“What’s that about?” Seth asked.
“Well, I’m working with these guys for a second season now, and I realized I don’t really know much about them—as people, I mean. We’re kind of between ripening of a couple of varieties, so I figured this might be a good time. And, um . . . do you mind not coming? Because I want this to be just about me and Bree and the crew.”
“Not a problem—I’ll have dinner with my mother. But see you after?”
“Of course.” Meg changed the subject. “Anything new here?”
“The ME and Gail’s friend have crawled under the building, or as much as we managed to clear out, hence the feet sticking out. They’ve been there a few minutes now. Marcus is pacing and fuming, but I’m not going to ask him how things are going. Gail is having kittens trying to keep everyone happy and take pictures. Just another normal day in Granford.”
“Your crew got a lot cleared in a short time.”
“It’s a fast process—that’s one reason why we went for it. The soil is sandy and not too compacted, so it shifted easily. The body was at least a couple of feet under.”
“What about Jeffrey?” Meg nodded toward where he stood next to Gail, watching the people under the building.
“Jeffrey seems to be having the time of his life. If you’re going to find a body, this is the best kind, I guess—it’s clean and dry, and it’s nobody you know.”
“Speaking of our mystery guest, what do you think happened back then, that this poor soul ended up buried under there? You think anybody missed this person, or wondered where he—or she—went?”
“It’s a little hard to say without some more information,” Seth pointed out. “Maybe Jeffrey can fill in some of the blanks, if he goes forward with the research. He’s a bright kid.”
Finally, the ME wiggled his way backward from under the building, followed by Miranda. They both stood up and brushed damp soil off their clothes, then Elijah Bartlett gestured to the others, gathering them in.
“I don’t want to repeat myself, so listen up, everyone. The skeleton appears to be that of an adult male. Looks like it’s possible that the rest of him is still there under the building. It’s hard to determine the cause of death, but I might—repeat, might—be able to tell you more once I get him to autopsy. But let me warn you, I have several autopsies in the queue ahead of this one, and in those cases there are grieving relatives, so they take precedence. But for your purposes, I believe I can say that he was buried where he was found, and his remains were not disturbed when the building was erected over him, so if you know that date, then you at least know how long ago he died.”
“So no criminal investigation is necessary,” Detective Marcus said. The ME shook his head.
Miranda was quick to speak up. “Since there’s no evidence of a crime here, I can do the autopsy and report back to you. If you don’t mind? And if you release the scene, Bill, I can go over it and see if there are any other artifacts that might be useful or interesting.”
“Knock yourself out, Miranda,” Detective Marcus said. “I hereby declare that the state police see no reason to investigate this site.”
“Thanks, Bill. Hey, young Jeffrey—you want to be my assistant?”
Jeffrey’s eyes lit up. “Sure, yeah, cool! I’ll ask my mom.”
“Tell her it will be a good educational experience and will look great on your college applications.”
“Awesome, that’ll help. When and where?”
“Here, and the sooner the better,” Miranda said. “I assume these good people here want to move on with their construction. Tomorrow morning, say, eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be here.”
“And wear grubby clothes, because I expect you to do a lot of the crawling and digging. I’ll bring some of my students along, as well. It’s good fieldwork for them. Gail, thanks for inviting me to the party. I’ve got to run. Will I see you in the morning, too?”
“Of course. I’m as curious as anyone about this. The poor man—I know I’d like to know who he was and why he was there. Meg, you taking off now?”
“I’d better; I’ve got plans for this evening. But I’ll stop by tomorrow sometime, if Bree will let me. Nice to meet you, Miranda, and happy hunting.”
Seth said, “I’m going to check the timetable, and I guess I can let these guys go home for the day, since Marcus doesn’t need to talk with them. And then I’ve got to do everything else I was supposed to be doing today. Like I said, I’ll go see my mom for dinner. I don’t know when I’ll get home.”
“Do what you have to do. I’m going back to the orchard.”
“See you later,” Seth said, then he and Gail walked over toward the building.
Meg wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that her role in this investigation seemed to be ending so soon. It was good that the preliminary review of the body and the site had been carried out so quickly, and that Detective Marcus was on his way back to Northampton, after releasing the site. But Meg realized that, like Gail, she wanted to know who the bones they’d found belonged to, and why he was there.
Meg sincerely hoped that Jeffrey would find out something in his research. Assuming there was anything to be found. She knew from personal experience that eighteenth-century documents were hard to come by. Unsettling and unresolved, the whole mess.
She returned home in a somber mood; thoughts of death—and, worse than death, being forgotten by everyone—weren’t exactly uplifting. She enjoyed visiting her ancestors in the nearby West Cemetery, but she viewed that more as a remembrance of them rather than mourning for them. She had never known them, nor would she, except by their works: she could run her hands over the boards and carvings that a couple of Eli Warrens, father and son, had made well over a century earlier, planed on a sawmill in the backyard, from trees cut from the family woodlot. Their work lived on in her house, and in so many other homes in Granford.
Instead of going straight inside when she arrived home, Meg walked over to the enclosed field where her two goats were grazing.
