“The argument. Between, um, Wickham—and Cassandra, who’s not his cousin but his wife. Or was.”
“Was, yes, now I remember. She had a daughter by a husband before Wickham. And he wanted Cassandra’s money for himself, not for the daughter.” She looked triumphant at the realization. Her voice was thick with butterscotch. “The vacuum was grinding away in another part of the house. They thought the cleaning lady couldn’t hear. They didn’t know I was there!” She marveled at her exploit.
“Money? For what purpose?”
“For development! For Cassandra’s cousin. And Cassandra’s cousin was—guess who?”
Colm waited.
“Rufus Barrow, that orchard man.” She leaned across the table as though Colm were hard of hearing. “She wanted her money— her money, mind you—not just for the daughter, but to invest in houses on the orchard. Because Rufus was into a development firm now, she said. But our dear minister wanted the orchard left alone; he wanted the money to go into his causes. Lambs of Christ, that Creator’s Rights party site on the Internet—you know that one? I had Roy look it up. Why, they’ve got our own Senator Leahy on their hit list!”
“But she wouldn’t give in.”
“Nope. She would not. Uhn-uh. Not only that, but it turns out she controlled the money. He’d married her for her money— she was yelling that at him now. He wasn’t getting a penny of it for himself, she said, for she had other causes, too. She belonged to some White Citizens’ Council—‘keep Vermont pure’ is their motto. Oh, it ain’t maple syrup she was talking about, or milk.” Honey winked at Colm. “Hate groups. No blacks, no gypsies, no gays, no Jews. Roy looked that up, too: They want to homogenize Vermont—can you believe it? Turn us into skim milk! Well, that’s when I got out. Out of the house, out of the church. I didn’t want to be on that hit list. I’ve got Jewish friends, I mean! For that matter, I’ve got pro-life friends, too, when I was in the Catholic church—but they don’t want violence, either. Well, Colm”—her voice was a low hiss—”I didn’t want to be in the house if one of those two offed the other, ’cause they were getting to that point. What would I do with a dead body on my hands? It’s bad enough being married to a policeman!”
She was finally quiet, drank her water, struggled up; she had a hair appointment, she said. “My hair is falling out, handfuls, every time I comb it! My hairdresser has some special shampoo supposed to keep it stuck to the scalp.” She grinned. “I’m already late.”
He thanked her, watched her scurry out; she reminded him of a rabbit the way her rear end wiggled. He liked her, though, she had sense. She got out of that church—if one could call it a church. He was suddenly hungry, decided he’d have a sundae after all. A chocolate fudge sundae. “With nuts, with whipped cream,” he told the kid behind the counter.
Then discovered he’d forgotten to bring his wallet.
But it was all right, the owner said, and had the sundae brought over by the kid. He knew Colm; Colm had sold his daughter a couple of acres. Colm could bring in the money later.
“And another glass of water,” Colm told the kid. Now, though, he was sorry he’d ordered the sundae. He wanted to call Ruth, tell her about the interview. Was there a phone in here? The sundae would have to wait....
Chapter Sixty-six
But why would Turnbull—whatever his alias was—bother the Earthrowls?” Ruth asked over the phone; she was confused. “I mean, if he didn’t want Cassandra’s money going to the developers?” She was in the barn, tending to a brand-new bull calf. Poor thing, he’d have to be sold. But Oprah thought he was beautiful, she was licking him down, her moist brown eyes focused on the spindly, sweaty fellow. Oprah was her newest cow, named after the TV queen. She’d named the cow that partly because the name Oprah reminded her of Opera, and this cow sang. She was humming even now, in a mezzo-soprano mewl. It was a duet with Madonna, in the next calf stall. “Can you hear her, Colm?” She held out the receiver.
He wasn’t interested in the bovine duet. “Jeez, I don’t know,” he said. “There must be a reason. There must be a link between him and the Earthrowls. Are they Jewish? Gypsies? Not gay, I don’t think.”
“Well, Moira’s Catholic. I don’t know Stan’s background. The name sounds Anglo-Saxon—Beowulf comes to mind. I could ask, I suppose.” The bull calf wasn’t sucking, she saw, she’d have to get him started. “Can I call you back, Colm? I’ve got a newborn here. It needs a helping hand.”
