Poison Apples (16 page)

Ruth nodded, she understood. She got up and put two sticky, smelly arms around Moira. “Now you’ll have to go home and take a shower. Then you can get down to business. And I’ll stand behind you. You mentioned interviewing the pickers in your last phone call. Can I come along and listen?”

“Yes, yes!” Moira hugged her back. She didn’t care about the stickiness, the smell. She just wanted to burrow deep into the moment.

Chapter Thirty-three

When Ruth arrived at the orchard Sunday morning, she found the place in pandemonium. The Jamaican leader, Bartholomew, was dead. They were removing the body now. Colm, in his father’s black funeral limousine, called out to her, “Cerebral thrombosis. They found him when they woke this morning. Evidently died in his sleep.” The double doors clanged shut and the limousine roared off.

She found Moira inside the bunkhouse, along with the Jamaicans: grieving, upset, almost mute from the shock of their leader’s death. A few offered explanations: obeah—”Dat old mistress bek home, wanting him dead”; another blamed the devil— “Here, in dis place. He take us all, you watch, mun!” Ephraim argued, “Heart, those poison apples—it was murder.” And everyone quieted to listen and nod, their eyes huge and white with the thought of death, of murder.

“You’re right, Ephraim,” Moira said. “He was taking that heart medicine. It didn’t mix with those apples, poor man. Zayon, have someone change the linen, will you? You’re first in charge now.” Moira
’s
lips were set in a straight line; Ruth could see she was trying to reassure the men, to keep calm herself. “And mop up around where he was sick. They should have kept him in the hospital, they might have saved him. Oh, I don’t know!” She bit her lip again, took two audible breaths, held a hand over her mouth as if she were about to break down herself; and, pushing Ruth ahead of her, hurried out, motioning Ruth to follow.

Behind them, there was a deep hush as the men tried to deal with this unexpected death.

“We’ll have to bring in the police, Ruth. Stan didn’t want them called, but I think we have to, don’t you? With a death? He was such a lovely man, Bartholomew. He kept those men together; he had such a good spirit.” She held two fists to her eyes, mopped her damp cheeks with a tissue. “We’ll have to notify his family. There will be legal issues—it happened on our orchard. Stan would know, but of course he can’t help much now. I know he has insurance... Oh, Ruth, I feel so out of control. Upset for Bartholomew and his family, overwhelmed by what’s going on here. I don’t know if I can cope.”

“I’ll leave a message for Colm, when he gets back to the funeral home,” Ruth said, feeling awkward in the face of Moira’s grief, her troubles. She put an arm around her friend and walked her back to the farmhouse. “He’ll need to know the details. He’ll inform Chief Fallon. I’d like to know more myself. I won’t leave you alone in this, I promise! Tim’s on duty, he has Joey, his foster boy. ‘Take an hour,’ Tim told me.”

“Only an hour?” Moira said, and let Ruth draw her into the house, fix the coffee. At Ruth’s request she told all again from the beginning. It would help her, Ruth thought, to talk about facts, events. “Stan was right, Ruth, it can’t all be accidental. There are too many incidents now. It has to be someone who has a grudge we don’t know about, or wants us out of the orchard. Or ...” Moira ran a hand through her frazzled hair. It was beautiful hair, Ruth noticed, a warm shade of dark red. She had the freckles, of course, but Moira’s weren’t too noticeable—mostly on the hands and arms, a few visible on the cheeks when she looked at Ruth, indignant with the crimes she’d just described.

“Let’s start with motive,” said Ruth. “You mentioned a grudge. Who might it be? A worker? Your manager? Someone from the past?”

Moira was quiet a moment, considering. The coffee cup was quivering in her hands. “That’s just it. I don’t know. Except for that school board woman, of course: Stan had been after her for persecuting poor Mr. Samuels. But she’s gone now. And the paraquat incident came after her death. So...” She spread her fingers, shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s the worst of it. I don’t know.” She looked beseechingly at Ruth.

“The Messengers minister’s not dead. Bertha’s alive and crazy, you bet she is! Those other women, the praying ones. They’re still possibilities, right? With that minister whipping them up? Telling them what to think, how to act?”

“I guess so. Yes. Though I haven’t heard from that minister, well, for several days now. He could be just a kook—or he could be a serious threat. So many things happening—so fast.”

