One Bad Apple (22 page)

“Is he hot?”

“Hot? I hadn’t thought about it. He’s nice, he’s under ninety, and at least he shows up when he says he will. Actually, he’s a neighbor—the next property over. And an elected official of the town. And his land is involved somehow in the development project.”

“Huh. It really is a small town, isn’t it? He sounds like a keeper—there can’t be that many fish in your little pond there. Although if this were a novel, he’d be a likely suspect. You know, an evil heart under that squeaky-clean exterior.”

“No, he’s a good guy, and he bailed me out when the plumbing went wonky. Old systems tend to do that, I’ve learned. The hard way.”

“There are things in this universe that I’d rather not know, and that is one of them.” Lauren held another garbled conversation with someone at the other end. When she spoke again, she said, “Sorry, I have to rush—this place is a zoo. But I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks. I’d really like to get this cleared up before I become known in town as ‘the lady with the body.’”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You always land on your feet, right? Gotta go—sorry I don’t have more time to chat. I’ll e-mail you with whatever I find, I promise! And maybe call you over the weekend so you can tell me all about the hot plumber.” She hung up without a good-bye.

Still, Meg felt encouraged. Lauren was plugged in to the banking network and had an ear for juicy gossip, which she used discreetly and judiciously. If there was dirt on Chandler—or his enemies—Lauren would ferret it out. Maybe it was a long shot, but Meg didn’t want to leave any stone unturned. Plus it felt a lot better to be doing something positive, rather than sitting in her drafty house waiting to be arrested.

Meg found that her brief conversation with Lauren had left her both energized and confused. Had she sounded like Lauren, before she had lost her job? Always harried? She wandered into her parlor. Minus the offensive wallpaper, the walls looked kind of ragged. They were true plaster, surprisingly strong, given their age. And they had never been painted, which amazed her. What was she going to do with them? Home decor was definitely not her strong suit. Maybe she should send some photos to her mother and ask for suggestions. But something simple, definitely—she liked the room clean and bare. It reminded her of an Andrew Wyeth interior.

Looking out through the front window she noticed the UMass van pass by, heading toward the orchard. It might be a good idea to talk to Christopher, find out what he had heard—and what he would do if the orchard fell to the bulldozers. Suddenly invigorated, Meg pulled on her boots and coat and left the house, walking briskly up the hill. Outside, she realized that the sky was leaden and there was a damp feeling in the air. Snow? She hadn’t been through a snowstorm here, major or minor, and she did a quick mental check of her supplies. Then she laughed—the Boston TV channels had always reported the stampede to grocery stores to stock up on bread, milk, and candles whenever a storm loomed. Half the time the storm dumped two inches of slush and everyone looked foolish. But still, she didn’t know enough about her current home to know how dependable the power was. Or if she had enough flashlights or candles, or even oil lamps. Or if her furnace required electricity, and what she would do if her heat went out.

She had reached the top of the hill without even noticing— and without panting, which was a pleasant change. She spied Christopher alone in the middle of the orchard, staring intently at a tree. She headed toward him.

“Hey, Christopher. I thought I saw you drive by. What are you looking at?”

“Ah, Meg, how nice to see you—and you’re positively rosy cheeked! We missed you Friday. I had the class here practicing their pruning, and I wanted to make sure they had done it right, and see what more needs to be done.”

Meg smiled. “Do you grade them on pruning?”

“Not exactly, but I want to be sure they understand what they’re doing. This year’s group is excellent. Smart, and quick to learn.”

Meg shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. “Tell me, why do students go into agricultural pursuits these days? Particularly orchards? I thought the big commercial interests had taken over everything.”

“An excellent question, my dear. And I think I’d have to give you two answers. The first would be that, as you’ve noticed, farming has become very much a corporate pursuit. But there is still need for people to run the farms, whatever their scale. Today’s students focus much more on the science of it—crop genetics, for example. The chemistry of pesticides. Marketing and advertising, for heaven’s sake!”

“You don’t approve?” Meg asked.

Christopher’s smile was wry. “Yes and no. The world will always need to eat, and the more efficiently we produce food, the better off we’ll all be. I acknowledge the need for utilizing all available tools, particularly science, to make that happen. And these students will need jobs, and it’s up to me to prepare them for the reality of modern agriculture.”

“But?” Meg prompted.

Christopher shook his head. “Maybe I’m a throwback. But it seems to me that by treating this merely as a business, they’re missing something. They have no sense of the honorable tradition of working with the soil, bringing forth a harvest. Of course it’s hard, dirty work. And unpredictable—I know all too well how easy it is for a single storm, or an unexpected infestation or infection, to wipe out an entire crop, and with it, a year’s work. And most smaller farmers these days operate on a very thin margin, so one such event can doom the farm, if they can’t make that year’s loan payments.”

“And what was your second answer?” Meg said gently.

“That there are still a few romantics who want to do something basic, simple, hands-on. A generation ago they might have been called hippies, living on communes and trying to believe that they were somehow in harmony with the earth. And many of them failed miserably because they had no idea what they were doing in practical terms. So I try to give my students a balanced view—somehow blend the romance and the science. And the math and the economics. But it’s not easy.” He sighed.

Meg felt guilty as she framed her next question, but she had to know. “Christopher,” she began carefully, “what will you do if the developers take this land, this orchard?”

Christopher dragged his eyes away from the apple trees. “Do you mean the university or me personally?”

Meg shrugged. “Both. Either. Does the university have other orchard sites?”

