A Killer Crop (4 page)

“I’ve checked out of the hotel, if that’s what you’re asking. But if I’m not welcome ...”

“Mother, of course you’re welcome to stay. But you’ll have to fend for yourself for today. We can talk later.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I understand. Would you like me to prepare dinner?”

“That would be nice. But make plenty—I don’t know what Bree’s plans are. Do you need me to tell you where the market is? Because I don’t think I have much in the fridge.”

“Darling, I have managed quite well since before you were born. I’m sure I can find whatever I need.”

“Fine. See you later.” Meg left before she managed to say something she would regret. Although, she told herself as she marched up the hill toward the orchard, none of her words had been aimed to hurt; she had simply been stating facts. She was incredibly busy, and she was needed in the orchard. It was her business now, and she couldn’t just lay it aside to humor her visitor. Elizabeth was just going to have to accept that.

But where did the dead man fit?

The sun was high overhead, and Meg was taking a long drink from a water bottle after depositing her most recent load of apples into the bin when she saw Seth heading toward her, weaving his way through the orchard rows. She welcomed a few moments of rest, although none of the other pickers, including Bree, had slowed their pace. Meg wasn’t in the kind of shape to keep up with them—yet—but she was now developing arm muscles that she had never seen before. She was still trying to find the rhythm of it. The experienced Jamaican pickers she had hired had been working with apples, and with each other, for years and they handled things quickly and efficiently. She, on the other hand, had to keep asking what to do, but so far she hadn’t messed up too badly. At least she was careful with the apples: bruises diminished their value.

“Is the coast clear?” Seth called out when he was in earshot.

“What do you mean? Is my mother lurking behind a tree? I don’t think so. Why, did she scare you last night?”

He smiled. “No, but I wanted to give the two of you a chance to talk before I barged in.” Seth paused in the shade of a tree. “What did you do with her?”

“I left her parked in the kitchen, and told her I had to get to work.”

He studied her expression. “Trouble?”

Meg looked around briefly, then led him over a couple of rows, out of hearing of the rest of the crew. “Last night I just pointed her toward the guest room and went to bed. I figured I’d have time to find out what she was up to this morning, but we were interrupted by Detective Marcus.”

“What? What did he want from you?”

“Not from me—from my mother. Turns out he found her phone number in the cell phone of a dead man.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Who was it?”

“One Daniel Weston. I understand he was a professor at Amherst College, and as it turns out, he was an old college buddy of my parents. My mother snuck up here this weekend to see him.”

“What do you mean, ‘to see him’?”

Meg sighed. “I really don’t know. Before you ask, my father is apparently off yachting with some friends and he’s not answering his cell phone. From what I gather, he doesn’t know anything at all about this rendezvous.”

“Wow,” Seth said.

“Yeah, wow. I felt like an idiot admitting to Marcus that my mother hadn’t even let me know she was in the area.”
Instead she had slipped into town and somehow gotten herself involved in . . . something
.

“Do you really think she was up here for ...” Seth stopped, at a loss for words.

Meg had to smile at his confusion. “A rendezvous with an old flame? I don’t know, and I haven’t had time to really talk with her—not that we ever shared anything like this. But if I had to guess, something odd was going on. I think she felt pretty stupid, too—getting caught sneaking around like a teenager.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Hardly. I led a blameless life in my younger years. I spent most of my time studying. You?”

“For me it was sports. So what are you going to do now?”

“Pick apples.” Meg laughed shortly. “You mean about my mother? Have a heart-to-heart talk, I guess. Welcome to my world, Mom: here’s your first body. I have to admit that I have real trouble imagining her mixed up in something nasty, but I’d rather find out before Marcus does.”

“What’s he calling this?”

“I’d guess a suspicious death. The immediate cause of death was apparently a heart attack, but Weston was found someplace that makes no sense. Where my mother fits in all this, I have no idea.”

“You want me to stop by later?” He cocked one eyebrow at her.

Meg considered Seth’s offer, looking at him in the dappled light that filtered through the trees. She wasn’t used to having someone around to rely on, and it was sweet of him to want to help. But much as she wanted his support, Meg had to believe that her mother would be more forthcoming without an audience. “Thanks for offering, but I think I’d better handle this on my own for now. I think I should talk to my mother about Daniel Weston before I make things any more complicated. Are you okay with that?”

“I am a very patient man. Let me know if you need me for anything.” He turned and headed for his office by the barn.

“Yo, Meg—quit lollygagging! We’ve got to finish up this row today,” Bree called out.

“Yes, boss!” Meg yelled back, and went up the hill. As she settled the straps of her picker’s bag on her shoulders once again and trudged back to the line of McIntoshes, she wondered what it was her mother wasn’t telling her. The timing was lousy: if she hadn’t wanted her mother as a guest, she certainly didn’t want her here as a murder suspect. No, that was ridiculous. There was no way on earth her mother could have been party to a murder. Too violent, too messy, too . . . unseemly. Murders did not attach themselves to Nice People, and Elizabeth definitely considered herself—and by extension, her husband and her only child—in that category. It was just a peculiar coincidence. Wasn’t it?

 

 

It was after five when Meg and Bree came back down the hill from the orchard. They’d shared a quick lunch in the orchard with the other workers, and Meg hadn’t seen any sign of her mother, not that she’d paid a lot of attention, and the house was out of sight from much of the orchard. Meg was exhausted, and the thought of not having to cook dinner was appealing—although the other issues she and her mother would have to get into were less so. One step at a time. “Listen, Bree,” Meg began.

“You can have the shower first,” Bree said.

