An Open Book (7 page)

“That was nice of her. Tell me, does Ellen charge much?”

“It’s off-season, and Ellen Keohane’s a fair woman, or so me da says. And cheaper
than the hotel, not that there’s any space there. Full of fisherman, it is. Will you
be staying long, or are you just stopping for a bit?”

Maura dunked her tea bag a few times, then pulled it out of the water. “I . . . really
don’t know. A week, maybe?” She’d booked a return flight for a week later, but only
because it was cheaper that way. She looked around the room, darkening by the minute.
The clock above the bar said it was only four o’clock. How could it be so dark, so
early? “Does this place get busier?” She was the only customer, although the old man
sleeping by the fire had a half-full pint glass in front of him. She didn’t remember
seeing anyone pass by on the street outside in the time she’d been in the pub.

Rose looked momentarily confused, then smiled. “It’s Tuesday, and it’s early yet.
Come Friday, you’ll see the place more lively. Where’re you from, then?”

“Boston, in the States. I guess I’m used to having more people around.”

“I’ve never been farther away than Cork City,” Rose said wistfully. “Is Boston much
bigger than Cork?”

“I think so,” Maura said. “It’s more than half a million, I know.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “We’ve only about four million in Ireland, all in. Cork City’s
got little more than a hundred thousand and some, but I’m told Dublin is over a million.
So your Boston would be more crowded than Cork, but not as big as Dublin.”

“I didn’t get a chance to see Dublin, just the airport.” Which had seemed smaller
than Boston’s to Maura. “But yes, it’s pretty crowded, at least in parts. How big
is Leap?”

“A couple of hundred, no more.”

“And you’ve lived here all your life? Are you finished with school?”

“I’ve done my Leaving Certificate.” When Maura looked blankly at her, Rose went on
to explain what that meant.

Maura tried hard to follow Rose’s explanation of the Irish educational system. She
didn’t mean to be rude, but the long trip was catching up with her, and she quickly
lost the thread. She thought she understood that Rose had finished with her secondary
education, but apparently had no plans to go on. “Listen, I’d better go see this place
of Ellen’s,” Maura finally said. “Is there someplace to eat around here?”

“We’re not doing food here at the moment, unless just crisps will do, and they’re
none too fresh,” Rose said dubiously. “There’s the hotel,” she added. “And maybe the
café’s open, though they do mostly lunches. You’d be better off in Skibbereen.”

“I don’t have a car. How often do the buses run?”

“Ah,” Rose said. “Well, maybe you should ask Mrs. Keohane. She’d know better.”

“Good idea. Thanks for the tea, Rose.” Maura slid off the bar stool and almost fell
over—her muscles had stiffened up, not that she’d been sitting long. She really needed
to get some food and some rest, preferably but not necessarily in that order. “I’ll
go over there now. Just across the road, you said?”

“Well, across and down a bit. You’ll see the drive off to your right, and then you
go down the hill, kinda. You can’t miss it.”

Maura wasn’t so sure, especially now that it was getting darker by the minute—the
heavy clouds showed no sign of thinning. At least there wasn’t much traffic. “I’m
sure I’ll be seeing you again. Bye for now.”

The straps of her bags were digging into her shoulder—how had they gotten heavier
since she had arrived? Outside the pub Maura stopped a moment to get her bearings.
She looked both ways—and then looked again, reminding herself that the cars would
be driving on the left here—and then headed across the road. Rose had been right:
there weren’t many chances to get lost. She followed the graveled drive down and discovered
a house with its front door facing the drive. Nowhere did it indicate that there were
rooms to let, but at least there were lights on inside. She found the doorbell and
pushed it. She could hear it ringing somewhere inside the house, and the bell seemed
to precipitate a clamor of childish voices, followed by footsteps. The door was opened
by a thirty-something woman wearing an apron; the noise of clamoring children grew
louder. The woman pushed her hair out of her face and said warily, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Maura Donovan. Are you Ellen Keohane? Bridget Nolan said I should talk to you.”

“Ah, of course―you’re the American. She mentioned you’d be coming soon. Welcome! I’m
just giving the kids their dinner, but come in.”