“Look, see what you can find out, okay? About the connection with Earthrowl? A visit to Moira? This afternoon, maybe? The FBI guys are lying in wait for Wickham—he seems to be out of town. I told Roy he shouldn’t wait, the son of a gun! When—if— they hook him, we’ll have some tough questions to ask.”
“Colm, don’t rush me. My work comes first. My cows. Then I’ll go. Come on, baby, catch hold.” With her free hand she pushed the calf toward the nipple.
“Catch hold of what? Wickham? We’re trying, we truly are. Call me, then, Ruthie, when you know something. My sundae is melting.”
“Your what?” she said. But the line had clicked off.
Finally the calf caught hold, and sucked. Oprah was a good mother, she had plenty of milk. She nursed and licked, licked and nursed, bellowing all the while. Ruth gazed at the pair for a few more minutes. This was the reward of farming, this mother and calf—even if it was a bull calf and had to go. But she had to be practical, she’d get a good price for the calf, put it toward the fortune she owed Pete. She could sell a few more cows, too, she supposed. And part of the land. She could do without so many acres, couldn’t she? She could sell them to a government trust. Some farmers she knew in Shoreham had. Then no one would put houses there; it would keep Vermont green.
She washed up and then drove the pickup over to the Earthrowls’. She’d intended to go over anyway, she was worried about that last incident, the tractor brakes. Brakes that might have been tampered with. It wasn’t Moira she’d tell, but the girl, Opal, although she couldn’t imagine that petite girl doing it. But the girl might know who did, or have a suspicion. Opal seemed a complicated girl: mixed up in the head, selfish—though Emily seemed a little sorry for her because of some love affair. Emily was sorry for the boy, too—Adam Golding. Ruth wasn’t sure of him, either, her instincts churning away inside her.
It was hard to imagine anything wrong with this orchard, though, or its workers. There was something fresh and earthy about the smell of it. Most of the apples were picked now; the Jamaicans, she understood, would be going home after the weekend, after their harvest ritual, and the orchard would be open to the public for drops—if anyone dared come after the bad publicity. A few trees were still heavy with red apples, the green leaves dazzling with late sun, daisies and goldenrod growing at their roots. It was autumn’s last gasp before it chilled down into winter, its leaves falling and dying. It was autumn when Pete had left with that actress. She’d thought she would die herself then. But here she was, still alive.
She found the girl on the porch, wrapped up in a blanket—it was nippy, only fifty-five degrees out. “Aunt Moira’s gone to town. She should be back, though,” Opal said. “Uncle Stan’s in there. You want to see him?”
“I’ll wait for Moira.” She was glad for an excuse to talk with Opal; she planted herself in an Adirondack chair. “No, don’t go,” she said when the girl got up. Opal looked wary then, zipped her lips together, sat down on the edge of the porch rocker.
“Are you enjoying it here?” Ruth asked, then winced at the cloudy glance. “Of course, it’s not Texas—is that where you’re from? I believe your aunt mentioned .. .”
“Mentioned what?” the girl demanded. “What did she say?”
Ruth was stammering now. She couldn’t think what Moira had said, if anything. Then she remembered—something, anyway. “Only that your father is ill. I’m sorry. Is he any better?”
Opal sank back into the rocker, it creaked with her weight. She sighed; she would milk out all the drama she could.
“I don’t know. He had heart surgery, but it might not help that much. And he’s a doctor, too! But.. .” Her voice petered out.
“I didn’t know he was a doctor. Does he specialize?”
Opal shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Women. He’s a gynecologist. Can’t help his own daughter, though, when she needs him. My mother wants him to quit what he does. I think Mama’s glad he’s sick. So he will quit. Mama wants to move to California, he can practice there, she says. I want to stay in Texas. I have friends there. One of them has a ranch. When Mama sends the money, I’m going back.”
“A ranch? Horses? Cows?”
“Sure, all those things. I ride, you know. I’ve been around cows.” She glanced slyly at Ruth. “Not your cows,” she said. “I know what Emily told you. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You think I did all that stuff to your cows? That’s what Adam told your daughter, right? And you believe him.” Her voice was rising. “Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking!”
