“Who, me? I’m just touching base.” Lauren hesitated a moment. “I miss you, you know? It’s no fun around here anymore.”
Meg thought briefly of the life she had left behind in Boston. Did she miss it? A few things: movies, good food, music. And a few—a very few—friends like Lauren. The rest of it, all the deadlines and the pressure and the in-house politics, she was happy to forget. “Lauren, you love your job, and you love beating out the competition.”
“I guess,” Lauren sighed. “But come back and visit me sometime, will you?”
“After the harvest, when I’ll have more time.” At least four months away.
“Okay. Take care, and send me an invitation to the restaurant opening.”
Meg promised to do so. As she hung up the phone, she saw an unfamiliar car pull into her drive, and Sam Anderson climbed out. Meg hadn’t seen much of him since his arrival, or of Nicky and Brian either, although Seth provided regular updates on their progress at the restaurant. She could only imagine how busy they must all be, with their self-imposed deadline of September first. “Hi, Sam,” she called out. “What brings you my way?”
Sam grinned shyly. “Hi, Meg. I’m exploring. Getting the lay of the land. Or something like that.”
“Were you a city kid, too, like Nicky?”
“More or less. Closest I got to any farms was visiting the grandparents in Maryland. But farms are where the good food is, and that’s what matters. I can learn.”
“I know what you mean. You want to come in and have something to drink?” Meg asked.
“If it’s no trouble. I can’t stay long—I’m still trying to find my way around Granford. We’ve been so busy working on the building that I haven’t looked around as much as I should.”
“Come on in.” Meg led the way to her kitchen door. Inside, she poured them both glasses of iced tea, added some mint she had found growing outside the kitchen door, and sat across from Sam at the kitchen table. “So, it sounds like the three of you have a real plan. What kind of food supplies are you looking for?”
“You must have heard about slow food? The whole locavore movement?” Sam said hopefully.
Meg didn’t have the heart to disappoint him, so she hedged and said, “I think so. But can you tell me what I should know?”
“Well, I’ll give you the short answer. There’s been a lot of interest in farmers’ markets for, oh, the past twenty-five years, first in California. Don’t get me started on the evils of corporate farming, but at least there are people trying to fight back, by growing healthy food and not shipping it halfway around the world, but selling it quickly to people who appreciate it. And preserving heirloom species that otherwise might be lost forever.” Sam’s eyes shone with fervor, and Meg could see why Nicky was so fond of him.
“You should talk with Christopher Ramsdell, over at UMass,” Meg said. “He managed this orchard for years. He also gets very worked up about apple varieties, and the evils of commercialism.”
Sam nodded vigorously. “Good, good. Well, the slow food movement is part of that, too, and Alice Waters at Chez Panisse—she’s been a real role model for years. Thank goodness it’s catching on. So what Nicky and I want to do is cook with the freshest food possible, and remind people just how good it can taste. And it’s healthier for them, too—no preservatives, no added salt. Just good honest food.”
“You’re making me hungry. Do you know what you need, and who to talk to?”
“Bree’s friend Michael has been helping, and Seth knows a lot of people. But like I said, I haven’t had a lot of time to follow up yet. I’m just getting started. Can we count on you for apples?”
“Of course. Except I’d better warn you, I have no idea what I’ve got out there. Bree, my orchard manager—you met her at the restaurant—would know better.” Meg sipped her iced tea. “So, you three are all living upstairs?”
“Yeah. Saves us money, even if the bathroom gets a little crowded sometimes. And there’s plaster dust everywhere.”
“That won’t last forever. Are you still on track for the opening?”
“I think so, if everything goes right.” Sam downed the last of his drink and stood up. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just thought it was rude to pass by and not stop to say hello. Let me know if you have any other ideas.”
Meg escorted him to the door. “I’ll do that. And your food ideas sound wonderful.”
Sam grinned shyly again. “Thanks. See you!”
As he pulled out of the driveway, Bree emerged from the depths of the barn. “Was that Sam?”