Maura willingly followed her in, dropping her bags on the hall floor.

“Come on through―I’ll only be a minute,” Ellen said, striding back toward the brightly
lit kitchen at the end of the hallway. Maura hesitated, then followed.

In the kitchen, Ellen said, “The three of you, eat up now. This is Maura, come all
the way from America. Maura, this is Kevin, Sean, and Patrick, and the baby’s Gráinne.
Kevin’s ten, Sean eight, Patrick seven, and Gráinne’s not yet two.” The children looked
up briefly, then returned their attention to their fish sticks. Maura guessed that
strangers held no particular interest for them: if Ellen welcomed a succession of
guests, no doubt they’d seen their fair share.

“Gráinne?” Maura asked, confused. It sounded like “grawn-ya,” and she’d never heard
it before.

Ellen laughed. “Of course, you wouldn’t know it. It’s a girl’s name here, and Gráinne’s
my little darling. I’m so glad she turned out to be a girl, after this lot.” She smiled
affectionately at the children around the table. “Boys, I’ll be showing Miss Donovan
here the room, below. I’ll only be a minute. Kevin, you keep an eye on the little
ones.” Ellen turned back to Maura. “It’s downstairs, at the back. Kevin’s the only
one sleeps down there, but he’ll be no trouble. He’s a quiet one. Shall I show you
now?”

“Please,” Maura said. The idea of a space of her own—with a bed—was becoming more
and more appealing with every passing moment. She snagged her bags from the hall and
followed her hostess down a flight of stairs and around a corner. Ellen pulled a key
out of her pocket and opened the hall door, ushering Maura into a midsized room with
one double bed and one single tucked in the other corner.

“The bath’s at the back,” Ellen said, “and you can hang your clothes in the cabinet
there. I’ll push the heat up a bit, now you’re here. Do you know how long you’ll be
needing the room?”

“I . . . don’t really know. A week? And I guess I have to ask how much you’ll be charging?”

Ellen cocked her head at Maura. “The off-season rate is 250 euros a week. Does that
suit you?”

Maura tried to translate euros to dollars and thought that came out to something like
forty-five dollars a night—if she was right, that certainly sounded reasonable. She
could work it out later, and she hoped Ellen would be fair. She desperately craved
sleep. “Sure, that’s fine. Listen, I’ll let you get back to your kids. But is there
someplace I can get something to eat?”

“There’s the hotel―it’s the closest. You look dead on your feet. Why not get a bite
there tonight, and I’ll tell you about some other places in the morning. You’ll be
wanting the full breakfast?”

“What’s that?” Maura asked.

Ellen laughed. “And you a good Irish girl! It’s everything you can fit on a plate—eggs,
streaky bacon, good Clonakilty sausage, beans, mushrooms, and more. It comes with
the price of the room.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Maura said, overwhelmed. Maybe with a breakfast like that she
wouldn’t need to eat the rest of the day. She should try it, at least once, on her
first day. “Thank you.”

“Grand.” Ellen handed her a set of keys for the room and the front door, and hurried
back up the way they’d come, where the sounds from the kitchen had increased in volume.
Once Ellen was gone, Maura carefully closed the door and surveyed her temporary home.
It was clean and tidy, more practical than elegant. She checked out the tiny bathroom
and splashed water on her face, then sat down on the bed: it felt comfortable, and
there were plenty of pillows and blankets. She lay down, just for a moment . . .

Maura woke some time later to pitch dark. Real dark; cut-it-with-a-knife dark. And
there was no noise: no cars passing, no airplanes overhead, no distant sirens. Where
was she? Oh, right: Ireland. She was in a small town her grandmother had never said
a word about. All her life Gran had kept quiet about where she had come from, yet
in the end she had wanted to send Maura here.
Well, Gran, you wanted me to be here, and here I am. What now?

As she lay in the dark listening, she realized she
could
hear something—the rhythmic lapping of water against the shore. Hadn’t Rose said
there was a harbor? She hadn’t seen it, but now she could hear it, and in the end
it soothed her back to sleep.

Keep reading for an excerpt of Sheila Connolly’s first Orchard Mystery . . .

