Rotten to the Core

by Sheila Connolly

  Bree shook her head, her eyes still on her task, her hands moving efficiently. “No, but I’ve been cooking for a long time. My auntie—I lived with her when I was growing up—she worked full-time, so I just started fixing dinner for her, had it ready when she came home.”

  “That’s a nice thing to do. It never hurts to know how to cook.” Meg wondered if it was too soon to ask Bree personal questions, and searched for something neutral. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Around here. Mostly Chicopee.” Bree gave Meg a sideways glance. “Me, I was born here, grew up here. I’m American. But my parents are Jamaican.”

  “Oh. So your aunt raised you?” Meg wasn’t sure whether this was a sensitive subject, and she wanted to avoid any land mines. On the other hand, if they were going to work together, it was bound to come up sometime.

  “She did, mostly. My parents, they went back and forth.” Bree kept peeling, quickening her pace. “You don’t come from around here, do you?” When Meg shook her head, Bree continued. “Most of the pickers around here, they come from Jamaica. Not migrants, though. Seasonals. They come every year, the same people, to the same orchards. It’s a skilled job, you know—you have to handle apples carefully. They get bruised, they lose value real fast.”

  “I assume Christopher has had some regular process for hiring pickers?”

  “Sure. But if you’re running this place as a business, you should take it over.”

  Just what she needed—another problem to investigate and deal with. But she’d asked for it, so she had to deal with it. “You’ll help me out, won’t you?”

  Bree bristled. “Just because my folks are Jamaican doesn’t mean I know how to deal with pickers.”

  Had she put her foot in it again? Meg wondered. “It’s not a personal thing. If you’re the orchard manager, you have to deal with the business side, right? Hiring? Selling the crop?”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” Bree hesitated before adding, “I guess I’m kind of sensitive about it all, maybe too much. I mean, I’ve been to Jamaica all of twice in my life, to visit my grandparents. But the pickers—I don’t know how they’ll treat me, you know? I’m one of them but I’m not, kind of. And I’m a woman, which doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to work it out together. Look, Bree, I hired you because Christopher said you were one of the most accomplished and hardworking students he’s ever had.”

  “Not just because I come cheap?” Bree kept her eyes on the potatoes she was peeling.

  “That’s part of it. But I need your help to make this work, and I’m happy to give you a chance. I know it’s going to be hard, for both of us. And if you see me heading off in the wrong direction, give me a kick. You think you can handle that?”

  Bree smiled reluctantly. “I think so.”

  “Then we’re good.” Meg was surprised to see that Bree had finished peeling the mound of potatoes. If nothing else, she was good at multitasking. “Can you cut those up so I can add them to the stew?”

  “Sure.” Bree turned her attention to quartering the potatoes, her hands moving competently.

  With a start Meg realized she hadn’t mentioned the dead man to Bree, even though they had walked right by the springhouse. Should she mention it now? No, she decided. She wanted one night to get to know Bree, to make her feel comfortable here, before throwing something like that at her. Meg had no idea how Bree would react, and she wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. And since Bree hadn’t brought it up, maybe she didn’t know—and Meg didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

  6

  Seth arrived at the back door after dark. Meg let him in, and he inhaled appreciatively. “Sorry I’m so late—I got hung up at a job. Old pipes. That smells great! Stew?”

  “Hang up your coat. Yes, it’s all-American beef stew.”

  Seth dutifully hung up his coat. “That old stove doesn’t look very dependable. I can get you a good deal on a new one, you know,” he began.

  Meg held up a hand to stop him. “I’m sure you can, but there are a lot of things on the shopping list ahead of the stove. I’ll manage, as long as the thing doesn’t blow up on me. Let me introduce you to my orchard manager.”

  Bree was hovering in the background, nervously drying her already-dry hands on a kitchen towel. At Meg’s urging, she stepped forward and extended a hand. “Bree Stewart.”

