Bitter Harvest

by Sheila Connolly

  “Right. I’ll bring the wine.”

  He ducked in for another quick kiss. They were certainly doing their part to convey the impression of an amorous couple looking forward to a romantic night—at Seth’s house. At least no one watching would think they were planning to sneak around in the dark setting a trap.

  Meg went inside and tried to look busy as Seth left the driveway, headed for home. Step two accomplished: Bree was in place. Meg fed Lolly and tidied up aimlessly. How many lights should she leave on? If they were supposed to slip back into the house unnoticed, fewer would be better. But she always left some lights on, the evenings she wasn’t home, didn’t she? It was a gesture more symbolic than practical: anybody could open one of her aged windows in about a minute, with no special tools. But it made her feel better to come back to a lighted place. In the end she compromised, leaving on the light over the front door, but not the one in the back; leaving on a bedroom light; and one in the front parlor. She debated briefly about leaving on one over the sink in the kitchen, until she realized that they were supposed to come in through the back, and that light would make that difficult. She gave Lolly one more pat, then headed out into the night.

  At Seth’s she came in through the kitchen door. He was waiting. “I guess we’re committed now?” Meg said.

  “Unless you want Bree to be really, really annoyed at you, I’d say so. By the way, I filled Art in about our plan, off the record. He can’t approve what amounts to vigilantism, but he’ll come if we need him.”

  “Before or after the fact?”

  “Look, if we see someone who’s acting suspicious, we call him. We don’t have to try to stop this person, but we do have a legitimate complaint if there’s a prowler. We do not try to do something brave—or stupid. Let Art deal with it.”

  “How anticlimactic. So we sit in the dark, waiting for someone to show up, and if we happen to see anyone, then we call the cops. And if we aren’t careful—or lucky—the sneak will be long gone. By the way, where’s Max?”

  “What, you think he’d be any help? He’d probably bring the guy a chew toy and want to play. I left him with Mom.”

  One less thing to worry about. “Should we go?” Meg asked.

  “Might as well. Look, when we get there, we go in through the shed door, right?”

  “Yes. I left the light off in the kitchen, so it will be dark.”

  They stepped outside into swirling darkness. Meg waited a moment for her eyes to adjust—Seth had turned off the outside lights, as though they had retired for the evening, expecting no additional visitors. The snow blew in her face, and she settled her knit hat more firmly on her head. At least there wasn’t much accumulation yet. She’d walked this path before, but never under these conditions. Think of your ancestors, Meg! They must have done this regularly. Did churches hold evening meetings, a century earlier? Did local citizens walk, rather than riding or hitching the horse to a carriage? Did they use lanterns, or would it have been easier to see in the dark, or to trust the horse’s sense of direction?

  She stumbled over some unseen clod and Seth caught her arm. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Sure. I love wandering around in the dark for questionable reasons. Sounds like the story of my life.”

  “We can still call this off. Just pull Bree out of the barn—unless she’s gotten really chummy with the goats.”

  “Hey, they’re nice enough, once you get to know them. No, I want to go through with this. Or is this one of those Too-Stupid-to-Live things you read about in bad novels? Should we know better? At least we did try to involve the authorities, instead of just insisting that we could handle it ourselves. Art didn’t say no, did he?”

  “Not in so many words. I’m pretty sure he wishes he could do more to help, but he hasn’t got the manpower, and he can’t commit what he does have to something as vague as this.”

  “So here we are. How far do you think sound carries, under the circumstances?”

  “Not too far, with this snow. Are you worried about it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. We don’t know what direction this person might be coming from. I mean, the road’s kind of obvious.”

  “It’s not likely anyone is coming through the meadow. It may be frozen, but the footing’s pretty uneven.”

  “I guess that’s good, since that’s one of our blind spots—Bree can’t see out the back of the barn easily. So that leaves the back end of the property—and this way, the direction we’re coming from. Maybe we should shut up?”

  “Good idea.”

  They trudged on in silence, until Meg could see the lights of her house glowing in the near distance. She stopped for a moment, listening, watching, but she couldn’t hear or see anything. The barn looked dark, so Bree wasn’t reading by flashlight—or if she was, she hid it well. “I guess we’re going in,” Meg whispered. “Should we split up?”

  “I’ll go first.” Seth headed toward the house, and Meg hung back for half a minute. His dark-clad figure disappeared quickly, and she felt a moment of panic. It was all but impossible to see anyone, friend or foe, under these conditions. Maybe they should have waited for a better night. But it was too late now. Or was it? They could still call in Bree and just get a good night’s sleep and think about it in the clear light of morning. What had sounded like a good plan in the warmth of her kitchen turned out to be entirely different when Meg was standing in the middle of a snowy field in the dark.

  But the first step was to catch up to Seth. Meg started moving again, placing her feet cautiously, and then slipped into the shed. Seth was waiting for her by the door, but she couldn’t read his expression. She reached out and pulled open the storm door, then the inner door, congratulating herself on remembering to oil the hinges. They moved soundlessly, and she led Seth into the dark kitchen. He shut the doors.