ONE BAD APPLE

Available in paperback from Berkley Prime Crime!

“Orchard? What orchard?” Meg Corey stared in confusion at the man standing on her
doorstep. He reminded her of a hobbit: shorter than she was, his silvery hair combed
forward in an endearing bang now rumpled by the wind, his cheeks rosy, his blue eyes
twinkling. “I’m sorry—who did you say you were?”

“Oh, forgive me. I’m Christopher Ramsdell, with the Integrated Pest Management Department,
the Small Fruit Management Project, at the university.” When Meg looked blankly at
him, he went on. “Of Massachusetts, at Amherst. We’ve been using the apple orchard
as an experimental site for, oh, decades now. But I was looking for the Tuckers. Are
they no longer here?”

“The Tuckers were only renting. My mother owns this place, and I’m fixing it up to
sell.”
Or trying to
, Meg amended to herself. Every time she tried to “fix” something, it seemed to generate
more problems. Usually expensive ones.

“Well, then, you’re the person I should be talking to!” Christopher beamed at her,
and Meg couldn’t refuse the delightful man a return smile. At least he wasn’t some
crazy person, as she had wondered when she first opened the door.

Which was letting in the freezing January wind. “Uh, come in, I guess. Will this take
long? Because I’m expecting a plumber any minute.” She hoped.

“I’d be delighted. And I won’t keep you, but I’d like to explain exactly what it is
I’m doing.” He stepped into Meg’s hallway, and she slammed the door shut behind him—the
slamming part was necessary if she wanted the warped, if authentic, four panel door
to close at all.

“Take a seat.” Meg gestured vaguely toward her front parlor on the right. The lumpy
furniture was draped with drop cloths, old sheets, and anything else Meg could find,
since she had been scraping, spackling, and sanding for a couple of weeks now. “I’d
offer you some coffee, but my sink is stopped up and I don’t want to run any water
until I know what the problem is.”

Christopher was still standing in the middle of the room looking around with clear
admiration. “Grand old house, isn’t it? My sympathies on the plumbing problem. Drains
are a constant torment.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “Well, I don’t want to take
much of your time, so let me get right down to it. I can’t believe you don’t know
about the orchard. You haven’t seen it?”

“I don’t know where to look,” Meg said. “Where is it?”

“To your west.” When Meg looked bewildered, Christopher waved toward one side of the
house. “Up that way. It runs from the top of that rise down to the highway, Route
202. Surely you’re familiar with that. Roughly fifteen acres, and you have perhaps
a hundred and fifty trees, primarily apple. And we—by that I mean the research group
at the university—and the Tuckers, and the . . . let me see . . . I think it was the
Lothrops before them, have been managing it for more than twenty years.”

Meg nodded. “I guess that explains it. My mother inherited this place back in the
eighties, and I don’t think she’s been here since. She just sticks the rent checks
in the bank. But I found myself at loose ends recently”—no reason why this nice stranger
needed to know she’d been downsized out of her job—“and she thought it might be a
good time to finally fix up the place and sell it, so here I am. So, what is it you
want from me?”

Christopher cocked his head at her, like a friendly sparrow. “Well, my dear, first
and foremost I’d like to introduce you to the treasure that you own.”

“Now?” Meg’s voice rose in disbelief. It couldn’t be more than twenty degrees outside.

“Why not? It’s far easier to distinguish trunk and branch configurations when the
trees aren’t in leaf.”

“What about my plumber?” Meg sputtered.

Christopher smiled. “When did you call?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll be along in an hour or two. Plenty of time!”

Meg considered. The less-than-appealing odor of whatever was seeping out of her sink
was beginning to filter through the house, even though she had shut the doors to the
kitchen. Just like the front door, the kitchen doors of the two-hundred-year-old house
didn’t fit very well. Moreover, she hadn’t been out of the house for—she stopped to
count—three days, and some bracing fresh air wouldn’t hurt. She could watch for the
plumber from outside. And she had to admit she was curious. It had never occurred
to her to check out what lay on the far reaches of the property. Since she had arrived
she had been focused on the house, and that was more than enough to keep her busy.

