Red Delicious Death (11 page)

“Sure, but he’s lived here all his life. It takes time, and people have to get to know you.”

“You seem pretty settled, too, Meg.”

Meg laughed. “I’ve only been here a few months, and I’ve been kind of busy, learning new things, so I haven’t met nearly as many people as I should have.”

“That’s all? I thought you’d been here longer.”

“Nope, I moved here from Boston in January. Someday, if we both have a lot more time, I’ll have to tell you about it. But that’s how I know Lauren.”

“Lauren?” Nicky looked blank.

“Lauren Converse? She’s the one who told me you were looking for space in this area?”

“Oh, right—that Lauren. I don’t actually know her. She’s a friend of the owner of the restaurant where I was working before we moved here. So you worked in Boston, too?”

“I did, until my job disappeared and I ended up here. Like I said, long story. Seth lives next door, and he’s moved his office into my barn . . .” Meg trailed off. It certainly was a complicated story, and the bare outline didn’t do justice to it. “Anyway, Seth’s a good friend to have around here.”

Seth and Brian emerged from the kitchen. “I’ll set up the wiring inspection for the dining areas for next week. Looks like we’re still on track.”

“Thanks for coming. We really feel you two are a part of this, and we wanted you to know what we were planning.”

After Nicky and Brian had ushered them out the door, Meg and Seth dawdled in the parking lot. “I have to say I’m relieved,” Meg said. “Do you think they’ll like your friend?”

“They’ll like her food, I’m pretty sure,” Seth replied. “As a person? I’m not going to guess. Edna can be kind of prickly, but she knows what she’s doing. You headed home now?”

“Yes. I don’t seem to make any headway at all on my to-do list, and then Bree keeps adding things to it. You?”

“Welcome to the world of the small farmer. I’ve got to pick up a load of supplies in Springfield. See you later!”

When Meg arrived home, she found Bree sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of papers in front of her and her laptop open next to her. “Anything I need to know about?” Meg asked.

“Not yet. I want to get this straight in my head first, and then I’ll explain it to you,” Bree said, tapping out a few lines on the laptop. “Your phone’s been ringing.”

“You didn’t answer it?”

“Didn’t think it was for me,” Bree said unapologetically.

At least Bree hadn’t made some snotty remark about how she wasn’t a secretary, Meg thought as she carried the handset into the front room to check her messages. Only one, or rather only one person multiple times: Lauren. Meg punched in the number from memory. It was close to five, but she knew her friend would be at her desk for at least an hour longer.

Lauren picked up on the second ring. “Lauren Converse,” she said crisply.

“Hi, Lauren. Why the batch of calls?”

“Oh, hi, Meg. Word is that you’ve gotten yourself in a mess out there.”

“With your help. How did you find out?”

“This guy from the state police called me and asked all sorts of questions. Markham, Markey, something or other . . . ?”

“Detective Marcus.
Not
a friend. So he must be checking out the Boston end of things. What did he tell you?”

“Not much. He was all ‘I’ll ask the questions, ma’am.’ What’s the story?”

Meg sighed. “You know those kids you sent my way? They bought an old house here to use as a restaurant, along with one of their friends, a guy they brought along to be their sous chef. And now the friend, Sam Anderson, has died in rather mysterious circumstances. Did you know him?”

“Heck, I didn’t even know the baby chefs; I was just doing a favor for a friend. You remember Zora’s?”

“Is that a place?”

“Yes, dummy—the hot restaurant of the moment.”

Meg tried to dredge up any memories of eating out in Boston, which seemed a lifetime ago. “Newbury Street?”

“Just off it, on Clarendon. Anyway, I met one of the investors, and he said that one of the staff had her heart set on her own restaurant and asked me if I had any ideas, and the rest is history. Listen, Meg,” Lauren hesitated, uncharacteristically. “You said you wouldn’t mind having me come out there for a visit?”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. When were you thinking?”

“Maybe like this weekend?”

