Sour Apples Read online

  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.”

  —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.”

  —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 likable 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.”

  —RT Book Reviews (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

  SOUR APPLES

  Museum Mysteries

  FUNDRAISING THE DEAD

  LET’S PLAY DEAD

  FIRE ENGINE DEAD

  eSpecials

  DEAD LETTERS

  Sour

  Apples

  Sheila Connolly

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, 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.

  SOUR APPLES

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

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Sheila Connolly.

  Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher.

  Cover design by Annette Fiore Defex.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  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: 978-1-101-58131-5

  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.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  Acknowledgments

  Anyone who has ever worked on a political campaign knows the heady feeling of excitement and enthusiasm it generates. I’ve been part of a few, and I know how deeply committed volunteers can become. I still rank my first campaign experience as one of the most exciting and intense periods of my life—even though my candidate lost.

  But it’s that intensity that raises the question: how far would someone go to get elected? That’s what inspired this book. None of the characters portrayed is based on any real person, and I did not know that there would be an open congressional seat in the Massachusetts First District, where Granford is located, when I wrote it.

  Both of my grandfathers were dairy farmers at some point in their lives, and my mother’s father always favored Guernseys for their rich milk, so I had to include a few in my Granford herd. Barb Goffman won the right to name the starring cow Cyndi, with the highest bid at the 2011 Malice Domestic Auction.

  The other major factor in the story is the remediation of a polluted piece of land owned by the town of Granford. Massachusetts has long been scrupulous about enforcing regulations regarding environmental hazards, for both homes and industrial sites. While as the owner of an older home with layers of lead paint and antiquated plumbing and wiring I may grumble, I applaud the principle. I created the contaminated Granford site based on one event with which I had a personal connection: the remediation of a nineteenth-century paint factory site on the Wellesley College campus. I participated in archeological excavations of the site when I was an undergraduate there—before anyone even thought about the toxins left behind by that
factory—so I followed the reports of the site treatment with interest. To its credit, the college made all reports public, at every stage of the remediation, showing clearly that it was a long and complicated process.

  As always, thanks go to my tireless agent, Jessica Faust at BookEnds, and to my amazing editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez at Berkley Prime Crime, who manages to keep my plots coherent. I salute Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America for guiding writers through the turbulent publishing industry as it changes weekly. I also thank my blog buddies who generously share information, sympathy, and encouragement, and I wave a fin at the SinC Guppies, the best support group any mystery writer could have.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Recipes

  1

  Meg Corey walked to the edge of the orchard, stopping where the land sloped downward to her house below, and turned to study her trees. It was March and just over a year since she had first arrived in Granford to take up residence in a house she’d seen only once before in her life, and she almost laughed now to remember just how naïve she had been at the time. Of course, she had also been kind of stunned by the turns her life had suddenly taken back then: no job, no boyfriend, no place to call home. So Meg had blindly followed her mother’s suggestion to park herself in Granford, a tiny town in western Massachusetts, while she figured out her next move. Her mother, Elizabeth Corey, might even have used the words “find yourself.” Meg hadn’t had the energy either to argue with her mother or to come up with a better idea, so she had moved into the drafty old house, which lacked insulation and adequate heating, in the midst of a cold New England winter. She’d been miserable.

  What a difference a year had made! Meg hadn’t even known there was an apple orchard on the property when she arrived, and now it was her livelihood. She could look at it and tell what tasks needed to be done now that it was early spring, before buds and leaves and apples began to form. She’d harvested a decent crop in the fall, despite a rather scary summer hailstorm, and had sold the apples for a profit. They’d had a string of good weather this month and had taken advantage of it to do housekeeping chores in the orchard—picking up the pruned twigs, turning over the soil as soon as it thawed. As Meg watched, Briona Stewart, her young orchard manager and housemate, appeared in the orchard lugging a bundle of prunings from the trees. There was always something to be done: broken limbs had to be propped up or heartlessly sawn off, fertilizer had to be applied before growth began, and there was the cycle of spraying—nontoxic!—to be factored in. Bree added her trimmings to a growing pile; there were people around the area who liked to use apple wood to scent their fires, and if they were willing to pay a couple of bucks for a bundle of discards, who was Meg to argue with them? Last year’s weeds had been cleared away, and everything looked neat and trim. Meg felt an unexpected surge of excitement. What kind of crop could she hope for this year? She still didn’t know her trees well enough to tell; she was still learning to distinguish among the modern stock and the scattered heirloom varieties that were increasing in popularity, at least in this rarified gourmet patch of western Massachusetts. But she had learned so much in only a year!

  Meg had also decided she liked living in Granford—certainly well enough to stay for a second year, and maybe even longer. She was beginning to feel like the town, whose population hovered around thirteen hundred people, was home; she’d found friends and neighbors…and Seth Chapin, who was both of those and more, although they were both still shy of sticking a label on whatever they shared. She was, she dared to think, happy.