“Okay, I’m game.” Obviously the right answer, if Christopher’s delight was any indication.
“Let me get my coat.” And gloves. And scarf. And hat. Taking a walk in western Massachusetts
in winter involved a lot of preparation. She slipped her cell phone into her pocket
along with her house keys, and returned to the waiting Christopher, who was bouncing
like an eager spaniel. “Ready.”

Outside, Meg pulled her balky door shut and followed Christopher as he set off at
a brisk pace, up the low rise toward what he had informed her was west. When he noticed
her lagging behind, he slowed and waited for her to catch up. “Forgive me. I spend
so much time outside like this, I forget that some people aren’t as accustomed as
I. You’ve been here how long?”

“About three weeks. Since just after the New Year, when the lease on my apartment
ran out.” Meg was happy to note that she wasn’t panting—much. Maybe vigorous home
renovation was good exercise. “I figured I’d just camp out here and get to work. There’s
plenty to be done.” More than she could have imagined.

Christopher continued to pepper her with questions, not even slightly out of breath.
“So you’re telling me that you’ve never walked your property?” His tone implied that
such an omission was inconceivable.

Meg smiled into her coat collar. “No. I’ve had plenty to work on inside. The house
is in rather bad shape, but I was hoping to list it for sale before summer.”

“Then at the very least you’ll be here to witness full bloom—that’s the middle of
May around here, weather permitting. It’s truly lovely, you know. Of course, I may
be a bit biased, but I think an orchard in bloom is one of nature’s wonders, all the
more precious because it’s so brief a phenomenon. Not that an orchard in fruit isn’t
equally lovely in its own way.”

“Christopher, you’re not from around here, are you?”

“Ah, you’ve caught the accent. No, my dear—I was born in England, but I’ve been here
for most of my life now. And yourself?”

“I grew up in New Jersey, but I’ve been living in Boston since college.” She paused
to catch her breath. “What is it you’re doing to the trees? You’re not spraying them
with anything nasty, are you?”

“Oh, no, no. In fact, we spray as little as possible, or preferably not at all, although
I’m afraid some spraying is unavoidable in apple management. I’m in integrated pest
management: working with nature and natural enemies, and spraying only when we have
no alternative. You’re not familiar with the process?”

“No—I’m a city girl, through and through.”

“Ah, well, you can learn. Here we are!”

They had reached the crest of the rise, and the land sloped down before them. Meg
could see sparse traffic moving along the highway maybe five hundred feet distant.
Between where she stood and the highway, neatly spaced rows of trees spread out in
a long, narrow strip parallel to the highway. The trees were uniform in height, although
they varied from slender young trees to craggy gnarled ones whose age she could only
guess at. She could see a few lingering, shriveled apples on nearby branches.

“So this is it?” she said.

“It is indeed. Isn’t she grand?” Christopher spoke with a paternal pride.

“Grand” would not have been Meg’s first choice of word. “I guess. Sorry, but it looks
kind of dead.” Now that she was here, she realized she’d been driving right by it
for weeks, and it had never even registered on her radar. An orchard.
Her
orchard. It had taken her a while to even get used to the idea of owning the barn
behind the house (although from the way it was leaning, she wasn’t sure when it would
stop being a barn and start being a pile of rubble). But an orchard was a living thing,
with a past and a future. It needed care and attention, as Christopher seemed to be
telling her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what that meant—dealing with the house
was more than enough for her at the moment. But still . . . her own apple orchard.
It was an appealing idea.
Oops, Meg, bad pun.
She tuned back in to what Christopher was saying.

“Oh, not dead at all. Just dormant. Wait a month or two and you’ll see.”

“How much land does this take up?” she asked.

“As I said, about fifteen acres. It’s about a quarter mile to the next property there,
to your north.”

Meg could feel Christopher’s eyes on her, anxious. It was obvious that he really did
care about this field of scraggly trees. “Well, then, tell me about it. What am I
looking at? What’s so special about this orchard?” Meg asked, her breath forming clouds
in front of her face.

“Ah, my dear, where to begin?” Christopher all but rubbed his hands in glee. “This
orchard has been here nearly as long as the house. No, the individual trees aren’t
two hundred years old, but some of the species have been planted and replanted over
time. You’ve got some real treasures here. Tell me, what do you see?”