Meg tried to read between the lines.
What’s the hurry?
But if Lauren was still in the office, maybe she didn’t feel comfortable talking about her reasons on the phone right now. “Sure, no problem. If I can find the bed in the spare room—I think I saw one there.”

“Look, if it’s too much trouble, I can find a hotel.”

“Lauren, I’m kidding. I’d love to see you, and I can show off the house and my orchard. Come ahead. Late dinner Friday?”

“Oh, you don’t have to cook. We can eat out.”

“Not in Granford we can’t—at least, not until the restaurant opens. Don’t worry, I’ve got a working kitchen. It’ll be great to see you.”

“Thanks, Meg. See you then.”

Bree looked up when Meg came back into the kitchen. “Problems?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said slowly. “A friend of mine from Boston—she’s going to come out this weekend. She hasn’t seen the place. Do we have anything important going on, that I need to be on hand for?”

“Not this weekend. But can we sit down and go over the forward calendar? That’s what I’ve been working on.”

“Sure.” Meg sat down beside her and tried to concentrate on Bree’s numbers, while a small part of her brain chewed over what Lauren might want.

Lauren pulled into the driveway in a rental car late Friday afternoon. Meg had managed to declutter the so-called guest room, which had a bed, an old dresser, a rickety chair, and not much else. The sheets were clean, and Meg had made sure the windows opened. She’d also aired the room out, since it hadn’t been used for a while. Meg went out and stood on the granite stoop outside her kitchen while Lauren extricated herself from the car. As she approached the car, Meg studied her friend. Slender, as always, her sleek dark hair stylishly cut, and dressed more for a lunch at a beach club than a day at the farm. But though Meg hadn’t seen Lauren for a few months, she thought her friend looked a little frayed at the edges.

“Thank God for GPS,” Lauren called out. “Where the heck am I?”

“Scenic Granford, Massachusetts, population 1,364 on a good day. The center of town is over that way.” Meg waved vaguely to the north. “Everything you see on this side of the road is mine—or at least twenty-five acres’ worth, fifteen of it orchard. Damn, it’s good to see you!”

“Likewise.”

They met halfway between the door and the car and exchanged hugs. Meg thought Lauren felt unusually thin—and tense. “So what’s the big rush to get out of Boston?”

“Oh, you know—summer weekends, the heat, stuff. Listen, I wasn’t sure what you had to eat, so I stocked up at Whole Foods on my way down. I’ve got some yummy cheeses. You have anything to drink, perchance?”

“You mean anything alcoholic? Yes. Listen, you want to bring your stuff in and freshen up? You know, I’ve never understood what that means. Wash your face? Take a nap? Sounds so Victorian. Here, give me your bag.” Meg knew she was babbling, but this was the first time Lauren had seen her new home, and it mattered to her that Lauren liked it.

Lauren handed her a tote bag from the trunk, and then retrieved a couple of bags that must be food—a pair of baguettes protruded from the top of one. In the kitchen, Lauren stopped dead at the sight of Bree, who was washing dishes. “You have help?”

Meg could see Bree stiffen. “Oh, heavens—I never told you, did I? Bree’s actually my orchard manager, and she lives here in the house. We share cleanup duties. Bree, this is my friend Lauren Converse. Lauren, Briona Stewart.”

Bree took her time drying her hands before she answered. “Hello,” she said in a neutral tone.

“Hello, Bree. Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.” Lauren offered a hand, and Bree took it.

“No offense taken. Meg, I’m meeting Michael in Amherst, so I’ll get out of your hair. Nice to meet you, Lauren.” Bree disappeared up the back stairs that led to her room.

Lauren turned to Meg. “I’m sorry—I was rude, wasn’t I?”

Meg looked at her friend with concern. “I should have warned you. But actually, you were, and that’s not like you. What’s up?”

Lauren sighed. “Can I change into something comfortable, and can you dig up that wine, before we get into it?”

