Sour Apples (8 page)

Luckily a quick Internet search showed that the UMass Cooperative Extension Service had its own soil-testing lab—
That must be the one that Joyce had mentioned,
Meg noted—and their services were very affordable. While she was at the computer, Meg thought she should check a few more things, like the specific location of Joyce and Ethan Truesdell’s farm. Since their purchase of the dairy farm was relatively recent, the
record should still be online, in the county deeds. She found the website for the registry of deeds, but after working her way through several pages, she realized that she would have to pay for access to the information and decided it would be easier simply to ask someone—like Seth, but she didn’t want to bother him about it right now. And she wasn’t interested for any pressing purpose; mostly she was curious. Maybe she had too much free time on her hands at the moment—but she was pretty sure that Bree would help her get rid of that in short order.

She had just switched off the computer when Bree drove up and went into the barn. Meg pulled on a jacket and went out, too, finding Bree inside the barn reviewing the label on a bottle of what Meg recognized as an organic pesticide. “Hey, I talked to Seth, and he’s on board with the expansion. Now I just need to find someone to draw up an agreement.”

“Great! So can I order the trees?”

Meg laughed. “Hey, give me at least one night to look at the catalogs! Will tomorrow be too late?”

“I think I can wait that long. Thanks, Meg. This is going to be fun!”

Back inside, Meg spent a pleasant hour perusing the apple varieties advertised in the stack of catalogs Bree had left for her. The names and descriptions were wonderful, and Meg was grateful that Bree had highlighted the varieties that were most likely to thrive in her orchard; otherwise she might have been tempted to order the ones with the most appealing names. Who could resist names like Black Gilliflower, Ashmead’s Kernel, Maiden Blush, or Winter Banana? Good thing she had Bree to rein her in. Although maybe she could argue for a couple of the exotic ones, just for the fun of it. How many trees were they talking about? Bree had patiently explained to her how to obtain maximum yield per acre, but it had been a year ago, and Meg had been so woefully ignorant then that the information had gone in one ear and out the other. She’d have to ask Bree to
explain it to her again. Still, two or three acres of trees had to be a lot of trees. Were they supposed to be digging holes by hand? That sounded daunting, if not impossible, if they were talking about dozens or even hundreds of trees. Would they need a backhoe or an auger? More questions.

Lauren breezed in about five, poking her head in to greet Meg, who was still seated at the dining room table with the catalogs and her laptop. “Hi, Meg, can’t stay—cocktail thing in Springfield, and I need to change.”

Meg laughed. “Hey, slow down and breathe, will you?”

Lauren flashed her a smile. “Can’t—breathing’s not on the schedule. I could pencil it in for tomorrow morning, though.” She turned and hurried up the stairs.

Meg smiled, then stood up and stretched. Lolly came tripping down the stairs, either startled by Lauren or looking for dinner, or both. “Hey, cutie—you hungry? I think I am. Let’s see what we can find.” She led the way to the kitchen and started assembling ingredients. She heard Lauren come down the stairs again fifteen minutes later and call out a “good-bye” before going out the front door. When she’d pulled out of the driveway, Bree came in the back door.

“She gone?” Bree asked.

“Yes, she said she had to attend something in Springfield. What is it with you and Seth? You both seem to be trying to avoid her.”

“I just don’t like to be pressured, and she’s pretty intense,” Bree said. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken something or other—I’m making it up as I go.”

“Do I have time for a shower? I’ve been decanting pesticide all day.”

“Help yourself!”

By the time Bree returned, still toweling dry her hair, dinner was ready. Meg dished up and set the plates on the table. “I forgot to fill you in on what’s been going on today. After you left, Detective Marcus showed up and talked to
Seth and Joyce Truesdell’s husband Ethan—that guy who was here when you left? It turns out Joyce was murdered.”

“What?” Bree nearly choked on a mouthful of food. “Who? How?”

“We don’t know yet. At first they thought it was an accident, but it sounds like the autopsy showed otherwise.”

“Wow. How was she killed?”

“A couple of whacks on the head.” Meg shivered. “Detective Marcus came here looking for Ethan to tell him in person.”

“Why would anybody kill a dairy farmer?” Bree asked, her mouth full.

“That’s the big question. The only thing out of the ordinary was that a couple of the cows had gotten sick lately, and apparently Joyce had a lab look at what was making them sick, and Seth said it turned out to be lead. You know anything about lead poisoning in farm animals?”

Bree chewed and swallowed before answering. “Not really—I didn’t do much with animal husbandry in school. Where’d the lead come from?”

“Nobody knows yet. Seth’s going to look into it, since Joyce’s cows had been grazing on land leased from the town just before they got sick. Or at least that’s the assumption, that the lead came from the field. I suppose it could have just as easily come from something in the milking barn or the feed—although I think Joyce didn’t use purchased feed, just grass. Or somebody deliberately poisoned the cows, though it’s hard to imagine why anyone would do that either.”

“What did they test? Blood? Milk?”

“The lead was in the cows’ blood. I don’t know about the milk, but Joyce could have tested that herself—she used to be a dairy inspector. Joyce told Seth that she’d ordered soil tests, once she knew what she was looking for, but the results haven’t come in yet. I suppose the police will have to look at the barn and all.”

“But Joyce seemed to think it had to be something in the land they just started using?”

“I think so. They’ve been operating without any problems for a couple of years, and that pasture is the only thing they changed, so it seems logical that that’s where the problem lay. Which makes me wonder about soil testing—is that something we need to do?”

Bree scraped her plate with her fork, then stood up to help herself to seconds. “Depends on what you’re looking for. We’ve tested for soil composition and nutrients, but I’d have to check to see if we’ve looked at anything toxic here. Probably, because Christopher was pretty careful when he was overseeing the orchard for the university.”

