Rotten to the Core (2 page)

As she drew closer she could tell that the smell was definitely emanating from the springhouse. The two triangular ends were faced with vertical boards, but the center of the rooflike structure was open, with a few additional boards tacked across to prevent animals from falling in, Meg assumed. Apparently they hadn’t worked. Approaching the opening, Meg peered into the dark interior. She could see water and rocks and some floating boards. And a body.

Meg’s legs failed her, and she dropped down onto the damp ground under the nearest tree, leaning against the trunk for support. She shut her eyes, but when she opened them, she could still see the soles of a pair of boot-clad feet facing out of the opening.
Damn!
She had gotten through thirty years without ever seeing, much less finding, a body, and now in the space of months she had discovered two. It wasn’t fair.

And why hadn’t she noticed him before? The trees had blocked her view of the springhouse from within the orchard, but surely she could have seen him from the house, at least from an upstairs window? Not that she spent much time admiring the view of the orchard—there was too much else to do in the house. But still . . .

She waited for her mind to stop spinning and then stared at the feet. From what little she had seen, the body appeared to be male, lying facedown in the water inside the springhouse. Drowned? But why here? The man wore a coat, blue jeans, and black rubber boots with red soles, appropriate for mucking about muddy fields in spring. He lay neatly, not sprawled. That was all she could tell from where she sat, and she had no desire to get any closer. She looked around her: everything else seemed the same—the waiting trees, a few vehicles passing by on the highway not far away. Somewhere she heard a bird. All nice and normal, except for the body in the springhouse.

With a sigh, Meg fished in her pocket for her cell phone and called the police department. Why bother with 911 when she had friends—well, acquaintances anyway—in high places? When someone answered, she said, “Can I talk to the chief? It’s Meg Corey.”

The voice on the other end replied, “Oh, hi, Meg. Yeah, he’s just come back from lunch. Hang on while I transfer you.”

While she waited, Meg wondered if she knew the person at the desk, who obviously knew her. Well, after her last adventure with murder, half the town knew who she was, even if she’d only lived here since the beginning of the year. This round would probably reach the other half.

“Hi, Meg,” Art Preston said cheerfully. “What’s up? You aren’t going to tell me you’ve got another body, are you?” Meg couldn’t find an answer to that before he went on. “You’re kidding. Aren’t you?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’ve just found . . . someone dead in my springhouse.”

“Ah,” he said. Meg heard the sound of papers shuffling. “Okay, give me the details. Where’s your springhouse?”

“In the middle of the orchard. You can see it from the main road, if you look.”

“Anyone you know?”

“I don’t think so. Of course, I’ve only seen the back of him. And his feet. I didn’t get too close.”

“Ah, Meg, Meg . . .” Art sighed. “I’ll be right over. And I guess I’ll call the state police guys in Northampton.”

“You do what you have to do. I’ll wait here.”

After she’d hung up, Meg leaned against the tree again. Nice that Art was a friend now, because the lead detective in the Northampton office of the state police certainly wasn’t, even though she’d solved his last murder for him. Nothing to be done about that now.

Last time, she’d known the dead man. This time it seemed unlikely. Too bad she hadn’t noticed him earlier, because whoever this was had been here long enough to begin to decompose, to put it politely. When was the last time anyone had visited the orchard? Christopher was often around, with or without his students. The class occasionally met in the orchard on Friday. This was Monday. She tried to remember the last time she had noticed the UMass van pass by, and failed. Had Briona had time to walk the orchard recently? Meg didn’t know.

Two murders in the last hundred and whatever years in peaceful little Granford, Massachusetts, and she was right on the spot for both of them—and both on her property. What were the odds of that? At least she didn’t think she had anything to do with this one, but she’d learned never to assume anything. She’d just have to wait until somebody turned the dead man over and figured out who he was.

She pulled her coat more closely around her, tried to ignore the damp seeping through the seat of her jeans, and settled back to wait for Art.

Meg watched Art’s police car approach the orchard along the main highway and slow down before speeding up to come around to her driveway. He couldn’t approach directly because of the fence. Christopher had explained why she needed a fence along the road: to keep people out, the eager tourists who seemed to think that an apple hanging on a tree was fair game for anyone who could reach it. The fence wasn’t high enough to discourage the local deer, and the smaller critters could climb through or burrow under. Still, it didn’t go all the way around the orchard; it was open on the side nearest the house, and the side toward the adjoining Chapin property.

She stood up and brushed off dead grass and leaves from her jeans. She waited until the chief of police clambered up the hill, huffing a bit. Too much time at his desk? “Hi, Art.”

“Hi, Meg. Okay, let’s get this over with. Where’s the body this time?”

“Not in the plumbing, thank goodness. He’s in the springhouse there.”

Art turned and methodically surveyed the orchard in all directions, then zeroed in on the springhouse. He walked toward it, approaching obliquely, staring at the ground, and then continuing carefully around the small building. Finally he approached the body and looked down at it for several seconds. “Been here a day or two. You didn’t notice anything?”

“Nope. I don’t get up here every day, and I can’t see it from the house, except from certain rooms. The crew from the university hasn’t been around since Friday—at least, that I know of. I’m not always here when they are—they have my permission to be there. You remember Christopher, right?”

“Who?”

“Christopher Ramsdell. He’s part of the IPM Department at the university.” At Art’s blank look, she added, “That’s integrated pest management. It’s one approach to pest control for crops, minimizing pesticide use. You remember—you met him when . . .”

Art nodded. “Oh, right, older guy, English accent.”

Meg went on. “I’ve hired someone to help with the orchard—she’s a student, named Briona Stewart, but she hasn’t really started yet. And I didn’t see any lights at night, either, or hear partying. You think maybe this was an accident?” She wanted to hold on to a little hope.