“Sad to say, no. Once they had an orchard on campus—which is now long buried under student housing, alas. Would they acquire a new study site? Unlikely. We were lucky to come upon this one, and to negotiate an ongoing agreement to use it. As you can guess, it takes time to develop an orchard. It doesn’t happen overnight. Would the university be willing to invest in both the land and the staffing to re-create this? I can’t say for certain, but I would doubt it. Perhaps they would just cede the field to the researchers at Cornell—although I don’t think it’s wise to put all the research eggs in one basket, if I may muddle my metaphors.”

“And you?” Meg pressed.

“Ah, my dear, that is the question. I’ve nurtured this orchard for decades now—brought it back from years of neglect. I know it well, each and every tree. I don’t know if I have it in me to start over, even if the university would offer that. I’m not far from retirement. Oh, I’m in good health—and in sound mind, I hope— but I am perhaps not the best choice to oversee a new beginning. And I fear the university nabobs might agree with that assessment.”

“Could they force you to retire? Or put you out to pasture, so to speak—teaching introductory courses or something?”

“I see you know a bit about the politics of educational institutions. To be honest, I don’t know what they’d do, were this orchard to be lost. They haven’t paid much attention to the situation here—being, I am persuaded, far more interested in fostering a more active football program. Which, I will admit, would be more lucrative than this little project. But I can guess that matters are coming to a head rather rapidly.”

“I’m afraid so,” Meg answered. “You told me you had met Chandler Hale?”

Christopher nodded. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I seem to remember some conversation about retaining a few apple trees around the parking lot as decoration. He appeared surprised when I told him that they would not flourish under such conditions.”

Meg could picture Chandler’s cavalier response, the careless arrogance of his tone. Oh, certainly, he would keep some of the trees—as window dressing. Until they were killed by the exhaust fumes from the parking lot.

And Meg could also see that Christopher had every right to be angry at such an attitude. He had put years of his life into this orchard, and Meg could tell from the way he looked at it that he loved it. Take it away and he would quite possibly lose his job, as well as the object of his affections.

Was that enough motive to kill?

Meg shivered, not just from the cold, and wrapped her arms around herself. Time to change the subject. “Is the pruning done?”

“Nearly. We were out all day Friday. We keep the trees well cut back, so there is only some fine-tuning to be done.”

“So, if the pruning is done, what’s next?”

“These will be dormant until sometime in March. The next stage is silver-tip, followed by green-tip, which would bring you up to the first of May. Come April, we’ll need to begin our spraying program, for diseases like apple scab, crown rot, and fire blight, and insects, starting with mites and aphids.”

“You certainly have a full schedule,” Meg said, once more appalled at how little she knew. How did any poor apple survive to maturity, with so many threats?

“That we do, my dear.” Christopher cast a practiced eye at the sky. “It looks as though we’ll have some snow. I don’t suppose I’ll get much else done today.”

“Can I offer you a cup of tea or something?”

“Ah, how kind, but I think I had better get back to the university. Perhaps another time. Oh, and could you let me know the outcome when the town votes on the project? I don’t want to be caught by surprise.”

“You aren’t going to be there?”

“I think not. You haven’t attended one of these events, have you?”

Meg shook her head. “No. Boston does things differently.”

“I am not a Granford resident, and while in theory I might be permitted to attend, I could not speak, nor could I vote on the matter, regardless of my interest. So I would prefer not to watch the spectacle.”

“I understand. And of course I’ll let you know. It was nice to see you again, Christopher.”

Meg turned away and hurried back down the hill, glad to be moving again. Unfortunately she couldn’t outrun her own thoughts. Christopher as killer? Laughable. He was a sweet man, dedicated to his profession—not a murderer. Or so she thought. But she kept coming back to the inescapable fact: Chandler was dead, and somebody had killed him. Just because everyone she met around here was kind and friendly didn’t exempt them all from suspicion.

As she struggled to open her door, she could hear the phone ringing inside. She grabbed it up on the sixth ring. “Hello?” she gasped, out of breath.

“Hey, babe!” Lauren’s cheerful voice came. “Did I interrupt you in the middle of something interesting?”

Meg struggled for a moment to figure out what she meant and then suppressed a laugh. Trust Lauren to put a lascivious spin on it. “No, I was up in the orchard and came back in a hurry. What’s up?” As she held the phone to her ear, Meg peeled off her coat and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Walking the back forty, eh? Don’t you sound like a country girl. Anyway, I did some nosing around for you, about the Granford deal? Seems to be on the up-and-up. Puritan Bank’s been making periodic announcements, and there are plenty of backers in place. And Chandler’s erstwhile assistant has been tapped to take over management of the project, at least for now.”

“Cinda Patterson,” Meg said flatly.

“You know her?” Lauren responded, her surprise evident.

“We’ve met. And the bank made its own announcement here last Thursday, although the attending VP from the bank didn’t look too happy. So Cinda’s official?”

“That she is. Not that she hasn’t earned it—she’s been their unofficial go-to gal ever since she showed up in town. And …” Lauren enjoyed spinning out a story.

Meg reluctantly took the bait. “You’ve got something else?” “Oh, yeah,” Lauren replied gleefully. “You might just like to know about Chandler’s current whatever. Squeeze? Paramour? Inamorata?”

Crap.
“You don’t mean …”

“The self-same Cinda.” Lauren completed the line with triumph.

“That’s interesting. I thought Chandler didn’t like to muddy his own nest.” The Boston banking community wasn’t huge, and intraoffice romances could get sticky very quickly—and very publicly. At least she and Chandler had been at different banks, but she had been surprised how many people had known about them—and had known when there no longer was a “them.”