Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery) Page 8

  Meg wondered if his real question was whether she planned to bail on the orchard when and if she found another job in the city. “That’s what I grew up thinking I was supposed to do. I don’t personally know anyone who said, ‘I want to be a farmer.’ I know more people are turning to that now, like in Vermont, or are starting up artisanal cheese-making or organic farms, but it’s still a minority. Maybe it will change. It probably should. Too many kids now don’t know how to do anything that doesn’t involve a keyboard or a touch pad. They have no idea where their food comes from. As for me, I can point to about ten generations of my ancestors who worked right here on this farm. They raised their families here. They were part of the town. Sure, it was hard and uncertain—we all know how fast the weather can change around here—but they weren’t looking for the easy way out, and they weren’t afraid of work. I can’t promise I’ll be doing this forever, but I’m happy to be doing this now.”

  The men around the table smiled, and raised their bottles to her. Meg could feel herself blushing. “Hey, I didn’t plan to make a speech. Everybody ready for cake?”

  Once the cake had been doled out, the gathering broke up pretty quickly. After all, they all had to be up early for work in the orchard the next morning. Meg felt cautiously pleased by the results of her dinner. She knew a little bit more about each of the men, and she hoped they felt a little more comfortable with her. One step at a time, anyway.

  “You going up? Or is Seth coming over?” Bree asked, one foot on the stairs leading to her room.

  “He said he’d be here eventually. You go ahead. And thanks, Bree. I think the evening went well.”

  “Yeah, the guys seemed to like it. The beer helped. I know it’s hard to get to know people, especially under these conditions. Heck, they don’t know me much better than they know you. I might have the right skin color and history, but I still have to keep fighting the image that I’m a snotty kid who went to an American college and now bosses them around.”

  “Well, hang in there. Good night.”

  Meg dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and watched Bree climb the stairs. She should go upstairs, too, but right now all she wanted to do was sit. Funny how even in a town as small as Granford there were two separate and distinct layers: the local townspeople and the itinerant pickers who worked for them. The townspeople were not notable for their ethnic diversity, but that wasn’t unusual in the more rural areas of Massachusetts. But how did the pickers manage to stay so invisible? She never saw them shopping at the market or buying pizza or filling up a gas tank. She never saw them anywhere at all, other than at work, for that matter. Was that by choice? And if so, whose?

  Seth came in while Meg was still thinking, or maybe dozing, upright in the chair. He helped himself to a bottle of water from the fridge before sitting in the chair across from her. “How’d it go?”

  “Good, I think. Maybe I broke the ice. At least I didn’t make things any worse. How about you?”

  “Work starts again in the morning. I was surprised Marcus let things go so easily—he could have fouled things up for the Historical Society if he’d wanted to.”

  “He’s a pain, but he’s not a bad guy—and he doesn’t have any reason to make trouble, does he? At least he won’t be back. You ready to go up to bed?”

  Seth drained the bottle of water. “Now I am.”

  Meg held out a hand to him. “Then let’s go—tomorrow will be another crazy day.”

  9

  Meg was considering creating a little shrine to the Roman goddess Pomona, protector of orchard trees. She needed all the help she could get, and a goddess seemed like a handy ally to have. Apparently Pomona’s festival day was on August 13, which corresponded neatly to when the first few of Meg’s apple varieties ripened and were ready to pick. Trust a woman to look after the gritty details of day-to-day management while the male gods were off fighting huge battles somewhere else.

  “How’re we doing?” Meg asked Bree over a late lunch the next day.

  “Overall, not bad. Yield’s down about ten percent from last year, but after that spell of dry weather we had it could have been a lot worse. We’re about halfway through picking the Cortlands, and I’d give the Empires another week. And we’re going to be real busy in October.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Bree said, “and I’ve already told the crew. But why are you asking? Are you plotting something?”

  “Me?” Meg was startled by the question. “No. It’s just that Seth’s flat out with about six different building projects scattered all over, and this business with the skeleton has put him behind on the Historical Society one, although not by much. Detective Marcus signed off on it in what must be record time for him, although there was no way to argue that it was a recent death. I was thinking I’d go over there this afternoon and see if they’ve made any progress.”

  “Wonder if anybody will be able to figure out who it was, this long after,” Bree said.

  “It’s early days yet, and Gail will be looking more closely at the history of the site. But at least I have zero expectations that he’ll turn out to be either a Warren or a Chapin.” Although in a town this small, Meg reflected, anything was possible.

  “Never say never,” Bree said darkly, echoing Meg’s thoughts. “Well, if you want to run over there, I give you my blessing.”

  Apparently Pomona was smiling upon her. “Thank you so much!” Meg replied sarcastically. “Hey, did I tell you about Gail’s new shadow? He’s a high school kid who’s working on a Scout merit badge, or two, or maybe a dozen—he seems really eager—and Gail said she’d mentor him. Talking to him, I realized that I’m completely out of touch with teenagers or high school students today.”

  “I hope you’re not asking me for advice.” Bree laughed. “Meg, I haven’t been in high school for years, you know. And I don’t think I was exactly typical when I was there. Why do you even care?”

