A Killer Crop (2 page)

Meg sighed. Seth had seen them into the house and disappeared discreetly, and Meg’s mother hadn’t even asked who he was. But for that matter, neither one of them had asked many questions. It had been late, and both Meg and Elizabeth were tired. Luckily Bree Stewart, Meg’s housemate, was off spending the night with her boyfriend, Michael, so Meg didn’t need to worry about middle-of-the-night introductions. Meg had led her mother upstairs to the bedroom opposite hers in the front of the house, turning on lights as she went, and then scrounged up her one pair of spare sheets for the bed. She had pointed her mother toward the lone bathroom and retreated to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly. Morning would be time enough for questions—and some answers.

Now it was morning, and Elizabeth Corey was no more forthcoming than she had been the night before. Her mother had never “just dropped in” in her life, so why had she made an exception now? There had to be a story here.

“What would you like for breakfast?” Meg tried to remember what she had on hand. Ever since the apple harvest had begun a week earlier, she’d had little time for even basic things like grocery shopping. She barely got her laundry done, usually close to midnight, and then only because she needed clean jeans to wear in the orchard. She hadn’t had her hair cut in weeks—or was it months?

“Oh, a little orange juice, if you can manage it. Maybe an English muffin?”

Meg opened her refrigerator and checked. No orange juice. “How about cider? It’s fresh—I think it was pressed last week.” The first of the season, made from some of the apples that had been damaged in a recent hailstorm nearby—though not in Granford, thank goodness. Good, there was a package of muffins hiding in the back corner, along with the remains of her last stick of butter.

“That’s fine, dear,” Elizabeth replied. “At least you have decent coffee. You would not believe the swill that some places serve these days. So, you seem to have settled in nicely. How long has it been now?”

“Close to nine months, Mother. I arrived in January. You might have warned me that winter is a lousy time of year around here.”

“I don’t think I ever saw this place in winter. I’m not sure how many times I saw it at all. There was that one trip we made together—remember that, dear?”

“What I remember is two old ladies, and that I was bored to death. Didn’t you tell me then that you’d visited here as a child yourself?”

Elizabeth nodded. “I did, several times.” A brief smile flashed across her face. “To tell the truth, I think Lula and Nettie seemed ancient to me even then. That old New England blood, you know. Which we share, you and I.”

“You didn’t mention the orchard.”

“I didn’t remember it. I don’t suppose I was ever here at the right time of year. You’re managing it now?”

“I’m trying, with a lot of help. Speaking of which, Bree should be back any minute. That’s Brionna Stewart, my orchard manager. She lives here, too.”

“Oh, really?” Elizabeth raised one eyebrow.

“I can’t pay her much, so I threw in a place to stay. And we kind of share cooking.”

Meg’s cat, Lolly, chose that moment to stroll in. She looked at her still-empty food dish on the floor, then wandered over to Elizabeth’s feet to sniff her shoes. Meg watched with inward amusement as Elizabeth tucked her feet under her chair.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” she said. “And are those your goats in that field over there?”

Meg sat down. “Yes, they are. Dorcas and Isabel. They were a gift, sort of.”

“Goats!” Her mother shook her head.

Meg ignored her and went on, “Lolly here kind of adopted me a couple of months ago. I gather she had been abandoned by her previous owners and made her way to my house. Why didn’t we ever have pets when I was growing up?”

“Your father didn’t like animals.”

“Oh, right.” Meg got up as two muffin halves popped up from the toaster on the counter. “I thought you told me it was allergies.” Whose? Her mother’s? Her father’s? “Where is Daddy, by the way?”

Elizabeth sat up straighter in her chair. “Your father went sailing. Or boating—I’m not sure what the correct term is. Mainly he’s indulging in a midlife fantasy. He and some of his cronies are sailing down the Intracoastal Waterway—one of them has a yacht or something that he wanted to take to Florida. They left from New Jersey last Thursday.”

Meg put the muffin on a plate and set it in front of her mother, then pushed the butter toward her, along with a butter knife. “And you weren’t invited?”

“Of course not. This is just an excuse for them to drink too much and skip bathing. Why is it men never seem to outgrow the need for personal disorder?”

Meg refused to take up that challenge. “So you decided to come up here instead. If you’d let me know sooner, we could have planned some things to do.” Even as she said it, though, Meg wondered if her mother had known that she’d probably have said no to a visit. Meg
would
have said no: this was her first apple harvest, possibly the busiest time of her orchard year, and no way did she have any time to take off and have ladies’ lunches with her mother, or go shopping or leaf-peeping. If her mother had taken a minute to think, she should have realized that. “So you drove up last night?”

“No, I actually came up a couple of days ago.” Meg’s mother again evaded her eyes.

Something was not ringing true. Elizabeth had been in the neighborhood for a couple of days without getting in touch with her daughter? Meg was about to ask why when Bree burst into the kitchen through the back door. “Hi, Meg. We’ve got to . . . Oh, sorry—I didn’t know you had company.”

“Bree, this is my mother, Elizabeth Corey. She arrived last night, and Seth and I found her here after we came back after dinner. She was just about to tell me what she’s doing here.”

Bree extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Corey. Meg didn’t tell me you were planning to visit.”

“That’s because I didn’t know,” Meg said tartly. “Bree, you were about to say something?”

“Oh, yeah, right. Raynard says the McIntoshes are ready for picking, and I agree. We may have to juggle some of the boxes in the holding chamber, because the Macs hold better and longer than what you’ve got in there now. And isn’t it time to make another delivery to the markets?”

