Rotten to the Core (22 page)

Meg held up a hand. “You’re saying you actually
want
to keep some of the bugs? How do you even know what I’ve got out there?”

“We do regular inspections, which are a bit labor-intensive, but yours is a small plot, so it is feasible. We also do leaf sampling, once the trees are leafed out, and we use some insect traps.”

Meg had a brief image of trying to snag a fruit fly with a bear trap and suppressed a giggle. “Traps?”

“Pheromone traps, which lure insects with a synthetic sex hormone. Then there are bait-lure traps, which we use to monitor for apple maggots. And also light traps, which may attract other types of insects. But they’re harder to maintain.”

Meg’s head was spinning. “Am I supposed to do something with all these, or do your students and staff take care of that?”

“Most assuredly the latter. This is an ongoing research project, and the data collection must be scrupulously maintained. No reflection on your skills, Meg.”

“I’m more than happy to let you handle it. Okay, once you’ve identified the pests, what do you do?”

“That is when we begin to lay out our pesticide program. You have your organophosphates, your carbamates, and your pyrethroids. And there are a few other approaches—for example,
Bacillus thuringiensis
, a microbial insecticide that works well on caterpillars, and various lepidopterous apple pests. Endosulfan, a chlorinated hydrocarbon for apple leafhopper. Oh, and insecticidal soaps, which work well on soft-bodied arthropods.”

Meg didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Christopher could have been speaking a foreign language for all she understood.

“Could you just give me a bottom line? How much of this do I need to know? I don’t mean to sound stupid or lazy, but it’s a lot to take in all at once. Can’t I just delegate it all to you and Bree?”

Christopher looked contrite. “Of course. I’m so sorry—I’ve been absorbed in the subject for so long that I forget how new you are to all this. And there’s no reason why you should know the details at this point. I would hope you would involve yourself in the process as we move forward, but you’re quite right—you have skilled people at your disposal.”

“Thank you! And I will do my best to learn, but right now I need the broad outlines. Say you figure out what pests you’re fighting, what’s next?”

“We spray—carefully, I assure you! Given the size of your orchard, and the density of your plantings, we have been using alternate middle spraying with good success. This works particularly well for codling moth and apple aphid. What’s more, the process reduces the amount of spray material you need to use and is less harmful to beneficial species. We’ve kept your trees pruned low, both to facilitate spraying without heavy-duty equipment and to make harvesting easier—no ladders.”

Christopher’s words reassured her. “Christopher, I know you’ve done a good job keeping the orchard going this long, and I certainly don’t know enough to interfere. Please keep on doing whatever you’ve been doing. And I really appreciate your taking the time to explain it to me. Maybe at some point I’ll feel confident enough to have an opinion, but right now I trust you to do the right thing. And to help Bree take over the reins. Right, Bree?”

“Sure, Meg, Professor. I can handle it.”

“I’m certain you can.” Christopher stood up quickly. “Well, shall we head up the hill and see what’s going on?”

The more Meg learned, the more interested in the reality of the orchard she became. Christopher pointed out scars from prior-year infestations and nodded to a few tattered traps still hanging on branches, soon to be replaced. When he and Bree put their heads together to confer on some technical point, Meg wandered from tree to tree, studying each, trying to discern similarities and differences. She was becoming impatient to see them in bloom, and with fruit hanging from them. Soon, soon . . .

After a couple of hours, they made their way back down the hill. “Are you leaving now, Bree?” Christopher asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got stuff to do.” Bree turned to Meg. “Why don’t I come back tomorrow? I can show you how to hook up the tractor attachments. And, Professor, we need to go over the pickers’ contracts, right?”

“Indeed we do. You are on top of things, my dear. Meg, thank you, as always, for your attention. You’re a good student. Don’t forget to check the paper in the morning!”

Warmed by his compliment, Meg waved them off and returned to the house.
It will all work out.
It had to. She had a lot riding on the success of the orchard, and she knew how little she knew. And she could apply good business practices: choose competent people, and don’t second-guess them.

She felt reassured that she now had an explanation for why Michael and Daphne had seen Christopher with a representative of the evil poison merchants. The GreenGrow people were more than a little paranoid, Meg thought, seeing conspiracies under every rock—or was it leaf? Perhaps it was Jason’s influence filtering down to his followers. Classic cult mentality: personal charisma could overcome intelligence and common sense in a small group, particularly one outside the mainstream to begin with.

What now? Meg didn’t feel like starting a new project this late in the day. Maybe she should do a little online checking into this pesticide company and see what she could learn about the agreement. She was sure that the university would have done its homework before accepting the deal, but Meg still worried about Christopher. It was possible he might get pushed in a direction he didn’t want to go, if the company somehow had the upper hand. And at the same time, his new responsibilities might keep him so busy that he wouldn’t have time for her small orchard. Thank heavens for the Internet: she could learn about DeBroCo from the comfort of her house. And if she found any red flags she could get more details from her former banking colleagues in Boston.

An hour’s worth of research left Meg vaguely troubled. She had long known the name of DeBroCo as a major diversified producer of chemical products, but she had been less aware of their recent financial difficulties. Even more disturbing was a spate of pending lawsuits filed against the company, alleging falsification of safety records, notably in their agricultural products division. One would not have been significant, but there were several that had reached the public eye in the past year or two, and taken together they suggested a pattern. Even if the suits were baseless, Meg knew that negative publicity could have a real impact on the company’s sales, not to mention its reputation. In that context, launching this joint endeavor with the university made good public relations sense. It would send the message that the company had taken heed of the complaints (without admitting anything) and was working to change its approach. No doubt the outlay involved in setting up this new program and its new building was small change compared to national profits from the division. Overall it was a smart move, and Meg would have expected no less from a long-established company such as DeBroCo.

