by Tracy Donley
Murder in the Meadow
Rosemary Grey Cozy Mysteries
Tracy Donley
Summer Prescott Books Publishing
Copyright 2021 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying, or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.
* * *
**This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.
For my family.
I love you more than I can say.
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
Epilogue
Keepsakes
Worldwide Telegram
TOP SECRET!
10 July 1668
From the medical notes of Mercy Clark:
June 3, 2011
November 2019
Paperwick Founders Day Festival 2019
Police Beat Magazine
Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s Pumpkin Growing Secrets
George’s Spiced Cider
Paperwick Chronicle
Author’s Note
Contact Summer Prescott Books Publishing
1
“Hold on there a second, Dr. Grey. Are you saying there’s really a Sleepy Hollow?”
Rosemary waited for the students’ excited chatter to die down. These guest lectures at small colleges were her favorite—where she could actually look into the audience and see the sparks in the eyes of the undergraduates, could almost hear their chairs scraping the floor just a little bit as they sat up straighter upon realizing that this particular lecture would not be the dull, compulsory torture they’d expected.
“That’s right—what’s your name, please?”
“Roger,” the young man called from the middle of the small auditorium.
“That’s right, Roger. And this is one of those wonderful instances when history and literature collide. There really is a Sleepy Hollow, in upstate New York. But back in Washington Irving’s time, remember, it was known by another name.”
And here, Rosemary affected her soft, ever-so-slightly-spooky storytelling voice.
“Irving spoke of a little place, about three miles from Tarrytown, New York, ‘in a little valley, or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world.’” She almost whispered these last words.
The students were silent now—a miracle in Rosemary’s estimation.
She clicked the small remote in her hand to display a photo of a beautiful, picture-postcard New England village on the screen behind her.
“Most likely, Irving spoke of the village of North Tarrytown,” she said, gesturing toward the photo. “And named it Sleepy Hollow in his writing. And get this: It’s only a few hours away from here. I encourage you to visit there sometime—but be sure to stay overnight, so you can look out for the horseman.”
There was a mix of giggling and quiet conversation among the students.
“So today we’ve learned that studying literature from a historical perspective gives the great stories so much more depth and helps us to appreciate them in entirely new ways. We’ve learned that there really is a Sleepy Hollow. We’ve learned that there truly was an Ichabod Crane—but that it was another man entirely who actually inspired the lanky, awkward character we all know and love. And the headless horseman himself? We’ve uncovered his probable identity.”
Rosemary clicked through more slides, ending with one of an old, covered bridge.
“Did a ghostly headless horseman really gallop up to this bridge and disappear in a ‘flash of fire and brimstone’? Probably not. Probably the Dutch settlers in the area were just great storytellers. But as you leave here today and go out into the world, I would encourage you to remember that there is some bit of truth to be found in every legend.”
There was an enthusiastic round of applause as Rosemary thanked the university for hosting her. Then she gathered her papers, shoved them into her worn leather messenger bag, shook a few hands, and was off.
Out in the parking lot, Rosemary encouraged her rickety convertible to start. It was a 1979 Volkswagen Beetle in the original Alpine White, and it refused to put up with nonsense of any kind, including inclement weather, obnoxious passengers, and low-quality engine oils. “Come on, baby. It’s seventy-two degrees and the humidity’s low. Your favorite weather conditions!” She cranked the key again and the engine finally thrummed to life. “Yes! I knew you could do it!”
She’d even been able to wrestle the top down—a complicated procedure in the case of this particular Bug, involving snaps, Velcro, folding, tucking, and a lot of elbow grease. Top-down meant messy hair, but it didn’t matter. Not where Rosemary was headed. She hurriedly slipped a rubber band around her auburn curls to keep them out of her face and put the car in gear.
It was a glorious Connecticut afternoon, and as Rosemary ambled along winding roads past charming towns and villages, she smiled at the memory of buying the old convertible all those years ago. Sure, it was finicky, and only started with a bit of coaxing and the occasional threat, but on days like this, when the top came down, the car seemed like the highest luxury in the world. Was there anything better than a crisp fall day under a blue sky?
And best of all, Rosemary was on her way to visit her favorite person in the world: her best friend, Jack Stone. She and Jack had met in college and had instantly clicked. She’d been working on her undergrad in history; he, on his in literature. Their paths crossed as often as their various humanities intertwined at their university, and they had remained fast friends all the way through grad school and beyond.
