Rotten to the Core (20 page)

Bree eyed it critically. “Looks pretty good to me, or it will when you clean it up. Nice wood. I can help if you want, not that I know much, either.”

“I may take you up on that. You have any idea when you might be moving in to stay?” Meg asked.

Bree kept her eyes on the coffee. “Like I told you, I’ll probably be going back and forth for a while. I know there’s lots to do here, and I don’t have that much more stuff to worry about for my last classes.”

“No rush. You do whatever works best for you.” Meg suppressed the thought that Bree was wavering. About the job? About living with her? She didn’t want to press. She refilled her own cup and sat down. “Listen, I’ve had a couple of odd conversations over the last few days, and I wondered if you could give me your feedback.”

“I guess. What’s the problem?”

“Well, let’s start with Christopher. Have you heard anything connecting him to a pesticide company?”

“What do you mean, ‘connecting’?”

“Well, maybe I need to explain. I went to the GreenGrow meeting in Amherst the other night, and I talked to some of their people afterwards. And last Friday I had lunch with Michael Fisher, and he said something to the effect that Christopher might be in bed with the pesticide makers.”

Bree twirled her mug around and around on the table. “I told you about the scholarship, and I know other people in the department who have gotten them, too. The pesticide makers like to make it look like they’re real concerned, but they’ve paid my way, so I guess I can’t complain. I don’t think Professor Ramsdell would tell me about a bigger deal—I’m just an undergraduate. Come to think of it . . . there’ve been a couple of closed-door meetings in the department recently. You know, a bunch of the faculty holed up somewhere together, and you can’t find them when you go looking. And then they don’t explain why. I get the feeling something’s going on, but I don’t have a clue what. Of course, that doesn’t mean it has anything to do with a pesticide company. Just a coincidence, maybe?”

“Could be. I have a hard time believing that he’d be involved in anything underhanded. Okay, next question: do you know where they keep the pesticides that the department uses? Are they kept under lock and key?”

“Students don’t play with that kind of stuff too often—the university’s scared of liability issues, you know? But there are very specific regulations for storage and use of poisonous materials. If you’re using it, you’re supposed to have official training. The university offers a course so you can get certified, and I’ve done it, in case you’re wondering. Maybe you should think about doing it, too. I know the stuff itself is kept at the research field stations. There are all sorts of regulations about what kind of containers to use and what kind of safety provisions you need to have handy. And of course everything is kept locked, with big signs all over the place. Why do you want to know? Like, how could Jason or anyone else have gotten his hands on some?”

“I guess that’s what I’m asking. Sounds possible, although he hadn’t been spending a lot of time on campus recently. Anyway, if there’s some sort of oversight, then that would have made it more difficult for him.”

“And easier to figure out who could get at it,” Bree pointed out. “I mean, a stranger can’t just wander in and help himself. The students are taught from the beginning to treat this stuff with respect. That’s part of the IPM philosophy. You don’t just go out and dump buckets of poison on whatever bug shows up that week. You have a balanced, long-term strategy, and you reassess regularly throughout the growing season.”

Meg sighed. “Bree, there’s something I have to tell you.” She laid out the details about the methidathion Seth had found in the barn. “The problem is, we have no idea who brought it here, or even when. Christopher says it wasn’t his, and Seth said it was way past its expiration date. No one around here seems to have ever thrown anything out, so it could have been there for decades, and who knows how many people saw it there.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point.” Bree swallowed some more coffee. “You said you had more than one weird conversation?”

“Yes, and the other one is kind of related. Yesterday Daphne waylaid me after class and wanted to have coffee with me. You know her, right?”

Bree made a face. “Yeah. I don’t like that woman.”

“Why not?” Considering how reserved Bree usually was, Meg was surprised by the vehemence of her response.

“For starters, she doesn’t much like me. She knew Jason and I had dated, and I guess she thought I was still a threat to her.”

“But that was over, what, two years ago? Wasn’t that before they got involved?”

“Yeah, but she’s incredibly insecure. She probably thought I might come back for more. Poach on her territory. Or what she thought was her territory.”

