Poison Apples

by Nancy Means Wright

  The voice came on, loud, gruff: It was a voice she hadn’t heard before, muffled, as if to disguise itself. “Keep the Willmarth woman out of this. This is a warning. Keep her out of this.”

  But Ruth’s green pickup was already there in the driveway. Moira ran outdoors, her heart hammering... and hesitated. Ruth was in the barn, interviewing one of the men. She didn’t want to interfere, but she had to take these warnings seriously, angry though they made her. Ephraim was coming out of the barn as she entered; he acknowledged her presence with a vigorous nod of his head. He was one of the straight-faced ones, serious; he read books instead of playing dominoes or dRufus or flutes. He’d had a year at the University of West Indies in Kingston, but couldn’t afford to go back, he was picking apples for his tuition. She touched his arm; she had to keep abreast of the moment. “I have a book for you,” she said, “of Derek Walcott’s poems. Would you like to borrow it?”

  His face lit up. Derek Walcott was a West Indian who had come out of poverty to win the Nobel prize for literature. “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.” Ephraim went into a trot and back to his picking as though the faster he moved and the more apples he picked, the sooner he would be back in his books.

  Walcott, she’d read, was a black man with two white grandfathers and two black grandmothers; he called himself “a divided child”—he had compassion for both races. She thought of Stan’s fight to save Aaron Samuels, and had a rush of admiration for her husband. Stan had chosen neither Judaism nor Christianity for his faith. He was a humanist, he said, that was all, that was enough.

  “You look like Joan of Arc there in the sun.” Ruth was coming out of the barn now, stretching her arms above her head. Moira admired the tanned, muscled look of them. “Positively saintlike,” Ruth went on.

  Moira said, “Oh, ridiculous. I was just thinking of Stan, that’s all. I was ready to charge the enemy. The hate people. But I have something to tell you.”

  She repeated the warning message, and Ruth just laughed.

  “But you must take it seriously! I don’t want you to be involved anymore. We have to heed some of these warnings. We’ve already had one death.”

  “Two,” Ruth murmured. “But that’s why I want to go on. I can’t stand by and let someone exploit you like this. And it’s only two more interviews: Desmond and then Rufus.”

  “Let me question Rufus,” Moira pleaded. “He won’t be an easy one. He’ll feel he’s above all this. This is his orchard—at least he seems to think so. He takes anything Stan or I say—said—well, personally, like we’re raising a vendetta against him.”

  “All the more reason why I should do the talking. Now go in and have lunch.”

  “Have you...?”

  “Done. Almond butter and marmalade sandwich, my favorite. Tim kicked me out of the barn again. I’m good for another hour. When I’m done with Rufus, I’ll come in and we can talk.”

  “Okay, then, but promise after this you’ll lie low. Someone, obviously, knows you’ve been over here, that you’re doing all this questioning.”

  “I can’t think of anyone outside this orchard who’d know. Except Pete—he called this morning and Sharon told him I was over here. And Pete might have told Bertha. And Bertha—”

  “Might have told that minister. Who might have—”

  “Good Lord,” said Ruth, slapping the side of her head. “Reminds me of that Norman Rockwell painting—it was on the cover of the old Saturday Evening Post? I saw the original down in Arlington. A face with a telephone in the left-hand corner whispers the news to the next face, and so on, down through a dozen or more gossips. Each with a growing expression of horror. And obviously the news wholly distorted!”

  Moira had to laugh with Ruth. She was less fearful somehow, afterward, when Ruth went back into the barn. She hummed again as she returned to the house, indulged the cat with a handful of dried food. Opal was sitting by a window with her sketchbook. Moira glanced down at the drawing, ready to compliment the girl. Maybe that was all Opal needed: someone to tell her she was worth something. Probably Annie May had never told her that. Ruth recalled going to their house and hearing the girl scolded—for this, for that.

  The sketch appeared to be Adam Golding—a recognizable likeness. Opal had made him into a young god, with his hair loose about his smiling face. His chest was bare, down to his belly button, his eyes narrowed, fall of passion—as though he were making love perhaps.

