“Yeah, but she’s incredibly insecure. She probably thought I might come back for more. Poach on her territory. Or what she thought was her territory.”
“She said she was Jason’s girlfriend.”
“Ha!” Bree snorted. “In her dreams. She hung around him as much as she could, and . . . You know the term ‘friends with privileges’?”
Meg nodded.
“Well, he was happy to sleep with her, but were they together, like a couple? I don’t think so.”
“She says she was, uh, with Jason Saturday night—which is probably when he died—but then he sent her home. He said he had work to do.”
“You mean they had sex? And then he made a crappy excuse and told her to go home? Sounds about right. Jason took what was offered.”
Meg struggled to find a tactful way to ask her next question. “Bree . . . why do you know so much about what was going on with Jason and Daphne? I thought you and Jason had gone your separate ways a long time ago, and you stayed away from GreenGrow.”
Bree looked away. “It’s not that big a department. It was hard not to run into Jason now and then, and wherever he was, Daphne usually wasn’t far away. She’d always glare daggers at me when she saw me. Of course, I think she hates a lot of people. But she had a real thing for Jason. That was obvious.”
“From what she told me, it sounds as though she does most of the unglamorous work at GreenGrow.”
“Yeah, but she volunteered. Nobody was forcing her, but she wanted to stay close to Jason. I’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so obnoxious.”
Meg had to admit she agreed with Bree’s assessment. She tried to put a kind spin on her own reaction to Daphne, but she had to admit to herself that she really didn’t like the woman any more than Bree did. But there was one more thing she had to bring up, much as she didn’t want to. “Bree, Daphne said you were also at the GreenGrow meeting Saturday night. Why?”
“Michael asked me to come.”
“Michael? Why?”
Bree shrugged, then looked away. “I think he was trying to take a bigger part in GreenGrow, maybe balance out Jason’s side a bit. They need more members.”
“Did Michael know about you and Jason?”
“Yeah, of course. And I went because I figured they couldn’t cut off my scholarship money this late, so why not?” She jumped up from her chair and took her empty mug to the sink. “So, you want to go play with your tractor?”
Meg stood up more slowly. Bree’s answer made sense, at least on the surface, but why had she chosen that particular night to return to GreenGrow? One more coincidence to add to the list. “I guess. I don’t even know where to start. I don’t think this thing came with an instruction manual. It’s not exactly new.”
“Not a problem—there’s plenty of documentation online. Look, this is way simpler than a car. You drive a stick?” When Meg nodded, Bree went on. “So you’ve got the basic idea of a clutch and shifting. The biggest thing you’re going to have to worry about is getting a feel for the steering, and for balance. Why don’t you just try it out for today, and we can worry about all the attachments later?”
“Shoot, I hadn’t even thought about those. What else am I supposed to need?”
“I think I saw a mower attachment—that’s good for cleaning up between the rows of trees. You don’t want to let the weeds and stuff get too far out of control—great place for pests to hide, and it makes it harder to get around the orchard anyway. The most important thing is to be able to move the apples from the orchard to your storage area.”
“And how do I do that?”
“That’s one of the problems with apples, and why you need experienced pickers. It’s all done by hand. You can’t just go by and shake the tree or wait to pick up what falls, unless you’re planning to make cider, and fast. If you’re selling them for eating, the pickers have to take them off the tree and put them in these bags or baskets they strap on. And when you transfer them to bigger containers, again, you can’t just dump. Bruises the apples. You have to be careful with them, because bruised apples sell for a much lower price than ones that aren’t. So the pickers have got to be good, and they’ve got to care about what they’re doing.”
Meg groaned, and Bree grinned. “This is a relatively small operation. It just means you and I and the pickers have a lot of lifting to do. It’ll build up your muscles fast enough.”
“I bet. You ready to go tackle the tractor now?”
“I am. Let’s go see what you’ve got.”