“Yup. He said Michael’s given him some good leads.”
“Good. Hey, wanna see your new tractor attachment?”
“I didn’t know I had a new one. What’s it for?”
“It’s a forklift—you need it to lift the big apple boxes and move them from one place to another. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Meg obediently followed Bree into the dim barn. Bree strode up to the elderly green tractor and patted the new addition proudly. Meg looked bewildered. “But it’s in back.”
“Has to be—those boxes are heavy when they’re filled. Your engine’s in front, and then you add these counterweights, too”—Bree nudged a pile of oddly shaped metal objects with one foot—“so you don’t tip over backwards.”
“If you say so. You’ll show me how all this works, right?” Meg said dubiously.
“Of course. And we’ve got time to practice. You’re still a month or more away from needing it. So Sam’s scouting out vendors?”
“So he says. I can’t help much, but I’m glad Michael’s working with him. Thanks for setting that up.”
“Hey, it’s just business—everybody wins.”
“What’s the story on this local foods movement? Is it more than just the fad of the moment, like oyster foam or steak ice cream?”
“Let’s hope so! Corporate farming has all but destroyed small farmers like you, across the country, with some help from the government. But finally people are trying to bring back healthy food. You’re already part of that movement.”
“Good for me,” Meg said, laughing. “It’s a real challenge to try to balance economics, politics, and healthy eating all at once, isn’t it?”
“You bet, but somebody’s got to do it. You need me for anything else today?”
“Not that I know of. I was thinking about painting the trim, if I have the time.”
“Better now than next month,” Bree said. “Well, I’m off to Amherst. See you later.”
As Bree drove off, Meg ambled over to talk to her goats. “You having fun, watching all this coming and going?”
The goats nodded. Or maybe they were just pulling up tufts of grass—Meg was still learning goat language. She checked out their pen: yes, fence still secure, plenty of water, and the grazing was holding up. All was well in the goat world, at least. She turned back to look at the house. The body was white, the sills black, as were the sashes. Ergo, she needed some black outdoor paint, which meant another trip to the home store. At least she had reduced her trips there to only two a week.
Now Seth appeared from his office space between the house and the barn. Really, this was like Whack-a-Mole, with people popping up from every hole.
“Hi, Seth. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I’m not, actually. I’m supposed to be in at least three other places, but I had to pick up some paperwork. What are you looking at?”
“I’m thinking of painting the trim, before I get sucked into the harvest. You have any recommendations?”
“Scrape well. Prime the bare wood. Then a good coat of oil-based paint, maybe two, depending on the condition of the wood. You need scrapers, sandpaper, decent brushes, and a good brand of paint.”
Meg sighed. “And I thought this would be simple.”
“It is, relatively. Were you planning to rehang the window sashes? Because that might make them easier to paint.” When Meg looked blank, he went on, “You know—sashes, h
ung on cords, with weights?”
“You lost me, but I suppose I can look it up online. Maybe I should wait until next year?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it fast enough. I can show you how to do the first one, and then you can do the rest.”
“Okay, I guess. So I’m off to the home store—again. Oh, Sam stopped by—he’s starting to talk to local growers.”
“Oh, right. Nice guy.”
“They’re all nice. And I love the way they talk about food. But that doesn’t mean they know what they’re doing on the business side.”
“Hey, don’t borrow trouble. So far everything has gone smoothly, knock on wood. Well, I’ve got to go meet a building inspector. See you later.”
And Seth in turn pulled out. She watched him go, marveling at his endless energy. He made her feel like a slacker, as he juggled multiple jobs, including building out his office space, her apple storage, and the restaurant, and handling his responsibilities as a town selectman. But he never complained—he just kept moving. And so should she. She went back into the house to retrieve her wallet and keys, so she could buy tools and paint for the latest of her long list of projects.
6
A few days later Meg was painting a window frame when Seth called out from the barn door. “Meg? Come take a look.”
