Rotten to the Core (5 page)

“Okay.” Bree pocketed the key ring.

Meg retrieved her coat, and they set off up the hill. Bree seemed more at ease outside, loping easily up the slope. At the top she stopped, waiting for Meg to catch up, and Meg could have sworn Bree looked on the rows of trees with a kind of proprietary pride. Meg could understand that, since she’d caught herself doing the same lately. At least Bree cared about her work.

“Okay, where do we start?” Meg asked.

Bree scanned the orchard, then launched into a check-list of tasks that stretched on and on, ticking them off on her ungloved fingers.

“Okay, now. The pruning’s done—Professor Ramsdell and his class took care of that. The dead stuff is gone—that’s good. Bloom’s still a ways off, but there’s some spraying that needs to be done before then. We’ll have to check what insects are emerging, keep an eye on them.”

Meg listened with half an ear. Right now she was more interested in getting a feel for her new employee’s personal and working style. So far she was impressed, at least by the latter. Bree talked a good line, and if Christopher had endorsed her, she must know her stuff.

They spent a productive hour walking from one end of the orchard to the other, and by the time they were done, the sun was sinking and there was a chill in the air. But Meg felt good. The more time she spent in the orchard, the more secure she became in her ownership of it. It was an odd feeling, possessing a large and living entity, especially one whose history stretched back more than two centuries, and though it sounded silly, Meg didn’t want to let the orchard down.

Still, the nonstop flow of Bree’s information was a little much to absorb all at once. “Can we call it a day now? Because I’ve got to process everything you’ve told me so far, and my toes are getting cold. Let’s head back down the hill,” Meg suggested.

“I guess,” Bree said, looking disappointed. Silently they set off toward the house.

Once they were back in the warm and steamy kitchen, Meg shucked off her coat and poked at the large pot of stew she had left on the stove. “You don’t have any, uh, eating restrictions?” Meg asked Bree, who was prowling around the kitchen studying things. Heaven forbid she should turn out to be a vegetarian.

“What? Oh, no, I eat about anything. That smells good.” She nodded toward the simmering pot.

“Thanks. I’m not used to cooking for more than just me, so I’m kind of making it up as I go. But it’s fun. I can’t believe how many new things I’m learning, and all at once. Like house renovation.”

“I like this place. It’s a good house. Strong.” Bree ran her hand over a door molding.

“I hope so. It needs to be—it’s been pretty neglected for a while. I’ve got a list of things to do as long as my arm, and that doesn’t even include the orchard.”

“At least your trees haven’t been neglected—they’re in good shape. How old is the orchard, do you know?”

“Around 250 years, I think, in one form or another. It’s mentioned in the town records as early as 1760,” Meg said proudly. “The house was built by the Warren family, before the Revolution. In fact, Seth told me once that the intersection there used to be known as Warren’s Grove, until the nineteenth century. I’m related to the Warrens somehow—my mother could explain how, but I’ve never been interested in that kind of thing until recently. Anyway, as you probably know, Christopher’s been overseeing it for years.”

“Sure,” Bree nodded. “Orchards were a big part of life in the colonies. Back in the early days, every house had apples. Professor Ramsdell knows what he’s doing. You know anything about what’s been done with your apple crop?”

“Not really. I think the people here before—renters—just sold the whole crop to whoever asked first. A local co-op? Something like that.”

Bree nodded. “Yeah, I know some of those folks.” She hesitated a moment before asking, “Can I do anything to help with dinner?”

“I hate to ask you to peel potatoes, but that’s what comes next with the stew.”

“No, please, I’d rather be keeping busy. I’m . . . not real good with just talking.”

Meg smiled. Maybe Bree
was
shy. “Great. Here.” Meg handed her a bag of supermarket potatoes and a peeler. “Go for it.”

Bree took the peeler and wielded it as if she knew what to do with it, digging into the potatoes with enthusiasm. “Garbage disposal or septic?” she asked as the pile of peels mounted.

“Septic.” Meg grimaced. “I didn’t think college kids knew much about cooking. You said you lived in a dorm? Do they allow you to cook there?”

Bree shook her head, her eyes still on her task, her hands moving efficiently. “No, but I’ve been cooking for a long time. My auntie—I lived with her when I was growing up—she worked full-time, so I just started fixing dinner for her, had it ready when she came home.”

“That’s a nice thing to do. It never hurts to know how to cook.” Meg wondered if it was too soon to ask Bree personal questions, and searched for something neutral. “Where did you grow up?”

“Around here. Mostly Chicopee.” Bree gave Meg a sideways glance. “Me, I was born here, grew up here. I’m American. But my parents are Jamaican.”

“Oh. So your aunt raised you?” Meg wasn’t sure whether this was a sensitive subject, and she wanted to avoid any land mines. On the other hand, if they were going to work together, it was bound to come up sometime.

“She did, mostly. My parents, they went back and forth.” Bree kept peeling, quickening her pace. “You don’t come from around here, do you?” When Meg shook her head, Bree continued. “Most of the pickers around here, they come from Jamaica. Not migrants, though. Seasonals. They come every year, the same people, to the same orchards. It’s a skilled job, you know—you have to handle apples carefully. They get bruised, they lose value real fast.”

“I assume Christopher has had some regular process for hiring pickers?”

“Sure. But if you’re running this place as a business, you should take it over.”

Just what she needed—another problem to investigate and deal with. But she’d asked for it, so she had to deal with it. “You’ll help me out, won’t you?”

Bree bristled. “Just because my folks are Jamaican doesn’t mean I know how to deal with pickers.”