“Then who would want you out of the orchard? That was your second thought. Somebody with a grudge.” The coffee was good. Ruth was almost enjoying the discussion. Then felt guilty that she was complacent, at Moira’s expense. Bartholomew, poor fellow, was dead. The Jamaicans were upset—and worried probably about themselves as well. Moira’s husband was still in the hospital. Ruth shouldn’t ask too many questions. But the woman did need help!

There was a pecking at the window, a flash of red as the bird flew off, Ruth could see it crouching on a nearby branch as though it were spying, deliberately provoking, waiting for the next opportunity to spring at the glass. Moira glanced at it fearfully, then gave a short laugh. “I could say
that
does. It’s just a bird. But like a symbol of something worse, some fate that wants us out of here. Or wants in to get at us.”

“Oh, Moira,” said Ruth. Someone had to be practical here. Although Moira was no Bertha; she didn’t believe in any devil. Moira was embarrassed at her own superstition. “I know, I know,” she said. “But sometimes, at night... Anyway, well, there’s Rufus. He’s a silent, almost surly kind of fellow. Never owned his own orchard, but would like to, I think. He hasn’t got the capital, that’s the problem, he’d have to buy it cheap.”

“Mmmm. He might think you’d sell cheap because of all the problems here. And he could cause the problems. He surely knows all about what maggots and paraquat do to apples.”

Moira sighed, gulped her coffee as though it would help clarify her thoughts. “He was a kind of legacy when we bought the orchard. There’s no telling what Rufus thinks behind the mask he wears.” She ran a hand through her thick hair, it fell back into her face. Her nose was shiny with perspiration. “Then there are those developers, your ex-husband. His uncle owned this orchard, he says.”

“He did, yes. Though I can’t quite see Pete planting maggots and poisoning apples. After all, I lived with the man for more than twenty years! For all his faults, well, he’s an honest man. Though I don’t know about this Mavis he’s partners with. And there’s a third partner. A silent partner—I’ve got to find out who that one is. Pete’s always been the cozy one, won’t tell me something that’s going on because ‘women blab’—to quote Pete.” She curled her fists into her lap, remembering. Maybe the divorce was a good thing after all. She was starting to grow, wasn’t she? Like one of those wild rosebushes she’d planted behind the house that never bloomed until she cut away the rest of the taller, hardier bushes around it? And it went crazy the next spring with deep red blossoms.

“That minister,” Moira said, her hands cupped tight around her coffee mug, “maybe he’s your silent partner.”

“We can’t rule anything out,” Ruth said. “I mean, even Bertha. She’s Pete’s sister, after all. Even though he’s always put her down. Even Pete’s father put her down. Maybe that’s why she’s so vulnerable to these kooky religions—needing someone to pay attention to her. I need to remember that myself. But blood is blood. And Bertha belongs to that sect.”

“What’s the man’s background, anyway?” Moira asked. “Does anyone know where he came from?”

“No, but I’ll try to find out. I’ll put Colm Hanna on his case. The police would have access to old files. Maybe he’s a wanted man—killed his old mother to get the family jewels.”

Moira gave a choking laugh. Then put a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m still feeling swept away on a tide. I can’t believe Bartholomew died! It seems like a nightmare I’ll wake up from. And I can’t sit here just thinking about my own problems. I’ll have to contact his wife. Stan has an address somewhere. What kind of burial do you think she’d want?”

“You’ll have to ship the body back to Jamaica, I’d think. Or the ashes. Do you know what religion he is?”

“I think Methodist. Yes, definitely Methodist. He got talking once about his childhood in Jamaica. His family was one of the few non-Catholic ones; his mother sent him to a school where he had to prostrate himself before the British flag. He had to memorize whole sections of Milton’s
Paradise Lost—
can you believe it?”

“I can’t. I could hardly get through Milton myself senior year in high school. I do recall sympathizing with Satan, though. But don’t tell Bertha!” And both women smiled.

Ruth got up and took her empty cup to the kitchen. “I’d better let you get on with the arrangements. Maybe one of the other men knows Bartholomew’s wife, can talk to her. Do you want me to help interrogate the men about the poisoning?”

“Would you? I’d appreciate that. And you’re right, I’ll ask the men for their help. They’re frightened, that’s another concern. We have to keep them calm, keep them assured, keep them safe!”

“You’re all right? Do you want me to stay longer?”

“No, I’m okay. I was just feeling overwhelmed at the sudden death, the shock of it. But I can cope. The coffee helped. And talking to you.”

Ruth nodded, got ready to leave. “I forgot to ask how Stan is.”