“Can’t say. You’d think if he hit his head he’d fall face up. Unless somebody hit it for him.”

Murder? Meg wasn’t ready to think about that. “You going to turn him over?” she asked.

Art studied the scene. “Don’t think so. I’ll let the pros handle that. I don’t want to mess up any evidence, if there is any. Ground’s still pretty much frozen. But I think I can get to his pocket, see if he’s got any ID on him.” He matched his actions to his words, hunkering down next to the body and reaching into a back pocket of the dead man’s jeans. He managed to pull out a wallet, molded by long use to the shape of the man’s body and worn at the edges. “Got it.”

He walked back to Meg’s side before opening it and reaching into it to pull out a driver’s license. He squinted at it. “Looks like . . . Jason Miller, age 27. Comes from the eastern part of the state, outside Boston. He’s got a UMass ID here, too—probably a student.”

“A grad student, given his age,” Meg said absently.

“You know him?” Art asked.

Meg shook her head vigorously. “I do not, thank goodness! Well, maybe if I see his face—I’ve been auditing a class at UMass, but I haven’t really talked to anyone there. And there’s Christopher’s class—they’re over here maybe every other week. But I’m not sure I’d recognize anybody from that group.” She was swamped with relief: Jason Miller had nothing to do with her, save that his mortal remains had ended up in her orchard.

Art scanned the road. “I called the state police before I set out, and Marcus said he’d contact the medical examiner. So I guess we just wait for them to show up. You want to wait in the house? I can handle things here.”

Meg shrugged. She wasn’t cold, and she didn’t want the detective from the state police team back in her house again if she could help it. “I’m okay. He’s going to want to talk to me, so I might as well wait.” She fumbled for a neutral topic, keeping her eyes away from the body. “So, looks like the development project’s moving along well. They’ve already cleared the trees and torn down the buildings along the highway toward town.”

“Yeah, it’s looking good. Course, they can’t pour foot ings until the ground thaws, but they’re going to be ready to go. I hear Seth Chapin’s moving his plumbing shop into your barn?”

“He’s renting space from me. Heck, I’m not using it. Well, I will need some place to hold the apples when we harvest, but Seth said he’d help me put that together—there’s plenty of space in the barn. It’s handy having a plumber around.”

“Nice to see the place being used. I hate to see the old barns just fall down. Or worse, these builders who think that old barn boards are just great for their new McMan sions and buy ’em up for the lumber. So, you said you’ve hired a manager?”

“I did. Christopher found her for me, and he recommended her. She’s only part-time right now, because she’s finishing up her course work, but she’ll be full-time when she graduates.”

They carried on a perfunctory conversation for the twenty minutes it took for Detective Lieutenant William Marcus and his crew to arrive from Northampton. He pulled into the driveway behind Art’s car, and then the group made its way up the hill to where they waited. Art stayed by her side, and Meg guessed he wasn’t any more eager than she was to greet the detective.

Marcus was a big man, inflated further by his own self-importance. “Ms. Corey, Preston. What’ve we got this time?”

Art pointed toward the feet sticking out. “Young guy named Jason Miller, or at least that’s what his ID says.”

Marcus eyed Meg with distaste. “When did you notice you had another body?”

Meg straightened her shoulders. “Less than an hour ago. I smelled him first, then I saw him. I haven’t been up to the orchard for a couple of days.”

“You know him?” The detective’s voice was cold.

“No.” Meg took great satisfaction in being able to say that.

“Uh-huh.” Marcus appeared skeptical. “You get a look at his face?”

Meg shook her head. “I didn’t touch him. That’s the way I found him.”

“I pulled his wallet out,” Art volunteered. “Seems to be a student.”

“The ME’ll be here soon enough, and we can get a look at him. Who else has been through here lately?” The detective cast an eye around the orchard, its grass winter dry.

“Me, Christopher Ramsdell from the university, some of his students, and my new orchard manager, Briona Stewart,” Meg answered.

“I’ll want to talk to them all, find out if they saw anything,” Detective Marcus said. “You can give me a list of names and contact info, right?”

“Of course,” Meg said, squashing the urge to add something sarcastic. “Well, I can for Christopher and Briona, but not for the students. Christopher can give you that.” She watched as what she recognized as the medical examiner’s van pulled into the already crowded driveway. They stood silently until the ME made his way up the hill, an assistant trailing behind him.

“Well, well,” he puffed when he arrived, stopping ten feet short of the springhouse. “Didn’t expect to come back here again. What, or should I say,
who
have you got this time?”

Marcus pointed silently. The ME nodded, then approached the body. “Dead, all right. Partially submerged, which might throw off the timeline a bit. I’ll get his temp when we get him out. Been dead at least twenty-four hours, maybe more. It’s been above freezing for a couple of days now. Any ID?”

“In his pocket. Looks like a university student.”

“Ah. Too bad. Any idea how he got here?”

Meg thought it was time to step in. “None. I don’t know him, and I don’t know what he was doing here. Can you tell how he died?”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll have a better idea.” The ME gestured to his companion, who pulled out a camera and snapped a number of pictures. Then he looked at Marcus. “You guys want to do your thing?”

“You mean, process the scene?” Marcus replied stiffly. Meg wondered if he and the ME had butted heads in the past. “Yes, before your crew tramples the place. Dillon, you want to get pictures now?”

Meg stepped back and watched as Marcus’s team shifted gears and started snapping pictures and pulling out evidence bags.

Marcus, apparently too senior to get his hands dirty with such mundane tasks, turned back to Meg. “So, as far as you know, a dozen or more people have tramped through here in the last few days, including you, and you didn’t notice anybody leaving a body behind.”