Bree led the way eagerly. She stalked around the tractor in the driveway, looking at tires and parts Meg couldn’t even begin to identify. Then she climbed into the seat and inspected various knobs and dials. From what Meg had seen, there weren’t many, and most were clearly labeled. Maybe there was a plus side to having an older machine.
“You know anything about what shape it’s in?” Bree called out.
“I think Eric checked it over before he delivered it. Does it have gas?”
Bree looked back at a dial and nodded. “Full tank. You ready?”
“I guess.” Meg approached the tractor, and Bree climbed down again.
“Okay, first of all, safety check. Your tires look good. You’ve got gas. But we need to make sure there’s oil and the radiator isn’t dry. Who’d you say this belonged to?”
“Some guy who didn’t use it, I gather. He bought it over the Internet. He and his wife split, and she was clearing out his stuff. Seth says I got a good deal on it.”
“Figures. It’s old, but it’s in pretty fair shape.” Bree poked around some more. “Oil and radiator, good.” She took a critical look at Meg. “And you’re dressed all right—nothing that could get snagged. You want me to start it up, get a feel for it?”
“Please!” Meg stepped back out of the way and watched as Bree climbed into the seat. She adjusted it slightly, then turned the key in the ignition. The machine roared to life, belching smoke, then settled down to chugging steadily. Bree gave a thumbs-up, released the parking brake, and slowly let out what Meg assumed was the clutch, while giving it some gas. After an initial lurch, the tractor moved forward smoothly. Bree, her slight form dwarfed by the machine but with a huge smile on her face, drove in a few tight circles in the driveway, then reversed before pulling up in front of Meg. She set the brake, turned off the engine, and jumped down.
“Sweet! She runs really well. Think you can do it? Just try her out on the driveway for a bit, and if you think you can handle it, we’ll take her out on the grass. One thing to remember, though: watch for slopes or steep banks. It can tip over if you’re not careful. But as long as you stick to flat ground, you’ll be fine.”
Bree’s warning did little to boost Meg’s confidence. “Uh, the orchard is up a hill, you know.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got plenty of time to practice before you have to worry about that.”
“If you say so.” Meg climbed into the high seat and before doing anything else, looked around her at the house, with all its tacked-on bits and pieces, and the barn, and then the view down toward the Great Meadow. This was a whole new perspective; it felt odd to be elevated, and on such a rickety piece of machinery. The big modern tractors she had seen online had enclosed cabins, and even air-conditioning and sound systems. Hers was the no-frills model. Still, this was supposed to be a practical piece of equipment, not a pleasure ride. She located and attached the seat belt. “Now what?”
“Put your clutch in and start ’er up. Keep the brake on until you’re ready to move.”
“Right.” Meg imitated what she had seen Bree do and was rewarded by the roar of the engine. The whole machine vibrated, and Meg couldn’t imagine what it would be like to travel over a rough field or unpaved lane. She looked uncertainly at Bree, who yelled, “Go on!”
Taking a deep breath, Meg disengaged the brake, let out the clutch—and prayed.
The machine lurched, and she released the clutch too fast, stalling it. She started it up again and shifted more ca
utiously this time, managing to make some forward progress—at about two miles an hour. But at least it was moving, and she was in the driver’s seat.
A half hour later, Meg wondered what she had been worried about. On level ground the machine putted along happily. She hadn’t pushed its limits, but she definitely felt that it had more power in store, which no doubt she would need when she started hauling around trailers laden with apple boxes. And her posterior was already sore from the bouncing. She looked over at Bree, who had shifted her attention to the eager goats, and yelled, “Can I stop now?”
Bree gave the larger goat a final pat and walked back to the edge of the driveway. “Sure. You want to put her in the barn?” she yelled over the engine noise.
“Let’s not worry about that now,” Meg yelled back. “I still need to clear enough space for it. I’ll just leave her where I found her, okay?”
“Let her idle for a minute or two to cool down, okay? And don’t forget the brake!”