Meg, bewildered, turned to survey the trees before her. “They’re, uh, trees.”

“Yes, but look closely. You see that one there?” He pointed, and Meg followed his
finger obediently. “Stayman Winesap—see the thick trunk, the slightly purplish cast
to the bark? And over there, Rome Beauty—you can tell by those drooping limbs. What
do you know about apples?”

“Only what I see in the supermarket—Delicious, McIntosh. Aren’t there some new ones
with funny names? Mutsu, or something like that?”

Christopher snorted. “Dreck. Commercial pap. Bred for their ability to withstand shipping
across country, only to sit in warehouses for months on end. By the time they reach
a store, they all taste like packing peanuts. You, my dear, are in for a treat come
harvest time. There’s such an array of flavors—subtle but delightful. I envy you the
experience of encountering these for the first time. Ah, hold on!” He swung a small
pack from his shoulder and rummaged through the contents. He emerged with an apple
about the size of a baseball and shaded from red to a speckled yellow. Christopher
polished it on his pant leg and offered it to her with a flourish. “Try this.”

Meg took it from him. “Do I eat it?”

“Of course you do.”

“What is it?” Meg thought it was a good idea not to eat things she couldn’t identify,
especially when they had been given to her by someone she’d met only an hour earlier.

“Baldwin. Originated not far from here, in Massachusetts, in the eighteenth century.
Very popular in the early twentieth century, until it got squeezed out by the McIntosh.
Harvested that one myself, right here, in early November—it’s a keeper. Try it.”

Holding the apple in her gloved hand, Meg took a bite. The skin was thick and resistant
at first, but the flesh inside was coarse and juicy, with a spicy tang. It bore no
resemblance to any apple she had ever bought in a supermarket. “Wow. It’s good.”

“Of course it is. It hasn’t spent six months in a shipping container or a warehouse.”

“I have these in the orchard here?”

“These and many other varieties. As part of my job, I seek out and preserve old varieties
that are in danger of disappearing forever. There are still many old stocks, lurking
around the countryside here. Now that technology is improving, we need these forgotten
varieties for genetic crossbreeding, to try and put the flavor back into this country’s
apples. And I fear it is nearly too late. I’ve seen far too many trees or even whole
orchards fall before the bulldozers of progress. But there is much we can learn from
the old orchards, and it’s a shame to lose them. Why, you even have a quince, over
there toward the road.”

A quince? Meg wouldn’t know one if it bit her, or if she bit it. Her fingers were
getting numb. “I’m sorry, but I really should go back and wait for the plumber. Is
there something you want me to do?”

“I’m hoping you’ll allow me and my staff to maintain our study program here. We won’t
be in your way.”

“Sure. Of course. Do I need to give you official permission or something?” It wouldn’t
bother her if there were people wandering through her apple trees—she couldn’t even
see them from the house. And she needed some time to think about whether having an
orchard on the property was good or bad, in terms of selling the house. And how she
felt about it.

“That’s grand! We did negotiate a formal agreement, oh, years ago, when we first started
using this orchard. I believe it was the Warren sisters who agreed to it? It might
be wise to draft a new one for you to sign, if you don’t mind.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Meg couldn’t bring herself to worry about giving away
rights she hadn’t known she had.

Christopher beamed happily. “Wonderful! I’ll let our department chair know, and we’ll
set the wheels in motion. Thank you so much! I’ve been a bit concerned because we
need to start pruning soon. I’ll send you some reading material so you can familiarize
yourself with what you have. Ah, I can tell you’re chilled. Let me walk you back to
the house.”

As they made the easier downhill trip, Meg asked, “What about the apples? What happens
to them when they’re harvested?”

“The Tuckers sold them to a local cooperative.”

Meg laughed. “Funny—they never mentioned that to my mother. And she thought she was
doing them a favor, keeping the rent low.” They reached her front door. “I’m glad
you stopped by, Christopher. I’ll look forward to seeing what happens in the spring.”

“It’s been my pleasure, dear lady. And you’re in for a treat!”