“She said she was Jason’s girlfriend.”

“Ha!” Bree snorted. “In her dreams. She hung around him as much as she could, and . . . You know the term ‘friends with privileges’?”

Meg nodded.

“Well, he was happy to sleep with her, but were they together, like a couple? I don’t think so.”

“She says she was, uh, with Jason Saturday night—which is probably when he died—but then he sent her home. He said he had work to do.”

“You mean they had sex? And then he made a crappy excuse and told her to go home? Sounds about right. Jason took what was offered.”

Meg struggled to find a tactful way to ask her next question. “Bree . . . why do you know so much about what was going on with Jason and Daphne? I thought you and Jason had gone your separate ways a long time ago, and you stayed away from GreenGrow.”

Bree looked away. “It’s not that big a department. It was hard not to run into Jason now and then, and wherever he was, Daphne usually wasn’t far away. She’d always glare daggers at me when she saw me. Of course, I think she hates a lot of people. But she had a real thing for Jason. That was obvious.”

“From what she told me, it sounds as though she does most of the unglamorous work at GreenGrow.”

“Yeah, but she volunteered. Nobody was forcing her, but she wanted to stay close to Jason. I’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so obnoxious.”

Meg had to admit she agreed with Bree’s assessment. She tried to put a kind spin on her own reaction to Daphne, but she had to admit to herself that she really didn’t like the woman any more than Bree did. But there was one more thing she had to bring up, much as she didn’t want to. “Bree, Daphne said you were also at the GreenGrow meeting Saturday night. Why?”

“Michael asked me to come.”

“Michael? Why?”

Bree shrugged, then looked away. “I think he was trying to take a bigger part in GreenGrow, maybe balance out Jason’s side a bit. They need more members.”

“Did Michael know about you and Jason?”

“Yeah, of course. And I went because I figured they couldn’t cut off my scholarship money this late, so why not?” She jumped up from her chair and took her empty mug to the sink. “So, you want to go play with your tractor?”

Meg stood up more slowly. Bree’s answer made sense, at least on the surface, but why had she chosen that particular night to return to GreenGrow? One more coincidence to add to the list. “I guess. I don’t even know where to start. I don’t think this thing came with an instruction manual. It’s not exactly new.”

“Not a problem—there’s plenty of documentation online. Look, this is way simpler than a car. You drive a stick?” When Meg nodded, Bree went on. “So you’ve got the basic idea of a clutch and shifting. The biggest thing you’re going to have to worry about is getting a feel for the steering, and for balance. Why don’t you just try it out for today, and we can worry about all the attachments later?”

“Shoot, I hadn’t even thought about those. What else am I supposed to need?”

“I think I saw a mower attachment—that’s good for cleaning up between the rows of trees. You don’t want to let the weeds and stuff get too far out of control—great place for pests to hide, and it makes it harder to get around the orchard anyway. The most important thing is to be able to move the apples from the orchard to your storage area.”

“And how do I do that?”

“That’s one of the problems with apples, and why you need experienced pickers. It’s all done by hand. You can’t just go by and shake the tree or wait to pick up what falls, unless you’re planning to make cider, and fast. If you’re selling them for eating, the pickers have to take them off the tree and put them in these bags or baskets they strap on. And when you transfer them to bigger containers, again, you can’t just dump. Bruises the apples. You have to be careful with them, because bruised apples sell for a much lower price than ones that aren’t. So the pickers have got to be good, and they’ve got to care about what they’re doing.”

Meg groaned, and Bree grinned. “This is a relatively small operation. It just means you and I and the pickers have a lot of lifting to do. It’ll build up your muscles fast enough.”

“I bet. You ready to go tackle the tractor now?”

“I am. Let’s go see what you’ve got.”

Bree led the way eagerly. She stalked around the tractor in the driveway, looking at tires and parts Meg couldn’t even begin to identify. Then she climbed into the seat and inspected various knobs and dials. From what Meg had seen, there weren’t many, and most were clearly labeled. Maybe there was a plus side to having an older machine.

“You know anything about what shape it’s in?” Bree called out.