She stopped. Ruth was up out of her chair, hands on her hips, confronting the girl.
“You’re sorry for yourself, aren’t you, Opal? Making excuses because you’re out of school and still living with your parents— oh yes, Moira did tell me that. Your father’s ill and you have to live in this backwoods state on this miserable orchard. An orchard most people would kill to own ...” She stopped, aware of what she’d said. But she plowed on. “And now you’ve been accused of damaging my cows and you assume I believe that and I understand you’re accusing others in your turn. ...” She was out of breath. The girl’s arms were hugging her chest, shutting Ruth out. Ruth sat back down.
“Adam, you mean,” said Opal, unruffled by Ruth’s tirade. “And I’ve already told Rufus. He’s too busy to talk to me, so I left him a letter. And a certain key. You see, I found out some things. Adam’s the one did that spraying, oh yes. I told Adam I knew and he just laughed at me. I hate people laughing at me! He says I don’t have any proof. But I do, you see, I do have proof. Something terrible that Adam’s going to do to the orchard. Maybe even tonight. . . But Rufus will stop it. When he reads my letter.”
“What proof, what?” Ruth cried. “Tell me!” But the girl’s eyes were half shut; she was rocking away in the wooden rocker, smiling.
The front door opened and Stan Earthrowl stood shakily in the doorway; he was wearing a plaid wool robe over blue pajamas, and brown leather slippers. “Wazzall the yelling?” he said. “Obul, wazzit?”
“I need money, Uncle Stan,” she said, leaping up, sending the rocking chair spinning. “I want to go home. If you don’t give it to me, I’ll hitch a ride. I want to see my daddy. I want to see my friends. I don’t have any friends here. Everyone hates me.” She glared at Ruth and brushed by her uncle, nearly knocking him down.
Ruth steadied him. “I was coming to see Moira, Stan. Somehow we got into this brouhaha, Opal and I. She’ll calm down.”
Stan’s face had a lopsided smile. “Neber calm dow,” he said, and let her turn him around. He was walking better, though, she noticed, without the walker: a fairly straight line toward the refrigerator. When she tried to help him, he waved her off. He was freshly shaved, Moira would have seen to that. Or maybe he did it himself. She hoped so. She couldn’t imagine being dependent on another person for one’s basic needs: food, elimination, dressing.
She heard a truck then, coming from the road, glanced out the front window. It stopped by the apple barn; two Jamaicans jumped out the rear, Rufus out the front. He was heading for the barn. Was that where Opal had left the letter? What proof did the girl think she had?
“Tell Moira I’ll call her tonight after milking,” she told Stan, who’d grabbed a hunk of cheddar cheese, was trying to slice an apple on the cutting board. She hesitated. Should she help? But now he’d done it, hadn’t cut himself; was heading to his chair with a plate.
“I teller,” he said, and leaned into his snack, a forlorn figure in pajamas on a late afternoon when others were cleaning up from a day’s hard work.
But just when she’d almost reached the door, he stumbled on the edge of a rug. The plate flew out of his hand; it cracked on the floor, the knife flying. “Shi, shi, shi!” He’d cut his finger. She ran to the bathroom for a Band-Aid, found one. “You’re fine, you’re alive,” she said, sticking it on him. “I’ve done that a hundred times.”
But it didn’t help. He’d made the mess, he was furious with himself. When she’d finished, swept up the pieces, placed a new plate of cheese on his lap, he wouldn’t look at her. “I’ll wait,” she said, “till Moira comes.”
It was the wrong thing to say. “No, no! I okay, dammit. Go!” He waved her off.
At the door of the pickup she hesitated, thought of that letter to Rufus; wheeled about, strode over to the barn. What had Opal said in that note? She didn’t want Rufus running after Adam; after all, the girl could be lying. Opal had worked on a ranch, she could have been the one to slash the cows. Adam may have been right after all. Emily loved the boy; Ruth had to support her daughter, didn’t she?
“Rufus?” she called. She’d catch him before he read the letter, warn him. “Rufus?”
“Not here. In a heat about something.” It was Don Yates, cleaning out the cider press.
“It wouldn’t be a letter he’d read—does he have a message box here or something?”
