Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery) (4 page)

Meg let out a snort of laughter. “Just about the time I build a distillery and start making apple brandy.”

“Hey, that’s something to think about. Maybe not brandy, but cider could be a nice little profit center for you.”

“Gail was saying the same thing to me, basically. Who do you have in mind to run it?”

“I’ll think about it. Maybe there’s someone at the university that you could talk to? That could fit under either agriculture or hospitality—maybe they could supply you with an intern, or at least a consultant.” They’d reached the end of the open meadow, and Seth put his arm around Meg’s shoulders and turned her to face the house. “You know, you can almost believe it hasn’t changed since it was built.”

“It hasn’t, really,” Meg said. “Except for the heating and plumbing, which don’t show.”

“Do you ever feel any of those generations of Warrens who lived here before you? After all, they’re your kin.”

“You mean, like ghosts? I . . . I’m not sure,” Meg hedged. “Don’t people leave something behind, when they’ve lived in a house for a long time? What about at your house, or your mother’s?”

“Maybe,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. “There must be a lot of former Chapins and Warrens running around here, then.”

“Well, if there are, I hope they’re friendly. I
think
they are.”

“So do I,” Seth said. “They must like us. Ready to turn in?” When Meg nodded, he whistled to bring Max back, and then the three of them rambled back to the house in the near-dark.

The next morning Meg, once again up early, was seated in front of her laptop in the dining room with a cup of coffee when Bree came down the back stairs.

“Look! I’m ordering those crates!” Meg called out.

“About time,” Bree grumbled.

Meg made a rude noise. “You know, I think the reason I’ve been putting this off is because I think the new ones are ugly. Plastic may be lighter in weight and will last longer, but I like the old wooden ones. They seem more appropriate somehow.”

“But they fall apart. You love ’em so much, make ’em into furniture or something.” Bree poked around in the refrigerator in search of breakfast.

Meg hit Send to place her order, then shut down the computer. Bree’s suggestion had merit—maybe Seth could find some use for the recycled apple crate boards, which were nicely weathered. The new plastic ones wouldn’t look the same, but no point in buying special-order wooden crates purely for sentimental reasons. Not a wise business decision, and growing and selling apples was a business.

Meg went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. “Bree, can I ask you something?”

Bree finished buttering her muffin, then sat down. “That always sounds ominous. There a problem?”

“No, nothing like that.” Meg sat down at the kitchen table across from her. “I was just thinking that even though we’re working with the same crew of pickers as last year, I don’t even know their names, except for Raynard. I mean, I write the checks, but I don’t know who’s who.”

“Why do you bring this up now?” Bree asked.

“I feel guilty about it, I guess. I mean, we work side by side all the time, and I don’t even know what to call them. And to them, I’m just ‘Ms. Corey.’”

“Liberal guilt, eh? What do you plan to do about it?”

“Could we set up something so we could all share a meal or something? Just talk? I don’t expect us to be friends, but I’m uncomfortable with whatever we are now. Do you know what I mean?”

“Maybe. I’m not all that comfortable either,” Bree said, not looking happy.

“Shoot, I didn’t mean to open up a whole can of worms. You’re Jamaican by origin, but you’ve spent most of your life here, gone to college here. You’re part of both sides, aren’t you?”

“Or part of neither. The pickers don’t trust me automatically just because my family comes from the same island. I have to earn that trust. But I see people around here look at me funny now and then because of my skin color. Not you, Meg, or Seth, but more than one other person.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hired you because you were qualified for the job.”

“Not because I came cheap?” Bree grinned.

“Well, don’t think that wasn’t a factor, because you know exactly how much money we’re making here. But mostly it was because Christopher vouched for you, and you’ve proven he was right. But to get back to my first question, are you saying I
shouldn’t
try to get to know the pickers, just a little?”

“No, not exactly,” Bree replied slowly. “But keep it casual, you know? What were you thinking of?”

“If the weather holds, how about we just have a barbecue? Grill something outside, use up the last of the summer veggies? That is, if you think we can spare the time, or everybody isn’t too exhausted at the end of the day.”

“Could work, if we can do it this week. We’re kind of between varieties. Short notice okay with you?”

“Sure, as long as I have time to buy food. Should Seth come, or should we keep it just us?”

