Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Cooking with Apples
Apple Recipes
Praise for One Bad Apple
“There is a delightful charm to this small-town regional cozy . . . Sheila Connolly provides a fascinating whodun it filled with surprises.”—The Mystery Gazette
“An example of everything that is right with the cozy mystery . . . Sheila Connolly has written a winner.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“A warm, very satisfying read.”—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“The premise and plot are solid, and Meg seems a perfect fit for her role.”—Publishers Weekly
“Antique apple trees and historic houses—what’s not to like about Sheila Connolly’s One Bad Apple? It’s a delightful look at small town New England, with an intriguing puzzle thrown in.”
—JoAnna Carl,
author of the Chocoholic Mysteries
“A fun start to a promising new mystery series. 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
ONE BAD APPLE
ROTTEN TO THE CORE
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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.
ROTTEN TO THE CORE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Sheila Connolly.
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Acknowledgments
Once again, I have reaped the benefits of the information and advice from a wonderful group of people in bringing this book to fruition. Thanks go to my agent, Jacky Sach, of BookEnds, and my editor, Shannon Ja mieson Vazquez, who never fails to make my words better. And as always, Sisters in Crime and the very talented Guppies provided bottomless support (and even titles).
Duane W. Greene, Department of Plant, Soil and Insect Sciences at the University of Massachusetts, and director of the University’s Cold Spring Orchard, inspired this book when he said that pesticide issues could possibly drive someone to murder. Marvina and Jon Brook of Muddy Brook Farm in Granby have kept me up-to-date on the status of the surviving apple trees on the former Warner property. Christie Higginbottom, research historian and horticulture and landscape specialist at Old Sturbridge Village, offered wonderful information on historical orchards and heirloom apples. And Mother Nature came through again, with yet another wonderful apple crop.
Finally, I need to thank my entomologist husband, who first made me aware of integrated pest management, and my daughter, who continues to serve as my apple-bearer, taste-tester, and critic.
1
Striding up the hill toward the apple orchard, Meg Corey inhaled the spring air that smelled of damp and growing things. Maybe the weather was just teasing her: after all, it was only March, and New England winters were notoriously unpredictable. For all she knew, it could snow tomorrow. But she didn’t care: she was going to enjoy the moment.
At the top of the rise she paused to look back at the house. The winter had been kind to it, from what she could see. The curling shingles were still more or less intact, and the peeling paint was still clinging to the old wood. She would look into getting a new roof and a paint job when the weather warmed up for good. At least the creaky furnace had limped through the winter without failing, and her new septic system was working just fine—ever since the body had been removed.
No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Right now she wanted to take a look at the orchard. She had been auditing a class on orchard management at the University of Massachusetts for a couple of weeks now, and she wanted to see if she could apply what she’d learned to real trees.
She had plenty. Her fifteen acres of trees stretched a quarter mile to the highway to the west (she was proud that she now knew her local directions) and ran in a narrow strip up over the rise toward the north, ending at the adjoining Chapin property. To an ignorant eye, the trees looked dead
, but Meg knew otherwise. Silver tip, green tip, then half-inch green, she recited silently to herself. She couldn’t wait until the trees began to bloom, although Christopher Ramsdell, the UMass professor who had been advising her, and Briona Stewart, her soon-to-be orchard manager, had told her that full bloom was still a month off. But there was plenty to be done between now and then, as Meg was fast learning.
She turned back again to look past the house toward the Great Meadow beyond. Maybe she was being overly optimistic, but wasn’t there a hint of green among the trees on the far side? Spring was coming, and Meg was looking forward to it eagerly.
She wandered through her trees, looking critically at them. She still had trouble distinguishing between the varieties, especially before leaves and fruit appeared, although Christopher had informed her that she had at least twenty varieties, many of them now considered heirloom. She savored the names: the standards like Baldwin, Russet, Winesap, and the more archaic names like Cornish Gilliflower, Hubbardston Nonesuch, Pink Pearl. So much to learn, and she had just started. And was enjoying every minute of it.
She reached the midpoint and looked down the neat rows. Christopher and his staff, plus a few university students, had done a good job of clearing out the lingering weeds and the deadwood. Branches were pruned neatly, and the brush had been removed. Even the fringes of the orchard lot had been cleared of weeds, which Christopher had told her could harbor harmful pests. It looked good to her—ready for the coming season. She breathed deeply once again, savoring the air, with just a tinge of apple from the last deadfalls.
And something else. Something that smelled . . . rotten? Meg sniffed again. She was new enough to country living to realize that there were lots of smells she didn’t know. Plus, there were sheep and cows in the neighborhood, so that meant manure.
But this didn’t smell like manure. More like a dead animal—a deer?—which was certainly a possibility, although she didn’t see anything like that. Of course, whatever it was could have been there for a while, frozen under the snow, and was just now warming up enough to decay. But surely Christopher and his crew would have noticed before now and cleaned up that kind of thing. Whatever it was must be fairly recent.
She sniffed, moved, sniffed again. Definitely coming from the north and the odor was getting stronger. She followed her nose along the row of trees and realized she was approaching the springhouse. When she had first seen the springhouse, she had had to ask what it was: it looked like a roof planted in the ground. Christopher had explained that it had been built to protect a spring that burbled up at that spot, but even he had no idea how long the structure had been there. To Meg’s eye it looked old, but that could mean anything from twenty to two hundred years.
As she drew closer she could tell that the smell was definitely emanating from the springhouse. The two triangular ends were faced with vertical boards, but the center of the rooflike structure was open, with a few additional boards tacked across to prevent animals from falling in, Meg assumed. Apparently they hadn’t worked. Approaching the opening, Meg peered into the dark interior. She could see water and rocks and some floating boards. And a body.