  Aware of Moira’s scrutiny, Opal shut the sketchpad with a little thump. She looked at her aunt as though Moira were an invader, an officious fool; she tucked the pad under her arm and jumped up. “You shouldn’t have looked. Don’t do it again. I—I have to have some privacy!”

  She burst into tears and ran upstairs. Moira’s impulse was to follow her—but then she heard the bedroom door slam.

  The cardinal flung itself at the window, and she shook her fist. “Whatever you are,” she cried, the panic heating up inside again, “go away. Leave us in peace!” She buried her face in her sweaty hands.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Ruth dismissed Desmond, thanking him—although he claimed to have seen nothing and then waited for Rufus. Ten minutes later he appeared in the doorway, a short muscular fellow with keen hazel eyes, hands like hay rakes, a sheaf of hay-colored hair cut short in the back but hanging in front almost to his dark brows. There was a slight tic in his cheek: the only indication that he might be nervous. Or perhaps it was irritation at being interviewed—especially by a woman with no authority that he could see. Except for the tic, the face was expressionless, the lantern jaw set in a stoic attitude. He would get through this, he would get back to work. Work, she was sure, was his life.

  Was he married? There was no ring. Even so, Ruth said, trying to sound lighthearted, “Your wife must be worried with all this upset in the orchard?”

  Rufus said, “Not married.” Just the two words. And she was sorry she’d asked. His marital status had nothing to do with the orchard.

  “You’re the bossman here,” she said. “You would have reported any unusual sounds or goings-on if you’d noticed. You’re an excellent orchardist, I’ve heard from several sources. It was your father, I understand, who ran this orchard when my ex-husband’s uncle owned it?”

  Was he relaxing a little with her compliment? Did he take satisfaction from the “ex-husband” comment? Maybe. He leaned back against a tier of apple crates; his eyes glanced about the barn—habit, maybe, to see if everything was all right, in its proper place. He waited, his eyes averted.

  “What do you make of all this?” she asked. “The maggots, the spraying, the felled trees. Do you have a theory?”

  He crossed his arms. “ ‘S’no good,” he said finally. “I dunno. I never seen the like of it. My dad he had no troubles when he was here. My granddad owned this orchard. Before he had to . ..” He paused, straightened up; drew in a breath, gazed up into the barn rafters.

  “Had to sell?” she said. She knew he had, he’d sold it to Pete’s uncle. She could sympathize, couldn’t she? “Finances?”

  “My grandmother got sick. It took the money he’d saved. Then she outlived him.” He gave a short barking laugh at the irony of it.

  “It’s a beautiful orchard. Anyone would like to own it, I can see that. I drive past every spring just to look at the blossoms.”

  His glance was scornful. Orcharding was more than admiring apple blossoms. Although it was the blossoms, of course, that set the fruit, and then the work of the bees. But orcharding was hard work; so much depended on the whims of weather, even more than farming, maybe. Still, “I’m a farmer,” she reminded him. And he nodded, he knew. He knew Pete, of course he did. But he hadn’t answered her question. She repeated it. Did he have any suspicions, any theories?

  He hung his head, thinking. He seemed relaxed now, he leaned back against the crates. The hair fell almost to his eyebrows. The smell of apples was making her woozy. Or maybe it was just that it was early afternoon, low blood sugar
time. The door slid open and Don Yates walked in. He moved over to the far end of the barn, to the cider press.

  “Nope,” Rufus said. “Haven’t got a clue. The Jamaicans— what would they want to destroy an orchard for? This is their bread and butter.”

  “Exactly,” Ruth said, to encourage him. “What about the other pickers?”

  Rufus shrugged. “Kids. Hardly worth the trouble to train ’em.” He glanced slyly at her, Emily was her daughter. He shrugged again. “I think. . .” he said finally, “I think it’s somebody got a quarrel with Stan Earthrowl, that’s what I think. He’s not exactly popular with certain . .. parties in town. They don’t like a flatlander coming in, telling the school what to do, what not to do.”

  He seemed spent from the long speech, itchy now, he had to get back to work. He stood up, away from the crates, thrust his hands in his pockets; looked at his watch. It was a large man’s watch with a wide leather band. She could hear his labored breathing, and then the cider press started up and killed the other sounds.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you’ll let Ms. Earthrowl know if you think of anything, if you see or hear anything amiss. That key—I forgot to ask—the sprayer must have used a key to get into the spray room.”

