One Bad Apple

by Sheila Connolly

  Rachel smiled at her. “The old Warren house. It’s a great place.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. You know it?”

  “Sure—remember, we grew up just over the hill. I’ve been going by the house most of my life. You’re lucky. You’ve got the wetlands protecting you on one side, which means your views are safe.”

  Gail had said something like that, but Meg suspected that the term “wetlands” more likely meant “bog.” “And, it seems, an orchard on the other side.” Meg eyed a third muffin. After all, she needed to keep up her strength.

  “Of course! Warren’s Grove. It’s so pretty in the spring! And you know what? There’s a good chance you’re eating one of your own apples right now, in that muffin. I think the people who were living in the house sold the whole crop to the co-op group not far from here. The co-op holds a street market in Northampton on Saturdays, come summer. You should check it out, when they reopen.” Rachel paused to study Meg, then grinned at her. “Go on, have another. You know you want to.”

  Meg smiled back. “I do, and I will.” No need to mention that she didn’t expect to be around in summer.

  As Meg buttered the muffin, Rachel went on. “So, tell me, you just picked up from wherever and plopped yourself down in this house?”

  Meg smiled through the crumbs. “More or less. I was in Boston, out of a job, and there wasn’t much to hold me there. I’m here to figure out what I want to do next, and Mom thought the house would keep me busy. She was right about that. But so far all I’ve learned is how much I don’t know about houses— particularly what can go wrong.”

  They heard the slam of a door, and Seth barreled into the kitchen. “Hi, Rach—smells good in here! Hello, Meg.” Without ceremony he helped himself to coffee, sat down, and snagged a muffin from the basket.

  “Hey, Seth. We were just talking about Meg’s house, and the orchard.”

  Meg swallowed the last of her muffin with regret. “I didn’t know the orchard had a name. Warren’s Grove?”

  “Sure,” he replied, taking a second muffin. “That’s right—we got a little distracted yesterday, and you never had a chance to tell me how the historical society meeting went. And before you ask, no, there’s no news about the murder.”

  Meg sighed. “The historical society people seem nice enough, but I didn’t get to talk to many people.”

  “You met Gail?”

  Meg nodded. “I did, but she was kind of busy, and then she had to leave early.”

  “She’s the best person to talk to about the house. Have you done a title search?”

  “No, of course not. I figured the Realtor would take care of that, when the time came.”

  Seth snorted. “That’s just the legal stuff, not the history. Aren’t you curious to know who lived there before you? Or before the sisters?”

  “Not particularly, unless it helps me sell the place. Look, Seth, I appreciate that you’re interested in the house, and you probably know it better than I do, but I’m just not into old places.” She added, “I’m sorry,” when she saw Seth’s face fall. Obviously he thought she should care more. Maybe he was right; maybe she was missing something. Maybe she’d been so wrapped up in scraping twentieth-century dreck off every surface that she had missed seeing what lay beneath. It was something to think about, if Chandler’s murder didn’t throw a monkey wrench into everything. Should she touch base with Frances and see what her reaction was? She almost laughed: would it be possible to translate the value of Chandler’s life—or death—to the reduction of her asking price? She had a feeling he would not be pleased by the result. She tuned back in to realize that Seth was apologizing.

  “Don’t worry about it. I know I can be kind of pushy, but I really love the old places, and I hate to see them torn down and replaced with modern trash. Or even—what is it they call it? Re-muddled?”

  Rachel laughed. “That’s the word. And kind of pushy? You’re a bulldog, brother of mine. I’m just glad it’s up to you to keep the family place intact, not to mention this one.”

  “You have a beautiful place here, Rachel,” Meg added. “But aren’t Victorians even more work than colonials?”

  “You bet. That’s why it helps to have a brother like Seth. Me, I stick to decorating.”

  Meg noticed that Rachel didn’t mention Stephen. He wasn’t into old places? Or helping out?

  Seth stood up. “Meg, we’ve got to get going—I’m supposed to be in Hadley at nine. Rachel, thanks for helping out. I’ll let you know what I hear about the project.”

