Golden Malicious (Apple Orchard Mystery)

by Connolly, Sheila

  “I’m going to run some soil moisture tests today, but I think we can wait for tomorrow to water again. Although if it’s going to stay hot for a while, we may need to go to a daily schedule. You got some other project you want to jump into? A short one, anyway?”

  Meg sat back. “Let’s see—I could put on a new roof, repaint the entire house, build a chicken coop, maybe take up weaving so I could do something useful on those long, cold winter nights. That would mean I’d have to get some sheep, although I suppose I could try spinning goat hair.” Meg stopped when she realized that both Bree and Seth were staring at her as though she had lost her mind. She held up both hands. “Hey, just kidding, guys. But you must have figured out by now that I don’t like to just sit around, especially when the weather is good.”

  “You want to come along to Donald’s?” Seth suggested. “Most of the damaged stuff has been cleared away, so I’m about ready to start rebuilding. You could get a good look at eighteenth-century construction, up close. Maybe I could teach you how to plaster, the old-fashioned way.”

  “Doesn’t that involve horsehair?” Meg asked.

  “No problem—I know—”

  “A man with a horse,” Meg completed his sentence. “Sure, sounds like fun. Will Donald mind?”

  “As long as you don’t try to suggest modern improvements, he’s happy to have visitors—he loves to talk about his house. And you can learn a lot from him.”

  “Sounds good. Oh, and let’s invite your mother to dinner, and maybe Rachel and her clan, since I might have time to cook something nice. Over the weekend, maybe?”

  “I’m sure Mom would love to see you,” Seth said amiably.

  “Bree, you want to ask Michael to come over, if we do a cookout or something?”

  “Maybe.” Her tone was not exactly enthusiastic.

  Meg and Seth exchanged a glance. If Bree and Michael were having problems, Bree wasn’t about to confide in her. It was hard enough living with a full-time roommate—with only one bathroom—and Meg tried to give Bree some privacy. Of course, since Seth was around so much, that made it all the more difficult. Meg decided to take the coward’s route and change the subject. “So, Seth, if we’re going to Donald’s, can I be your apprentice? Maybe we could draw up an indenture, or whatever they’re called.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement. How do you feel about tools?”

  “Power tools that cut, like circular saws, scare me. Drills I can manage.”

  “Well, that’s a start. I can show you manual tools that do the same thing, only a lot more slowly. But they build up your muscles.”

  “I’ve got plenty of muscles these days from the orchard. You should know.”

  “Believe me, I do.”

  They smiled at each other, which led Bree to snort. “I’m leaving, so you two can be alone to talk about, uh, tools and stuff.”

  “Have a good day,” Meg chirped, with only a hint of sarcasm.

  “Ha!” Bree said, and she vanished up the stairs to her room.

  Meg turned back to Seth. “Seriously, I’d love to come. Maybe I can carry your toolbox.”

  “Works for me,” Seth replied. “Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”

  Meg wondered if she owned anything that didn’t fit that category. Farmwork required clothing with only a few primary characteristics: primarily, durability, and washability.

  Fifteen minutes later they were pulling up in front of Donald’s house. He was waiting for them—poor man, did he never dare leave his property these days? There seemed to be no one else to watch it for him.

  “Hey, Donald!” Seth called out. “I brought Meg along—hope you don’t mind.”

  “No problem, as long as she doesn’t slow you down. Hello, Meg, nice to see you again.”

  “And you, Donald. Things are looking neater now.”

  “They are, although I hated to part with any of the old wood. You can see all the tool marks on the beams—you know just how each one was shaped and fitted. And in my case—and yours, too, I hear—you even know whose hands did the work.”

  “True. It does make the building more personal,” Meg agreed.

  “Nash’s just delivered the wood, Seth,” said Donald, pointing to a stack of lumber off to the side, covered with a tarp. “Looks good. Where do we start today?”

  “Now that the debris is out of the way, I want to show you exactly what I’m planning, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Donald said.

