Rotten to the Core (6 page)

Meg wasn’t prepared for Bree’s reaction: she stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair. “I’ve got to go,” she said in a strangled voice.

Meg and Seth stood as well. “Okay. When will you be back?” Meg asked.

Bree was already pulling on her coat. “I don’t know. I’ll call you.” She was out the back door before Meg could frame another question. She heard the car start up with a clatter, then pull out of the driveway.

Meg turned to Seth. “What was that all about?”

“Got me. At a guess, I’d say she knew the guy.”

Meg’s bad feeling deepened even further. “I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. He was a student, and maybe they were in the same department. And Rachel said he was an organic activist of some sort. Damn. I hope this doesn’t put her off this job. I really need her.”

“There are other managers, aren’t there?” Seth asked.

“Probably, but we’re already coming into the first active part of the apple cycle, and it’s kind of late to go hunting for someone.”

“We don’t even know what happened yet, right? What did Art say?”

She started pacing around the kitchen. “That there were no obvious physical causes, so it may be poison. But they don’t know how, or what he took—or was given—and it’s going to take a while to find out. Shoot—I didn’t get a chance to ask Art if Miller died here or somewhere else. But why pick here?”

Seth shook his head. “I have no idea, but there’s not much to be done about it. Listen, I have to get going—I’ve got a job in Hadley tomorrow, and I need to get started early. Thanks for dinner, Meg. And try not to worry, will you?”

“Sure, no problem,” she said without conviction. “Let me know when you want to walk through the barn with me—you’ve got the key, right? Have you put much of your salvage in it yet?”

“Some, but I’ve never known anybody who wanted to steal antique sinks. Even if we keep it locked, I don’t think that padlock is good for much.”

“You have a point there. I didn’t give much thought to replacing it because there wasn’t anything important in there, but I suppose I need to consider it now. Good night, then.”

Meg shut the door behind Seth. He was right: there was no point in worrying until she had more information. And tomorrow she would hunt down Christopher on campus and see what he could tell her about the late Jason Miller.

A night’s sleep didn’t bring any startling insights. Given their recent history, she didn’t expect Detective Marcus to share anything with her, but at least Art was willing to pass on scraps. Still, it rankled, and Meg worried about her new livelihood. Would anyone want work at an orchard where a body had been discovered? Or even buy the apples? One more thing Meg had no answer for.

And what about Bree’s strange reaction the night before? From what little she had seen, the younger woman was fairly abrupt, lacking in social polish. Maybe she had remembered something she had to get done last night. Maybe it wasn’t the mention of Jason Miller’s name that had sent her into a tizzy. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . Meg had to know more.

She needed to get to the UMass campus and talk to Christopher. She wondered if Detective Marcus had already tracked him down, and if the professor had provided any useful information. It was likely he had known Jason Miller, and there was one way to find out.

She worried over her list of issues as she drove toward Amherst. There was no way she could run the orchard, much less make any money at it, without some outside help. The settlement she had received when she had been downsized out of her job in Boston a few months earlier had been generous, but that was all she had to keep her going until she produced and sold her first crop, which was months away yet. On top of that, she still had a lot of expensive repairs to do on the long-neglected house—a new roof, repointing the foundation, painting the exterior . . .
Shut up, Meg!
she scolded herself. Such fretting served no purpose other than to depress her.

Midday parking on campus was hard to find, and she settled for a distant visitor’s short-term slot, then trekked across campus to the Life Sciences Building where Christopher’s office was located. She wasn’t sure whether he would be teaching a class or in his office, or somewhere else altogether. The only thing she knew for sure was that he wasn’t scheduled to be at her place today, although he had been known to pop in unexpectedly. He really was very attached to her orchard.

Meg made her way to the faculty offices on the third floor. A schedule posted next to Christopher’s door indicated that he ought to have just finished teaching his undergraduate class on integrated pest management and should be on his way back. Meg decided she might as well wait a few minutes and see if he appeared. If not, she could leave him a note. She scanned the unlit hallway: nowhere to sit. She leaned against the wall and looked over the required reading list for the next few sessions of her orchard class. After ten minutes she was rewarded by the sound of footsteps, followed by the sight of Christopher emerging from the stairwell. Despite his sixty-something years, he wasn’t out of breath, and his silvery hair was unruffled.

As usual, he looked extraordinarily cheerful. “Meg, my dear, what a pleasure to see you here. Did you need to speak to me?”

Meg nodded. “I wanted to ask you about Jason Miller.”

Christopher’s face fell. “Of course. What a tragic thing.”

“You knew him? Did you hear he was found in the springhouse in my orchard?”

Christopher paled visibly and laid a hand on her arm. “Oh no. Oh, my dear, how awful. You must be devastated. That rather unpleasant detective spoke to me and asked if I knew Jason, but all he said was that his body had been found in Granford. If he had mentioned where . . . but he seemed more interested in whether Jason had appeared to be suicidal, and I couldn’t tell him much. Please, come in, sit down, tell me what I can do.” He unlocked his door and ushered her into his small office, flipping on the overhead light. The room was crammed floor to ceiling with papers, posters, models, and what appeared to be a glass case with a tarantula in it. A live one. “Please, sit down, Meg.”

Meg moved a pile of papers and sat. “I’m doing all right, but I have a lot of questions. I understand that Miller was a student here at the university?”

Christopher sat back in his chair. “Indeed he was. He was working toward a graduate degree in this department, as I told the detective yesterday. In fact, he asked me to identify Jason—from a picture.” He broke off what he was saying and looked furtively around the office. “Meg, perhaps we would do better to take this out of the building. Shall we go into town and have lunch?”

