Red Delicious Death (20 page)

“Did any of them want Sam dead?” Rachel asked.

“I can’t see why,” Meg replied. “Nicky and Brian are really torn up about it, and Sam was important for their restaurant plans. I don’t know about Derek—that’s the ex-boyfriend—he showed up last night, loud and drunk. I gather the police told him about Sam’s death and he took it hard.”

“So who could’ve done it, then?”

“Nobody seems to know. And the Staties aren’t sharing, if they know anything more. Oh, though this should amuse you: You remember me mentioning my friend Lauren, from Boston? She came out for a weekend—and she hit it off with Detective Marcus. They even went to dinner.”

“Ooh, how funny. You mean he’s actually not a zombie?”

“Apparently not, according to Lauren. If I’m really lucky, maybe she’ll soften him up a little bit toward me.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Is she going to see him again?”

“I don’t know. I told her she’s welcome to come back and visit.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow and grinned, then changed the subject. “Hey, how’re the apples coming along?”

“Either too fast or too slow, depending on when you ask me. Bree says she’s got pickers lined up. I’m supposed to meet with their foreman and finalize things.”

“Sounds good. How’s Seth doing? He’s been so busy I haven’t seen him in weeks, even at Mom’s. Is he working hard?”

“He’s handling the restaurant build-out, and I gather he has plenty of other jobs. And all those selectmen’s meetings. He finished up my apple chambers in the barn, but he really hasn’t had time to work on his office and storage space.”

“He always did take on too much—he can’t bear to disappoint anyone. Are the selectmen happy with this restaurant plan?”

“Seth says Tom Moody’s behind it. I’m not so sure about Caroline Goldthwaite.”

Rachel snorted. “That woman always had a stick up her you-know-what. Hates change, hates anybody whose family hasn’t lived in Granford for at least two hundred years. And thinks everyone in town should bow to her wishes.”

“She did get elected. More than once, I hear.”

“Yes, she did. But I think most of her supporters in town are as old as she is, so I don’t know how long she’ll hold on.”

“She must be close to eighty.”

“Yup, she is. She’s been old since I was a kid. But we Yankees are tough. Hey, can we go talk to the goats?”

“Sure. I haven’t managed to name them yet. You have any ideas? Maybe your kids can help.”

“I’m not sure you want to go there. You might end up with a goat named Miley. How’re they settling in?”

“Fine, as far as I can tell, but what do I know? I feed them, I talk to them occasionally. They haven’t complained.”

Rachel stood up and began clearing off the table. “Well, I still want to say hi to them. I always think goats look intelligent. More so than sheep anyway.”

After stacking their dishes in the sink, Meg led the way out to the goat pen across the driveway. The two does approached eagerly, their eyes, with the disconcerting horizontal irises, curious. Meg felt a pang of guilt: maybe they did want more attention. But they had each other, didn’t they?

Rachel was making crooning animal talk. “Hi, babies, how’re you doing? You like it here? Your food looks good.” The larger goat cocked her head at Rachel, looking for all the world like she was listening. The smaller one tried to butt her head against Rachel’s leg through the wire fence. “Yes, you’re good girls, aren’t you? Of course you are.” She scratched between their ears, and the goats looked blissful.

“You could take them home with you,” Meg said hopefully. “They really seem to like you.”

“You’re not going to foist them off on me, Meg Corey. They’re your goats. They’re very nice goats. You just have to get to know them.”

“Right.” Meg heard the screen door bang shut and turned to see Bree approaching, a mug of coffee in her hand. She looked sleep-rumpled.

“Morning, Meg, Rachel. Those your muffins on the table?”

“They are. Help yourself.” Rachel gave the goats one last rub. “Well, I should get going. I think I’ll treat myself to a little shopping—it’s so rare that I get any time to myself. Keep the muffin basket—I’ll pick it up the next time I come by.”

“Thanks for dropping in, and for the muffins. I’ll try to get over your way before too long.”

“Those Chapins have enough energy for a power plant, don’t they?” Bree said after Rachel pulled out of the driveway.

Meg laughed. “You’re right, they do. I get tired just watching them sometimes.”

“Well, I’m gonna get a muffin or three—and Raynard, the foreman, said he’d stop by this morning.”

A half hour later, Meg had finished cleaning up the kitchen when a battered pickup pulled into her driveway, and a lanky man in well-worn clothes climbed out. He appeared to be about fifty, with toffee-colored skin, and dark hair skimmed with silver. He saw Meg watching him from the kitchen window and dipped his head, pulling on the brim of his faded baseball cap, in a curiously courtly gesture. This had to be Raynard Lawrence. “Bree?” she called up the backstairs. “I think Raynard’s here.”

“I see him,” Bree yelled from somewhere on the second floor. “Be right down.”

Meg felt awkward leaving the man to wait in the driveway, so she went out the back door. She extended her hand. “I’m Meg Corey, the owner. And you’d be Raynard Lawrence?”

“That I am, ma’am.” He took her hand and shook it carefully, as though holding back his full strength.

Meg swallowed a laugh. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am’! It makes me feel old. It’s Meg.”

The man nodded once again, without speaking. His gaze shifted to the kitchen door, where Bree came tumbling down the steps. “Briona! You’re looking fine.”

“Raynard, don’t try to sweet-talk me. I’m the boss here now, remember?” Bree tempered her statement with a smile.

“You won’t let me forget that, will you? But I’m happy to help out two such lovely ladies.”

“Can the charm, will you?” Bree snapped with a small smile. “Let’s go over the orchard, and the changes in the barn, and then we can talk details about the crew. That work for you?”

“All business? Fine, fine. Where you want to start?”

“The orchard—that’s what matters most, right? No crop, we don’t need pickers.”