  Meg trailed after them, listening. It was an unexpected pleasure hearing Seth talk about his work. Although when they’d first met, he’d been managing the family plumbing business, he’d always made it clear that his heart lay in renovation and restoration. Still, knowing it wasn’t the same as seeing him in action. Not only was he knowledgeable, but he obviously cared about the building: sometimes he’d run his hand over one of the beams as though the house was a living thing. Certainly it was a tough one, Meg thought, having withstood the impact of a hurtling chunk of metal.

  “What about finishes?” Donald asked.

  “I know a guy who specializes in paint restoration. I assume you want to go with the original colors?”

  “Of course. Look, I even found a sample from the dining room cupboard.” Donald picked up a broken board lying against the lath of a bare wall and handed it to Seth. “See? There on the edge? That’s what it would have looked like in 1750.”

  “Good catch, Donald.” Seth handed the fragment to Meg. “These days that color would probably be called Colonial Blue, and there’s a good reason for that.”

  “What about nails, Seth?” Donald asked anxiously. “I’m sure you know as well as I do that a lot of these beams were originally pegged together, without any metal. Like there.” He pointed at some intersecting beams.

  “I don’t think current code will allow it,” Seth said, adding, “but I’ll go back as early as I can.”

  “Which would be what?” Meg asked.

  “Hand-forged nails, mostly,” Seth replied promptly. “They existed back then, but early builders used wooden pegs because nails were expensive and hard to come by. In fact, nails were considered so valuable that if a building burned down, people would scavenge whatever nails they could.”

  “So you can’t tell the age of a building from its nails?”

  “Not necessarily. These days you can still get cut nails, but they’re later than this house. Sorry, Donald, but I draw the line at forging my own nails, even for you.”

  Donald sighed. “I understand. What about splitting your own lath?”

  “That I can do.” Seth smiled at him. “You want to talk about glass now?”

  Feeling overwhelmed with details, Meg drifted off to study the wall construction. Clearly the beams had been cut by hand—the adze or saw marks were plain to see. It was hard for her to imagine starting with a grove of trees and arriving at a substantial building, like Donald’s or her own. Yet people did it all the time back in the eighteenth century, because there were no other options. There wasn’t much brick construction around here, although she’d seen elegant brick and even fieldstone buildings in parts of Pennsylvania and New Jersey when she was growing up. Not that she’d paid much attention to them. Here in this part of New England, however, it seemed that almost everything was made of wood. She wondered again about having boards cut from her own trees, to use in her house. Was it practical, or silly and sentimental? Either way, the idea of emulating her ancestors pleased her.

  “Meg?” Seth’s voice interrupted her.

  Meg turned away from the injured wall. “You need something?”

  “I’ve got to get to work now. You can stay and watch if you like, or you can take the van and pick me up later.”

  “Seth, I can drive you home if you want,” Donald volunteered. “I think I can leave the place for that long.”

  “Meg? What do you think?”

  “I love seeing what you do, but as much fun as it would be to ‘h
elp,’ I think I’d just get in your way here, so I should probably go.” She held out her hand. “Keys?”

  Seth tossed the keys to her, and she caught them one-handed. He was already deep in conversation with Donald again, but she didn’t mind: it gave her pleasure to see him so happy in his work.

  What now? she wondered as she climbed into the van. Her to-do list was endless, but much of the time she didn’t want to do any of the items on it. Maybe she should do something indulgent, something as frivolous as buying a new pair of shoes, or worse, some personal pampering. She thought for a moment. There weren’t any spas nearby, but she could really use a haircut. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a professional trim, rather than just chopping at the annoyingly long pieces or tucking the whole mess under a cap. But where to go? She could ask Rachel, Seth’s sister. Meg hadn’t talked to her in a while, since summer was Rachel’s busiest season: she ran a lovely bed-and-breakfast, and her two kids were out of school. Meg smiled. Rachel probably had less free time than she did. But she might know where Meg could get a decent haircut. Before starting the van, she pulled out her cell phone and hit Rachel’s number.

  Miracle of miracles, Rachel answered. “Meg! How are you? Anything wrong?”

