Poison Apples (3 page)

Stan was staring at her. He was unusually quiet. Suddenly he threw up an arm and Don raced over to catch him from falling. Moira rushed a stool under him. Stan’s face was as patchy red as the apple skins.

“It’s been a shock, these . .. accidents,” she told Don, and he nodded, he knew.

Stan came slowly to life then. “Accidents, hell,” he muttered. “Malice. That’s the word you want. Malice. Someone wanting to do me in. That woman on the school board. Cassandra Wickham.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Stan. Just because she holds a different opinion from you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Stan staggered up, knocking the stool sideways against the barn wall. Before she could open her mouth to warn him back, he was striding off into the orchard, into the west quad, toward the debris. She prayed the young people would have cleaned it up by now. She heard him shout, “Rufus!”

Don grabbed her elbow, held her back. “Let him go,” he said. “He’ll have to see it sooner or later.”

“You saw it?”

“No, Zayon told me—I was on my way here. It wasn’t one of the marked trees, he said. It was still yielding.” Don looked worried. “Stan should see a doctor. He doesn’t look good. Anyone check his blood pressure lately?”

“It was high when we came here. You knew about our daughter.” Don nodded; everyone knew. “He was just beginning to heal when that spraying accident...” She looked at her neighbor. “If it was an accident...”

Don was silent a minute. “I hope it was. I hope to God it was.”

Chapter Five

Emily Willmarth’s mother was already at the door when Moira got back. Ruth was a tall, robust-looking woman . .. well, robust, yes, but lithe, dressed in loose-fitting jeans, a yellow denim shirt open at the neck, brown leather boots redolent of barn. She was most likely in her mid-to-late-forties. She lived on a hardscrabble farm on the road behind the orchard—they’d met off and on at the local food co-op. Ruth was divorced, Moira knew, with two children still in the house, if you could call Emily a child. She must be at least seventeen, maybe eighteen. The girl’s breasts were bursting out of her denim shirt as she ran up behind her mother to collect a packet of sandwiches Ruth had brought.

“I have to go now, Mom. I haven’t got to the picking yet, we had a little .. . accident. I’m helping to clean up.”

“Uh-oh.” Ruth smiled. “I hope it wasn’t anything you were involved in.”

Emily glanced at Moira. “Most definitely not,” she said, and raced off, her denim shirttail flapping behind her.

“Someone cut down a couple of our trees,” Moira told Ruth. She paused, coughed, she hardly knew this woman. Then, seeing Ruth’s interest, her concern, she went on. She recalled something Don Yates had told her about Ruth’s help with other victims—an abused woman, an elderly farmer and his wife, that eccentric old Glenna Flint on Cow Hill Road, who’d been kidnapped but, remarkably, survived.

“Come on in,” she said. “Emily left your cider in the kitchen. Have a cup of coffee with me. I need to talk to someone. Can you spare the time? I know you have all those cows.”

“I have a good hired man. He can cope for a bit.” Ruth had a nice smile, it lit up her face. “I live on caffeine. One day it will do me in. But for now—it’s fuel, energy, a way of coping. Thanks. I hear you weave, too, something I’ve always wished I could do. I used to do a little pottery. But now—I don’t have any hobbies. Just those thirty cows. Thirty-one, to be exact. We just had a birth.”

Moira smiled back. She could use a friend. She almost asked,
Will you be my friend?
They’d been so busy with the orchard these last few years, she hadn’t taken time to join a group or make friends. “Sugar? Cream in your coffee?”

“Black.” Ruth planted herself down on a kitchen stool, looked comfortable, as if she belonged there. “No frills. So tell me about this latest, um, accident. You look like it might help to talk about it.”

Moira poured the coffee, stuck her elbows on the kitchen table, stared down at the old pine boards, wondered where she should begin. With the school board, maybe? Or was she paranoid herself, beginning to believe what Stan had said, that perhaps the vendetta between Stan and that woman Cassandra Wickham had something to do with the malice—there was that word again—in the orchard?

So she told about the vendetta. “He came home last night in a fury. Had three Manhattans—he holds his liquor better than most, but by golly, there’s a limit! The woman’s trying to ban a book, she’s ‘crucifying’ some English teacher, he said. Stan’s been involved in censorship before, it’s one of the reasons we chose Vermont; you’re supposed to think for yourself here. No one to dictate: do this, do that. But then he found himself in the middle of another row. The woman is archconservative, she wants us to think her way. She belongs to some church called the Messengers of Saint Dorothea. I’d never heard of it before! I mean, she has a right to her beliefs, but Stan’s afraid she’ll bring a whole group of the religious right onto the school board. They’re the ones who voted her in. They’re organized!” She stopped, drew a breath. Was she getting worked up herself, like Stan?