  She waved at Bree, who waved back, then Meg turned around to admire her house. It was a sturdy white Colonial with some ramshackle extensions added over the more than two centuries since it had been built by members of the Warren family—her ancestors. Now she knew who they were, had traced the adze marks on the hand-hewn timbers, and could say, “My great-great…grandfather did that, he and his sons.” They’d built to last, and here she was, trying to keep the place intact. Structurally it was sound, but she’d had to replace the plumbing and the heating systems in the past year, and she was going to have to work hard to pay off those charges on her groaning credit card. This year she really had to think about getting the roof replaced, and the trim cried out for a coat of paint. But that would all come after the orchard work.

  Originally the house had faced the large barn, presumably with space—or chicken coops or pig pens or privies—between, but since this was New England, some of her forebears had built a series of connecting structures between the house and barn so they could reach the barn without freezing off various essential body parts. Nearest was an open shed, where she and Bree parked their cars and stacked firewood—and junk. Next was a more substantial two-story building that a hundred years earlier had been a carpenter’s shop and which now housed Seth Chapin’s building renovation business. His office was on the second floor, and the first floor—and a portion of the adjoining barn—were filling up with his miscellaneous building supplies and salvage. Seth was definitely a hoarder when it came to architectural bits and pieces, but Meg had to admit that the mantels and doors he picked up from who knows where looked far too good to send to the dump, and she was sure he would find them all a good home eventually.

  She spied Seth standing in the middle of the driveway, talking to a woman she didn’t recognize. Meg began to make her way down the hill, watching her footing. A warm March meant mud, and she’d learned better than to come up the hill in anything but sturdy muck boots. That lesson had come after more than one slide on her backside.

  It took her a minute or two to reach the two of them, and they were so engrossed in what looked like a rather heated conversation that they didn’t even notice her approach. She hesitated to interrupt but then reminded herself that they were standing on her property and she had every right to be there. “Hi, Seth,” she called out from a few feet away.

  Their conversation stopped abruptly, and both turned to look at her. Meg had been right: she didn’t know the woman. She was closer to forty than thirty, and if it had been another era Meg would have labeled her a hippie who had wandered down from Vermont: her clothes were an odd mix of whimsical and practical, and her long fair hair was held back by a faded bandanna. Meg noticed that under her long cotton skirt, the woman also wore muck boots much like Meg’s own. She looked peeved at having been interrupted.

  “Hi, Meg,” Seth answered. He didn’t seem anywhere near as rattled as the woman, but it took a lot to rattle Seth Chapin. “Do you know Joyce Truesdell? Joyce, this is Meg Corey—she owns this place.”

  “I don’t think we’ve met. Hi, Joyce—I’d shake, but my hands are kind of dirty.”

  Joyce smiled reluctantly. “So are mine—probably worse. I’m a dairy farmer. Let’s take it as a given.” Having observed the social conventions, Joyce turned back to Seth. “Look, Seth, this is my livelihood. If that land is making my cows sick, it’s on the town’s head. I’ve got the results of the blood work already, and I sent soil samples off to the lab at the university for testing at the same time, and I expect those results any day now. If I find out that the land is tainted, when you and t
he town swore it was fine, you’re going to hear about it.”

  “Joyce, I know you’re upset,” Seth said patiently, “but I swear, this is the first I’ve heard about your problem. Let me do some research and I’ll get back to you in a couple of days. You know as well as I do that the town records are stashed all over town, and it may take me a while to track down what we need to look at. But I will get back to you, one way or the other. The town must have pulled the records when they leased the land to you. I’ll find them.”

  Joyce sighed. “I know you will—you’re one of the few people I can trust to keep his word. I know this isn’t your fault, but it’s so damn frustrating. Just when I think I’m getting a little bit ahead, something starts making my cows sick! I can’t seem to catch a break. Remind me again why I got into this business?”

  “Because you like milk?” Seth joked.

  “I like cows. They don’t talk back,” Joyce responded. “Call me when you know anything. Nice to meet you, Meg—I’ve been meaning to introduce myself for a while, but I never seem to have any free time.”

  “I know the problem. Good to meet you, too, Joyce.”

  Joyce stomped off to her aged pickup truck. The door had a logo on it, something with a cow. Silently, Meg and Seth watched Joyce pull away.

  “What was that about?” Meg finally asked.

  “If you offer me a cup of coffee, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s not hush-hush. If anything, it’s a public matter, involving her land, or rather, the land she leases from the town.”

  “Coffee I can do. I might even have some cookies, if Bree hasn’t eaten them all. But she does work hard, so I guess she earns them. She certainly burns it off.”

  Meg led Seth through the back door into the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. Seth dropped into one of the chairs at the well-scrubbed round oak table in the middle of the room. “How’re things coming?” he asked.

  “Looking good, I think, and Bree agrees. The trees held up pretty well over the winter, even with all the snow we had. She’s doing an inventory now, but she didn’t seem too worried. Sometime in here I’m going to have to decide if I want to expand—if I put in new trees now, it’s still going to be a few years before they bear.”