But Jason Miller would almost certainly have seen it as a cover-up, or at the very least an empty gesture to placate the naysayers. Still, GreenGrow and Jason would have been no more than gnats buzzing in DeBroCo’s ear. That must have been hard for Jason to take. What would he have done about it?

When Seth stopped by on Sunday morning, Meg wondered whether she would ever get used to people simply dropping in all the time. Why was it that back in Boston, getting together with people—whether for business or pleasure—had always involved multiple phone calls or e-mails and complicated scheduling, while here in Granford people just showed up assuming you’d be home? No calls, no e-mails, no negotiation: they just knocked on your door. Meg wasn’t sure yet which she preferred.

“What brings you here so early?” she asked Seth as she let him into the kitchen.

“I’ve got a couple of days free this week, and I wanted to get started on building out the shop.” He looked down. “When are you going to do something about the floor?”

Meg poured him a mug of coffee. “I don’t know yet. You have any ideas?”

Carrying his coffee, Seth paced around the kitchen, studying the floor, bouncing on the balls of his feet now and then. “Nice pine, good thick boards—no give. Built to last. I’d leave it exposed, though you need to finish it—three coats of oil-based polyurethane would do it. Sooner rather than later—if you leave it bare like this, you’ll start getting grease stains and dirt ground in.”

Meg sighed. “Okay, so how do I do it?”

“You need to sand it down to get rid of the old glue and any leftover finish. No need to strip it—that old glue is pretty much as dry as it could be. So, sand the floor, get rid of the sawdust, and start with the polyurethane. But you need to let it dry at least overnight between coats, so you won’t be able to use the kitchen for a couple of days.”

“It figures. And there are
so
many wonderful restaurants in Granford.”

Seth ignored her sarcasm. “I’ve got a disk sander and a detail sander back at the house. You busy today?”

“What? You want to do it right now? I thought you had something to do in the shop.”

“Why not? If you’ve got the time. My stuff can wait for a day, and I can help get you started. You up for it?”

“I guess. I can get the polyurethane tomorrow, right?”

“Sure. Let me run back to my place and pick up the equipment, make sure I have the right grades of sandpaper. Back in ten.”

As quickly as he had appeared, Seth disappeared, leaving Meg shaking her head. Not only did people show up unannounced, but they also planned your day for you. Still, Seth had a point. Now that the floor was exposed, she should protect it or else live forever with stains from whatever she dropped on it. Obviously she hadn’t thought this whole thing through when she started in on the project. Trust Seth to have the necessary equipment at hand. He seemed to have one of everything, and if he didn’t, he knew who to ask.

It was eleven minutes later that he wheeled a piece of equipment to her back door. Meg watched as he set it down, then went back to his van for a second, smaller item. When he returned, she said, “Those are sanders, I assume?”

“Yup. The big one’s for the major passes, and the small one’s for all those corners you can’t reach with the big one. What about your cabinets?”

“What about them?”

“I mean, are you planning to save them or replace them?”

“I really haven’t thought about it. Why does it matter right now?”

“Because you might want to remove the lower ones—and the stove and refrigerator—so we can sand the whole floor at once. Then you can do whatever you want later.”

It made sense, but Meg had not anticipated a major deconstruction effort when she woke up this morning. On the other hand, there was little in the cabinets, which would make things easy. On the third hand, some of them looked to be nineteenth-century in origin, with beaded board panels and simple moldings. Time for an executive decision. “Okay, let’s take out the modern junk and leave the older ones. I like them. They feel right in the house.”

“Good choice—they’re probably late Victorian, but they’re in decent shape. Let’s start with moving the table and chairs out, and we can take it from there. Oh, and did you plan on replacing the stove? Because it might not weather the move.”

Meg eyed the appliance dubiously. She really didn’t want to lay out cash for a new stove right now, but the current one was probably older than she was, and it would make her life easier to have one she trusted to keep working. Damn, another decision to make. It was too early in the morning for all these decisions. “Let’s just get it out of the way and decide later, okay?”

“Fine by me. Let’s go.”

It took a surprisingly short time to clear the kitchen of the most modern cabinets, mainly because they were cheap units probably added for or by renters. Meg hadn’t brought much cooking equipment with her, so there was little of that to remove. She was standing on a chair reaching into the farthest corner of an upper cabinet when she pulled out a glass jar filled with dark brown sludge. “What the heck?”

Seth took it from her hand. “Look, it’s labeled. It used to be apple butter, a few decades ago.”

Meg took it back. “Check out the handwriting—make that a lot of decades ago. What do you bet that Lula and Nettie put this up, from the apples from the orchard? Hang on—I can show you their picture.”

Meg went to the dining room and rummaged through the box of historical society papers she had processed. She pulled out the pictures of the house and the map, and returned to the kitchen, where she laid them on the counter in front of Seth. “See? Those are the sisters, although I have no idea which was which. But they look about five feet tall. Neither one could have seen a jar in the back of that cabinet.” For a moment she wondered if the departed Warren sisters were trying to send her a message, but the antique apple butter was more likely a remnant from one of several generations of sloppy housekeepers. “And here’s the map I told you about, with the orchard.”