The cardinal was slamming at the window again. Ruth was watching it, her tongue stuck in her cheek, looking thoughtful.

“Bertha belongs to that group,” Ruth said. “My sister-in-law. Or was. Pete and I are divorced now, but Bertha hangs on. Well, she has a right, I guess, my kids are her nieces and nephews. Anyway, she’s been writing letters to the editor. She’s taken an interest lately in the school board. I wondered why. I guess I was naive. I mean, I’ve got a child in that school! I’ve got to get out of the barn now and then, find out what’s going on.” She squinted at the window. “What is it with that bird?”

“It wants to get in,” Moira said. “It wants to get in and that’s a bad sign.” She laughed to lessen the solemnity of the words, but Ruth was taking her seriously.

“We won’t let him in,” Ruth said. “We’ll keep him out. I promise you that. I’ll keep tabs on that crazy Bertha. See what I can find out about the school board woman.” She grimaced, then smiled, and swallowed her coffee.

Chapter Six

Stan had them lined up in the barn: Rufus, the eight Jamaicans, four of the five local help. The Jamaicans, headed by Bartholomew, stood stiffly against the barn wall, their caps shading their downcast eyes, hands loose at their sides, their work pants stuffed into tall rubber boots. The locals appeared more relaxed, more confident, in jeans and caps stuck on backward the way the crazy kids wore them these days. There was Adam Golding; the twins, Rolly and Hally Butterfield, who had never finished high school and were exercise freaks—lifted weights, the muscles bulged under their tight-fitting T-shirts; and six-foot-tall Millie from up on the mountain, seated cross-legged on the barn floor. Emily Willmarth was the only one absent: Most days she had a class; today she had a dental appointment. She couldn’t pick on a regular basis—his wife had hired Emily in spite of his concerns for the girl’s inexperience.

Rufus stood silently beside Stan, arms folded across the barrel chest, heavy legs wide apart as though the stance gave him more authority. Stan could hear his harsh breathing, the occasional cough. Rufus was a smoker; Stan had seen him once or twice in town, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth— though he never smoked on the job. He’d come to Stan with consummate credentials, had worked the orchard seven years before Stan acquired it. It was as though Stan were an interloper. Stan cleared his throat, began the interrogation.

“You all know by now that two of our trees were cut down, destroyed. I want to hear from anyone who knows anything about this.” Stan glared at the assembled group. The only one who made eye contact was Millie; she seemed amused. No one spoke. Stan hated doing this, interrogating in this way. Back in Waterbury, when a student cheated on a test he’d send him at once to the principal, wouldn’t deal with it himself. He didn’t want to accuse anyone without proof. Absolute proof. You’re innocent until proved guilty, that’s the way he felt about things.

And that boy, the one who killed Carol—the guilt was absolute. The blood rose up again in his chest. He couldn’t always make Moira see it his way, though. Carol’s death had driven a stake between him and his wife. He’d bought the orchard to help pull up that stake. And now someone, inside or outside this orchard, was driving it in again.

“Well?” he said. “Cat got your tongues?”

Rufus coughed. The twins shifted position, seemed less composed. The Jamaicans remained a solid core—until Number One man, Bartholomew, nudged the shorter, leaner man beside him. It was Zayon; Zayon was a Rastafarian, whatever that was—Stan always meant to ask the Jamaican about it. The dreadlocks reminded him of an ancient apple tree, the way the black hair was knotted up in ropelike clumps. It was all but impossible, he’d heard, to unravel them.

“Those trees were deliberately slashed. Now I want to know who did it. I’m not accusing anyone here... .” Stan had to be careful with this. He adjusted his glasses where they’d slipped down on his sweaty nose. “But someone might have seen, heard something last night. I mean, other than a little thunder and rain. Or early this morning.”

Again, there was silence. He’d been through this before, back in April, after the Roundup spraying. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be put in this position. He could feel the red pushing out on his skin, the familiar heaviness in his chest. But he had to go through with the questioning. He wanted to work this out himself—no police, no reporters who would alter the public’s view of the orchard. He’d ask each picker individually. Start with the locals. “Rolly and Hally,” he began, then checked himself— they were two young men, not one. But he always got them mixed up. “Hally,” he said, and the twin on the left stared back at him with wide blue eyes.