  Seth shook her hand and smiled. “Seth Chapin. I live over the hill, up that way, and I’m going to be working out of Meg’s barn. Good to meet you. You’ve got a big job ahead of you.”

  “I know.”

  When Bree didn’t volunteer any additional comments, Seth prompted her. “You’ll be moving in here?”

  Bree nodded. “After classes are done.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re still in school. But you’ll be spending time here, right? Spraying, stuff like that?”

  “Of course.”

  When Bree fell silent yet again, Seth apparently gave up trying to elicit conversation and turned back to Meg. “Did you get a chance to tell Bree about the barn plans?”

  Meg laughed. “Not exactly. Why don’t we sit down and eat, and you can describe it all again, so Bree can hear it, too.”

  “Deal. I’m a pushover, aren’t I? Feed me and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  They had nearly finished the meal, and Seth had warmed to his subject, sketching on yet another napkin more ambitious plans for the barn. He had finally succeeded in engaging Bree, who was offering suggestions and pointing out details on the sketch.

  Bree leaned back in her chair. “Okay, so if you’re going to hold your apples for a couple of months, let them ripen, you need to control both temperature and the mix of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the storage area. And you’ve got to bring your apples down to the right temperature fast, like within twenty-four hours.”

  “So I’m going to have to deal with refrigeration and atmospheric control?”

  “Exactly.” Bree nodded vigorously. She went on to expound on the virtues of air-cooled versus mechanical refrigeration, types of refrigerants, compressors, condensers, and expansion coils, and Seth followed eagerly, making an occasional note on his napkin.

  The phone rang, and Meg rose to answer; they didn’t even notice. When she picked up the receiver, she was surprised to hear Art’s voice. “Meg, I’ve got the first round of results from the ME’s office.”

  “All right,” Meg said cautiously. “Am I not supposed to talk about it?”

  “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, and don’t spread it around, okay?”

  “Okay. But Seth’s here, and my orchard manager.”

  “Well, keep it to yourselves, but it looks like Miller was poisoned.”

  “With what?” Meg had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “The full tox screen won’t be back for a week or two, so I can’t say. But the ME said everything else looked normal—no heart attack, no stroke, no wounds. They did a preliminary analysis and didn’t find any alcohol in his system, or any of the standard drugs. The more specialized tests take longer, and there are still a lot of possibilities.”

  The bad feeling worsened. “No way of knowing whether he took the stuff himself, right?”

  “Sorry, no,” Art replied. “But nothing to suggest he was restrained—no bruises or anything.”

  Meg sighed. “Thanks for letting me know, Art. And keep me up-to-date, will you?”

  “I’ll do that. Say hi to Seth.” Art hung up, leaving Meg bewildered. She wondered again about Bree’s apparent ignorance of the event: she would have guessed that whatever gossip grapevine existed at UMass would have been quick to spread the word. But it was a large campus with thousands of people. Meg had avoided checking the morning paper to see what, if anything, had been reported, and in any case, Bree might not have read the paper, or watched the television news. She walked slowly back to the table and sat down.

  Seth picked up her unease. “What?”


  “That was Art.” She caught Seth’s eye, then she turned to Bree: she was going to have to tell her. “Bree, did you hear about the body that was found yesterday?”

  Bree looked blank. “No. Why do you ask?”

  Meg sighed. “Because the body was found here on my property. In the orchard, in fact. In the springhouse.” Meg watched Bree anxiously. Would she refuse to work at a place where a body had been found? “Is that going to be a problem?”

  Bree considered briefly, then said, “Did you kill the guy?”

  “No!” Meg realized Bree was pulling her leg. “I didn’t even know him. He was apparently a UMass grad student named Jason Miller.”

  Meg wasn’t prepared for Bree’s reaction: she stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair. “I’ve got to go,” she said in a strangled voice.

  Meg and Seth stood as well. “Okay. When will you be back?” Meg asked.