  “Because Jeffrey seems like a nice boy, smart and eager to help—”

  “That’s what Boy Scouts are,” Bree interrupted.

  Meg ignored her. “But he also seems kind of, I don’t know, vulnerable? Innocent?”

  “You’re saying he’s a wimp,” Bree said bluntly.

  “Well, maybe. I hate to label him, and maybe I’m reading too much into what I’ve seen of him, but he does seem like a loner, or maybe somebody who just doesn’t fit in. Maybe that’s why he got into Scouts to begin with. Maybe he was looking for friends, or for a group that would welcome him, or at least accept him.” Or maybe his parents pushed him into it because they thought it would help, Meg added to herself.

  “Why is this kid your problem?” Bree asked again.

  “He’s not, really. It’s just that I like him, and I’m worried about him, but I’m so out of touch with kids that age that I don’t know what the range of normal is these days.” If there is such a thing as normal among teenagers.

  Bree stood up and took her plate over to the sink. “Meg, give it a rest. You’ve got plenty to worry about without looking for problems. He’ll figure his life out without you sticking your nose in it.”

  “I hear you, o wise one.” Maybe her tone was facetious, but Meg was willing to admit that Bree had her head firmly attached to her shoulders and was probably right. “Still, maybe I’ll take a run over and see what’s happening on the green.”

  “Go ahead. You cooking tonight?”

  “I guess. Thanks for pitching in last night—at least the cleanup was easy. Hey, I haven’t seen much of Michael lately.” Meg liked Bree’s activist boyfriend Michael, though like Jeffrey, he tended to be awkward in social situations.

  “Michael and I aren’t joined at the hip. I’m busy.” Bree’s tone didn’t invite any further comments. “See you later.” She strode out the back door.

  Once again, not your business, Meg told herself
. Bree and Michael’s kind of offhand relationship seemed to work for them, so she had no right to comment. She decided to grab a shower and change clothes before going into town.

  It was past two when Meg arrived at the town green and parked in the church parking lot on the hill. The “new” church, she reminded herself: built in 1821, to replace the “old” church, or rather, meetinghouse, now the Historical Society, built in the 1760s. Time in New England wasn’t like time in most other parts of the country, where there was nothing so old. On the other hand, compared to Europe, Granford was a baby. As Meg strolled down the hill toward the Historical Society, she counted the vehicles: far fewer than the day before.

  Gail was watching the lack of activity anxiously. “Oh, hi, Meg. There’s not a lot to see today, if that’s why you’re here. Miranda is doing her thing back at the university, and she said she’d report her results to me ASAP. But she’s got a couple of classes this term, so who knows when she’ll have time for our poor skeleton? I wish the weekend weren’t interrupting this.” She waved her hand at the torn-up site.

  Meg laughed. “Hey, most people are happy when the weekend rolls around. Why the rush here? Will the builders come in over the weekend?”

  “You’d have to ask Seth. If they’ll do it without charging triple-time or something, I’d be ecstatic, but I won’t count on it. I know we’ve got a ridiculous timetable, but I always expect the worst, like earthquakes or a plane falling out of the sky. I didn’t figure on something like a body, though, even if he is two hundred and something years old.”

  “I know what you mean,” Meg said. “I worry about hail and hurricanes and droughts and tornadoes, none of which I can control.” She looked around. “Is Jeffrey here today?”

  “He was here in the morning, but he said he had some classes he couldn’t miss, so he left. He’ll probably be back after school lets out for the day.” Gail checked her watch. “Shoot—my kids’ll be home any minute now. You can hang around, Meg, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh, before you go, can you tell me whether I have to ask permission or get a permit or something, if I’m going to have a table at the Harvest Festival?”

  “Talk to Heather Nash at the library—she’s handling that. See you later!” Gail hurried off to her car.

  Might as well get one small thing accomplished, Meg thought, turning toward the library at one end of the green. She’d been inside the charming neoclassical structure that housed the library maybe once or twice, looking for information on her Granford ancestors, but even upon a cursory glance it was clear that they’d outgrown their space long ago. The staff must be thrilled by the possibilities offered by a much larger new space. Meg was embarrassed that she hadn’t even known that there was a new library under construction until Seth had mentioned it, nor did she know anything about when it would open. She’d have to ask Seth for more details.

  She crossed the road carefully, and pulled open the main door to the current library. A pleasant-looking woman about her own age behind the desk looked up and smiled immediately. “You’re Meg Corey.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Meg, a little startled as always when the locals knew who she was. “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Heather Nash, at your service. I’m the library director. What can I do for you today?”

  “Oh, perfect, you’re exactly the person I was looking for. I wanted to ask about reserving a table at the Harvest Festival. Gail Selden said I should talk to you. Do I need to sign up or something?”

  “Sure do, but we’ve got plenty of space. Are you going to be selling something?”

  “Uh, maybe? I thought I’d sell apples, and I can guarantee they’ll be freshly picked. If that’s all right? I’m sorry to be ignorant of the whole process, but I’ve been so busy picking, I haven’t had time for much else. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.”