  Funny how everyone seemed to expect crises from her. “No, not a thing. As a matter of fact, I have a couple of hours free, and I realized I really, really need a haircut. Can you recommend anyone?”

  “Sure—I keep a list of all local services, just in case a guest asks. Hang on a sec . . . Yes, here we go: the New Hare. It’s in the mall—you know, the one on Route 9 as you come toward Amherst? Ask for Laurel—I think you’ll like her. She’s about our age. I’ve known her for years and she’ll do a good job for you. Listen, I’ve got some stuff to do, but why don’t you stop by after? I’d love to see you, Meg. I can serve you iced tea on the veranda and we can pretend that we’re genteel ladies.”

  “If you’re sure you’re not too busy, I’d love to.”

  “No problem. And I want to hear about whatever you and that brother of mine are up to. He never calls. Usually Mom has to fill me in. Everything good?”

  “I think so. Let me call the hair place and I’ll let you know when I’ll be up your way, okay?”

  “Sure.” Rachel hung up, and Meg punched in the number she had given her, and found there was a slot open mid-afternoon. Perfect: she could find a bite to eat, wander through a clean, air-conditioned mall, get her hair cut, then stop by and see Rachel. That would be plenty of self-indulgence for one day.

  Meg presented herself at the New Hare salon promptly at two, fortified by fast food and replacement clothing that farming had reduced to shreds. There was only one hairstylist in sight, a slender, dark-haired woman wearing practical shoes. She greeted Meg warmly. “Hi, I’m Laurel. You said Rachel Dickinson sent you? She’s good people. Come on, sit down, please.” Laurel pointed to a swivel chair at her workstation. When Meg was seated, Laurel sank her fingers into Meg’s hair. “You’ve been out in the sun a lot, haven’t you?”

  Meg sat and stared at her own reflection, something she avoided as much as possible. Time to get some moisturizer, apparently—something she’d never needed in her former indoor life in Boston. “Well, I’ve turned into a farmer in the past year, and I haven’t had a professional haircut since I left Boston—no time. Mostly I just hack at the bits that fall in my eyes.” She hoped this haircut wouldn’t cost her a lot of money, though from the humble looks of the salon, she didn’t think it would be expensive.

  “I’d never guess,” Laurel drawled. She stepped back and looked critically at Meg’s reflection in the mirror on the wall. “I suppose you don’t have a lot of time for deep conditioning and that kind of thing?”

  “Nope. Strictly no-frills. Wash and wear, if you know what I mean.”

  “What kind of style? Length? Chop it all off?”

  “I don’t want to look like a twelve-year-old boy, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t want anything I have to fuss with to make it look good. And I hate hair in my face.”

  “Color?”

  Meg shook her head vigorously. “No time to keep up with it. I’m fine with what I’ve got.”

  “Got it. Clean and simple. You’ve got good bone structure, so you can handle it. A bit of curl, which doesn’t hurt. Nice body. This should be easy. Let’s get you washed, okay?”

  At the shampoo station, Meg relaxed into the sensation of someone massaging her scalp with nice sudsy stuff that smelled good.

  “I don’t see much of Rachel in here either, what with the business and her kids. Great lady, though. How do you know her?” Laurel asked.

  “I’m, uh, seeing her brother.”

  “Seth? He did the plumbing when we remodeled the shop here. How is he?” Laurel’s voice was warm.

  “He’s good. He’s trying to get out of plumbing and do more restoration work. Did you hear about the house in Granford that was hit by a car? That’s what he’s working on today.”

  “Sure, I heard about that. Small world, isn’t it? Say hello to him for me, will you? He’s such a great guy.”

  “I agree. And I’m always amazed at how many people know him. I’m glad Rachel recommended this place. I was surprised that you had an opening for me today.”

  Laurel shrugged as she draped a towel over Meg’s wet hair. “Well, it’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, so it’s been slow. The economy hasn’t helped, and I guess a haircut is kind of a luxury these days, at least if you’ve got a family, so that’s one of the first things people give up. But we get by, and things are looking up. What’s it like, being a farmer, after life in Boston?”