“Good afternoon, Dorcas, Isabel. You’re looking well.”
The goats looked up at her in unison, then returned to pulling grass. Meg leaned on a fence post and studied them. She’d ended up with them because their previous owner had threatened to sell them to a Greek restaurant to be turned into kebabs. Meg had quailed at that idea, and since she had the room to accommodate them, she’d brought them home. She hadn’t really given any thought to the long-term solution, and yet, here they were still. They were quiet and reasonably friendly, but they were an obligation, and they did eat. But on the other hand, they’d provided aid and comfort to her during one unpleasant episode in midwinter, so Meg thought she had something of a moral obligation to keep them. She thought from time to time about using them to provide goat’s milk for cheese, but that would require some additional work—not to mention the participation of a male goat—so she hadn’t decided anything.
But she found she had succeeded in cheering herself up.
8
When Meg came in the back door, Bree was already in the kitchen, and loaded plastic bags were scattered over the table and the countertops.
“’Bout time you showed up! I think I got everything, but I still want to marinate this chicken. You get to work on the salad, okay?”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.” Meg rummaged through bags and found several kinds of lettuce, some herbs, and colorful peppers. “Let me find my biggest bowl.”
When she returned from her hunt with the bowl, she said, “Uh, Bree, I’m going to need your help with this dinner tonight.”
“What’re you talking about? What do you think I’m doing here?”
“It’s not that. It’s that . . . I’m just not quite sure how to talk to these guys.”
“What’s the problem?” Bree didn’t look at Meg because she was busy w
hisking a marinade in a bowl.
Meg went to the sink and started rinsing lettuce. “Well, you know, I’ve been working with these guys since last year’s harvest, and you’ve worked with them even longer. But I feel like I’ve kind of cheated: I knew that there was a system in place and that you understood it, so I just figured I’d let you carry on. Not that I’m complaining, because you’ve done a great job. But I write the weekly checks, and I feel that I should know more about what’s going on. I know you’ve told me in the past that there’s a long tradition of Jamaican workers picking apples around here, but what are the details? What are the rules for working around here?”
Bree gave her a sidelong glance. “So you’re just now asking? Okay, I cut you some slack because you really were clueless last year, but you do need to know, because you’re legally responsible for these guys, and the government is watching.”
“Exactly. Is there a problem?” Meg asked, shaking water off the lettuce leaves.
“No, but you do have to keep on top of things so that there won’t be any. Here’s the short version: our workers—all six of ’em—are here under what is known as an H-2A visa, which is specifically for temporary foreign workers for seasonal agricultural work. You as the employer apply for it every year, before the season starts, and the visa is only good for one year minus one day—they can’t become permanent. You’ve got to prove that there aren’t enough other workers in the area to do the work, which isn’t hard to do. You’ve got to pay them at least minimum wage. In theory, you’ve got to make sure they have a safe place to live, food, and transportation to and from work.”
“Yikes! I had no idea. You’ve been handling all this?”
“I have, but you’ve signed the papers I stuck in front of your face. I guess you didn’t read ’em too close, huh? Anyway, the guys more or less take care of their own housing and meals, and a couple have clunker cars to get around, although if they insisted, you’d probably be required to house and feed them. There are something like seventy thousand of this kind of visa issued each year, but Massachusetts isn’t even in the top ten. Apple picking makes up only about four percent of the total, nationally.”
“And you know all this why?” Meg asked, as she started slicing strips of red and yellow peppers.
“Hey, I’ve got a degree in agriculture, remember? This is part of the degree package. And I should warn you—Congress keeps trying to pass a new farm bill that could change a lot of these regulations.”
“But you’re on top of it?”
“Of course I am. What else you want to know?” Bree was sloshing chicken parts in a bowl with the marinade.
“What about health insurance? That’s got to be a sore subject.”
“They’re covered by workers’ comp. If they’re injured—say they fall off a ladder, like I did that one time—and it’s work-related, that covers medical care and even some wage reimbursement. And there are migrant health clinics around, and for Jamaicans, there’s sometimes health insurance from the Jamaican government. Next question?”
“Now I feel guilty that I didn’t know all this before. I’m overwhelmed—but listen, on a less formal level, is there anything I should avoid asking about, or anything we need to talk about?”
“Depends on what you want to know.”
“At the very least I want to know who’s who, to be able to put names and faces together. Are they happy working here? I know you’ve told me that there are other farms that pay more, but you know as well as I do that we just can’t afford to go up on their salaries.”
“Look, the pay is fair, and it helps that you’re out there, too, working alongside them. If you’re thinking you’ll suddenly be all buddy-buddy with them, though, don’t get your hopes up. There’s an active Jamaican community around here. The workers all know each other, since they’ve been coming back to this area year after year, and when they have free time, they hang out together. Don’t patronize them.”
Meg stopped what she was doing and turned to Bree. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Playing lady of the manor to the humble servants?”