Meg’s legs failed her, and she dropped down onto the damp ground under the nearest tree, leaning against the trunk for support. She shut her eyes, but when she opened them, she could still see the soles of a pair of boot-clad feet facing out of the opening. Damn! She had gotten through thirty years without ever seeing, much less finding, a body, and now in the space of months she had discovered two. It wasn’t fair.
And why hadn’t she noticed him before? The trees had blocked her view of the springhouse from within the orchard, but surely she could have seen him from the house, at least from an upstairs window? Not that she spent much time admiring the view of the orchard—there was too much else to do in the house. But still . . .
She waited for her mind to stop spinning and then stared at the feet. From what little she had seen, the body appeared to be male, lying facedown in the water inside the springhouse. Drowned? But why here? The man wore a coat, blue jeans, and black rubber boots with red soles, appropriate for mucking about muddy fields in spring. He lay neatly, not sprawled. That was all she could tell from where she sat, and she had no desire to get any closer. She looked around her: everything else seemed the same—the waiting trees, a few vehicles passing by on the highway not far away. Somewhere she heard a bird. All nice and normal, except for the body in the springhouse.
With a sigh, Meg fished in her pocket for her cell phone and called the police department. Why bother with 911 when she had friends—well, acquaintances anyway—in high places? When someone answered, she said, “Can I talk to the chief? It’s Meg Corey.”
The voice on the other end replied, “Oh, hi, Meg. Yeah, he’s just come back from lunch. Hang on while I transfer you.”
While she waited, Meg wondered if she knew the person at the desk, who obviously knew her. Well, after her last adventure with murder, half the town knew who she was, even if she’d only lived here since the beginning of the year. This round would probably reach the other half.
“Hi, Meg,” Art Preston said cheerfully. “What’s up? You aren’t going to tell me you’ve got another body, are you?” Meg couldn’t find an answer to that before he went on. “You’re kidding. Aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’ve just found . . . someone dead in my springhouse.”
“Ah,” he said. Meg heard the sound of papers shuffling. “Okay, give me the details. Where’s your springhouse?”
“In the middle of the orchard. You can see it from the main road, if you look.”
“Anyone you know?”
“I don’t think so. Of course, I’ve only seen the back of him. And his feet. I didn’t get too close.”
“Ah, Meg, Meg . . .” Art sighed. “I’ll be right over. And I guess I’ll call the state police guys in Northampton.”
“You do what you have to do. I’ll wait here.”
After she’d hung up, Meg leaned against the tree again. Nice that Art was a friend now, because the lead detective in the Northampton office of the state police certainly wasn’t, even though she’d solved his last murder for him. Nothing to be done about that now.
Last time, she’d known the dead man. This time it seemed unlikely. Too bad she hadn’t noticed him earlier, because whoever this was had been here long enough to begin to decompose, to put it politely. When was the last time anyone had visited the orchard? Christopher was often around, with or without his students. The class occasionally met in the orchard on Friday. This was Monday. She tried to remember the last time she had noticed the UMass van pass by, and failed. Had Briona had time to walk the orchard recently? Meg didn’t know.
Two murders in the last hundred and whatever years in peaceful little Granford, Massachusetts, and she was right on the spot for both of them—and both on her property. What were the odds of that? At least she didn’t think she had anything to do with this one, but she’d learned never to assume anything. She’d just have to wait until somebody turned the dead man over and figured out who he was.
She pulled her coat more closely around her, tried to ignore the damp seeping through the seat of her jeans, and settled back to wait for Art.
2
Meg watched Art’s police car approach the orchard along the main highway and slow down before speeding up to come around to her driveway. He couldn’t approach directly because of the fence. Christopher had explained why she needed a fence along the road: to keep people out, the eager tourists who seemed to think that an apple hanging on a tree was fair game for anyone who could reach it. The fence wasn’t high enough to discourage the local deer, and the smaller critters could climb through or burrow under. Still, it didn’t go all the way around the orchard; it was open on the side nearest the house, and the side toward the adjoining Chapin property.
She stood up and brushed off dead grass and leaves from her jeans. She waited until the chief of police clambered up the
hill, huffing a bit. Too much time at his desk? “Hi, Art.”
“Hi, Meg. Okay, let’s get this over with. Where’s the body this time?”
“Not in the plumbing, thank goodness. He’s in the springhouse there.”
Art turned and methodically surveyed the orchard in all directions, then zeroed in on the springhouse. He walked toward it, approaching obliquely, staring at the ground, and then continuing carefully around the small building. Finally he approached the body and looked down at it for several seconds. “Been here a day or two. You didn’t notice anything?”
“Nope. I don’t get up here every day, and I can’t see it from the house, except from certain rooms. The crew from the university hasn’t been around since Friday—at least, that I know of. I’m not always here when they are—they have my permission to be there. You remember Christopher, right?”
“Who?”
“Christopher Ramsdell. He’s part of the IPM Department at the university.” At Art’s blank look, she added, “That’s integrated pest management. It’s one approach to pest control for crops, minimizing pesticide use. You remember—you met him when . . .”
Art nodded. “Oh, right, older guy, English accent.”
Meg went on. “I’ve hired someone to help with the orchard—she’s a student, named Briona Stewart, but she hasn’t really started yet. And I didn’t see any lights at night, either, or hear partying. You think maybe this was an accident?” She wanted to hold on to a little hope.
“Can’t say. You’d think if he hit his head he’d fall face up. Unless somebody hit it for him.”
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