Rotten to the Core

Table of Contents

 

 

“There is a delightful charm to this small-town regional cozy . . . Sheila Connolly provides a fascinating whodun it filled with surprises.”—
The Mystery Gazette

 

“An example of everything that is right with the cozy mystery . . . Sheila Connolly has written a winner.”

—
Lesa’s Book Critiques

 

“A warm, very satisfying read.”—
Romantic Times
(4 stars)

 

“The premise and plot are solid, and Meg seems a perfect fit for her role.”—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Antique apple trees and historic houses—what’s not to like about Sheila Connolly’s
One Bad Apple
? It’s a delightful look at small town New England, with an intriguing puzzle thrown in.”

—JoAnna Carl,
author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

 

“A fun start to a promising new mystery series. Thoroughly enjoyable . . . I can’t wait for the next book and a chance to spend more time with Meg and the good people of Granford.”

—Sammi Carter,
author of the Candy Shop Mysteries

ONE BAD APPLE
ROTTEN TO THE CORE

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

 

ROTTEN TO THE CORE

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Sheila Connolly.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-08204-1

 

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Once again, I have reaped the benefits of the information and advice from a wonderful group of people in bringing this book to fruition. Thanks go to my agent, Jacky Sach, of BookEnds, and my editor, Shannon Ja mieson Vazquez, who never fails to make my words better. And as always, Sisters in Crime and the very talented Guppies provided bottomless support (and even titles).

Duane W. Greene, Department of Plant, Soil and Insect Sciences at the University of Massachusetts, and director of the University’s Cold Spring Orchard, inspired this book when he said that pesticide issues could possibly drive someone to murder. Marvina and Jon Brook of Muddy Brook Farm in Granby have kept me up-to-date on the status of the surviving apple trees on the former Warner property. Christie Higginbottom, research historian and horticulture and landscape specialist at Old Sturbridge Village, offered wonderful information on historical orchards and heirloom apples. And Mother Nature came through again, with yet another wonderful apple crop.

Finally, I need to thank my entomologist husband, who first made me aware of integrated pest management, and my daughter, who continues to serve as my apple-bearer, taste-tester, and critic.

Striding up the hill toward the apple orchard, Meg Corey inhaled the spring air that smelled of damp and growing things. Maybe the weather was just teasing her: after all, it was only March, and New England winters were notoriously unpredictable. For all she knew, it could snow tomorrow. But she didn’t care: she was going to enjoy the moment.

At the top of the rise she paused to look back at the house. The winter had been kind to it, from what she could see. The curling shingles were still more or less intact, and the peeling paint was still clinging to the old wood. She would look into getting a new roof and a paint job when the weather warmed up for good. At least the creaky furnace had limped through the winter without failing, and her new septic system was working just fine—ever since the body had been removed.

No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Right now she wanted to take a look at the orchard. She had been auditing a class on orchard management at the University of Massachusetts for a couple of weeks now, and she wanted to see if she could apply what she’d learned to real trees.

She had plenty. Her fifteen acres of trees stretched a quarter mile to the highway to the west (she was proud that she now knew her local directions) and ran in a narrow strip up over the rise toward the north, ending at the adjoining Chapin property. To an ignorant eye, the trees looked dead, but Meg knew otherwise.
Silver tip, green tip, then half-inch green
, she recited silently to herself. She couldn’t wait until the trees began to bloom, although Christopher Ramsdell, the UMass professor who had been advising her, and Briona Stewart, her soon-to-be orchard manager, had told her that full bloom was still a month off. But there was plenty to be done between now and then, as Meg was fast learning.

She turned back again to look past the house toward the Great Meadow beyond. Maybe she was being overly optimistic, but wasn’t there a hint of green among the trees on the far side? Spring was coming, and Meg was looking forward to it eagerly.

She wandered through her trees, looking critically at them. She still had trouble distinguishing between the varieties, especially before leaves and fruit appeared, although Christopher had informed her that she had at least twenty varieties, many of them now considered heirloom. She savored the names: the standards like Baldwin, Russet, Winesap, and the more archaic names like Cornish Gilliflower, Hubbardston Nonesuch, Pink Pearl. So much to learn, and she had just started. And was enjoying every minute of it.

She reached the midpoint and looked down the neat rows. Christopher and his staff, plus a few university students, had done a good job of clearing out the lingering weeds and the deadwood. Branches were pruned neatly, and the brush had been removed. Even the fringes of the orchard lot had been cleared of weeds, which Christopher had told her could harbor harmful pests. It looked good to her—ready for the coming season. She breathed deeply once again, savoring the air, with just a tinge of apple from the last deadfalls.

And something else. Something that smelled . . . rotten? Meg sniffed again. She was new enough to country living to realize that there were lots of smells she didn’t know. Plus, there were sheep and cows in the neighborhood, so that meant manure.

But this didn’t smell like manure. More like a dead animal—a deer?—which was certainly a possibility, although she didn’t see anything like that. Of course, whatever it was could have been there for a while, frozen under the snow, and was just now warming up enough to decay. But surely Christopher and his crew would have noticed before now and cleaned up that kind of thing. Whatever it was must be fairly recent.

She sniffed, moved, sniffed again. Definitely coming from the north and the odor was getting stronger. She followed her nose along the row of trees and realized she was approaching the springhouse. When she had first seen the springhouse, she had had to ask what it was: it looked like a roof planted in the ground. Christopher had explained that it had been built to protect a spring that burbled up at that spot, but even he had no idea how long the structure had been there. To Meg’s eye it looked old, but that could mean anything from twenty to two hundred years.