“Thanks, but it’s not about that. Mother said she’d make dinner, and you should join us, but she and I have got to talk about Marcus and this death, so do you mind clearing out afterward? My mother’s a pretty private person, so I don’t think she’ll say much with you around. Sorry.”

“I hear you. Sure, no problem. I can update our records, run payroll—I’ve got my laptop. So you don’t have any idea what’s going on?”

“Not at all.”

They reached the house, and Meg led the way to the back door. When she pulled it open, she found her mother standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing an apron Meg didn’t remember she had. “Hello, darling,” Elizabeth greeted her. “Dinner will be ready shortly. Hello, Bree, is it? You’re staying, too, right? I made plenty.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bree said, then ducked up the back stairs to her room.

“I’m going to grab a shower,” Meg told her mother, “and then I think Bree will after, so we’ll be back down in a few minutes.”

“That’s fine, dear. It’s not like I made a soufflé.”

Meg made her way around to the front stairs, and checked the mailbox outside the front door. Upstairs in her bedroom, she stripped off her dusty work clothes—noting that the hamper was overflowing again and that if she didn’t do laundry tonight she’d have to recycle something for picking tomorrow—grabbed a towel, and headed for the shower. She kept it brief, mindful of Bree waiting and the limited supply of hot water, then dressed quickly in jeans and a clean T-shirt, and went back down to the kitchen. In the interval her mother had set the dining room table. “We usually just eat in the kitchen, Mother,” Meg said when she walked in.

“I thought we should officially celebrate my visit. And it’s such a lovely room, isn’t it? That woodwork is amazing—that wainscoting is made up of single boards, isn’t it?”

Meg sat down at the table. “Yes, it is—probably original to the house, around 1760. And the trees it’s built from most likely came from across the meadow there. What are we eating?”

“You weren’t joking that you didn’t have much in the house to eat, so I found the market and replenished your bare larder. It’s a chicken-and-rice casserole.”

“Sounds good. So, how long do you think you’re planning to stay?” Meg realized that Marcus had more or less told Elizabeth to keep herself available.

“For a few days, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry I didn’t consult with you before—that was rude of me. It hadn’t occurred to me how busy you might be right now.”

That was as close to an apology as she was going to get, Meg realized. It also omitted any mention of Daniel Weston and the real purpose of her mother’s trip. “If you’d asked me a few weeks ago, even
I
wouldn’t have realized how busy I would be.”

“But, darling, aren’t you management? Can’t you hire people to do the heavy work for you?”

Meg sighed. “This is kind of a shoestring operation right now. Yes, I’ve hired pickers, but I need to know about all aspects of this business. Besides, I’m enjoying the work.”

“You look a little tired. And please take care of your skin, out in the sun all day.”

“Yes, Mother.” Meg smiled: at least her mother hadn’t brought up her haircut, or lack of. Yet.

Meg had heard the water stop running, and Bree came down the stairs soon after, her wet hair slicked back. “Smells great.”

“You must be hungry, working all day like that,” Elizabeth welcomed her. “Meg tells me you’re the orchard manager? What does that mean?”

That question, and others about the orchard, carried them through dinner. At her mother’s urging, Meg accepted a glass of wine—but only one, since she wanted to keep her head clear for the conversation she knew was coming. Bree ate quickly, then excused herself, and Meg found herself alone with her mother at the dining room table, in the gathering darkness. Elizabeth had found some candles somewhere, which now provided the only light in the room. Meg fought drowsiness—the exertions of the day, and the food and the wine, were catching up to her. She knew she had better speak up before she fell asleep where she sat.

“Okay, Mother, what’s really going on?”

Elizabeth toyed with her fork, turning it over and over in her hands. “I suppose I could pretend that I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, that won’t fly. There was a detective here this morning, and I happen to know he’s good at what he does. He tracked you down, didn’t he? And if there’s anything else to find out, he will. What’s the story with Daniel Weston?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Maybe we should sit in more comfortable chairs. And I’d like another glass of wine. You?”

Meg shook her head. When her mother stood up, Meg did, too, and they carried their dishes into the kitchen.

“Oh, dear—perhaps I should clean up first,” Elizabeth said.

Meg took the plates out of Elizabeth’s hands and set them on the counter. “No, Mother. You’re stalling. Get your wine and we can sit in the parlor. I really haven’t had a chance to talk to you since you arrived.”

“That sounds lovely, dear,” Elizabeth replied.

Meg snagged the half-empty bottle of wine and refilled her mother’s glass, then led the way into the front parlor. On the east side of the house, it remained cool during the day, but Meg spent little time there, especially now during the harvest. The September dusk didn’t provide much light, so Meg turned on a lamp. She was acutely aware of the shabby furniture—inherited from past tenants and not yet replaced—and the flaking paint and sooty fireplace. The old clock hanging over the mantelpiece—the one piece she had acquired herself—ticked steadily, but it wasn’t enough to make the room even come close to meeting her mother’s standards.

They sat. Lolly wandered in, looked cautiously at Elizabeth, then jumped into Meg’s lap and curled into a ball. Elizabeth settled herself gingerly in an overstuffed armchair and looked around. “This is a charming space—so much potential. Have you thought about what you want to do with it? You know, your grandmother’s wing chair would look lovely in here. Does the fireplace work?”

Another diversion. “Not without a good cleaning, which probably hasn’t been done in a century. Mother, look, I’m happy to have you here, even if I’m run off my feet with the harvest. I wish I could spend time planning color schemes for the house, or shopping, or eating lunches with you, but this isn’t the best time. Right now I’d like you to explain what’s going on.”