Golden Malicious (Apple Orchard Mystery)

by Connolly, Sheila

  “They can’t be treated and used for something else?”

  Christopher shook his head. “Not at this time. It is a tragic waste.”

  “So hypothetically, say Jonas Nash came strolling along this path and noticed one of the beetles. He would have a reason to pick it up and take it away, without telling anyone?”

  Christopher stared at her, his expression troubled. “Assuming he recognized it for what it was, and he had read our public information outreach materials, which as a responsible forester he should have done, then I suppose the answer is yes, it’s conceivable that he might do that, to protect his own interests.”

  Seth returned and held out the cluster of binoculars he was carrying. “Here you go. Now what?”

  “I want you to look at the upper portions of the trunks for the round holes I described. When we mount a full survey, we get either tree climbers in or use a bucket truck, to get closer. It’s difficult, especially if you don’t know what you’re looking for, so I won’t hold it against you if you fail to find anything.”

  “But if we rank amateurs do find something, we’ve got a real problem?” Meg offered.

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Meg. Happy hunting. Or not.”

  They split up. Meg made a good-faith effort to see through the canopy to the central tree trunks, but there were simply too many leaves in the way to spot a half-inch hole. It had been near miraculous that she had found that one insect at all. Perhaps a bird, startled by people walking around, had dropped it just after killing it?

  After half an hour Meg gave up looking and wandered back toward the parking area. Passing through the trees was not difficult—someone had kept the underbrush cut down, maybe to reduce the fire hazard. The logging crew? Was that part of their job? She had no idea how far the woods extended, in any direction. Had David Clapp known this particular site? Had he been here with a team, or had he been sent ahead to scout out trees? How did anyone decide which trees to cut? And who decided? Jonas? The logging company? Was it supply and demand? Good forest maintenance, to eliminate the big, old trees so that younger ones had a chance? There was so much she didn’t know.

  She was first to arrive back at their cars, but Seth and Christopher also emerged from different directions within a few minutes. “Anything?” she called out when she saw them.

  Christopher nodded. “I found exit holes, although no further insects. You, Seth?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “Well, I thank you for your efforts. Sadly, what I’ve found is enough for it to be incumbent upon me to set the wheels in motion and report this find.”

  “And then what?” Meg asked.

  “Various government agencies will step in. I’ll keep you informed, should anything else turn up.”

  “Thanks, and thanks for the advice on my orchard yesterday.”

  “My pleasure, my dear. Your orchard is in good hands. Seth, good to see you again.” He raised a hand in farewell, then got into his car and drove off, leaving Meg and Seth alone in the parking area.

  “Well, that was an interesting way to spend an afternoon—looking for tiny holes in the tops of trees,” Meg said wryly. “At least we were out of the hot sun. Who would have thought?”

  “Life is full of surprises. Shall we head back?”

  When they were on the road again, Meg said, “You know, the way Christopher describes it, a lot of this insect program—what do I call it? An insect watch?—seems based on the goodwill of the community. And that assumes the community is aware at all. I mean, almost any one of us could see something and never give it a second thought, and yet it could be a pest that could bring down a whole sector of the agricultural market or local forests. I didn’t know, and I’m in the business! What about your ordinary Joe or Jane Citizen, who is clueless and doesn’t much like creepy-crawlies anyway?”

  “You’ve got a point there, Meg. I know about the kind of pests that affect buildings, like carpenter ants or powderpost beetles, and of course termites, but I couldn’t identify a vegetable pest even if I bit into it.”

  “Exactly. And even if you do find something you think is suspicious, who do you tell? Do you try to capture the insect? Is a picture good enough?”

  “I have no idea. I guess we’ll have to see what Christopher tells us.”

  7

  When Meg and Seth pulled into Meg’s driveway, Art Preston was leaning against the fence talking to Meg’s goats, Dorcas and Isabel, and his car was parked in the drive. Meg climbed out and gathered up several bags of vegetables. They’d stopped off at the farmer’s market on their way back.