“You want them to get to know you, leave him out of it. He’s a good guy and all, but throwing him into the mix would change things. In my opinion.”

“Got it.”
Maybe.
“Anyway, you want to ask if one day is better than another for them?”

“Fine. Now finish your coffee—we’ve got to get up the hill.”

Seth was already outside, loading up his van for the day’s round of projects, so Meg wandered out to say hello (or maybe it was good-bye). “Are you going to talk to Gail today?” she asked.

“If I can find the time. I’ll double-check the permitting requirements, but I think she’s okay there, and I’ll get some bids from excavating companies—not that there are many who use the vacuum process and can be here on a tight schedule. Plus I have to find one or more contractors who can shore up the building and pour a foundation on that same tight schedule.”

“Don’t drive yourself crazy,” Meg said. “After all, the Historical Society has muddled along for, what, thirty years now? They can wait another week. By the way, what exactly is your official role with them?”

“General contractor, I guess. Which if I’m lucky won’t conflict with my official responsibilities to the town. I’m just overseeing it, lining up the subcontractors, things like that, so the society doesn’t have to hire someone else to do it. My main goal is to get the job done quickly and save the Historical Society as much money as possible, but still get it done right.”

“You mean you’re not getting paid for this? It’s not like you don’t have enough else to do.”

“Are you worried that I’m going to start mooching off of you? Look, I volunteered because I want to do this, for the town. It’s one of the oldest buildings in Granford, and I want to be sure this is done right. Don’t worry—it won’t take long.”

Meg wasn’t sure she believed that last statement, but she didn’t doubt that Seth was serious about caring about the building. His Granford ancestors had probably attended religious services there, since they’d been among the town’s earliest settlers, after Seth’s great-great-times-whatever grandfather Samuel Chapin had finished the official survey for this part of Massachusetts. Come to think of it, her Warren ancestors had probably been there as well, in the adjoining pew or bench or whatever they used back then, so she should be interested, too. The real problem was that Seth had a tendency to bite off more than he could chew, and he had trouble saying no to anyone.

“Anyway, we’ll see how it goes. I assume you’ll be up the hill in the orchard?” he said.

“Of course. Dinner?”

“I’ll let you know. Oh, by the way, I heard Rick Sainsbury will be coming through town. Or at least, he’ll be hitting Northampton and Amherst. The places where the money is.”

Rick Sainsbury was a Granford native and former high school football hero who was also a newly minted candidate for a vacant congressional seat for the district that included Granford in the coming November election. Now he was trying to capitalize on his local connections for the election, which was no surprise. He wasn’t what Meg and Seth would call a friend of theirs, but it made sense to maintain a cordial relationship with the man who might be their next congressman.

“Do you think he’s likely to drop in on us?” Meg asked.

Seth laughed. “I doubt his campaign staff would let him, since he’s got kind of a compressed schedule until the election, but he might hit us up to volunteer for the campaign, or, heaven forbid, make a contribution.”

“I think we’ve made all the contribution we need to,” Meg replied tartly. “Not that I have any money to spare. And I thought you didn’t feel warm and fuzzy enough about him to volunteer.”

“Most likely I won’t, but I just wanted to alert you. He’s going to be around until the election. Granford looks so good on television.”

“Gosh, maybe you should worry about starting a messy construction project right on the green, if he’s hoping to use it as a backdrop.”

“If I know him, he’ll just parlay it into a sound bite about how we ‘treasure our local history.’ Of course, that might be good publicity for the Historical Society. Or maybe ‘providing jobs for local workers.’” Seth slammed shut the rear doors of the van. “Well, it hasn’t happened yet, and who knows if it will. I’ll try to make it back for dinner, and I’ll let you know if anything changes.” With that, he hopped into the driver’s seat and pulled out with a wave.

Meg sighed. She gathered up her gear and headed up the hill to join Bree and the pickers.

Hours later, Meg’s stomach was telling her it was well past lunchtime when she saw Gail Selden pull into her driveway.
Again?
Funny how someone who dealt with centuries of history could be so impatient.

“Bree?” Meg called out. “Gail Selden just arrived. I’m going to go down and see what she needs, so I’ll take a break and get some lunch, okay?”

“Sure, fine. I’ll be down in a bit.”