Meg climbed carefully down from the ladder and wiped her hands on her already-stained painter’s pants. She’d finished the windows on the west side and was working her way counterclockwise around the house. Four windows on one side, nine across the front, four on the east side—not including all the others on the kitchen L. But she had to admit that once she fell into a rhythm, the work went quickly, and she could keep an eye on the orchard and the barn while she worked. “They’re ready?” she called back.
She joined Seth at the barn door and gazed dubiously at the pair of large, ugly, boxlike structures that had been shoehorned inside. “You sure this is what I need?”
Seth looked offended. “This is a pair of a state-of-the-art, computer-regulated, climate-controlled apple storage chambers. Don’t judge them by the outside—the insulation looks ratty, I know. But inside they’re great: new concrete floor, everything plumb and level, nice wide access to get your equipment in and out. All your controls are convenient and easily accessible, right here on this wall panel. All you need now is apples and you are good to go.”
Meg felt contrite—he really had worked hard on these, delaying finishing his own offices in the adjacent shed, which in an earlier century had been a carpenter’s shop. “I’m sorry, Seth. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I mean, you finished construction on time and under budget, which is remarkable, considering everything else you’re doing.”
“I promised you this would be ready.”
“You did, and you delivered. Thank you.” She stepped forward to deliver what she had intended to be a quick peck on the cheek, but which somehow developed into something else that was even better. Finally she sighed and leaned against his chest, her eyes shut.
“You’re welcome,” he said, putting his arms around her. “You’re worried about the whole harvest thing, aren’t you?” he asked.
She pulled back and looked up at him. “Of course I am. Shouldn’t I be? I mean, six months ago I didn’t even know I had an orchard, and now I’m supposed to run it as a profitable operation? I’m terrified. There’s so much I don’t know!”
“Meg, you’ve got Bree to help, and you’ve got me. You’re doing fine. Besides, if the crop’s a total failure, you and Bree can go waitress at the restaurant.”
“Don’t even joke about that. How’s construction going over there anyway? I haven’t seen it for a while.” For the first couple of weeks, Nicky had called Meg every time a new item was finished. Meg thought it was sweet, but she couldn’t exactly drop everything she was doing on the spur of the moment to go check out the new wall finish or stove or shipment of dishes. Still, she admired the real progress that the Czarneckis had achieved. The kitchen L had been gutted and rebuilt to accommodate the larger-scale stove, ovens, freezer, and refrigerators, and separate dry-food storage had been framed in. There was another area set aside for plates, glassware, silverware, and other front-of-the-house supplies. Seth had even managed to carve out space for a tiny lavatory under the stairs, although he hadn’t done more than rough it out the last time she had seen it.
“It’s looking good. The schedule’s holding, anyway.”
“That is nothing short of amazing. You do good work, Mr. Chapin.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I try.” A muffled phone rang. “Hey, is that yours or mine?” he asked. Meg patted down her pockets; Seth did the same.
“Mine,” she said. “It’s Nicky.” She flipped it open. “Hey, we were just talking about you.”
“Sam’s dead,” Nicky’s teary voice whispered without preamble.
Meg stiffened. “What? Sam? What happened?” Seth was watching her face with concern.
“I don’t know. The police called—they wanted us to come identify him, but I couldn’t, so Brian . . . Can you come over? Please?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there.” Meg shut the phone and looked at Seth.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Meg took a deep breath to steady herself. “Apparently Sam is dead, and Nicky’s all alone at the restaurant. She wants me to come over.”
“I’ll drive.”
Meg felt relieved before she even realized she’d been dreading it. She had no idea how to comfort Nicky. It would be a lot easier with Seth there to back her up. “Thank you. Let me grab my bag in the house.”
By the time she had retrieved her purse and locked up, Seth was waiting in the car with the engine running.
“What happened?” Seth asked as he took the back road toward town, avoiding the highway.
“She didn’t say—I don’t even know if she knows. Just that Sam was dead, and Brian had to go ID him.”