  Bree was already pulling on her coat. “I don’t know. I’ll call you.” She was out the back door before Meg could frame another question. She heard the car start up with a clatter, then pull out of the driveway.

  Meg turned to Seth. “What was that all about?”

  “Got me. At a guess, I’d say she knew the guy.”

  Meg’s bad feeling deepened even further. “I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. He was a student, and maybe they were in the same department. And Rachel said he was an organic activist of some sort. Damn. I hope this doesn’t put her off this job. I really need her.”

  “There are other managers, aren’t there?” Seth asked.

  “Probably, but we’re already coming into the first active part of the apple cycle, and it’s kind of late to go hunting for someone.”

  “We don’t even know what happened yet, right? What did Art say?”

  She started pacing around the kitchen. “That there were no obvious physical causes, so it may be poison. But they don’t know how, or what he took—or was given—and it’s going to take a while to find out. Shoot—I didn’t get a chance to ask Art if Miller died here or somewhere else. But why pick here?”

  Seth shook his head. “I have no idea, but there’s not much to be done about it. Listen, I have to get going—I’ve got a job in Hadley tomorrow, and I need to get started early. Thanks for dinner, Meg. And try not to worry, will you?”

  “Sure, no problem,” she said without conviction. “Let me know when you want to walk through the barn with me—you’ve got the key, right? Have you put much of your salvage in it yet?”

  “Some, but I’ve never known anybody who wanted to steal antique sinks. Even if we keep it locked, I don’t think that padlock is good for much.”

  “You have a point there. I didn’t give much thought to replacing it because there wasn’t anything important in there, but I suppose I need to consider it now. Good night, then.”

  Meg shut the door behind Seth. He was right: there was no point in worrying until she had more information. And tomorrow she would hunt down Christopher on campus and see what he could tell her about the late Jason Miller.

  7

  A night’s sleep didn’t bring any startling insights. Given their recent history, she didn’t expect Detective Marcus to share anything with her, but at least Art was willing to pass on scraps. Still, it rankled, and Meg worried about her new livelihood. Would anyone want work at an orchard where a body had been discovered? Or even buy the apples? One more thing Meg had no answer for.

  And what about Bree’s strange reaction the night before? From what little she had seen, the younger woman was fairly abrupt, lacking in social polish. Maybe she had remembered something she had to get done last night. Maybe it wasn’t the mention of Jason Miller’s name that had sent her into a tizzy. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . Meg had to know more.

  She needed to get to the UMass campus and talk to Christopher. She wondered if Detective Marcus had already tracked him down, and if the professor had provided any useful information. It was likely he had known Jason Miller, and there was one way to find out.

  She worried over her list of issues as she drove toward Amherst. There was no way she could run the orchard, much less make any money at it, without some outside help. The settlement she had received when she had been downsized out of her job in Boston a few months earlier had been generous, but that was all she had to keep her going until she produced and sold her first crop, which was months away yet. On top of that, she still had a lot of expensive repairs to do on the long-neglected house—a new roof, repointing the foundation, painting the exterior . . . Shut up, Meg! she scolded herself. Such fretting served no purpose other than to depress her.

  Midday parking on campus was hard to find, and she settled for a distant visitor’s short-term slot, then trekked across campus to the Life Sciences Building where Christopher’s office was located. She wasn’t sure whether he would be teaching a class or in his office, or somewhere else altogether. The only thing she knew for sure was that he wasn’t scheduled to be at her place today, although he had been known to pop in unexpectedly. He really was very attached to her orchard.

  Meg made her way to the faculty offices on the third floor. A schedule posted next to Christopher’s door indicated that he ought to have just finished teaching his undergraduate class on integrated pest management and should be on his way back. Meg decided she might as well wait a few minutes and see if he appeared. If not, she could leave him a note. She scanned the unlit hallway: nowhere to sit. She leaned against the wall and looked over the required reading list for the next few sessions of her orchard class. After ten minutes she was rewarded by the sound of footsteps, followed by the sight of Christopher emerging from the stairwell. Despite his sixty-something years, he wasn’t out of breath, and his silvery hair was unruffled.