  “I’d used to keep it under a rock,” he said, “in front of the shed—that was ’fore the troubles began, the maggots. Somebody must’ve seen me put it there, got it copied, I dunno. I’ve got a new lock. No one goin’ to get in that shed now.”

  “Yes. Good. Thank you,” she said again, and he was gone, head down and running, as though he’d try to kick a field goal in a football game.

  Don Yates called out as she was leaving, feeling relieved to be done with the fruitless questioning—concerned in spite of herself at the “warning” message on Moira’s machine. She knew Don from PTA: He had a young son from a second marriage, although Don must be all of fifty-five or more, retired from some job down on Long Island. Another flatlander, but a nice man, a good neighbor. She turned, and he came up to her, a cheerful-looking fellow with large round eyeglasses that magnified his myopic green eyes, ears that stuck out a little through the almost white hair, but were rather cute, actually.

  “I hear you’re interviewing the pickers,” he said, smiling, putting her at her ease; he wasn’t one to criticize. Not to criticize, no, but to advise. He wondered if she’d had a talk with the young woman Opal. “Hardly more than a girl, actually, but a weird kid. I mean, she’s done some sneaky things around here.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “Well, the goat. It was your Emily caught her cutting the rope second time around. Probably responsible for the first one getting loose, too.”

  “Emily told you?” Ruth was surprised. There was so much Emily wasn’t telling these days. It worried Ruth, made her feel outmoded, useless—the way most mothers felt, she supposed, as their daughters grew older, grew away from them. But this knowledge didn’t help the hurt of it.

  “Nope, not her. I saw ’em together, Emily and Opal. Overheard. Didn’t mean to, just happened to be in the area, picking up some Greenings for my wife’s pies. Opal begged your daughter to keep mum. So I did, too. Probably just a prank. Still, with all this going on, I thought.. . someone should know.”

  “You think she might have done more than that? The maggots, perhaps? A young city girl who doesn’t know anything about apple trees?” Ruth couldn’t buy that. The girl had done a little mischief, maybe, but not the nasty stuff, the paraquat that indirectly killed a man. She didn’t want to think that! Those deeds came from a higher intelligence, someone wanting to hurt, and hurt bad. And then there was that Wickham woman, run down. By whom? By Stan? Or someone else? Was all this somehow connected?

  “Naw, she wouldn’t have known where to get maggots, you’re right. But she’s bright—street smarts, I guess you’d call it— carries over to the country, doesn’t it? Could have got into the storage shed. She follows Rufus around, the Butterfields, Adam— she’s got the hots for him, you can bet. Sex rears its ugly—”

  “Not always ugly,” she said, thinking of Emily, angry now at Opal for interfering with Emily’s boyfriend. Although she didn’t want Adam for Emily anyway, did she? He was too old, too sophisticated. Maybe she should be grateful to this little city girl.

  Don smiled. He and his wife were close, she knew that; they traveled in tandem, although both had their own interests. His wife was a dedicated volunteer: church, hospital, United Way... Ruth felt guilty in that respect. She should volunteer more. But when was there time for a farmer? Except to help out neighbors. That was her volunteerism.

  “I just meant it might not be a bad idea to talk to Opal,” Don said. “She might have seen something. Found out something. Could find out something! She gets around in a sly sort of way. There’s something pitiable about her, actually. Solitary little thing. Now her uncle’s in the hospital. Father, too, I understand, the reason she’s up here.”

  “I will. I’ll talk to her. In time. Right now ... I don’t want to scare her.”

  “Sure. Just thought I’d mention it.” He turned back to the cider press and she said, “How about you, Don? What are your theories—besides Opal?”

  He threw up his arms. “I dunno. This is a hell of a good orchard. I like the Earthrowls. Up to now, they haven’t had any trouble. Haven’t offended anybody I can see. Stan, well, he got into a state over that Wickham woman, a little too. . . too paranoid, I’d say, but what do I know? This is a pretty liberal town as towns go, they wouldn’t have let some religious freak dictate what to read, what not to read. But Stan was obsessed. Something to do with that girl of his dying, I expect. You never know. I’m no psychologist.”