Jack and his new husband Charlie had bought an old New England farmhouse, complete with a large pond, woods, an ancient, crumbling barn, and a small orchard. They’d wrapped up most of the renovations to the house about six months ago, but Rosemary had yet to see the place—or meet Charlie in person. However, since Jack’s taste was impeccable, both in décor and in people, Rosemary had no doubt she’d love both the house and Charlie.
She’d been away lecturing in England when he and Jack had married, and even though she’d seen photos and visited with Charlie on the phone a few times, her European tour had kept her from meeting him face to face. She knew he was tall, dark, and handsome, and was a bestselling novelist and an excellent cook to boot. And if Jack loved him, then so would she.
Paperwick, the village where Jack and Charlie lived, was proving to be harder to find than Rosemary had anticipated. It wasn’t on her area map—it was apparently too tiny to be taken seriously by most map makers—and so Jack had given her very precise
instructions. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no innate sense of direction, which had gotten them both lost countless times before, so after an hour of driving in circles, trying to locate “a stream right next to a large maple tree with a cute little swing hanging from one branch,” Rosemary was relieved to see a farm stand and picnic area beside the road just ahead.
She’d been seeing signs for miles: Potter Farm 10 miles ahead! A few miles later: Apple Picking at Potter Farm! A few miles after that: Don’t forget to stop in at Potter Farm today! We’ve got pie!! The perfect place to pull over, stretch her legs, have a snack, and buy a small gift to take to the guys. Plus, she could try again to decipher Jack’s directions and ask for help from the farm stand attendant.
She walked up to the little wooden structure and peeked around. It seemed to be empty—that is, there was no attendant on duty. But the shelves were packed with jams and jellies, pies, bags of cookies and maple sugar candy, and stacks and stacks of empty baskets, presumably for gathering apples. Just as Rosemary’s stomach let out an audible growl, a round little lady came hurrying along a cobbled path that ran between the stand and a beautiful old red barn whose roof was topped with a weathervane in the shape of what looked like a large cheese. A generous, triangular wedge of Swiss, to be exact.
“Hello, hello, hello!” the woman sang when she spotted Rosemary. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long. Busy day!”
Rosemary gave her a big smile but couldn’t help letting her eyes wander over the peaceful quiet of the scene and wondering exactly what ‘busy’ meant to this woman.
“I am Mrs. Potter,” she continued. “Welcome to Potter Farm, home of Potter’s Perfect Pumpkin: village festival champs for nine years running.”
“Wow,” said Rosemary. “Nine years running!” Village life—full of pumpkins and apples (and apparently, cheese), and devoid of stress and pollution and hurry. Rosemary felt her tensed shoulders relaxing at the very thought of it all.
“And we’re about to make it an even ten at this year’s festival,” Mrs. Potter continued. “But that’s neither here nor there. What can I get for you today? You look like you could use a freshly picked apple. Or how about a hot apple cider donut? I have a batch just about to come out—look! There’s my Abbey now with the basket.”
A teenaged girl walked up and set a steaming basket of donuts on the counter. She gave Rosemary a shy smile.
“Those smell amazing,” said Rosemary, her stomach growling again as if on cue.
Mrs. Potter immediately wrapped a warm donut in a napkin and handed it over.
“On the house,” she said gleefully, and waited expectantly for Rosemary to take a bite.
In fact, both Mrs. Potter and her daughter were watching in anticipation of Rosemary’s verdict, and Rosemary, who was more than happy to oblige them, blew on the donut to cool it, then took a big bite. She closed her eyes, blissfully tasting the warm sugary dough tinged with sweet apples and cinnamon.
“Is that nutmeg?” Rosemary asked. “This is honestly the best cider donut I’ve ever had!”
“Yes, that is nutmeg! The secret is that we press our own cider here at Potter Farm, from our own special apples which we grow specifically for our donuts. Can you believe it? Come on, I’ll show you!” Mrs. Potter merrily trotted off with a quick glance back at her daughter. “Abbey, man the shop!”
Rosemary had to jog to keep up with Mrs. Potter. The woman couldn’t have been five feet tall, but she was speedy.
A few short minutes later, Rosemary had to chuckle at her situation. She was standing in a corner of the Potters’ apple orchard, holding a basket up over her head as Mrs. Potter—who, as it turned out, was more agile than one would think she’d be—balanced on a ramshackle ladder and expertly pulled down a dozen apples, which she then set gently into the basket that Rosemary held.
“So, what kind of apples are these, Mrs. Potter?” Rosemary asked, glad that Jack wasn’t expecting her for another hour. She wished he was here right now. He would love this place—and besides, everything was more fun when Jack was around. When the two of them were together, they always ended up laughing. They’d laugh until they had tears running down their cheeks—about silly things, about nothing at all. Everyone, Rosemary thought, should have a friend like that. She only wished that she and Jack could spend more time together.