“Stable. We’ll be bringing him home in a few days, as long as he keeps up the physical therapy and lets Rufus run the orchard. I can’t imagine him trying to deal with all this. I don’t want to tell him about Bartholomew, not yet. Oh, that poor, dear man! I didn’t know about that heart condition.” She turned her face away.

“Call, will you, Moira? If I can do anything at all? I could at least question Rufus. I know him a little, the family goes back generations.” Ruth thought of Emily. She’d be glad when the season was over and Emily was back in school fall time. After all, her senior year—the girl needed to give time to her studies.

Outside on the porch she saw the niece, Opal. She was cradling her guitar, hugging it to her like a child, her eyes fixed on the mountains. When Ruth spoke, she didn’t look up, just went on humming, tapping a foot, as though she were hearing the music in her head.

“I think your aunt could use your help here,” Ruth said, but Opal didn’t answer. She was strumming the guitar now, a jazzy reggae kind of beat, an ironic requiem for Bartholomew’s death.

Ruth felt a surge of anger at the girl’s indifference; then took a breath and climbed into the green pickup, revved it up with a “Thanks for starting, Green Baby.” At least the old bucket was still going, in the face of too many deaths.

Chapter Thirty-four

In the morning a contingent of pickers, headed by Zayon, who was now Number One man, appeared at Moira’s door. They were all talking at once, so rapidly in Jamaican patois she could only look from one to the other, say, “What? Please .. . speak slowly... I want to help you, but. .. one at a time, please ….”

She had just had a tearful return call from Bartholomew’s wife, who wanted the body sent home at once, and she had made arrangements with Hanna’s Funeral Home. At least she hoped she had understood the whole message. The woman had kept shouting, “Heart, heart, I tell him to stay home, the bad heart!” Then she had burst into tears, and Moira wept with her.

Now, she understood, the men wanted two things. They wanted assurance that the police would find the source of the orchard malice—”Or we not to stay here, mum. You find him, find him, lock him up!” There was a chorus of yeas. And secondly, they wanted to have a funeral celebration that night for Bartholomew, even without his body present. “Music dat he love, good eating,” Derek said, and the others loudly echoed the wish.

Of course she agreed to both. “The police are fully aware. They’ll keep a watch on the orchard. There’s a police car moving slowly past even now,” and she pointed. “You’ll be safe,” she insisted, although she didn’t know that, did she? She could only try to convince the others. The men didn’t want to leave Vermont, she knew that. They wanted, needed the money. The money from this fall’s picking was more than they would make in a whole year at home.

“And we want to give Bartholomew a proper memorial,” she said—not knowing quite what to expect. “You tell me what to contribute in food. I’ll take you into town this afternoon, we’ll shop together.”

They left then, pacified for the moment, talking excitedly among themselves, planning, she supposed, for the evening’s wake. Could she call it a wake?

But she wasn’t prepared for the noisy send-off they finally gave their leader. Of course, reggae was nothing if not loud, Derek explained, stomping his feet to the up-tempo beat. The police would visit at least once a month back home, he said, “count of de noise you make. You car radio be turn up loud so everybodies dat drive by know you Jamaican, not tourist.”

Adam Golding, coming up to her, looking serious, filled her in further. Reggae was based on American soul music, he said, but with inverted rhythms and prominent base lines: “A lot of the performers are Rastafarians,” he said, “like Zayon over there.”

And there was Zayon, with his carefully cultivated dreadlocks, playing the drums. He seemed almost a part of the drum, his head nodding down into the taut skin. Adam was a musician himself, he told Moira, he was an admirer of Eric Clapton, who had adopted a form of reggae.

“You’ve been there?” Moira asked. “To Jamaica?”

“Couple of times,” Adam said, shrugging, and began to play his guitar. Was there a slight odor about him and Zayon of cannabis? She hoped not, but there was the sensation that events were wholly beyond her control now, events that had been set in motion, that she couldn’t stop—like that cardinal banging at her window.

Oh, but she was superstitious today!

Now, there was a new beat: something called ska, a Jamaican dance music, according to Ezekiel, a small, wiry man in his thirties. “De blue beat,” Ezekiel said. “We dancing for ole Bartholomew, he like dis music.” And he whirled about in a stiff pair of new blue jeans, stamping his feet. Zayon battered the dRufus, coming in on the second and fourth beats. Derek played an imaginary horn, while Adam was caught up in the rhythm of his guitar.