Bree shrugged. “It’s happened. I’m not saying you’re doing that, but don’t expect the guys to be all warm and fuzzy. They respect you, and they’re willing to work hard—not just for you, but because they’re proud of what they do and want to do it well. I think this was a good idea, but don’t expect it to be a regular thing.”
“Fair enough. Maybe one more, when the harvest is over?”
“Maybe. You about done with that lettuce? Because the corn still needs shucking. They’ll be here in half an hour, and I’d better go fire up the grill. They wanted to go home and shower before eating with us, and they’ll be back here at seven.”
“Go build the fire, then. I’ll take care of the corn.” Meg looked in the fridge and was relieved to find that Bree had bought a ready-made cake—and a couple of six-packs of beer, as well as a couple of gallons of iced tea. Paper plates, napkins, plastic forks—check. Why was she so nervous?
As promised, Raynard’s truck pulled into the driveway just past seven, and a couple of the men tumbled out of the back, all wearing short-sleeved button-down shirts, their hair still damp from showering. They’d dressed up for her? What she wanted more than anything was for them all to feel comfortable with each other. They did do good work, and she was grateful. Without them she couldn’t hope to survive.
Bree came around the building to greet everyone, and a second car pulled up behind Raynard’s truck. That accounted for all five of the men—and they’d all come, which pleased Meg, though she hoped they hadn’t assumed it was required. She took one last look around the kitchen: the chicken and salad were already out on the picnic table in the back; the water for the corn was boiling and it would take only a couple of minutes to cook the ears; a Styrofoam cooler filled with ice held the beer. She tucked in her shirt and went out to greet her guests.
As befit his status as unofficial foreman, Raynard Lawrence was the first person to greet her. “Thank you so much for inviting us, Meg.”
“I’m glad you could all make it. I hope you didn’t think it was a job requirement.” Meg’s small joke didn’t produce any smiles. “Look, I’m not going to make any speeches. I just wanted to get together because last year was so crazy I never had a chance to really talk to any of you, we were so busy getting the apples picked, and since we had a little free time now, I thought this would be a good opportunity to get to know each other better.” Even to Meg’s own ears she thought she sounded like an insincere social worker, all sweetness and light. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.
Bree took pity on her. “Hey, guys, don’t mind Meg—she’s just nervous, so I’ll help her out with the formal introductions. Raynard you know, Meg, but from left to right you’ve got Romano Higgins, Tiyone Palmer, Delroy Campbell, Andre Morgan, and Darren Thompson. You can probably figure out the nicknames for yourself.”
“Thank you, Bree. Guys, I feel like such an idiot, doing this after a year. We should have done it last year.” Meg added quickly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t increase your pay this year, because I know how hard you all work. If we do well this year, maybe next year will be better. If you’re willing to come back?” No comments. She swallowed a sigh. “But tonight isn’t about work. There’s beer in the cooler. Bree, why don’t you start cooking the chicken? Oh, and there are chips in the kitchen—let me go get them.”
Meg fled. She was an uneasy hostess under the best of circumstances, which this wasn’t. And she sounded like such a prissy idiot! Inside she checked to be sure that the corn water was still simmering, then grabbed up a couple of bags of chips and went back outside.
Bree was poking at chicken pieces on the grill, and they smelled wonderful. Meg spied a few open beer bottles—and better yet, a few smiles—which was encouraging. She helped herself to a bottle of beer and sat down next to . . . Tiyone, was it? He was on
e of the younger pickers. “So, Tiyone, have you been working around here for long?”
After that, the conversations around the table warmed up gradually, and by the time the chicken was cooked and Meg carried a platter of steaming ears of corn from the kitchen, everybody had finally relaxed. Meg had learned that Delroy had two small daughters who lived with their mother near Kingston, and that Darren had been working at this orchard for fifteen years now.
“Do you guys go home to Jamaica when the apple harvest is over, or do you move on to other areas?” Meg asked.
“It depends on where the work is, and whether we have small children at home. The money we make is important, but it is hard to be away from our families for too long,” Delroy volunteered.
“I can imagine,” Meg said. “But you guys are really good at what you do. I mean, you pick the apples without damaging them or the branches, you handle them carefully, and at the same time, you’re so fast. I feel like such a slowpoke when I work with you. I swear, you each finish three trees to my one.”
“True,” Raynard said, smiling. “But it’s good to know you understand what we do. And why it matters. What we do not understand is why in this country, when there are so many people looking for jobs, including young, healthy people, none of them are willing to get their hands dirty with jobs such as these.” There were murmurs of assent from some of the others.
Meg had asked herself the same question. “I wish I had an answer. You know, until about a century ago, most people in this country lived on and worked their own farms. It was good, honest work. Then industry came along and sucked everybody into the cities, and the farms got bigger and used more machines instead of people. And now look—the cities are falling apart from the inside out. And still, people don’t want to work at jobs in fast-food restaurants or convenience stores, much less on farms. I agree with you—it just seems wrong.”
“But,” Delroy interrupted, “you went to college and you had a good job in the city. What is it you’re doing here? Is this just to fill time until something better comes around or the economy changes yet again?”
Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery) Page 7