“Not at the restaurant, then?”
“I guess not. Thank goodness. But . . . no, there’s no point in getting ahead of ourselves. Right now Nicky needs some support, and we’ll just have to wait for details.”
It took no more than five minutes to arrive at the center of town. Seth pulled into the parking area next to the restaurant, and Meg beat him to the front door. Nicky opened it before they could knock. She’d obviously been waiting, and she threw herself into Meg’s arms, sobbing. Meg held her for a few moments, then said gently, “Maybe we could go inside?”
Nicky nodded without speaking, and somehow they shuffled their way into the hall, with Nicky clinging to Meg. Seth followed, pulling the door closed behind him.
It took a while for Nicky’s storm of tears to pass. Her sobs slowed, then stopped. Finally she stepped back from Meg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“That’s what friends are for, Nicky. Do you know what happened?”
Nicky shook her head. “No. I don’t know anything. Brian and I were here working most of the morning, and Sam said he was going out to talk to some local growers. He didn’t say which ones. He’s been doing that a lot lately, all over the place—you know, talking to people, finding out what’s available. And then we get this call from somebody, I guess the police, who found him dead, and that’s all I know. Poor Sam, he was so happy here! Maybe it was a car accident—he doesn’t know all the local roads . . .” Nicky started sobbing again, but when Meg reached out, she backed away, then crossed the room, wrapping her arms around herself. “No, I’ll be all right. I just have to get a grip. Brian’s going to be upset, too, and I need to be there for him.” She gazed out the window, her back to Meg and Seth, as if she was expecting to see Brian right then.
Meg and Seth exchanged a wordless, helpless glance. Meg had no idea what she was supposed to do, but they didn’t have long to wait: after a few more minutes, Brian’s car appeared, followed by a Granford police cruiser. Both pulled into the parking area.
Wh
en Brian opened the front door, Nicky flung herself into his arms and he grabbed her, murmuring into her hair.
“Hi, Art,” Seth said to the man who followed Brian in: Art Preston, Granford’s chief of police. Meg was reassured by his solid presence: Art looked ideally suited for the job of small-town officer, with his broad build and permanently sympathetic expression. “What happened? Was it an accident?”
Art looked briefly at the young couple, still entwined, then tilted his head toward the adjoining room. When Seth and Meg followed him there, he spoke in a low voice. “No, it wasn’t. Mr. Anderson was found in Jake Kellogg’s back field, where he keeps his pigs.”
“What was Sam doing there?” Meg asked, keeping her voice low as well.
“I have no idea. I was hoping these folks could tell me.” He nodded toward Nicky and Brian in the adjoining room; they remained oblivious.
“How’d he die?” Seth asked.
“Don’t know yet. No wounds on him, as far as I could see, but I didn’t mess with the body.”
“Was it an accident?” Seth pressed.
Art leaned toward them and lowered his voice even further. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s a suspicious death, so we have to investigate. I left an officer there to wait for the ME and the detectives from Northampton.”
Damn. Meg had hoped she’d seen the last of Detective William Marcus of the state police. “Was it the pigs?”
Art shook his head with a grim smile. “That’s an urban legend, I’m afraid. How much you know about raising pigs?”
“Exactly nothing,” Meg admitted.
“Well, Jake’s got a good setup there—nice tidy pig houses, and plenty of room for his animals. Pigs need a couple of fenced acres, a house for shelter, clean water and food. They keep their, uh, elimination in one separate place, and in hot weather they like a mud wallow. The wallow’s at the lowest part of the field, near a dirt lane with a ditch. Your man was found facedown in this pig wallow, just inside the fence. I won’t guess whether he fell or was pushed or dumped, or whether he was dead or alive when he went in there. I’ll leave that for the ME.” Art paused and checked again on Nicky’s rate of sobbing, which seemed to be declining again. “I should head back out there. I just wanted to get Mr. Czarnecki back here, and get some background on Mr. Anderson.”
Red Delicious Death Page 5