But, Rosemary, who had always dreamed of travelling the world, had her lecture circuit. And Jack, who had always craved the comforts of home, was married and settled. Rosemary had a condo in New York that she rarely saw. Jack had a husband. And a town he loved. And, according to his latest email, a flock of egg-laying chickens, several pygmy goats, and a couple of pigs.
For the next two weeks, Rosemary was determined to simply relax and enjoy her time with Jack and Charlie on their farm. She wouldn’t think about work or the future, she wouldn’t count a single calorie or worry about hitting a gym. She might just wear her most comfortable sweats the whole time. That is, if she could ever find Paperwick, which seemed to be lost somewhere in the state of Connecticut.
Jack, happily employed as an English Lit professor at the small university that lay in the heart of Paperwick, was also a history buff in his spare time. In fact, a borderline-nerdy love of history was one of the things he and Rosemary had bonded over early on in their friendship. So, he’d gladly taken on the role of President of the Paperwick Historical Society when it fell vacant. He had summoned Rosemary to help him with a very special project for the annual Paperwick Founders Day Festival—a project that called for a historian who specialized in 17th century American history. One who knew a lot about the New England witch trials that had happened in these parts—lesser known than the Massachusetts trials, but significant, nonetheless.
This year at the festival, Jack had hatched a plan to help raise money and boost interest in local history: The society would host a tour of the historic cemetery and the adjoining meadow—also known as the Witch’s Meadow.
Rosemary and Jack would team up to research and script the cemetery tour so that as people wandered through, they could meet the spirits of a few of those buried there and learn a little something about the history of the town along the way. The other members of the society had gladly volunteered to act as the “ghosts.” The big finale would come as participants wandered into the Witch’s Meadow, where Hortence Gallow—a woman who had been accused of witchcraft in 1668—was said to haunt the shadows to this day.
And it was Rosemary and Jack’s job to bring the whole thing to life—Rosemary, with her knowledge of history and solid research, and Jack, with his creative spirit and style, along with their mutual glee over anything spooky.
Rosemary was lost in thought about the festival—wondering if it might possibly be the same one which featured Potter’s Perfect Pumpkin—or if that was some other festival in some other village. After all, Rosemary had no idea where she was now. And the whole area was dotted with quaint villages and charming towns, most of which, Rosemary suspected, hosted autumn festivals in late October, when the tourists flooded New England to see the fall foliage. She’d been swept up in Mrs. Potter’s enthusiasm over the apple crop and hadn’t gotten around to asking for directions just yet.
Mrs. Potter nimbly descended the ladder, cheeks flushed and with a leafy twig sticking out of the bun she’d gathered on top of her head. Rosemary lowered the basket and peered inside at the nice pile of small, red-and-yellow-speckled apples.
“They smell good,” she said, reaching into the basket and picking up an apple. “And they’re so pretty.”
“We cultivated this variety many years ago. We call it Maggie’s Pride. We grafted and re-grafted until we arrived at the perfect cider apple. We mix these in with a couple of our other sweet apples and our Fall Pippin, which is a bit tart, to create the ideal balance. But Maggie’s Pride is definitely in the forefront of the flavor. She’s the star. Unfortunately, these hybrid trees are finicky. They require special attention, so they only grow in this small s
ection of the orchard.”
“Sounds like my car,” mumbled Rosemary.
Mrs. Potter looked wistfully at the trees that surrounded them and sighed with a contented smile. “Generations of Potters have looked after these trees. Maggie’s Pride is named for Mr. Potter’s great-great-great—oh, I forget how many times great-grandmother. Her father came over from England to claim this very land—well, that, and the religious freedom that came with it. He was something of a horticulturalist, always trying new things. I can just imagine him out there in the fields, harvesting those first pumpkins, rye, squash, beans, and corn.” She smiled proudly. “Anyway, we make a limited amount of our own special cider from our apples every fall—and of course, use it in the donuts. People rave about our apples all over these parts. And I’m very proud of every variety we grow. But we keep this little grove just for our own use.”
“And what are all of these other trees?” Rosemary asked, motioning toward the rest of the orchard, which stretched far out and away from where they stood.
“Oh, you know. McIntosh. Courtland. We have a group of Chestnut Crabs over that way.”
With each apple name, Mrs. Potter pointed toward clusters of trees, smiling over them as if they were her children. But if they were all her children, it was clear that she favored and spoiled Maggie’s Pride.
