched through her cupboards for a clean glass and the bottle of scotch she had been saving. She poured herself a healthy shot and took the glass back to the table.

  After a long swallow, she looked Deborah squarely in the face—or as much as she could see of it—and raised her glass. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.” The drink steadied Meg, or at least slowed the whirling in her head. All right, you’re having a conversation with someone who’s been dead for nearly two centuries. Where do you start? “You said your name was Deborah Warren? I understand that this place has been called the Warren house—any relation?”

  “I should think so. The house was built by my husband’s grandfather.”

  “And you lived here?”

  “After I married Samuel, yes.”

  “And died here?”

  “I did.”

  “In this house?”

  “Where else?”

  Of course, Meg knew that in the nineteenth century most people had died at home rather than in a hospital, but still . . . most of them didn’t seem to hang around afterward. “Then what? Wait a minute—how did you die? Illness? Childbirth?”

  The apparition smiled faintly. “I had no troubles with birthing four children. No, it was a sudden illness that took me in a few days.”

  “But you never left.” Meg really wanted to find some reason for Deborah’s continued presence, and an ordinary illness hardly seemed to merit this peculiar immortality.

  “No. I left my body, and watched my family prepare it for burial and take it away, but I did not follow it.”

  “And your family stayed on here?”

  “They did. But they could not see me or hear me. Lord knows, I tried to reach them. It was not an easy thing, watching my children grow, move on.”

  “And nobody saw or heard you—until me?” Meg felt a stab of panic. She hadn’t planned on a ghost for a housemate.

  “No. I’m sorry, I did not wish to cause you distress. But it’s been so long since I could talk to anyone. Pardon, but I do not know your name?”

  Of course. No one had addressed her by name since she had arrived. “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m Margaret— Meg. Corey. Why haven’t I seen you before this? You’ve been here, right? Watching me?” Meg shivered. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  “I have, of course. But you did not see me.”

  “Then why now?”

  Deborah shook her head. “I do not know. Although perhaps you have been more troubled of late? You’ve been working quite hard, and you appear to have taken ill. You’re alone here?”

  Meg sensed a question in Deborah’s last remark. “Yes. I’m not married. I don’t have a husband, or even a boyfriend.”

  “So what brings you here, alone?”

  Good question, whatever the era. “I lost my job and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, so my mother suggested this place. She inherited it.” She wondered briefly what Deborah would make of the term “job.”

  “She is descended from the Warrens?”

  “She must be, somehow. Which I guess would make us relatives, too. Cousins of some kind. Distant cousins.” Meg took another healthy swallow from her glass and realized it was empty. Talking to a ghost and getting drunk. Meg, you’re going downhill fast. “So, tell me more. Do you ever sleep?”

  Deborah shook her head.

  Meg was boggled by the idea of endless, uninterrupted stretches of time. “Wow. And you can’t move things, or feel things?”

  “No, and not for want of trying. I can only observe and hear.”

  “And nobody sees you. So what do you do with your time?”

  “I’ve seen many people come and go here, although of late none has stayed long. I watch the seasons change,” Deborah went on. “And I remember the past.” Her voice faded.

  The shadows in the kitchen were lengthening. Meg wanted to find out more about the history of this place—and of Deborah’s own story. How often did you get to chat with someone from the nineteenth century? “You aren’t going anywhere, are you?”

  Deborah’s face twitched with a half smile. “I haven’t gone anywhere for quite some time. Oh, I see—I must be keeping you from your chores. Please, go on about your business. We can talk whenever you have the time.”

  “What, I just call and you appear? Can you disappear, come and go at will? Where do you usually hang out?”

  “I’m always here, although I do move about the house. I’m sorry—I didn’t intend to spy on you, if that is what troubles you. I would not intrude upon your privacy.”

  “I don’t mind having some company. Heck, I haven’t had time to meet anybody in the neighborhood, and the weather’s been so miserable I haven’t gone out much, except for necessities. And I’ve got plenty of questions. So, you lived here with your husband and your four kids?”

  “Goats? Oh, you mean children. I did. His parents lived in the house on the north side.”