  “You bet you will. Meg, it was nice to meet you. Listen, if you need to talk or something, I’m here. I mean, you knew the dead guy, and that can’t be easy for you.”

  Meg felt an unexpected prick of tears. She wasn’t sure whether it was for Chandler or for Rachel’s simple kindness. “Thanks, Rachel. I appreciate the offer.”

  Rachel smiled. “No problem. How about I give you a call in a couple of days, and maybe we can get together later this week, or next?”

  “That would be great. And maybe later you can give me some tips on how to make the place presentable to buyers. I’m ready, Seth—just let me grab my coat.”

  The scent of Rachel’s apple muffins followed them out into the crisp morning air.

  After Seth dropped her off at the house, Meg looked up at the building, trying to see it objectively. If she could ignore the peeling paint, it was handsome, if not particularly noteworthy. To her unskilled eye, it looked like every other colonial house she had ever seen, old or new. Rectangular, with a simple roofline. Doors and windows, symmetrically distributed. The proportions were harmonious—and at least the roof didn’t appear to be sagging— but there was little to distinguish it.

  She glanced around, trying to spy any newshounds, but the two-lane road in front was all but empty. A white van with a green logo went by, headed toward the orchard. A UMass truck—Christopher? She dropped her overnight bag on the front steps, avoided looking at the trench, still marked with crime scene tape, and set off up the hill toward the orchard. She needed to work off that last muffin, and she wasn’t ready to face the chaos inside the house.

  She was puffing by the time she reached the crest of the rise, but not as badly as the last time. She stopped and surveyed the land before her, trying to visualize a strip mall. It wasn’t a pretty mental picture. No matter how tastefully executed it might be, it would still be … unnatural. Buildings and asphalt and bright lights—and paper trash, and smells wafting from fast-food places. She shook her head to clear that picture and focused on what was there now. She’d guessed right: the van was parked along the verge of the road, and she could spot Christopher’s silvery hair. He was surrounded by a clutch of seven or eight students, looking for all the world like a flock of ducklings in their bulky winter jackets. Her breath regained, she decided to join them and see what was going on.

  As she came closer, Christopher saw her and beamed. “Welcome, Meg. Come to see us at work?”

  “Just wondered what you all were up to.”

  “This is my class on pruning fruit crops. Of course, it’s still early to prune, but I wanted them to familiarize themselves with the trees and the lay of the land. Would you care to join us?”

  Why not? She could learn something. It occurred to her that she should try to snatch a private word with Christopher: she wanted to know what he knew about the development scheme, and what he thought about it. “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all—I’m delighted to have you. Now, my young friends, if you will turn your attention to the nearest row of trees …” Meg hung back, watching as Christopher warmed to his subject, catching a phrase now and then. “Control growth … control size … encourage earlier blooming … increase the size and quality of the fruit …” The students didn’t take any notes, no doubt trying to keep their hands warm in their pockets. But at least they were there: somebody was still interested in learning about fruit cultivation. Although maybe they’d a
ll go seek jobs at the huge orchards on the West Coast, rather than nurse along small plots like this one.

  As they ambled between the rows of trees, one male student sidled up to Meg. “Hey, isn’t this where they found that body yesterday?”

  “Yes, down near the house.” Meg braced herself for a slew of questions, and was both relieved and disappointed when the boy just said, “Cool,” and turned his attention back to his professor. Meg moved closer to the group, both to shield herself from the wind and because she was becoming interested in Christopher’s spiel. He pulled down a midsize branch and began explaining its various parts to the cluster of students.

  “The tree is dormant now, but you can see rows of buds on the branches, particularly on the smaller twigs. You’ll want to direct growth by choosing a bud that’s pointing in the direction that you want your branch to grow, and then cutting just below it. This is the terminal bud, here—cut that off and you encourage the buds behind it. And you want to select buds that point outwardfrom the trunk, so that the growing branch will have space and light.”