  “No problem.” Heather smiled. “Mostly the event is an opportunity to chat with the neighbors and swap useless items from your garage or attic. Which then get swapped back the next year. It’s fun. If you have anything you’re looking to get rid of, I can tell you who to take it to.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

  Heather fished through a stack of folders under the reception desk and came up with a piece of paper. “Here’s the form. Just go ahead and fill it out. We’ll provide the table and a canopy over it, and a chair, and you bring whatever else you want, like a table cover, and a sign if you have one. We’re pretty informal. Oh, here’s a pen.” She handed the pen to Meg and stepped back, clearly waiting for her to fill it out, so Meg obliged.

  When she handed it back, Meg said, “The plans for the new library sound great. You must be looking forward to it.”

  “Sure. But I’ll miss this old place, even if it’s too small. And impossible to wire for all the modern stuff everybody expects these days. Andrew Carnegie didn’t see that coming!”

  “So it’s a Carnegie library?” Meg knew about the libraries funded by rich Scottish businessman Andrew Carnegie, and had in fact grown up near one, as her mother had pointed out every time they drove past it. In fact, she seemed to recall that Carnegie’s money had paid for nearly half the libraries in the country at one time, so she shouldn’t have been surprised to find one in Granford.

  “It is. Opened November 1917, although Granford had a library even before that, up in part of town hall. The land we sit on was given by a descendant of one of Granford’s earliest settlers.”

  “Not a Warren?” Meg asked.

  “Nope. Not a Chapin either. By the way, congrats. Seth’s a great guy.”

  “Thanks, I know.” Meg grinned. “So what’s going to happen with this building when you guys move out? I hope nobody’s going to tear it down and build a gas station or something.”

  “No way! But I don’t think it’s been decided yet. By the way, did you hear what they found over at the Historical Society?”

  “You mean under it? Yeah, I was there when they found him. How do you suppose the body ended up there?”

  “Hard to say, this long after the fact,” Heather commented.

  “There’s a student from the high school who might be looking into it. Jeffrey Green? Do you know him?”

  “Jeffrey? Sure. Nice kid, real quiet. He’s in here a lot. If he can’t find what he needs here, he uses the college libraries.”

  “He’s the one who first noticed the shards of skull during the excavation at the Historical Society,” Meg said.

  “Oh, wow. I hadn’t heard that. Though Gail did tell me about the big shot anthropologist she called in—I think she’s over there today.”

  “That’s where I’m headed next. By the way, did Gail ask you to store any of the Historical Society’s records here?”

  Heather laughed. “Where would we put them? Maybe she’s the one who should take over this place when we move—at least then all the records would be in one place. Of course, she’d have to fix the roof . . . Why?”

  “Just curious. I’ve been working on cataloging some of them, on and off since last winter, when I have the time. Mostly whatever includes anything about my Warren family. Now she’s talking about giving me some more. Since my house and the meetinghouse over there are about the same age, I’m wondering whether there’s anything useful about the dead man. You know, purely local records, the sort that would never have left town. The problem is, it’s hard to find those kinds of records at the moment since they’re scattered all over town.”

  “One step at a time. If Jeffrey comes by I can help him look at what we’ve got, and if he comes up dry maybe we can look for the other records.” A mother with a couple of young children came in. “Oops, story hour,” Heather said. “Gotta go. Nice to finally meet you, Meg—I hope I’ll see you at the Festival.”

  Outside again, Meg crossed the street and walked along the edge of the green. On the
other side, there was a lot of activity, but it was different from yesterday’s. Meg recognized Miranda, who appeared to be directing traffic in the form of a gaggle of college-aged kids. Even from a distance, Meg could hear her barking orders.

  “Easy with that! Kaitlyn, don’t dump that dirt so fast. We don’t want to miss the little stuff. Dylan, watch your head. Who’s doing the drawings?”

  Meg smiled at Miranda’s obvious enthusiasm. She crossed the green but stopped short of the building, reluctant to get in the way. However, Miranda noticed her.

  “Hey—Meg, right? You come to work or to gawk?”

  “A little of each, I guess. Find anything interesting?”

  “Nothing incriminating. The poor guy didn’t seem to be wearing anything made of metal.”

  “But he was wearing something?” Meg hadn’t even contemplated the idea of a body being buried naked.

  “Sure, but all that’s left are a few scraps of fabric now.”

  “Anything unusual about the body itself?” Meg asked, almost in spite of herself.

  “You mean like six toes or a healed fracture? I didn’t see anything obvious like that, but I haven’t had time to really study the bones. I can tell you that it was an older man, kinda short—but so was everyone back then—and it looks like he died from natural causes. Advanced tuberculosis. I’ll know more when I’ve completed the autopsy, but I thought it was more important to finish up here first.”

  “You can identify tuberculosis in a skeleton?” Meg asked. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. TB can spread to both the bones and the bone marrow, and it ain’t pretty,” Miranda said. “Sorry to cut this short, Meg, but the diggers want to get back to digging with something larger than a teaspoon, so I need to finish up here. Shouldn’t really be a problem, since there’s so little here. A very clean grave, if you will.”