Mystified, Meg said, “Sure, I’d like that. Do you have any other classes scheduled?”

“Nothing until two, which should be ample time to . . . well, you’ll see. Shall we go?”

Christopher said nothing more about the late Mr. Miller as they left the building and walked toward the parking lot where Meg had left her car. “Are you enjoying your class?” he asked.

“Yes, at least most of the time. I can’t remember the last time I took a biology course, and a lot of the material is going right over my head, but it’s interesting, and I think I’m learning something. Or at least learning what I need to learn. I guess I hadn’t realized what I was taking on.”

“Don’t let it intimidate you, my dear. I have faith in your abilities. Tell me, how is the barn coming along?”

They chatted about mundane details as they drove the mile or two into the center of Amherst, with Christopher providing directions to a midsize restaurant down a flight of stairs. Miraculously Meg found a parking space on the street in front of it, and they entered the dim and noisy place and seated themselves at a table in a corner. Meg managed to contain her curiosity until they’d placed their orders, and then she turned to Christopher. “Okay, why all the mystery? Why are we here instead of in your office?”

Christopher sighed. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Jason Miller was not particularly beloved by our department, and it will take some time to provide you with the history. I know it is unkind to say so, but I don’t think Jason will be much missed.”

“Well, you’ve got my full attention. What’s the story?”

The waitress dumped their sandwiches on the table and retreated. Christopher began cautiously. “Jason was first an undergraduate at the university, then stayed on to pursue his doctorate. Unfortunately he was perilously close to wearing out his welcome.”

“What do you mean?” Meg asked, taking a large bite of her club sandwich.

“The university has guidelines about the length of time one may take to complete a degree program, and Jason was pushing the limits.”

“What was the problem? Poor performance? He couldn’t finish his thesis? He was scared of testing the job market?”

“A bit of all of those, but there was one overriding factor that interfered with his academic commitments. Are you familiar with the GreenGrow organization?”

“Barely,” Meg said. “Rachel Chapin—Seth’s sister—mentioned it the other day, but that was the first I’d heard of it. Please enlighten me.”

Christopher took a substantial bite of his sandwich and sat back in his chair before answering. “GreenGrow is a regional activist group dedicated to organic farming and the complete suppression of all pesticide use. Jason Miller was a founding member and perhaps its most vocal proponent.”

“Why did that get him in trouble with the university?” Meg ate a handful of potato chips.

“GreenGrow siphoned quite a bit of time from Jason’s academic pursuits. Don’t misunderstand me: our department supports the concept of organic farming. We even offer a few courses devoted to it, as well as to the public policy issues surrounding pesticide use. GreenGrow was a problem only because Jason had become increasingly confrontational over the past year or two. I think he came to regard organic purity as a holy mission of some sort, and he could be very self-righteous about it. Mind you, that alone would not have created trouble within the department, but he was in fact neglecting his responsibilities. You see, to obtain a doctoral degree, a student must submit and defend a thesis within six years of beginning the program, and this spring marks the end of his sixth year. He petitioned for an extension, but the director of the graduate program declined to grant it, and quite frankly, I don’t think it was warranted. However, Jason took it rather amiss. He claimed that the department was out to discredit him because of his outspoken opinions about pesticide use.”

“Was he any good? I mean, academically?”

“I’d say yes. He was an intelligent young man, he did well in his course work, and the drafts I had seen of his thesis were sound, if somewhat careless.”

“You were his thesis advisor?”

“I’m afraid I was. I urged him to apply himself to completing the degree requirements before pursuing his other interests, but his attention was elsewhere far too much of the time.”

“How did he take that?”

“He told me I was a stooge of the administration and was conspiring with them to silence him.”

Based on what she knew of Christopher’s character, Meg found this laughable. “He sounds a bit paranoid. Unless, of course, it was just thesis anxiety. Some people have trouble finishing things.”

Christopher sighed. “I know. I’ve seen it before. But I think Jason’s trouble went beyond that. He was obsessed with his cause and found the trappings of academia increasingly irrelevant. The department had no choice but to issue an ultimatum: finish the thesis or withdraw from the program.”

“What did he decide?”

“I don’t know. We were scheduled to meet this week, which probably would have resulted in his termination. As I told that unpleasant Detective Marcus.”

Meg chose her next words carefully. “Christopher, do you think that Jason might have been depressed about being booted out of the university, and killed himself?”

Christopher regarded her steadily. “Heartless though it may sound, I think the young man was too full of himself to consider ending his life that way. Although if he did, I’m sure he
would
make it a political statement of some sort. Do you by any chance know how he died?”

Meg glanced around the room, where everyone, including the waitstaff, seemed to be ignoring them. She dropped her voice. “Art Preston said the ME has ruled out the most obvious causes, so he’s thinking it was some form of poison, but it’s going to take a while to figure out which one.” Meg stopped because Christopher was staring blindly at a space over her head. “Christopher? What are you thinking?”

Slowly he brought his gaze back to her. “You might pass on the word that the medicos should look at pesticides.”

Meg was startled. “Why? Do you know something?”

“No, not at all. But Jason was so . . . militant, you might say, about pesticide use. If—and I used that term deliberately—he ended his own life, he might have considered a pesticide the appropriate means. He would have had access to any number. As would many of his—I think ‘en emies’ is too strong a word, but there were those who disagreed strongly with him. He was on a crusade, and he managed to anger a number of people. Some of them no doubt have access to pesticides as well and could have used them unwisely, thinking it would be a fitting end. Jason could be considered a pest, if I may make a poor joke.”