Meg stopped the tractor in front of the barn doors, then pulled on the hand brake and pushed in the clutch pedal. She looked around again but with an entirely different perspective this time. She had mastered the tractor; she had laid claim to her land. Did this make her a farmer? Maybe not yet, but one big step closer. She felt ridiculously proud of herself. “Long enough?” she yelled at Bree.
Bree nodded, and Meg, with a little pang, turned off the engine. The sudden silence startled her.
Bree came alongside. “Hey, you did great. I told you it was easy.”
It wasn’t until she had climbed down and brushed off the seat of her pants that Meg realized she’d doubled her audience: Art Preston was leaning against his squad car, grinning.
“Looking good!” he called out. “Your first time?”
Meg matched his grin. “Hi, Art. Yes, it is. Seth found this for me, and Bree’s teaching me how it works.”
Art nodded a greeting to Bree, then turned to Meg. “You got a minute?”
Meg felt a small chill, and her smile wilted. “Sure. You have some news?”
“I just thought I should bring you up-to-date. I take it our friend Marcus hasn’t been in touch?”
“No, not that I expected to hear from him. And I wasn’t about to call him.”
Bree was shifting from side to side, looking uncomfortable. “Meg, I should go. I’ll come back tomorrow and we can take out the tractor again, okay?”
“Sure, Bree. And thanks for the help.”
Without any further formality, Bree headed for her car and pulled out.
Art watched her departure. “She working out?”
“I think so. She seems to know what she’s talking about, and thank heavens she knows how to drive a tractor. You have time to come in?”
“Sure.” Art followed her into the kitchen. As Meg puttered around, fixing another pot of coffee, he sprawled in one of Meg’s kitchen chairs and shrugged off his coat. “Getting almost too warm for the coat these days.”
Meg didn’t feel up to chitchat: Art had to be here for a reason. “Marcus was here, looking at the barn, after Seth told him about the pesticide. I don’t think he found anything useful.”
“So he’s taking all the right steps, if a little late. I guess he’s got to go through the motions.”
Meg poured two mugs of coffee and set them on the table before sitting down. “Okay. Tell me.” Might as well get it over with.
“Got the word from the ME. The formal report won’t be ready for a while, but thanks to our heads-up, he looked for methidathion and found it.”
Meg couldn’t say she was surprised, though she had hoped it wouldn’t be true. “From here?” she asked.
Art shook his head. “There’s no way to know where that particular batch came from, at least not without a lot of fancy and expensive testing. So we can’t eliminate that stuff from your barn as the source. And the same stuff was in the vomit, too, so we know he was still alive when he got here.”
Not good news. Jason had died here, and Meg still didn’t know why. “Art, is there any chance it was suicide?”
“Physically? Well, there’s no sign of struggle, no injections. Nothing conclusive. But, Meg?”
“What?” she said dully. She had a feeling she didn’t want to hear what he was going to say next.
“There’s a lot to suggest that it wasn’t suicide. The ME puts the time of death sometime early Sunday morning, maybe between midnight and six. Jason had dinner with a bunch of folks on Saturday night.”
“The GreenGrow meeting,” Meg interjected.
“Yes. Plenty of witnesses say he was in fine form there, nothing out of the ordinary. He left with this Daphne Lydon woman, and she says she spent an hour or two with him, and he was fine when she went home.”
“She told me.”
That surprised Art. “You’ve talked to her?”
“More like, she talked to me. She found me and told me all about how close she and Jason were. And that they were together that night and then she went home.”
“That’s what she told the detectives. She lives in one of those places that rents out rooms to students, but it sounds like she’s kind of a loner and nobody pays much attention to her. Okay, so, the ME says the dose Jason got would have killed him within six hours, or at the very least incapacitated him. Marcus says his car was still in Amherst. So how’d he get from Amherst at midnight to your place?”