  “Hi, Art,” she called out. “Getting your goat fix?”

  He gave Dorcas and Isabel one last pat each, then strolled over. “I was having an intelligent conversation. They’re good listeners.”

  “More likely they’re hungry and they were hoping you were hiding something tasty. What brings you here?”

  “Marcus was kind enough to share reports on your late logger, and I thought I’d drop off copies on the way home.”

  “He’s not my logger, thank goodness. I’m surprised Marcus was willing to part with the information so easily.”

  “I guess he figured there was nothing controversial in them.”

  Meg concurred. “You want to stay for dinner? We’re throwing together something that involves vegetables, although we haven’t decided what yet.”

  “Sure, why not? My wife’s visiting her sister on Cape Cod.”

  “Then come on in. I think I’ve got beer.” Meg pulled open the screen door and wrestled her full bags through. “Bree?” she called out.

  “Yo,” came the answer from somewhere upstairs, and then Bree came pounding down the stairs. “Hey, hi, Art. Something new happen?”

  “Hey, Bree. No, nothing important. I’m just delivering some reports, and Meg asked me to stay for dinner.”

  “Are you going to be around, Bree?” Meg asked. “I think it’s something vegetarian, although I’m not sure what. I couldn’t make up my mind what to get at the food stand, so I got a couple of everything, and it’s all better eaten fresh.”

  “Curry?” Bree suggested.

  “Veggie curry? Sure, but you’ll have to show me how to make it.”

  “Where do you want this stuff?” Seth asked, coming inside with several more bags.

  “On the kitchen table. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  As both Meg and Seth unpacked their haul, the table began to overflow with bright summer colors: a variety of lettuces, fresh herbs, small peppers, tomatoes, and more. “I should take a picture of this,” Meg said. “Bree, you sure we shouldn’t put in our own vegetable garden?”

  “When you’ve got good stuff like this available from that organic farm only a mile or two away? Let them do it—looks like they’re doing a great job. Hey, you guys, why don’t you do the chopping? You can talk and chop at the same time, can’t you?” Bree grinned at Seth and Art, then handed them knives and cutting boards. She washed a batch of the vegetables in a colander, shook off the water, and put them on the table between Seth and Art, then set out a couple of large knives. “Go!”

  Meg handed out beers all around, then sat down to admire the men’s efforts. “Anything jump out at you from the reports Marcus sent, Art?”

  “I only glanced at them. The guy arrived under his own steam—his car was in the parking area. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, specifically the back, and nobody’s committing to anything. Could be somebody hit him from behind with something. Or, could be he tripped and fell backward and hit his head, although for someone used to forests it’s hard to see that. Still, accidents happen.”

  “If he fell, why was he found under some bushes off the path?” Seth asked.

  “Playing devil’s advocate, are you? But it’s a fair question, and there are several possible answers. For one, blows to the head are notoriously tricky. Clapp might not have been rendered unconscious immediately and might have tried to get help but
ended up going the wrong direction because he was disoriented by the blow. Or he might have been knocked out at first, then woke up and started crawling, likewise the wrong way.”

  “He could have been trying to hide from whoever hit him,” Bree volunteered, as she chopped large quantities of basil, whose pungent odor quickly filled the kitchen.

  “That would work—if there was someone else involved. Or the final possibility: somebody knocked him out, killing him, accidentally or on purpose, and then dragged him into the bushes to hide him. But there’s no evidence that anyone else was there. Or rather, there’s lots of evidence that many people were there, like hikers, but nothing that points to any individual.”

  “He wasn’t dragged by a bear or anything like that, was he?” Meg asked, suppressing a shudder at the thought.

  “No marks on the body to suggest that, per the report,” Art said.

  “You said the blow came from behind?” Seth asked, slicing peppers.

  “Yeah,” Art said, “by someone right-handed. Unless he fell.”

  “Defensive wounds? Signs of a struggle?”