  He looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention, and then he looked at Meg and winked. Meg smiled back at him as he went on. “When you make a cut, keep it as small as possible, to minimize access for pests or disease. And we’ll be doing the majority of the pruning in a month or two, when the buds begin to swell. That way, the new growth will heal any cuts more quickly.”

  The longer Christopher talked, the more Meg realized how little she knew and how much expertise was required to maintain an orchard. So many decisions to be made, and Christopher hadn’t even touched on insect and animal pests and their treatment, much less the apples themselves. And the orchard seemed so vulnerable—there were so many things that could go wrong: weather, diseases, things she didn’t even know about.

  Or a developer could raze the whole orchard and put in a parking lot.

  Christopher was finally winding down, and the students were shivering in the cutting wind. At last he noticed and announced, “All right, students, that’s enough for today. Back to the van, the lot of you.” They moved quickly away, and as Christopher lagged behind, Meg joined him.

  “Did you enjoy my lecture?” he asked.

  “I did, although I’m a bit overwhelmed by everything I don’t know. But there was something else I wanted to talk about—the Granford development project.”

  Christopher stopped and turned to her, his face desolate. “I wondered if you knew, last we met, since you said nothing. It would be an awful thing if it were to go forward.”

  “If?” Meg asked in surprise. “It seems to be moving along fairly well, from what I’ve heard.”

  Christopher shook his head. “It’s early days yet. There are many hurdles still to be crossed. And with the death of that young man …”

  “Word travels fast around here,” Meg said. “You heard about it on the news?”

  “No, the Springfield daily paper. I have little time for television.”

  “What did the article say?”

  “It was rather sketchy. Merely that the body of a Boston banker had been found on a local farm, and police suspected murder. A bit about Hale’s involvement with the proposed development project in Granford. Please don’t be concerned, Meg— your name did not come up.”

  Thank goodness no one had come looking for her, or had found her. Meg wondered briefly if Seth had considered that when he had spirited her away to Rachel’s for the night.

  “But you and the students know his body was found here?”

  “We do. I’m sorry that you had to deal with that, although less sorry that he’s gone.”

  “You knew him?”

  “We’d met. I attended a meeting or two in Granford, when the project was first proposed. I can’t say I warmed to the man— he was an arrogant one.”

  Whether or not Christopher knew that she had known Chandler, Meg agreed with his quick assessment. “But his death wouldn’t stop the project. He had the backing of his bank, and I’m sure they’ll send someone to replace him.”

  “We’ll see. Still, for the near term I shall proceed as if all’s right in the world, and train these eager lads—and a lass or two—in apple management. It’s been a pleasure to see you again, my dear. Perhaps I may stop by at some point and we can chat at greater length?”

  Meg laughed. “Only if we can do it inside where it’s warm.” “Delightful. Then I’ll let you go, for now. Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought something for you, hoping I’d find you in.” He dove into the passenger side of the van and emerged holding a bulging paper bag, which he presented with a flourish.

  Meg peered inside. Apples. Rather yellowish, and mottled with rough brown. She looked back at Christopher. “Isn’t it kind of late in the season for apples? I thought you didn’t approve.”

  “Ah, but there are those few that actually improve after a few months. Those are Roxbury Russets, one of the oldest American varieties. They ripen late, and keep well. You’ll enjoy them.”

  “Thank you, Christopher.”

  “My pleasure. Ta!”

  Meg watched him rejoin his class, and then the van pulled away, leaving her alone with her trees. Her trees. It felt odd to think in those terms. She’d never owned a tree before, much less a whole field of them, dependent on her for their well-being. She had trouble keeping an African violet alive on a windowsill; an orchard was a whole different universe. One she wasn’t sure she was ready or willing to deal with.

  But nothing was settled yet. She still had a lot of work to do to get the house into shape, and maybe by then the whole development project issue would be resolved. Only Meg wasn’t quite sure what outcome she wanted.