Had she put her foot in it again? Meg wondered. “It’s not a personal thing. If you’re the orchard manager, you have to deal with the business side, right? Hiring? Selling the crop?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Bree hesitated before adding, “I guess I’m kind of sensitive about it all, maybe too much. I mean, I’ve been to Jamaica all of twice in my life, to visit my grandparents. But the pickers—I don’t know how they’ll treat me, you know? I’m one of them but I’m not, kind of. And I’m a woman, which doesn’t make it any easier.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to work it out together. Look, Bree, I hired you because Christopher said you were one of the most accomplished and hardworking students he’s ever had.”

“Not just because I come cheap?” Bree kept her eyes on the potatoes she was peeling.

“That’s part of it. But I need your help to make this work, and I’m happy to give you a chance. I know it’s going to be hard, for both of us. And if you see me heading off in the wrong direction, give me a kick. You think you can handle that?”

Bree smiled reluctantly. “I think so.”

“Then we’re good.” Meg was surprised to see that Bree had finished peeling the mound of potatoes. If nothing else, she was good at multitasking. “Can you cut those up so I can add them to the stew?”

“Sure.” Bree turned her attention to quartering the potatoes, her hands moving competently.

With a start Meg realized she hadn’t mentioned the dead man to Bree, even though they had walked right by the springhouse. Should she mention it now? No, she decided. She wanted one night to get to know Bree, to make her feel comfortable here, before throwing something like that at her. Meg had no idea how Bree would react, and she wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. And since Bree hadn’t brought it up, maybe she didn’t know—and Meg didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

Seth arrived at the back door after dark. Meg let him in, and he inhaled appreciatively. “Sorry I’m so late—I got hung up at a job. Old pipes. That smells great! Stew?”

“Hang up your coat. Yes, it’s all-American beef stew.”

Seth dutifully hung up his coat. “That old stove doesn’t look very dependable. I can get you a good deal on a new one, you know,” he began.

Meg held up a hand to stop him. “I’m sure you can, but there are a lot of things on the shopping list ahead of the stove. I’ll manage, as long as the thing doesn’t blow up on me. Let me introduce you to my orchard manager.”

Bree was hovering in the background, nervously drying her already-dry hands on a kitchen towel. At Meg’s urging, she stepped forward and extended a hand. “Bree Stewart.”

Seth shook her hand and smiled. “Seth Chapin. I live over the hill, up that way, and I’m going to be working out of Meg’s barn. Good to meet you. You’ve got a big job ahead of you.”

“I know.”

When Bree didn’t volunteer any additional comments, Seth prompted her. “You’ll be moving in here?”

Bree nodded. “After classes are done.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re still in school. But you’ll be spending time here, right? Spraying, stuff like that?”

“Of course.”

When Bree fell silent yet again, Seth apparently gave up trying to elicit conversation and turned back to Meg. “Did you get a chance to tell Bree about the barn plans?”

Meg laughed. “Not exactly. Why don’t we sit down and eat, and you can describe it all again, so Bree can hear it, too.”

“Deal. I’m a pushover, aren’t I? Feed me and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

They had nearly finished the meal, and Seth had warmed to his subject, sketching on yet another napkin more ambitious plans for the barn. He had finally succeeded in engaging Bree, who was offering suggestions and pointing out details on the sketch.

Bree leaned back in her chair. “Okay, so if you’re going to hold your apples for a couple of months, let them ripen, you need to control both temperature and the mix of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the storage area. And you’ve got to bring your apples down to the right temperature fast, like within twenty-four hours.”

“So I’m going to have to deal with refrigeration and atmospheric control?”

“Exactly.” Bree nodded vigorously. She went on to expound on the virtues of air-cooled versus mechanical refrigeration, types of refrigerants, compressors, condensers, and expansion coils, and Seth followed eagerly, making an occasional note on his napkin.

The phone rang, and Meg rose to answer; they didn’t even notice. When she picked up the receiver, she was surprised to hear Art’s voice. “Meg, I’ve got the first round of results from the ME’s office.”

“All right,” Meg said cautiously. “Am I not supposed to talk about it?”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, and don’t spread it around, okay?”

“Okay. But Seth’s here, and my orchard manager.”

“Well, keep it to yourselves, but it looks like Miller was poisoned.”

“With what?” Meg had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“The full tox screen won’t be back for a week or two, so I can’t say. But the ME said everything else looked normal—no heart attack, no stroke, no wounds. They did a preliminary analysis and didn’t find any alcohol in his system, or any of the standard drugs. The more specialized tests take longer, and there are still a lot of possibilities.”

The bad feeling worsened. “No way of knowing whether he took the stuff himself, right?”

“Sorry, no,” Art replied. “But nothing to suggest he was restrained—no bruises or anything.”

Meg sighed. “Thanks for letting me know, Art. And keep me up-to-date, will you?”

“I’ll do that. Say hi to Seth.” Art hung up, leaving Meg bewildered. She wondered again about Bree’s apparent ignorance of the event: she would have guessed that whatever gossip grapevine existed at UMass would have been quick to spread the word. But it was a large campus with thousands of people. Meg had avoided checking the morning paper to see what, if anything, had been reported, and in any case, Bree might not have read the paper, or watched the television news. She walked slowly back to the table and sat down.

Seth picked up her unease. “What?”

“That was Art.” She caught Seth’s eye, then she turned to Bree: she was going to have to tell her. “Bree, did you hear about the body that was found yesterday?”

Bree looked blank. “No. Why do you ask?”

Meg sighed. “Because the body was found here on my property. In the orchard, in fact. In the springhouse.” Meg watched Bree anxiously. Would she refuse to work at a place where a body had been found? “Is that going to be a problem?”

Bree considered briefly, then said, “Did you kill the guy?”

“No!” Meg realized Bree was pulling her leg. “I didn’t even know him. He was apparently a UMass grad student named Jason Miller.”