“Sure. Follow me.” Meg decided the tour of the house could wait until morning. Lauren obviously had something on her mind. Meg led the way up the stairs and directed Lauren to the front bedroom opposite hers. “Bathroom’s back that way—oh, and we only have the one for all three of us, until I can afford to add another one downstairs. But there’s plenty of hot water. Come on down when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Meg.”

While waiting for Lauren to reappear—and worrying about what might be troubling her, what would lead her to leave work early and drive all the way to the western end of the state—Meg unpacked Lauren’s trove of food goodies, fed Lolly, hunted down a pair of matching glasses, located her corkscrew, and put an additional bottle of wine in the refrigerator. This might be a long session. She was searching for a tray large enough to transport all of this outside when Lauren came back, looking unfamiliar in a simple tank top and well-worn jeans.

“Can I help?” she asked.

“Grab the bottle and the glasses, if you will. I thought it would be nice to sit outside.”

“Sure.” Lauren held the door for Meg and followed her out to the broad open space beside the barn, where Meg had recently installed a clutter of secondhand Adirondack chairs and a small wooden table that she had sanded and repainted, to take advantage of the view of the Great Meadow. Lauren looked around before throwing herself into the chair and helping herself to a glass of wine. “Nice. You want some?”

“Sure.” Meg sat and accepted the glass that Lauren held out.

“You know, I had trouble picturing you here. I mean, a house, a barn, an orchard? Who would have guessed? And what the heck are those?” Lauren nodded toward the pen where the goats were watching them intently.

“Those are goats. My goats. It’s a long story.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of stories to tell. You look good, Meg—this must suit you.”

“I haven’t had my hair cut in six months, I do laundry about twice a month because I’m scared of my basement, and now I have an orchard to keep running, or bearing, or fruiting, or whatever orchards do. If you think I look good after all that, maybe I really do. I wish I could say the same for you. Lauren, what’s wrong?”

Lauren sat back in her chair and sighed. “What isn’t?”

“Job? Love life? The fate of the world?”

“All of the above. Sorry, Meg—I probably shouldn’t inflict myself on you, but I just had to get out of there, get some perspective. The bank’s got some serious cash problems, and nobody knows what’s going to happen. You’re lucky you got out when you did.”

“It didn’t feel like it at the time, but I have to say I don’t miss the place much. You should be able to find something else.” Wasn’t that what she was supposed to say? Meg realized she didn’t know what was going on in the Boston banking community anymore—and didn’t really care.

“Maybe. Probably. The thing is, I’m not sure I want to keep doing what I’ve been doing. It’s becoming kind of repetitive. And you asked about my love life? That’s non-existent. Do you know, I’m barely thirty-five, and every guy I meet seems to be a newbie with a bright shiny MBA, out to take over the bank and make his first million before he’s thirty? That’s how I knew about the baby chefs—I was so desperate to talk about anything that wasn’t related to the financial world that I was chatting with the bartender at Zora’s. Even
he
turned out to be one of the investors, filling in for the regular guy. And no, he didn’t ask me out, but we did talk a lot about the restaurant business. Which, by the way, I have no desire to get involved with—it sounds pretty uncertain. What’s going on with the place here, by the way?” Lauren reached for the bottle to refill her glass.

“Things looked good, before Sam died. They’ve got a nice building in town, and the build-out has been going well. I haven’t had a chance to try their food, apart from the occasional pastry, but they talk a good line. Now, I don’t know.”

“So what happened?”

“The sous chef, a really nice guy named Sam Anderson, was found dead in a pig wallow.”

Lauren tried and failed to suppress a snort. “Well, you’re not going to hear
that
in Boston. A pig wallow?”

“He was found facedown in the mud. The police would have called it an accident, but there was a nice fat shoeprint in the middle of his back. Apparently somebody held him down until he suffocated.” Meg felt a sudden pang of guilt. “But don’t tell anyone you know that—I’m not sure it’s public information.”