  10

  Reluctantly Meg gathered up her bag from the step and let herself in the front door. Nothing had improved since the day before: the house smelled damp and musty. In fact, yesterday she hadn’t even noticed the trail of muddy footprints that the various representatives of the law had added to her less-than-pristine kitchen floor. And she wasn’t sure if she could run any water, or if her entire plumbing system was considered a crime scene. She amused herself by picturing the Granford police impounding all of her pipes as evidence, but sobered quickly. Should she call someone and ask? Or would they call her? She fished her cell phone out of her bag and discovered that her battery had died. She set Christopher’s bag of apples on the countertop, plugged the phone into the kitchen charger, then put on some coffee. She’d had only one cup at Rachel’s, and then she’d been tramping around the orchard in the cold, and she really deserved some hot caffeine.

  She had just filled a cup when there was a rapping at her front door. I thought Granford was rural and quiet. I’ve had more visitors over the past few days—dead and alive—than I had in years in Boston, she reflected as she hurried to answer. She wrestled the door open to find her real estate agent, Frances, looking slightly less sleek than she had on Monday.

  “Sorry to barge in like this, but I was in the neighborhood …” She looked strangely forlorn.

  “Come on in. I’ve just made some coffee—want a cup?”

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  “Not at all.” Meg led the way to the kitchen, and Frances sat heavily in a chair at the table, without invitation. Meg poured a second mug of coffee and joined her at the table. “Did we forget to check something out?”

  Frances sighed. “No. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you. But I guess I figured you’d have questions about selling, now that they found Chandler Hale …” She looked as though she wanted to cry.

  Meg was mystified. “Did you know him?”

  Frances sipped at her coffee, struggling to regain control. “Of course. He was buying land in Granford, or at least he was connected to the ones who were. How could I not?”

  “Ah,” Meg said. Frances’s comment in no way explained the tears. “So you were working together?”

  Frances shook her head vigorously. “No, nothing like that. In fact, he cut m
e right out of the loop—cost me a nice chunk of change, too. After …”

  A horrible suspicion popped into Meg’s mind, and she hurried to squash it. Chandler and Frances? Unlikely. Frances might be a nice woman, and reasonably attractive for what Meg estimated was her forty-something years, but she came nowhere near meeting Chandler’s exacting standards for partners, long or short term.

  Unless, of course, Chandler had wanted something from her.

  If she was going to be honest with herself, Meg had always wondered why he had dated her. Meg was nice enough to look at, but not in his league. She was intelligent and capable, but she was no Wall Street darling. Maybe she had been filler— someone to amuse him while he scouted out his next trophy blonde. She had been flattered, sometimes amused, sometimes exasperated, but she had never felt any real, intimate connection with Chandler. They had dated for the better part of a year, and she still didn’t feel that she had known him. He had always kept secrets.

  Meg stared at her coffee, troubled by her thoughts. Chandler had asked her to spy for him; what had he asked Frances to do? And what had he promised her? Whatever it was, it must have fallen through. But was it any of her business? She took a swallow of coffee and changed the subject quickly.

  “All right, Frances, you might as well tell me what impact finding a body on the property is going to have on my chances of selling the place.”

  Frances dragged herself back from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “What? Oh … We said May, right? Months away. Once they arrest someone, the whole thing will blow over. Shouldn’t be a problem. Unless, of course, you did it?” Frances scrounged up a token smile at her own weak joke.

  “No. And if I had, I would have put him somewhere a little farther from home, obviously. Frances, why didn’t you mention the development project the last time we talked? And what do you think about it? Obviously it’s going to make a difference when I sell.”

  Frances didn’t meet her eyes. “Sorry about that. I just thought you had enough to worry about, without dealing with something that might not ever happen. Honestly, I think the project might be just what this town needs. You’ve seen the main road—not much to look at, is it? Mostly car repair places and pizza joints. People drive through, but they’ve got no reason to stop. Now, don’t get me wrong—I love this place. Born here, grew up here, and I’m still here. But I know we need change. Heck, I go to Town Meetings, and every year we keep whittling at the programs that need the money most, like the library and the schools. Library’s only open three days a week now. It’s not right, and the money’s got to come from somewhere.”