“I know the way.” The man led the way up the hill, followed by Bree, hard on his heels, then Meg, trailing behind. For all that he must be twenty years older than Meg, Raynard was spry and moved quickly. At the top of the hill he paused while Meg caught up.

“How many years have you been working this orchard?” Meg asked, only slightly breathless.

“Thirty years, easy. I know every tree.” He took a leisurely moment to scan the orchard before turning back to her. “Looking good. You and the professor, you’ve done good work so far, with the help of our girl there. Now we need a bit of rain and a bit of sun, and we’ll have us a harvest.”

“Sounds good to me,” Meg said. “Can you tell how soon?”

“Have to take a look at the early harvest varieties.”

Meg nodded. “Mr. Lawrence, you have to know right now that I have no idea what kind of apples I’ve got here. I’m willing to learn, but right now you’ll have to forgive me if I sound like an idiot.”

“I go by Raynard. Long as you trust me to tell you what’s right, we’ll be grand. Now, your orchard here, you’ve got mostly newer crosses—like Spencers, which is a McIntosh and Red Delicious cross, and the Empires. Some Baldwins, but there aren’t many folks as like them these days. A few of what they call now the heirloom apples—been here who knows how long, but somebody cared enough to keep them going. You’ll get to know ’em soon enough.”

“I’m also still deciding how I’ll be marketing them. Is it safe to say that I don’t have a whole lot of any one kind?”

“Not enough to make the big stores sit up and take notice, no. Local farmers’ markets, more like. Or sell ’em for cider. Couple of cider mills nearby, if you want to go that route.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. How big’s your crew?”

“Eight, ten maybe. We move around a bit, and it depends on what’s ripe.”

“And they’re all here and ready?”

“Not all, no. Some come early—we can help you clean up the orchard, make sure your equipment can get around. Briona says you have new holding chambers?”

“I do. Why don’t we take a look now, and then we can finish up the paperwork? I think Bree’s got all the papers ready for you.” Meg looked at Bree, who nodded.

Raynard waited for Meg to lead the way to the barn. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him give a nod to the goats.

Half an hour later, tour completed and forms signed, Raynard rose from the kitchen table. “I will see you in a few days, Meg. Briona, please give my good wishes to your aunt. I can find my way out.”

After he had left, Meg stayed at the table with Bree. “Do you know, I feel better about the whole thing. I was afraid he would treat me like an idiot child, or just run right over me like a steamroller. I think I’m going to learn a lot from him. Are you comfortable with all this?”

“He’s a good man, knows his stuff. And he’s family, so he can’t screw us over.”

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?”

Bree shook her head. “No, not Raynard. There are some guys who’d try to take advantage, but he’ll do right by you.”

“Thank you, Bree. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Just doing my job.” Despite her words, Bree appeared pleased by Meg’s comment. “And better rest up now, because we’re going to get real busy real soon.”

Making her way toward town for her usual round of errands, on a whim Meg pulled into the construction site that soon would be the Granford Grange shopping center. The name was grander than the place itself, which consisted of a row of single-story stores, still unoccupied. But it was new business for Granford, which Seth had fought long and hard for. He had told her he’d convinced the vet, Andrea Bedortha, to leave her group practice and strike out on her own with a space here, so that was one more slot that would be filled. Meg was hoping for a bookstore, too, but nothing had been finalized.

Seth’s van was parked in the newly paved parking lot, and she could see him talking with a number of the workers. Meg looked around: her orchard wasn’t quite visible from here, but she knew that Seth’s family house lay just behind the ridge, no more than half a mile away. Finally he disentangled himself from a couple of carpenters dangling circular saws and came over to where Meg leaned against her car. “Hi. What’re you doing here? We didn’t have anything lined up, did we?”

“No, nothing like that. I was passing by and I wanted to see how things are coming along. When’s opening day?”

“We’re aiming for sometime in August. I thought we could have some sort of picnic in the parking lot here, maybe a cookout, games for kids, that kind of thing.”

“That sounds good. You can count me in, if I’m not too busy in the orchard. Once harvest starts, my life may not be my own.”

“How’s that going?”

“Good, I think. I met with the pickers’ foreman, who seems like a good guy. Bree’s pleased. And it looks like we’re getting pretty close to picking some of the early bearers.”

“That sounds about right. I know when I was a kid, we were always bored by August, and sometimes we made some change by helping out with the early harvest. You need help?”

Meg laughed. “You don’t have enough to do? Anyway, you’d have to ask Bree. She’s handling all the staffing. I don’t know if you’d measure up.”

“You cut me to the quick, madam. But you’re right; I’m pretty much fully booked. Kind of surprising, given the current economy, but it looks like more people are fixing what they’ve got rather than building new.”

“Then that should be right up your alley—lots of renovation. Is the restaurant about ready?”

“More or less. There’s still a lot of finish work to be done. And Nicky and Brian are experimenting with recipes daily, along with Edna. I’m beginning to wonder if I should ask to be paid in food.”

“Is it that good?”

“It is. Now and then I have to remind them to keep it simple, at least for local folk, but most of the time they get it right.”

“Has the liquor license come through?”

“Soon. We’ve cleared the rest, as far as permits go—electrical, plumbing. As I said, from here on out it’s mainly prettying up the place.”

Seth’s attention was diverted by the arrival of a police car. Art Preston climbed out, and Meg found herself hoping it wasn’t bad news—things had been going so well for the past few days. At least Art didn’t look grim.

“Hi, Art,” Seth greeted him. “What brings you this way?”

“Just checking out my little kingdom. Looks good. Any word on the sandwich shop?”

“We’re still talking.”

“That won’t conflict with Nicky’s restaurant, will it?” Meg asked anxiously.