“We sleep sound,” Hally said, answering for them both. “Didn’t even know there was a storm.”

The other one said, “Nope. Slept right through it.”

“Golding?”

Adam Golding shook his head. He was a quiet, good-looking fellow. Stan didn’t care for the long hair, but at least Golding had the decency to tie it back. “Nothing. I was with them,” he said, nodding at the brothers. The trio slept together in the smaller of the two bunkhouses. “Though wait,” he said, and the heads swiveled. “I thought I heard the geese—I was half awake. But it could have been part of my dream.”

Millie spoke up before Stan could question her. She didn’t live on the orchard; there was probably no point having her here. Still—you never knew. “I heard the storm. It woke Mother. She got under the bed!” Stan heard the others snicker. “But I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about those trees.” She gave Stan a winning smile. There was something schoolgirlish about her, straightforward. He smiled back—or tried to. Seemed he couldn’t really smile anymore.

Bartholomew spoke for the Jamaicans. He had been to a British school on the island and spoke British English to the Earthrowls. “Nobody allowed out nights. My rule,” he said. “Sometimes Derek, here.” He nodded at the youngest Jamaican— barely of age, it would appear—a gold earring dangling in one ear. “Derek walks in his sleep. I find the door open, he tracks in leaves after I sweep nights. But last night—no. Derek was gone from this world.” The others chuckled; one of them, Desmond his name, pointed a finger at Derek, and Derek giggled.

Zayon, who was standing next to Derek, gave him an elbow. Derek gave it right back. Bartholomew glared at Zayon, and the latter grimaced. Those two didn’t always get along, Stan had observed—some vendetta from the home island.

The interrogation was over then; it had gone nowhere. Stan gestured and the crew filed out of the barn. Rufus followed, already giving orders in his bullfrog voice. “Rufus,” Stan called, and the man turned, waited politely—too politely, Stan thought—in the doorway. He wanted to ask,
Where were you last night, Rufus? How late did you stay at the orchard? How early did you get here this morning?
But Rufus’s hazel eyes were squinting at him, challenging, so Stan gave in and said, “Keep an eye out, then, will you, Rufus? For anyone acting suspicious around here? Maybe a stranger?” And he thought again of the woman on the school board, although why she’d want to destroy his orchard, he didn’t know. But someone had slashed those trees. Someone! A fist squeezed his heart.

Rufus gave a curt nod and went out. Stan saw him break into a run, catch up with the Jamaicans. In moments his arms were waving, his head waggling as he barked out orders. The men shouted, “Yeah, bossman, yeah,” exuberant now, like schoolboys released from the classroom, and trotted off in different directions, the white apple buckets bobbing on their chests. Rufus, Stan had to admit, knew how to get the best out of the pickers. He’d been working with them much of his life, in this orchard or other orchards—never his own.

Maybe Rufus felt it was time for his own place, his own orchard; after all, he must be fifty years old. If Stan were to sell, if this orchard were “jinxed,” so to speak, if it sold at a lower price, Rufus could maybe afford to buy it.

Stan would keep an eye on Rufus.

Chapter Seven

The five-ten bus was fifteen minutes late and Moira had forgotten to bring a book. Her head was in too much of a spin anyway to concentrate on printed words. Stan had taken the latest bit of mischief hard. He’d stomped back in the house minutes after his interrogation, shouted at the encroaching cardinal, banged on the window as though he wanted to break it; then gone directly to the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff one. She’d put a hand on his shoulder, tried to sit him down to talk, but he’d waved her away. That was a bad sign, she didn’t like that. If he wouldn’t talk, if he bottled it all up inside—there was sure to be an explosion. At her; inside himself. No, she didn’t like it at all.

The bus was here and she wished it wouldn’t stop, that no one would get off it. It was not the right time for a visit from a niece. All the same, she must try to act normal, keep things on an even keel, keep the girl busy. She’d introduce her to Emily Willmarth. They might be of an age—though, no, Emily would be younger. Would Moira recognize the girl? She hadn’t seen Opal since Carol’s death three years ago when Annie May had brought her, looking morose, to the funeral. And Moira had gone through that service in a daze—partially sedated. It had been crowded with Carol’s friends, it seemed the whole high school was in mourning. Annie May and her daughter were just two more shadowy figures weaving in and out of the crowd.