Meg met his eyes. “I asked Daphne the same question. She didn’t know. But clearly he would have needed help,” she said slowly. “No way he could have walked. So somebody else knew. Somebody brought him here and left him to die.” She sat silently for a few moments, then said slowly, “You know, it bothered me that if he had killed himself, he didn’t leave a note. I would expect Jason, from what I’ve heard, to have left a detailed manifesto or something. The police didn’t find anything like that at his place, did they?”
“No. And they didn’t find any pesticide, either.”
“Why here, Art? What did I have to do with this? I didn’t know the man or his friends. Although I’ve certainly met a few people who might have wanted Jason out of the way.”
“Meg, I can’t answer that. Even if it was political, or even if he was depressed, somebody had to help him die.”
Meg debated with herself before saying, “Art, Bree was at that dinner. She had a relationship with Jason, though she says it ended two years ago. Still, I don’t know her well enough to be sure there wasn’t more to it than what she’s told me.”
“Huh. Why’d she go to the meeting? Did she say?”
“She said Michael Fisher—he’s one of the founders of GreenGrow—asked her to come. She said she thought Michael was trying to balance out Jason’s radical bent by bringing in more middle-of-the-road members. Anyway, I assume Marcus knows this. What’s he doing now?”
“Investigating. Say what you will about the man, he’s a competent investigator. I’m sorry it doesn’t clear you completely, Meg, but it’s going to be hard to prove you had anything to do with this.”
“But even if I’m clear, there are people I know who are still under suspicion, aren’t there? Christopher, Bree, even Seth?”
Art shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t borrow trouble, Meg. Marcus is stubborn, and he’ll get to the bottom of this. Look, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to let you know where things stand.” He stood up.
Meg stood as well. “Thank you, Art. And I hope Marcus is very good at his job.”
At the door, Art turned and smiled at her. “You just hang in there, okay? Hey, you looked pretty good on that tractor.”
Meg recognized that he was trying to change the subject and was warmed by his effort. “Thanks. It was kind of fun, and easier than I expected. Look, Art, I do appreciate your coming by and filling me in.”
“Hey, I don’t want you to sit here and stew. If I hear anything new, I’ll let you know.” He opened the door. “I’d better be getting back. Thanks for the coffee.”
She smiled.
“Thanks for the update.”
After Art left, Meg sat down again with her cold coffee, staring into space. She tried to reconstruct that Saturday night. Nothing had awakened her; nothing had seemed out of the ordinary on Sunday. The road that ran past her property was a quiet one, little traveled. And there were few houses from which people could have seen anyone dragging around a dying man. Even the presence of her fence wouldn’t have stopped anyone who was really determined.
It seemed so peaceful here. Funny—she would have said she was happy living in Boston, with all its lights and noise. Somehow in the short time she’d lived in Granford, she had come to appreciate the silence. But now the isolation bothered her. It shouldn’t be so easy to just wander around the countryside disposing of dead bodies.
Why her orchard?
21
The next morning Meg was surprised to see Christopher and Bree arrive together in the university’s van. Even from a distance Meg could see that Christopher looked extraordinarily pleased with himself: there was an extra spring in his step, and he never stopped smiling.
She opened the back door before they reached it. “Good morning. You’re here bright and early. Are you coming in or heading straight for the orchard?”
“Good morning, Meg. What a grand day! We’ll go up the hill later, but first I need to talk with you. Both of you, in fact.”
Despite his smile, Meg felt a tingle of fear. Recently nobody’s surprise announcements had been happy ones. “Come on in, then. Coffee?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any tea, would you?”
“Coming up.”
“I’ll do it,” Bree interrupted. She had followed Christopher into the kitchen, looking wary. Meg tried to read her expression. What had Christopher said to her on the way over?
“Thank you, Bree. Come, Meg, sit. We have much to discuss.” For the first time he noticed her piebald floor. “Good heavens, my dear! What have you done?”
“It’s my latest home improvement—and I use the term cautiously. I plan to refinish it soon.”
“Ah. Well, the wood appears to be in excellent condition. I shall look forward to seeing the finished product. Shall we sit now?”
Rotten to the Core Page 15