  “Jeez, people—listen to yourselves,” Bree said, laughing. “Who’s playing Sherlock Holmes now?”

  “I’m trying for Columbo,” Art said with a smile. “Make people think I’m harmless and then I zap them with the right question.”

  “Bree, we’re just trying to work out how it happened,” Meg protested. “Was there blood, Art?”

  “Oh, ick, you all—we’re making dinner here,” Bree said.

  “No blood. You want me to cover putrefaction next, Bree?” Art asked.

  To forestall that subject, Meg jumped in. “Have they figured out when he died?”

  “Best guess, maybe twenty-four hours before you found him, which would make it Sunday sometime. Now, Marcus did confirm that Clapp was working for the logging company that Nash uses, but nobody there sent him out on a Sunday. Although his crew said their next cut was scheduled for the end of the month, so Clapp could have been out there tagging trees for that. He lived close enough that he might have stopped by to get ahead of the game.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Seth said slowly. “David Clapp, who was familiar with the site, goes out to check out the trees and tag for the next cut. Either he falls over backward, hits his head, and crawls away from the path, or somebody comes up behind him and whacks him in the head, then hides the body?”

  “Maybe. If that’s what happened, the attacker didn’t do a very good job of hiding Clapp’s body. It was out of sight, but not all that far from a path that’s used regularly. Even Meg noticed the, uh, evidence. On the other hand, could be Clapp tripped over a root and fell over backward, hitting his head, then got up again and stumbled his way under a bush,” Art said amiably.

  “Come on, Art—what’s your guess?” Seth challenged.

  Art sighed. “I don’t think he fell,” he said carefully, “but it’s not ruled out. And that, I’m sorry to say, was Marcus’s conclusion. He hasn’t exactly closed the file, but he has no reason to suspect anyone else was involved, and no evidence to work with.”

  “I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed,” Meg said. “We already knew he wasn’t robbed, because Marcus retrieved his wallet while we were there. Has he looked into why on earth anyone would want him dead? Any enemies? What do we know about David Clapp?”

  “The state police are still interviewing his colleagues, family, friends,” Art said. “There’s nobody obvious, like an ex-wife or a jealous workmate. Good family man, couple of sons. If you’re wondering why nobody was looking for him, sometimes he spent a couple of days in different areas in this part of the state planning for the next cuttings, so he wasn’t always home at night. He hadn’t been where you found him for long, Meg. You’d be surprised how fast decomp sets in, especially in weather like this. Anyway, he had no debt beyond his mortgage. No criminal record—not even a speeding ticket. Most people said they liked him, and he pulled his own weight on the crew. Model citizen all around.”

  “What if he stumbled onto something he wasn’t supposed to see?” Bree chipped in, mixing herbs and spices in a food processor.

  “Out in the woods? Like what? A Druid coven performing human sacrifice? There’s nothing there but trees. No rare, exotic flowers or birds or snakes that would interfere with their harvesting trees. Just woods.”

  “No buildings on the property?” Seth asked.

  “Nope. There’s a portable john for picnickers near the parking area, and that’s it.”

  “You people are ridiculous—why do you want to think it was anything more than an accident? He was a good guy and it’s too bad he died, but that’s all there is. And you chop way too slowly. Hand it over—I want to start cooking,” Bree demanded.

  “So where does that leave us?” Meg asked. “An ordinary guy going about his business dies or is killed—by accident or by someone unknown—for no apparent reason?”

  “There’s almost always a reason when someone is killed, but in this case nobody’s found it yet,” Art reminded her. “And we have no reason to think he was killed. Look, the simplest answer, and without any other evidence, the one Marcus is most likely to choose, is that the guy tripped, hit his head, crawled in the wrong direction, and died. There’s nothing in the file or from the autopsy that contradicts that solution. I’d bet Marcus is going to close this case quickly.”