“I think Eric checked it over before he delivered it. Does it have gas?”

Bree looked back at a dial and nodded. “Full tank. You ready?”

“I guess.” Meg approached the tractor, and Bree climbed down again.

“Okay, first of all, safety check. Your tires look good. You’ve got gas. But we need to make sure there’s oil and the radiator isn’t dry. Who’d you say this belonged to?”

“Some guy who didn’t use it, I gather. He bought it over the Internet. He and his wife split, and she was clearing out his stuff. Seth says I got a good deal on it.”

“Figures. It’s old, but it’s in pretty fair shape.” Bree poked around some more. “Oil and radiator, good.” She took a critical look at Meg. “And you’re dressed all right—nothing that could get snagged. You want me to start it up, get a feel for it?”

“Please!” Meg stepped back out of the way and watched as Bree climbed into the seat. She adjusted it slightly, then turned the key in the ignition. The machine roared to life, belching smoke, then settled down to chugging steadily. Bree gave a thumbs-up, released the parking brake, and slowly let out what Meg assumed was the clutch, while giving it some gas. After an initial lurch, the tractor moved forward smoothly. Bree, her slight form dwarfed by the machine but with a huge smile on her face, drove in a few tight circles in the driveway, then reversed before pulling up in front of Meg. She set the brake, turned off the engine, and jumped down.

“Sweet! She runs really well. Think you can do it? Just try her out on the driveway for a bit, and if you think you can handle it, we’ll take her out on the grass. One thing to remember, though: watch for slopes or steep banks. It can tip over if you’re not careful. But as long as you stick to flat ground, you’ll be fine.”

Bree’s warning did little to boost Meg’s confidence. “Uh, the orchard is up a hill, you know.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve got plenty of time to practice before you have to worry about that.”

“If you say so.” Meg climbed into the high seat and before doing anything else, looked around her at the house, with all its tacked-on bits and pieces, and the barn, and then the view down toward the Great Meadow. This was a whole new perspective; it felt odd to be elevated, and on such a rickety piece of machinery. The big modern tractors she had seen online had enclosed cabins, and even air-conditioning and sound systems. Hers was the no-frills model. Still, this was supposed to be a practical piece of equipment, not a pleasure ride. She located and attached the seat belt. “Now what?”

“Put your clutch in and start ’er up. Keep the brake on until you’re ready to move.”

“Right.” Meg imitated what she had seen Bree do and was rewarded by the roar of the engine. The whole machine vibrated, and Meg couldn’t imagine what it would be like to travel over a rough field or unpaved lane. She looked uncertainly at Bree, who yelled, “Go on!”

Taking a deep breath, Meg disengaged the brake, let out the clutch—and prayed.

The machine lurched, and she released the clutch too fast, stalling it. She started it up again and shifted more cautiously this time, managing to make some forward progress—at about two miles an hour. But at least it was moving, and she was in the driver’s seat.

A half hour later, Meg wondered what she had been worried about. On level ground the machine putted along happily. She hadn’t pushed its limits, but she definitely felt that it had more power in store, which no doubt she would need when she started hauling around trailers laden with apple boxes. And her posterior was already sore from the bouncing. She looked over at Bree, who had shifted her attention to the eager goats, and yelled, “Can I stop now?”

Bree gave the larger goat a final pat and walked back to the edge of the driveway. “Sure. You want to put her in the barn?” she yelled over the engine noise.

“Let’s not worry about that now,” Meg yelled back. “I still need to clear enough space for it. I’ll just leave her where I found her, okay?”

“Let her idle for a minute or two to cool down, okay? And don’t forget the brake!”

Meg stopped the tractor in front of the barn doors, then pulled on the hand brake and pushed in the clutch pedal. She looked around again but with an entirely different perspective this time. She had mastered the tractor; she had laid claim to her land. Did this make her a farmer? Maybe not yet, but one big step closer. She felt ridiculously proud of herself. “Long enough?” she yelled at Bree.

Bree nodded, and Meg, with a little pang, turned off the engine. The sudden silence startled her.