  Step three accomplished. They were inside the house, and undetected as far as they knew. Now all they had to do was wait.

  29

  Meg listened hard but heard nothing out of place. She jumped when there was a sudden thud, quickly explained when Lolly appeared and wound herself around her ankles, pleased by the unexpected company.

  “Now what?” she whispered to Seth.

  “Are you okay keeping watch for a while, while I get some sleep?”

  “I guess. What am I supposed to do? Stay put? Patrol through the rooms?” Meg had an absurd vision of herself crawling from room to room, popping up to peer out a window now and then, most likely with Lolly pacing alongside her.

  “Yes.”

  Meg sensed rather than saw his smile. “You’re no help.”

  “What I meant was, you can stay in one place, but get up and check outside the windows every now and then. It’ll keep your circulation going, if nothing else.”

  “Got it. You want to go upstairs?”

  “I’m good for now. We can wait together, at least for a while. Let’s hope this person has an early bedtime.”

  “Where should we sit?”

  “You left the lamp on in the front room.”

  “Yes, that’s what I normally do when I’m not here at night. I wanted to stick to my usual pattern, in case somebody really has been watching.”

  “I’d say we could sit there, but if we moved around we might throw shadows, which would give us away. How about the dining room?”

  “If we can sit on our coats. The floor in there may be historically correct, but it’s not soft.”

  “Good thought.”

  They stripped off their outer garments, then scrambled their way across the kitchen floor into the dining room, settling themselves with their backs against a wall. For once Meg was glad she wasn’t overburdened with furniture—there was plenty of room to stretch out their legs.

  “Is it okay to talk?” Meg asked in a whisper.

  “Probably. I don’t think anyone outside could hear, even if they were standing under the window. Is there something you want to talk about?”

  “Mercy from P
ittsford sent me a packet of stuff—I got it today. I’m trying to figure out what it means.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the key information comes from an old diary, and there’s stuff in there that could be gossip, or could be fact—it’s hard to say now. But the gist of it is that after all the Lampson children and then the parents died, the town elders thought Violet would be better off somewhere else. I may be reading too much into it, but I wonder if they thought she had something to do with the deaths? Or maybe knew something she wasn’t supposed to?”

  “Like what?” Seth asked.

  “I haven’t thought this through, so I’m kind of guessing here. Violet was the eldest child, but she never knew her own father. Mom remarried quickly and started having more kids, and the last one—or two, actually, since they were twins—were born in 1791, when Violet was only five. And all the children died, the last one in 1794. And then the parents died.”

  “Meg, I think it’s great you’ve memorized all this information, but what’s the point?”

  “The diary writer claimed that Unity was driven to kill her husband, and then she killed herself. The language the town used was kind of vague, but implied a scandal, bad enough to think that removing Violet from the only home she’d ever known was a good idea. It fits. And there’s more. The writer of the diary said all the children were ‘sickly.’ Do you think the mother had something to do with it?”

  “Like a case of Munchausen’s? She liked having the kids, but not raising them?”

  “I wondered about that. Did that kind of thing happen back then? But Violet lived. What if Mom thought the weakness in the other kids was her husband’s fault? She’d borne one healthy child by her first husband, and the evidence was right there in front of them, but all the offspring of the second died early. Wait! The line on the sampler, remember? The Bible quote: ‘All the increase of thy house shall be cut down in the flower of their age.’ Violet was describing her family.”

  Seth yawned. “If you say so. But things like that happened back then, for lots of reasons. What’s your point?”

  “Where’s the scandal, then, if everybody died a natural death? What I think happened is that after the last child died, Unity just lost it. I mean, what mother wouldn’t, after watching four of her children die in the space of four years? It’s like a dose of postpartum plus postmortem depression, and it was too much for her. Poor Unity, driven mad with grief, kills her husband, and then herself—while Violet watches the whole process. And the town thought Violet would be better off far away from Pittsford, and sent her here. Unity would have known that Violet would be cared for, by one or another of her relatives.”

  “So, what now then? You want to exhume Unity and Jacob and check for—what?”

  Meg swatted Seth’s arm. “No, that’s ridiculous. But I am curious. How would Unity have killed her husband and then herself?”

  Seth yawned again. “I assume you’re going to tell me?”

  “Poison would be the easiest for her. There were plenty of plants available to any housewife in those days. I can’t see a woman shooting her husband, waiting a day or two, then shooting herself—and surely there would be a mention in the records somewhere. If it had been a shooting the town probably would have labeled it a ‘tragic accident.’ ”

  Seth didn’t answer, and after a moment or two Meg realized he was snoring lightly. It was too dark to see her watch. She nudged him gently.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “You’re falling asleep. Why don’t you go upstairs and take the bed? I can wake you after a few hours.”

  “Sorry. Come and get me if you see or hear anything, okay?”

  “Sure. Now, go.”

  Meg watched as Seth struggled to his feet, then moved surprisingly quietly into the hall and up the stairs, avoiding the light cast from the single lamp in the front parlor. When she heard the bedsprings creak upstairs, she stood up and tiptoed into the dark kitchen. Outside it was lighter only because of the falling snow reflecting the light from the front room, and she could barely see the far edge of the driveway. Great night they’d picked for a stakeout. There could be an elephant standing in her driveway and she wouldn’t know it.