  As usual, he looked extraordinarily cheerful. “Meg, my dear, what a pleasure to see you here. Did you need to speak to me?”

  Meg nodded. “I wanted to ask you about Jason Miller.”

  Christopher’s face fell. “Of course. What a tragic thing.”

  “You knew him? Did you hear he was found in the springhouse in my orchard?”

  Christopher paled visibly and laid a hand on her arm. “Oh no. Oh, my dear, how awful. You must be devastated. That rather unpleasant detective spoke to me and asked if I knew Jason, but all he said was that his body had been found in Granford. If he had mentioned where . . . but he seemed more interested in whether Jason had appeared to be suicidal, and I couldn’t tell him much. Please, come in, sit down, tell me what I can do.” He unlocked his door and ushered her into his small office, flipping on the overhead light. The room was crammed floor to ceiling with papers, posters, models, and what appeared to be a glass case with a tarantula in it. A live one. “Please, sit down, Meg.”

  Meg moved a pile of papers and sat. “I’m doing all right, but I have a lot of questions. I understand that Miller was a student here at the university?”

  Christopher sat back in his chair. “Indeed he was. He was working toward a graduate degree in this department, as I told the detective yesterday. In fact, he asked me to identify Jason—from a picture.” He broke off what he was saying and looked furtively around the office. “Meg, perhaps we would do better to take this out of the building. Shall we go into town and have lunch?”

  Mystified, Meg said, “Sure, I’d like that. Do you have any other classes scheduled?”

  “Nothing until two, which should be ample time to . . . well, you’ll see. Shall we go?”

  Christopher said nothing more about the late Mr. Miller as they left the building and walked toward the parking lot where Meg had left her car. “Are you enjoying your class?” he asked.

  “Yes, at least most of the time. I can’t remember the last time I took a biology course, and a lot of the material is going right over my head, but it’s interesting, and I think I’m learning something. Or at least learning what I need to learn. I guess I hadn’t realized what I was taking on.”

  “Don’t let it intimid
ate you, my dear. I have faith in your abilities. Tell me, how is the barn coming along?”

  They chatted about mundane details as they drove the mile or two into the center of Amherst, with Christopher providing directions to a midsize restaurant down a flight of stairs. Miraculously Meg found a parking space on the street in front of it, and they entered the dim and noisy place and seated themselves at a table in a corner. Meg managed to contain her curiosity until they’d placed their orders, and then she turned to Christopher. “Okay, why all the mystery? Why are we here instead of in your office?”

  Christopher sighed. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Jason Miller was not particularly beloved by our department, and it will take some time to provide you with the history. I know it is unkind to say so, but I don’t think Jason will be much missed.”

  “Well, you’ve got my full attention. What’s the story?”

  The waitress dumped their sandwiches on the table and retreated. Christopher began cautiously. “Jason was first an undergraduate at the university, then stayed on to pursue his doctorate. Unfortunately he was perilously close to wearing out his welcome.”

  “What do you mean?” Meg asked, taking a large bite of her club sandwich.

  “The university has guidelines about the length of time one may take to complete a degree program, and Jason was pushing the limits.”

  “What was the problem? Poor performance? He couldn’t finish his thesis? He was scared of testing the job market?”

  “A bit of all of those, but there was one overriding factor that interfered with his academic commitments. Are you familiar with the GreenGrow organization?”

  “Barely,” Meg said. “Rachel Chapin—Seth’s sister—mentioned it the other day, but that was the first I’d heard of it. Please enlighten me.”

  Christopher took a substantial bite of his sandwich and sat back in his chair before answering. “GreenGrow is a regional activist group dedicated to organic farming and the complete suppression of all pesticide use. Jason Miller was a founding member and perhaps its most vocal proponent.”