  “What about your parents? Were they from Granford?”

  “They were, but they died when I was young. I was taken in by an aunt, until I married at sixteen. It was considered a good match.”

  Meg sensed a hesitation in Deborah’s statement. “You didn’t think so?”

  “My husband was a steady man, a hard worker, and our farms adjoined. It seemed the right thing to do.”

  If there had been so many children, Meg reflected, something must have gone right. “He must have missed you when you were gone.”

  Deborah’s eyes flickered. “He married again not long after. Our youngest child was still a babe in arms.”

  That made sense. No way a man could run a farm and care for small children, not without help. Still, it must have been hard to watch your husband with another woman, and you hardly cold in the ground. Maybe she should change the subject—but to what? “What was farm life like, in the early 1800s?”

  That seemed safe enough, and Deborah was more than willing to talk, with decades of pent-up words. Meg listened while she made a sketchy dinner of canned chicken soup and toast, which was about all she could handle. Her fever seemed to rise as darkness fell. She hoped she wasn’t getting really sick: she didn’t know a doctor in the area. Maybe Deborah knew some good folk remedies. As she finished her soup, Meg realized she wasn’t listening anymore. Great, now she was being rude to a ghost. She stood up and carried her bowl over to the sink.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m bushed. I’m going to bed. But you’ll be here tomorrow, right?”

  “Bushed?”

  “Oh, right. Tired. Very tired, in fact.”

  Deborah nodded. “Ah, I see. But I will be here, if you wish to see me.”

  “Good night, then.” Meg trudged up her creaking stairs, brushed her teeth, pulled on a flannel nightgown, and crawled under the layers of blankets. She was asleep before she could put a conscious thought together.

  Unfortunately that sleep lasted only an hour or two. Meg woke up to total dark, feverish again, the damp sheets tangled around her. She straightened the blankets, pulled them up to her chin, and let her thoughts whirl. Had she really had a conversation with a ghost at dinner? Was she sicker than she thought, and hallucinating, or was Deborah real? Were ghosts real? She had no answers.

  Why was Deborah here? Why hadn’t she gone to wherever all the other former inhabitants of this house had gone? What had held Deborah in this house?

  Unless Deborah was haunting the premises because she had been the victim of foul play. Was she an unsettled spirit, who could not rest until the mystery had been solved? Meg wasn’t sure she believed that
kind of hoo-hah. Deborah had said she died of a sudden illness, which could mean a lot of things in 1823. But what if it had been something else—something deliberate? Poison? It wouldn’t have been hard to kill someone using whatever grew in the meadows around here, right? What if someone had given her something without her knowledge?

  Whoa, Meg. This is crazy. Why would anyone have wanted Deborah Warren dead? Or maybe the proper question was, who? Her death had left four young children motherless. But hadn’t their father remarried pretty fast? Well, sure, but he had needed someone to take care of all those kids. But another nagging voice said, what if he’d gotten tired of Deborah? Having all those kids must have taken a toll on her, and maybe the grass had looked greener in the next pasture. What had the next Mrs. Warren looked like? Was she younger? Prettier?

  Meg turned over and punched her hot pillow. She was sick; she was having fever dreams of her own. She was not trying to pin a murder on the long-dead husband of her resident ghost. And why did it have to be the husband? Maybe Deborah had gotten fed up with popping out kids and working her fingers to the bone on this cold and unwilling farm and found a quick way out.

  But what if Deborah’s death wasn’t what it appeared to be? Say that Deborah was happy, but her husband wanted her out of the way. Why?

  Sex and money—those were the big motives, right? Maybe hubby lusted after the buxom blonde daughter of his next-door neighbor, but she wasn’t about to fool around with a married man. With Deborah conveniently out of the way, he had married her ASAP. Money? Deborah was an orphan, and her husband already had the land that was her dowry. But what if that land wasn’t enough, and Samuel Warren had grand schemes to corner the market on . . . what? Maybe he just pictured himself as the Big Man in Town, and he needed more land to make that happen. Had Wife Number Two brought something to the deal? Cash? Property? How could she find out?