Bitter Harvest Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Recipes

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly

  Praise for the Orchard Mysteries

  “Meg is a smart, savvy woman who’s working hard to fit into her new community—just the kind of protagonist I look for in today’s traditional mystery. I look forward to more trips to Granford, Massachusetts!”

  —Meritorious Mysteries

  “An enjoyable and well-written book with some excellent apple recipes at the end.”

  —The Cozy Library

  “A wonderful slice of life in a small town . . . The mystery is intelligent and has an interesting twist . . .Rotten to the Core is a fun, quick read with an enjoyable heroine, an interesting hook, and some yummy recipes at the end.”

  —The Mystery Reader (4 stars)

  “Full of rich description, historical context, and mystery.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

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

  —The Mystery Gazette

  “A true cozy mystery [with] a strong and feisty heroine, a perplexing murder, a personal dilemma, and a picturesque New England setting . . . Meg Corey is a very likeable protagonist and her future in Granford hopefully guarantees some further titles in this delightful new series.”

  —Gumshoe Review

  “[An] example of everything that is right with the cozy mystery . . . [A] likable heroine, an attractive small-town setting, a slimy victim, and fascinating side elements . . . There’s 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 (4 stars)

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

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Meg Corey is a fresh and appealing sleuth with a bushelful of entertaining problems . . . One crisp, delicious read.”

  —Claudia Bishop, bestselling author of

  the Inn at Hemlock Falls Mysteries

  “[A] delightful look at small-town New England, with an intriguing puzzle thrown in.”

  —JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

  “Thoroughly enjoyable . . . I can’t wait for the next book and a chance to spend more time with Meg and the good people of Granford.”

  —Sammi Carter, author of the Candy Shop Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly

  Orchard Mysteries

  ONE BAD APPLE

  ROTTEN TO THE CORE

  RED DELICIOUS DEATH

  A KILLER CROP

  BITTER HARVEST

  Museum Mysteries

  FUNDRAISING THE DEAD

  LET’S PLAY DEAD

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  BITTER HARVEST

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Sheila Connolly.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51717-8

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA)

  Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  1

  Meg Corey surveyed the drifts of paper that covered her dining room table, and all but growled with frustration. The harvest was over—her first apple harvest, her first try at farming. Would it be her last? The apples were picked, sorted, and delivered. She’d started in January, and now in December she’d survived storms and accidents, and had learned more than she’d ever realized there was to know about apples and their cultivation. Now the question was, had she made any money, or was this just one extremely expensive hobby? One she couldn’t afford?

  In an earlier life she had been a financial analyst. She should be able to sort out the mess of receipts and invoices scattered in front of her. The problem was, she had delegated the task of analyzing the results to Briona Stewart, her orchard manager and housemate—young, untried, and eager Bree. It was Bree’s responsibility, and part of her job description, to manage the financial side of the orch
ard operations. Unfortunately, Bree might be brilliant when it came to judging when to prune and when to pick, but she was lousy at keeping records, and there were far too many bits of paper with pieces of essential information scribbled on them that Meg couldn’t begin to decipher. She was conscious of year-end looming. Sure, she could wait to file her taxes, but she wanted to keep on the good side of the IRS and the state. More important, she wanted to know whether it was worth going forward with the orchard, or whether she should cut her losses now and find some other way to make a living. If that was even possible in the current economy.

  Meg abandoned contemplating the mess of papers when she was interrupted by a knocking at her back door. She went through the kitchen to open it and was greeted by a rush of cold air and Seth Chapin: next-door neighbor, renter of part of her ramshackle outbuildings, and good friend—or more. They were still negotiating the “more” part. But he wasn’t alone; not only had he brought Max, his still-young golden retriever, but Seth also was accompanied by two goats, around whose necks he’d tied a rope so he could control them. Meg recognized the goats because they were hers.

  “Missing something?” Seth asked.

  “I hadn’t noticed. Where’d you find them?”

  “Over at my place. They just showed up and wanted to play with Max. Good thing I was home, or who knows where they might have ended up.”

  Meg shuddered as she considered the less pleasant possibilities. “Thank heaven they didn’t head across the road. Or into the woods—some idiot hunter might have decided they were small deer. Well, we’d better get these two back where they belong, and see how much damage they did on the way out. Let me grab a coat.”

  Meg reached behind the kitchen door for one of her grubby but warm down-filled jackets, pulling a hat and gloves from various pockets. “Okay, ready.” She closed the door behind her. “Dorcas, Isabel, what were you thinking?” she said, as she took one rope from Seth and led the way to the goat paddock. “I give you nice food and a shelter, and I even talk to you now and then. What more could you want?” The goats gave her sidelong glances but otherwise ignored her.

  When they reached the near side of the paddock, fenced in with sturdy posts and wire mesh around the perimeter, Meg examined the fence. “This side looks okay,” Meg said. “It’s cold out here! I thought maybe it would stay above freezing for a little while longer.”

  “This is New England—get used to it,” Seth said. “Besides, your apples are safely harvested, so you don’t need to worry about weather for a couple of months, right?”

  “If I don’t freeze to death first. That furnace is definitely not up to the job.” Meg followed Seth around the left side of the paddock, past the corner where the goat’s shed blocked her view from the house.

  “Have you had it tuned up recently?” Seth asked.

  “Uh, no. I took one look at it when I first got here in January and prayed it would survive until the spring, which it did. But this year it’s really limping along. Of course, I keep the heat cranked down, to save money. My sweater collection is growing by leaps and bounds.”