Don indicated a scarred desk in a far corner. “Yeah, he was reading something. Seemed awful excited about it.” He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Hey,” he called after her, “try some cider? Freshly brewed!” He was holding out a paper cup.
But she couldn’t speak, her heart was beating in her throat. She ran out, knocking over a bag of apples. And collided with her daughter.
“Mother! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I called and Mr. Earthrowl answered the phone. But I couldn’t understand a word he said.” It was the new bull calf, she said breathlessly, it was sick or dying, she didn’t know which. She’d called Dr. Greiner, but he couldn’t come right then, he was in East Branbury, treating a calf with the scours. “You have to come right now, Mom. Sharon’s holding the fort. And she’s got to get home to the baby, the sitter has to leave. What were you doing in the apple barn, anyway?”
“Came to see Rufus,” Ruth managed to say, but Emily was hurrying her back to the pickup. She’d have to go. She needed that bull calf, needed the money it would bring in. Whatever Opal had said in the note—well, they’d have to work it out, Rufus and Adam, she couldn’t be held responsible for the world’s ills.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked the girl, but Emily shook her head. “I did my chores. Tim’s coming to do the milking. I’ll be home in an hour to help with supper.”
Which meant, Ruth thought, she was going to see Adam. Something welled up in her throat. “Don’t—” she started to say, but then realized she was talking to the air, Emily was already on her way.
Maybe it was just as well. Emily’s presence would soften Rufus, postpone any false accusations. If indeed that’s where Rufus had gone. And if Adam was even there!
Chapter Sixty-seven
Emily was smiling as she walked down the path to the bunk-house. It was late afternoon, cool but sunny: She loosened her bandanna. She was content: She’d made amends with her mother, she was convinced it was Opal who was the liar. She didn’t believe for a minute that Adam would do anything so cruel as to poison apples, tamper with tractor brakes. She waved at Derek as she passed by the Jamaicans’ bunkhouse. He was sitting on the steps, talking to the goat. Soon, though, there wouldn’t be a goat. The harvest supper was in five days; the goat would be curried stew.
“How can you do that to this poor goat?” she said. “Make a beef stew instead, Derek.” Then, thinking of her mother’s sick bull calf, she said, “No, chicken stew.” Chickens were dumb. Vic’s chickens ran in silly squawky circles. “Please, Derek, chicken stew?”
But Derek only laughed, his gold earring glittering in the sun. “Trad-i-tion,” he said. “Ja
maica trad-i-tion. No harvest widout curry goat. You like it, you see, missy.” And he tossed an apple core at her. She ducked, smiling. She heard the other men chattering inside the bunkhouse, preparing supper. As she moved on, Derek called to her.
“Where you go? See dat boy? Adam? Better wait. Rufus on his way dere, I seen him, awful mad ’bout someting. You wait. Let dem argue it out.”
She stood still a moment. Something balled up in her chest: fear. Opal, she thought, doing her dirty work, telling lies. Angering Rufus, turning him against Adam. She could hear them already, inside her head: Rufus accusing, Adam defending himself. She pushed on, but her feet were slower than her mind. Afraid of what she’d hear? Oh, the power of rumors, suspicion. She shook her head free of them. But the voices held on. Her feet plodded along, up the path to the bunkhouse, where a half-open window let out quarreling voices. The voices were real, not just in her head. It seemed they might shatter the glass.
“It was you, you,” Rufus was shouting. “Webworms. Fall web-worms! Enough to destroy half this orchard! She found them in your car.”
“No—no—unless she planted them there!”
“Where’d a girl like that get webworms? Know what they were? Let’s go out now. Let’s take a look at ’em. Huh? Don’t tell me you know nuthin’. You had a key made. For what? T’get into the storage shed? To steal that paraquat? By Jesus, I do the sprayin’ around here. Not you. This is my orchard. My granddad’s orchard. Everything done right, by God. I want things done right. Then you come with the Roundup—”
“No, no!” Adam was yelling.
But Rufus shouted over his voice. “My apples! My Jamaicans! It was you killed my man Bartholomew. I want the proof now. Unlock that car, damn it, I’m callin’ the police. You’re a murderer, a murderer!”
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