  “It’s been a real learning experience . . .”

  They chatted happily while Laurel’s scissors were busy. When she was satisfied, she asked, “No goop?”

  “No, it would just get messed up. Can I run my hands through it?” Meg asked.

  “Hey, it’s your hair! Go for it.”

  Meg looked at her reflection. She looked a lot tidier, and maybe even . . . younger? It felt short and might take getting used to, but it was a perfect summer cut. “Thanks, Laurel. I like it, and it feels a lot cooler. What do I owe you?”

  Laurel named a price that was roughly half what Meg had been paying in Boston, and Meg added a solid twenty percent tip. “Be sure to come back when you want a trim. Should I book you for next February?” Laurel joked.

  “I’ll try not to wait that long. Thanks again!”

  9

  Rachel was sitting in one of the white rockers on the wraparound porch of her ornate Victorian home, which she also ran as a B and B, when Meg pulled up. Rachel did a double take when Meg climbed out of the car. “Wow, you look great!”

  “Does that mean I looked bad before?” Meg asked, smiling, as she climbed the steps.

  “Of course not, but you look better now. How’ve you been?”

  “Busy, of course. This year we’re doing a lot of watering in the orchard, since it’s been so dry. We didn’t need to do it last year, so this was kind of a surprise. Lots of lifting and hauling, because we have to fill our tank at the well and then drive around the whole orchard, and believe me, one tank doesn’t last long.” Meg dropped into a matching rocker. “No guests?”

  “Not as many as in the past, and at the moment they’re either all out sightseeing, or they’re napping to recuperate from all their sightseeing. That’s fine with me. Thank heavens Noah has a full-time job and we don’t have to rely on the B and B income to survive, since it’s so unpredictable! And since the kids are out of school for the summer, it’s nice that they’re old enough to help out a little. We’re working up to washing dishes, or at least loading the dishwasher—they can handle that. I keep having to explain to them that nobody wants to see what’s left from the last meal on the plate.”

  “I suppose if this were a hundred years ago, there’d be a batch of kids helping me out, too, collecting eggs, hanging out the laundry, picki
ng apples.”

  “That’s true. How’s Seth?”

  “He’s good. Busy, while the weather’s good for construction, but he really loves the renovation part. I keep wondering if I should be jealous of the old wood. He’s really hands-on with it.” Oops—was that too much information?

  Rachel laughed. “He’s always loved that kind of thing. He only went into the plumbing business because Dad was failing and we flat out needed the money, so I’m glad he gets to do what he loves now. He’s earned it.”

  “Have you ever visited Nash’s Sawmill?” Meg asked.

  “Not for a long time—I think we went there on a school trip, years ago. Is Jonas Nash still running it?”

  “Yes. I just met him a couple of days ago. You remember him?”

  “I sure do. I had a mad crush on him, years ago. He was sort of a romantic figure, you know? The brooding woodsman, in touch with the earth.”

  “From what Seth tells me, now he’s a businessman running a family corporation,” Meg commented wryly.

  “Well, life moves on for all of us. How’d you end up at the sawmill?”

  “Seth needed some lumber for a new project, so I tagged along to see the place. He’s working on that house that got hit by a car.”

  “Donald Butterfield’s house? I read about that in the paper. Seth thinks he can fix it?”

  “Apparently it was pretty solidly built, so the damage was restricted to one part of it. But Seth says Donald is a stickler for authenticity, so he wanted to get the right boards from the sawmill. We were at the house this morning to check on the lumber delivery, and then there was a discussion about authentic nails, and then about glass . . .”

  Rachel held up a hand to stop her. “I know how that goes! So you fled?”

  “Kind of. But I realized I hadn’t seen you for a while, and I wanted to give myself a treat, so here I am.”

  “I’m glad you came.” Rachel smiled at her. “Even though it’s probably for the cookies rather than my charming company.”

  “A little of each. Bree doesn’t let me off the leash very often.”