  “I’ll take a look at it once we get your goats sorted out. Ah, here’s the problem,” Seth said, pointing. Meg could see where one post was splintered at the base, near the ground, and the wire fencing was trampled down.

  “That wood doesn’t look rotten to me. To snap it off like that, the two of them had to have worked together, didn’t they?” Meg asked.

  “Maybe. Goats are smart, and determined. Here, you hang on to them and I’ll get something to shore it up. Maybe we’d better inspect the rest of the posts while we’re at it.” Seth headed off toward his workshop at the end of the long driveway.

  Meg stood with the goats’ ropes in hand and turned toward her house. She’d managed to get most of the trim painted over the past summer, but that only made the rest of the paint look shabby. The roof should be replaced sooner rather than later, but that was one expensive project she was going to put off as long as possible. Storm windows would be nice, but that was a pipe dream. Well, if her many generations of ancestors had managed to survive New England winters in this house, she could, too. She’d just have to toughen up.

  Seth emerged from his workshop carrying several lengths of lumber and a toolbox, Max frisking around his feet. When he neared Meg he said, “I should train Max to carry my toolbox or something—he’s got far too much energy and not enough to do.”

  “That would be cute. Maybe you could put him on your business cards. Do you need me to hold anything?”

  “Just the goats, for now.”

  That was enough to keep her busy, as Dorcas and Isabel kept tugging her in different directions, wrapping the rope around her legs, and fending off Max, who really, really wanted to play. She was relieved when Seth said, “That should do it. You can stick them back in the pen now.”

  “Good.” Meg walked back to the front to let them in through the gate, and followed them in to check on their food and bedding. Everything looked okay. She scratched their heads one last time and let herself out of the gate again. “You want some coffee? Or are you busy?” she asked.

  “Coffee sounds good. And I can take a look at your furnace.”

  “Seth, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’m your tenant, sort of, so it’s in my best interest that you don’t freeze to death. Should I leave Max outside?”

  “Won’t he be cold?”

  “With his coat? No way.”

  “Fine, then. Come on in.”

  Meg led the way back into her kitchen, and while Seth stopped to secure Max to a handy hook outside her back door with a long piece of rope, she hung up her coat and put the kettle on to boil. Seth came in and started prowling around, and Meg suppressed a smile: he and Max shared the same kind of restless energy. They were a good match.

  “What are you working on?” he called out from the dining room.

  “Trying to sort out the financials for the orchard business,” she shouted back. When he returned to the kitchen she went on. “I didn’t have time during the season to keep any kind of running tally, although I probably should have. And Bree wasn’t much help—she still owes me a lot of information. I know we paid the workers what we paid them last year, but I have the feeling that’s not competitive. And I had no idea how to price my apples.”

  “Are you worried?” Seth asked, finally sitting down.

  “I really don’t know. At least I’ve still got a few dollars in the bank, but I don’t know what late invoices are lurking, and I know we haven’t been paid for some of the last deliveries.” Meg busied herself making coffee, then set a mug in front of Seth and sat down with her own. “Don’t laugh, but I really thought I’d have some more time to work on my family history, and to do some of the cataloging I promised the Historical Society. Silly me.”

  “They’ll wait—they’ve waited this long. Any word from your folks lately?”

  “We talked over Thanksgiving weekend. They send their regards.”

  “I hope they’ll be back up this way sometime soon.”

  “Wasn’t that one visit enough of a disruption for you? But I’m sure we’ll see them again soon. And it was lovely of Rachel to have me and Bree over for Thanksgiving dinner.” Seth’s sister and her family ran a bed-and-breakfast in a ramshackle Victorian house in Amherst, and Meg, Bree, and even Bree’s boyfriend Michael had all joined Seth and his mother at Rachel’s feast. “She’s such a great cook—I’m jealous.”

  “She’d be happy to give you some tips.”

  Meg laughed. “I’m sure she would, but I just don’t have the time. Maybe once I get these numbers lined up I’ll feel better. Right now it’s nagging at me.”

  Meg’s cat Lolly strolled in and sniffed at her half-full dish, then looked plaintively up at her. “No, silly,” Meg said. “Finish what you’ve got.” She turned back to Seth. “You have any big projects planned?”

  “Not at the moment. Most people don’t want to
work on their houses during the holiday season—it’s either before, so they can show off to the relatives, or after, when the relatives have said nasty things about how shabby their place looks. Speaking of which, let me check out that furnace.” He stood up and plunged down the rickety wooden stairs to the cellar before Meg had time to protest.

  She shivered. Even in the kitchen it was cold. Lolly seemed to agree, because she jumped into Meg’s lap and curled up in a tight ball, her tail over her nose. “So it’s not just me, huh?” She could hear Seth clanking and banging around beneath her feet. That furnace had to be at least thirty years old, maybe more. The last owners of the house had been a pair of maiden sisters who’d been born in the house and lived in it their entire lives—and hadn’t changed anything, as far as Meg could tell. She had a vision of them weathering each winter, adding layers one at a time to keep warm—and probably going to bed as soon as the sun set, in order to conserve heat. When Meg’s mother had inherited the place, she’d continued the long tradition of neglect, renting the house out to a series of tenants. Had they ever complained about the cold? Meg wondered.

  Seth came clomping back up the stairs and dropped into a chair. When Meg cocked an eyebrow at him, he said, “It’s not good. Your firebox is cracked.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “It means you’re losing heat, and possibly leaking fumes.”

  Meg sighed: one more problem, and an expensive one, no doubt. “Do I have to do something right this minute? It won’t explode or anything, will it?”