Meg sighed. “Yes, it is. I know, don’t lecture me—I got kind of caught up in the restaurant opening this past week. What did you think of it, by the way?”

Bree slid an English muffin into the toaster and helped herself to a mug of coffee. “I thought it went great. The food was terrific, and everybody looked like they were having a good time. Or maybe better than that—they looked like they felt comfortable, at home with the place. Betcha there wasn’t much food left over.”

“Good. Michael enjoyed it, too?” When Bree nodded, Meg went on, “And I know Nicky and Brian were pleased. It’s a great start, and I hope they can build on it. Doing it right once is one thing, but doing it every night is something else.”

Bree’s muffin popped up and she buttered it and put it on a plate. “I know, and I think they know. Hey, I’m going to grab a quick shower, and then we should head up to the orchard. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Corey.” Bree clattered up the back stairs that led from the rear of the kitchen to her room above.

“So that’s your orchard manager? She seems so young.” Elizabeth tore small pieces from the muffin on her plate.

“She’s smart, hardworking, and knows what she’s doing. More than I do, at least as far as apples are concerned. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Elizabeth seemed to ignore Meg’s comments. “You said there’s only one bathroom?”

“Yes. I’d love to add another one in a year or two, once I get the hang of this orchard thing and make some money.”

“Are you short of money? I thought your former employer was generous when they released you.”

“You mean when they booted me out? Yes, they were, by most industry standards. But I’ve had a lot of expenses getting started here, both with the house and with the facilities and equipment for the orchard. I have to watch my expenses, and a second bathroom is pretty far down the list at the moment. Besides, Bree and I manage just fine.”

“Still, a second bath would greatly enhance the resale value.”

Meg counted to ten silently. “Mother, I’m not planning to sell anytime soon, at least until I’ve seen if I can handle the orchard as a business. I told you that.”

“Yes, you did, but I had hoped you would change your mind. Meg, you aren’t cut out to be a farmer! And all those years of education and experience . . . I’m sure you can find something more suitable, if you look.”

“Mother, this is not exactly a good time to look for a job, certainly not in the financial sector. Besides, I happen to like what I’m doing. I’m learning a lot. It’s an honest profession with a long history. I like this place, and the people around here are great. What more should I want?”

“A husband? Or do they call them life partners these days?”

Why was it her mother always managed to push all her buttons? In the space of the last few minutes, Elizabeth had managed to disparage Meg’s home, her current profession, and her lack of romantic relationship.

“You met Seth last night,” she began.

“Oh, that man who brought you home?”

“Yes. He’s a neighbor, and he lives over the hill. He’s using space in my outbuildings for his renovation business.”

“He’s in construction?” Elizabeth’s eyebrow inched up a fraction.

“Mother, you don’t have to say it like that. Actually, he was a plumber when I met him, but he’s wanted to branch out into restoring the old homes around here for a long time, and I offered him the use of my building for his business when his was demolished for the local shopping center.” She thought she’d save the news that he had also attended Amherst College, one of the most prestigious schools in the country—and that he loved what he did.
Everything
he did, which included serving as a town selectman and unofficial supreme facilitator for just about anything that needed to be done in Granford.

“Ah,” Elizabeth said.

Any further comment was forestalled by a knock at the front door—which was odd, because most people Meg knew came around to the kitchen door. She checked her watch: barely eight o’clock. Who would be coming by this early? “I’ll get that,” she tossed over her shoulder as she headed for the front of the house.

She checked the peephole of her front door and was astounded to find Detective William Marcus of the state police standing on her doorstep. She opened the door quickly. “Good morning, Bill ...” At the expression on his face, she surmised that the camaraderie of the prior evening, when they had shared a table at the restaurant opening, had evaporated. “Detective Marcus. What brings you here so early? Everything okay over at the restaurant?” Nicky and Brian had had enough trouble getting their new business under way, and she didn’t want to see them suffer any setbacks now.

“Meg.” He nodded once in reply. “Is your mother’s name Elizabeth Corey? Mrs. Phillip Corey?”

“Yes,” Meg said, mystified. “Why do you ask?”

“I need to talk to her on a matter of official business. Would you happen to know how to reach her? There’s no response on her cell phone.”

“As a matter of fact, she’s sitting at my kitchen table at the moment. What’s this all about?”

Detective Marcus relaxed almost imperceptibly. “I need to speak with her. Her phone number was the last one dialed by a dead man.”

For a moment Meg wondered if she’d heard Detective Marcus correctly. The “dead” part came through loud and clear. But where did her mother fit in? Why would anyone local have her mother’s phone number? Obviously, the simplest way to find out would be to ask her.

“Come this way,” she told Marcus, who followed her toward the back of the house. When they entered the kitchen, Elizabeth looked up, mildly curious. “Mother,” Meg began, “this is Detective William Marcus of the state police, from Northampton. He’s asked to talk to you.”

Meg watched her mother’s face carefully, but saw no more than slight confusion and gracious composure. “I can’t imagine why you would want to talk to me, but I’ll be perfectly happy to answer any of your questions. Please, sit down.” Elizabeth waved a hospitable hand toward an empty chair. “Meg, perhaps you could pour some more coffee?”

Meg was silently amused at her mother’s automatic assumption of the role of hostess. She looked at Marcus, who nodded slightly. She took the pot, filled a new mug for him, then refilled hers and her mother’s before sitting down.

“What would you like to know—Detective Marcus, is it?” Elizabeth asked.

Marcus pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “You’re Mrs. Elizabeth Corey, correct?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth acknowledged.

“And you and your husband, Phillip, live in Montclair, New Jersey?”

“That’s correct.”