Meg loped down the hill. It was only when she reached the driveway that she realized that Gail was not alone. Gail was leaning against her car, and next to her stood a kid who looked to be about fifteen—too old to be one of Gail’s kids, both of whom Meg had met anyway. This boy was unfamiliar to her, though. He was conspicuously neat (not that Meg had a lot to compare teenagers to these days; she didn’t see many of them in her line of work). He wore what she assumed was still the standard uniform for high school kids—T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes—but the items all looked very clean, almost new, and his hair was neatly cut.

“Hi, Gail,” Meg called out.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I talked to Seth this morning and he said we could go ahead, and I’m just so excited. He’s so great! We couldn’t do this without him.” The words tumbled out of Gail’s mouth.

“Hey, slow down, please. I’m glad it’s working out—it sounds interesting. Did you stop by to tell me that?”

“No, it’s a bit more than that. Have you eaten? I brought sandwiches and stuff. Can we go inside and sit down?”

“Of course. Come on in.” Meg led the way into the kitchen, noting that the boy politely held the door for the two of them first, and when they walked into the kitchen, she saw him catch sight of her cat, Lolly, sitting on top of the refrigerator, and go over to introduce himself by offering his hand for her to sniff before scratching behind her ears.

“I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got all sorts of things,” Gail said as she went straight for the table in the center of the room and started laying out sandwiches and chips and napkins. “Oh, jeez, where are my manners? Meg, this lovely young man is Jeffrey Green. He’s a student at the high school in Granford. And he’s also a Boy Scout, which is why he came to talk to me.”

Meg’s stomach was growling. “Welcome, Jeffrey. Let’s sit down and eat, and you can tell me why you’re here.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The boy waited until both Meg and Gail were seated before sitting down himself. Who had taught him his manners? Meg hadn’t seen this kind of courtesy from a young person for quite a while.

Talk of anything serious was deferred until after they’d all selected sandwiches. “You live here in Granford, Jeffrey?” Meg asked between bites.

“Yes, over toward Belchertown. It’s kind of a new house—not like this one.”

“By new he means post–World War Two,” Gail tossed in, “which I guess is new by your and my standards.”

“Only by a couple of hundred years, Jeffrey,” Meg said. “What brought you to Gail and the Historical Society?”

Jeffrey glanced at Gail, who nodded her encouragement. “Uh, okay. You know Rick Sainsbury?”

That wasn’t what she expected to hear. “Yes, as it happens I do.” Was Rick using teenagers to infiltrate local households and beg for money for his campaign?

“He’s my uncle, my mother’s brother. Since he won in the primary, he’s been putting pressure on my family to be part of his campaign. My mom’s really into it—it’s her kind of thing. But I really suck—oh, sorry—I’m really bad at shaking hands and smiling at lots of people. I told my mom about six times and I guess she finally heard me, but then she started saying that I never did anything other than study, and I told her that I was in the Boy Scouts, and she said back that I didn’t do anything except show up for meetings . . .”

He seemed to run out of steam, so Meg broke in gently. “I don’t like political campaigns much either. But I’m still not sure I understand what this has to do with the Historical Society.”

Jeffrey took a deep breath. “I figured I’d better do something that she’d actually recognize. What do you know about Scouting?”

“Not much. What should I know?”

“Well, the Boy Scouts of America is a national organization, founded to promote good character, citizenship, and personal fitness.” The boy sounded as though he was reciting from a manual, Meg thought. “A lot of activities take place outdoors, like camping, and there are a lot of community service projects too, like litter cleanup in your town, or food collection. You can advance by earning merit badges. Since I was already in Scouts, my mother decided that I ought to try to make Eagle Scout before I went to college—said it would look good on my applications. I’m already a senior, so I’d need to get more badges soon. I would need twenty-one in all. There’s a whole list of them to choose from, but I wanted to do something that interested me, and I figured if I took part in the Historical Society project, I could use that for my archaeology badge. I really like history, and it’s also kind of a public project for the town.” By the time he’d reached the last part of his explanation, Jeffrey had begun to show some enthusiasm.

“That sounds great,” Meg said, upwardly revising her estimation of Jeffrey’s age. If he was already a senior, he was probably closer to seventeen than fifteen. “I’m here because I’m curious, too, and I also like history.”