  “I’m starting the rice,” Bree broke in. “Dinner in fifteen. And I agree with Art—the simplest solution is the most logical one here. You don’t really have to find evil plots all the time, Meg.”

  Meg held up her hands. “Okay, I surrender! Another beer, guys?”

  The talk turned to other things over dinner, followed by ice cream. Art went home shortly afterward, leaving the folder of photocopies with them. Bree excused herself and headed up to her room.

  “You want to sit outside for a while?” Seth asked Meg.

  “If I’ve still got bug repellent,” Meg answered.

  “Water’s down in the Great Meadow, you know,” Seth replied. “That means fewer mosquitoes.”

  “The one good part of this drought I keep trying to forget about, I guess. Sure, let’s go watch the bats come out of the barn.”

  They made their way through the gathering dusk to the pair of Adirondack chairs overlooking the Meadow that lay behind Meg’s old barn. Meg dropped into one with a sigh. “I don’t know why I should be tired. I didn’t do any manual labor today. Maybe I’m just frustrated.”

  “Why?” Seth asked, settling in the chair beside hers.

  “The usual. The house needs some serious repairs that I can’t afford. The orchard needs a permanent irrigation system, which I also can’t afford. Finding that nasty beetle. Not to mention poor David Clapp’s dead body. Sorry, I’ve got that backward: finding David Clapp should be more important than finding the beetle. Or maybe they’re linked. I notice that neither one of us mentioned the beetle angle to Art.”

  “Because there’s no evidence that it’s connected,” Seth replied. “What’s the point?”

  “None, I guess,” Meg said, but she was still troubled. She decided not to pursue it any further—for now. “How about you? Any unpleasant surprises at Donald’s house?”

  “You mean, like bodies falling out of the walls? Nope, it’s pretty straightforward. I may need to get some heavy equipment in to square up the walls again in the corner, but otherwise it’s structurally sound. I love working with the wood, and Jonas puts out a good product. Sometimes sawmills cut corners, like not drying their lumber long enough, and then people like me have problems with it twisting and warping, and the homeowner blames us for the shoddy work. But I can count on Jonas’s wood.”

  “I assume it costs more than if you ordered lumber from the big box stores?” Meg asked, feeling the tension seeping out of her body as she relaxed in the dusk.

  “Yes, and sometimes customers balk at the extra expense, but not people like Donald, thank go
odness. He loves that house.”

  Meg could understand that, but she didn’t want to dwell on all the repairs she should be doing on her own house, authentically or otherwise. Looking out over the darkening meadow, she asked, “Do you think this view has changed much since my house was built?”

  “Probably not. I think you showed me the documents about grazing rights on the Meadow there, back in the eighteenth century—some years it was simply too wet for cattle. So it’s been wetlands from the beginning. Back in the day the term ‘meadow’ and ‘swamp’ were more or less the same, in some cases. As for the forest beyond? I’d have to look more closely. It’s likely that it was cleared and what you’re looking at is regrowth, but even that’s old now. Why, are you thinking of selling lumber?”

  “I never even thought of that. I guess I could have some of the trees cut and made into boards, and hold them until or in case I need them for the house. I like the idea of continuing an old tradition like that.”

  “Agreed. Definitely an idea—I can ask Jonas what it would cost. And I—”

  “Could probably get a good deal for me,” Meg finished his sentence, laughing. “Put it on the to-do list, page thirty-seven.” Meg reached out a hand, and Seth took it. They sat in peaceful silence, hands linked. Bats emerged from the barn and swooped through the dusk, eliminating their share of mosquitoes.

  “I should go in,” Meg said, reluctant to move. “Are you staying?”

  Seth’s hand tightened on hers, and then he stood up and pulled her to her feet. “Anytime you want.”

  8

  “More coffee, anyone?” Meg waved the pot at Seth and Bree, each reading a section of the paper at the kitchen table the next morning. They mumbled what Meg interpreted as a “no,” so she refilled her own cup and sat down. “Bree, what’s next on the schedule?”