  Ruth knew about obsessions. Her sister-in-law Bertha, her husband Pete—that actress woman he’d run away with. Her own farm was something of an obsession now and she had to get back to it. The inseminator was coming for two of her cows; they’d freshen in the summer. And Zelda, her most recalcitrant cow, was due again in early spring. Last year the ornery cow had broken down two fences to expel her calf. Emily wasn’t going to watch her—not with her new. . . obsession. Ruth had to be there.

  Moira was gone when Ruth walked by the house, so she went straight to the pickup. Amazingly, it started up on the first try. It sounded like a jet plane, though, needed a muffler. Lord. What else? Out in the road a tan car sped past, half in her lane: She honked and it veered left. She couldn’t see the driver for the dust it threw up. Too bad one of those police cars wasn’t in sight.

  At the junction of Cider Mill and Cow Hill roads she saw a new sign; she swore it hadn’t been there when she’d left that morning. SIX LOTS FOR SALE. 1/2 MILE, with a large black arrow pointing toward Lucien’s farm. Old Lucien, who’d lost his wife to an assailant, had lost his farm as well. She couldn’t bear it. Her vision blurred. It was Pete’s sign, of course. A sign of the times. Too late now for Lucien Larocque. But it wouldn’t happen to the orchard. It wouldn’t happen to her farm. No, ma’am. She’d see that it wouldn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Ruth woke up the next morning to someone banging on her kitchen door. It was only four-thirty, she had another hour before she’d have to be up for milking; she milked later in fall and winter. She threw on a robe, stomped downstairs, hoping the intruder hadn’t wakened Vic or Emily. They needed the extra hours’ sleep more than she did.

  It was still dark out; the night was quiet between raps on the door. Remembering the assault on the Larocques, she called out, “Who’s there?” She wished more than ever she had one of those carry-around phones. She would put it on her Christmas list for the children.

  “Ruth,” a voice said, and it was quaveringly, poignantly familiar. “Ruth, it’s Lucien Larocque—from next door. You got troubles here, Ruth. Your cows.”

  She unlocked the door, threw it open, drew him in. He was in his patched overalls, caring for his cows to the last, before the auction. But what was he saying about troubles, her cows?

&nbs
p; “Catch your breath, now, Lucien. You should be worrying about your own cows, not mine. Lucien, I’m so sorry about your farm, that you’re selling.”

  He waved away her concern. He was a short stocky man with gray wisps of hair crisscrossing his squarish head. His face was a patchwork of reddish lumps and scars and wrinkles. A French Canadian, he was volatile yet good-humored, he didn’t see the need for fancy speech: just plain, straightforward discourse.

  “My dog barked, the new one I got since they killed my old Raoul. I’d put him out half past three when I got up—you know, the old bladder, I can’t sleep two hours without getting up.”

  She clucked in sympathy.

  “He keeps barking, so I go out. I hear the cows. Hell, I don’t sleep anyways since they come for me and Belle that night. Something’s up, I say to myself, so I get out. The dog’s on the border between your place ’n mine. I holler, ‘Hey!’ Somebody’s there, running away. I can’t keep up, these old legs of mine, you know.”

  He paused for breath. “I know,” Ruth said, “I understand.” She remembered her own dad at the end. She and her mother had had to pull him out of bed in the morning, prop him up on his feet to get him to the bathroom. “Sit down, Lucien, tell me about it.” She pulled out a chair, her own legs shaky. Something was very wrong for Lucien to come at this early hour.

  “I get there,” Lucien said, waving away the chair, “it’s your cow. Somebody slashed it. Knife’s still there—he dropped it when he seen me coming. Look like a hunting knife, you know? I got it in the barn.”

  “My God,” she said, sitting down herself. “Just the one cow?” she pleaded.

  He shook his head. “I count two, tree, all down. But breathing, you know, they’re not kilt. Just slashed or stabbed, one of them in the belly, you know. I come right over, I don’t know what vet you want to call.”