  Would the snow keep her stalker at home, or would he take advantage of the cover it provided? What would be the next logical step in the progression of nuisance events? Worse, would this mystery person graduate from nuisance to something more serious? What form would that take? Meg stared out into the odd half darkness, straining to see anything.

  She went back to her post in the dining room, and it didn’t take her long to realize she was bored. How did the police do this kind of thing? She couldn’t read, she couldn’t boot up her laptop, because either would cast light where there shouldn’t be any. All she could do was sit and think. Not that there wasn’t plenty to think about. One: her business could be called a success, which was good news. What would she like to see for it going forward? Did it make sense to expand her operations—plant more trees, thinking of the future? If so, what kind, and how many? The heirlooms were selling well, but would they be by the time new trees were bearing? Or should she stick with the tried-andtrue best sellers?

  How long would Bree be willing to stick around? She was smart and hardworking, and Meg knew she would never have survived this first year without her. Would she want to move on at some point? What kind of track record would she need to make the jump to the next level? What the heck was the next level? Where was Bree’s relationship with Michael going? Or maybe it didn’t have to be headed anywhere—maybe they were just enjoying the moment, with no strings. He seemed like a nice, earnest young man—Meg smiled inwardly at her use of “young,” since Michael was less than ten years younger than she was—and his interests and Bree’s were compatible. Was that going to be enough to carry them through?

  And what about Seth? What did she want from him? What did she expect? She’d told him she loved him, and it was true. But where did they go from here? Maybe now, with the harvest under her belt, and a niche in the community—and some friends—she could give their relationship the attention it deserved.

  She sat in the dark, listening to the light wind wrapping itself around the corners of the old house—and occasionally sending a gust down the chimney, whose damper didn’t quite close—and the light tapping of snowflakes against the windowpanes. At least it didn’t sound like ice, which was a good thing. Poor Bree, stuck out in the barn with only the goats to keep her company. Not that Lolly was much of a companion, curled up in a snug ball in a nearby chair. Meg dozed off . . .

  To be awakened by an unholy and unnatural racket. Pulse pounding, Meg tried to sort out what was happening. Was that an air horn? The goats were bleating, and there were crashes coming from the barn. Obviously Bree had encountered someone and had sounded the alarm. Meg stumbled to her feet, hampered by the fact that one of her legs had gone to sleep, and lurched toward the kitchen door. No need for secrecy now. She jammed her arms into her coat, pulled on her boots, grabbed a flashlight, and hauled open the door—to be met by a swirling mass of snow. It didn’t matter—the noise from the barn continued unabated, and she knew the way. She waded through the snow—which had already lived up to its “six inches” forecast—and dragged open one of the big doors facing the house. She fumbled briefly for the light switch beside the door, then turned it on—to a scene of chaos.

  Bree was standing in front of the goat pen, whose gate was open, which explained why Dorcas and Isabel were darting around the interior. Meg quickly slid the barn door shut behind her to prevent them from escaping. Bree was wielding a piece of two-by-four like a baseball bat, squared off against . . . Jenn Taylor? Who was clutching the hayfork, pointed straight at Bree.

  Meg took a step into the barn. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

  Bree grinned, her eyes never leaving Jenn’s weapon. “Looks like we have a visitor. How’d you like my air horn? Kids around here use them at football games.” Bree didn�
�t appear at all rattled by this midnight confrontation with an armed attacker.

  “Very effective,” Meg said. “You probably woke up the entire neighborhood. Jenn, what are you doing here? Put that thing down!”

  Jenn’s glance darted briefly toward Meg before returning to Bree. “She went after me first.”

  “Well, of course I did! What are you doing skulking around the barn in the middle of the night?”

  “What are you doing in the barn in the middle of the night?” Jenn countered.

  “Looks like I was waiting for you,” Bree said. “You thought it would be empty, right? What were you planning this time?”

  “Bree, did you call Art?” Meg said sharply.

  “Sure did, soon as I spotted her.”

  Meg started when she heard fumbling at the big front doors. Then one door slid open behind her and Seth stepped in, closing it behind him. He came up to stand alongside her. “He’s tied up with an accident over on 202. We’re on our own for now,” he said quietly to Meg, then more loudly, “Jenn, what’s this about?”

  Bree waved her lumber. “She came in carrying this, but she dropped it when I surprised her with all that noise. You thought the place would be empty, right, lady? Well, we’re onto you now.” Bree glanced at Seth again. “She grabbed the fork once I got hold of the two-by-four.”

  Jenn was trying to watch everyone at once, her eyes darting around like a trapped animal’s. “Jenn, put that down, please,” Meg said. “We aren’t going to hurt you, we just want to talk.”

  Jenn looked at Meg full on then, and Meg nearly took a step back, so strong was the hatred in Jenn’s eyes. It wasn’t clear whether Jenn would have cooperated, but then Dorcas came up behind her and nudged her, and Jenn turned on the goat in a fury, and raised the hayfork.