Meg wasn’t about to question the professor’s expertise. “Is there anything that was used in the old days, before the university took over, that would have lingered?”

“I doubt it. I can give you some references if you want to research it. In your spare time, that is—we start spraying tomorrow. Weather’s supposed to be clear for the next few days, and we need to grab the opportunity.”

“Sounds good to me. I don’t think Lauren’s going to be around much, so I’m free.”

“If she shows up, you can hand her a sprayer. This comes first.”

Meg tried to picture Lauren dousing trees, and laughed. “Yes, ma’am. Though I can’t envision Lauren in overalls and muck boots.”

As Bree had predicted, the next morning dawned fair and fine: perfect spraying weather. Luckily the orchard was small enough that the two of them could handle the spraying with light equipment in a day or two, if conditions permitted.

Meg was in the kitchen as the sun came up, and as she drank her coffee, she mulled over her choices for the new apples. She liked Bree’s concept of a historically correct mini-orchard. People retained a fondness for John Chapman, better known as Johnny Appleseed, who had been born in Massachusetts. Of course, most of them didn’t know that Johnny had had no interest in propagating and disseminating any particular variety of apple, although he had been instrumental in helping to establish orchards as the country’s population moved westward. His main interest had lain in cider apples rather than eating apples—including the fermented end products of cider apples. Johnny had liked his applejack.

Still, a lot of dependable and tasty apples had originated
in Massachusetts—Roxbury Russets and Baldwins, for example—and others had evolved in the last two centuries. It might be fun to have a dedicated local historical Massachusetts section for the orchard, and as Bree had pointed out, it made a good selling point. Meg amused herself picturing cute little baskets with ribbons and labels proclaiming “Authentic New England Apples!” in bold type. Then she erased the mental image: cute was definitely not her style.

Bree came tumbling down the back stairs from her room. “Ready to go?” she asked.

Meg laughed. “Can I have
one
cup of coffee first?”

“I guess.” Bree in turn helped herself to a mug and sought an English muffin.

Lauren bumbled her way into the kitchen more slowly. “Coffee?” Meg and Bree pointed toward the pot at the same time. “Thanks.” She filled a mug and dropped into a chair.

“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” Meg said.

“What are you, my mother?” Lauren snapped. “Sorry, sorry. Let me get some caffeine into me and then maybe I can be civil. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be polite—no, more than polite,
charming
—to a crowd of strangers? Most of whom are pissed at me for blocking their access to Rick? Which is what I’m paid to do?”

“Hey, your choice, not mine. I know I’d be terrible at it,” Meg said mildly. “Surely the process has its good moments?”

Lauren had drained half her mug of coffee. “It does,” she agreed. “He’s got some great ideas, and he’s a good communicator—he can make people see what he sees. Of course, I’m the one who has to handle all the work in order to get him in front of that group of receptive people, and make sure the press knows about it
and
captures that moment
and
publicizes it. But that’s the way it works. You should come see him in action.”

“Sure, if I can. What’s his schedule? Because Bree and I are busy spraying in the orchard during the next few
days—we have to do it while we’ve got a stretch of good weather.”

“He’s addressing some people in South Hadley tomorrow night.”

“Will he go over well there?” Meg asked. “How would you define his positions?” Politics was something she and Lauren had seldom if ever discussed, and it was one of those minefields that could blow holes in a friendship.

“Slightly left of center on most issues, but not too far. And he looks at each issue independently—he’s not going to be just a rubber stamp for the party line. Rick’s good at scoping out what a crowd wants to hear. Besides, he’s a new face and an unknown quantity. I think people will come out of curiosity, at the very least, and then he can work his magic. It’s hard work, but it’s kind of fun, introducing someone completely new. I’m learning a lot.” Lauren caught sight of the kitchen clock and jumped out of her chair. “Shoot, I’ve got to go. I don’t know when I’ll be back tonight. Sorry, Meg—I don’t mean to treat you like an innkeeper.”

“Hey, you do what you have to do. I won’t be offended. I’m just glad to see you.”

“I’m glad we could do this!” Lauren said before disappearing upstairs to get dressed.

Bree had remained silent the whole time Lauren was in the room. Now she asked Meg, “Think she really cares about this campaign or the candidate, or is it just something to do?”

Meg pondered. In the time that she’d known her, Lauren had had a number of fleeting enthusiasms—balanced, Meg reminded herself, with a fierce focus on her job. And on succeeding—there had always been that element of competition. Maybe that was part of the appeal of a political campaign for Lauren. It meant channeling her energy into something with a clear-cut goal at the end.

“Yo, Meg? You still there?”

“What? Oh, sorry—I was considering your question. I
don’t think Lauren would be in this just for a salary, which can’t be big, or only because it fell in her lap at the right time. I think she really likes the battle, and a campaign like this is the perfect opportunity for her. Rick’s getting a good deal—Lauren is smart and hardworking, and she can be very persuasive when she wants to be. Does that answer your question?”

Bree shrugged. “Sort of. Look, I know she’s your friend and all, but it’s my job to keep the orchard stuff on track, and for that I need you to be working with me, not off playing with your pal.”

“Bree, I know that,” Meg said tartly. “And I’ll make that clear to Lauren, if I haven’t already. But cut me some slack, will you? I don’t get to see her very often. Is that your only problem with her?”

“I don’t like the way she breezed in here and mostly ignored me. The only interest she’s shown toward me was whether my boyfriend could put her—or Rick—together with a local interest group. Hey, I’m a voter, too.”

“I can see your point. Maybe she’ll learn as the campaign goes on—she’s still new to this.”

“Maybe.” Bree stood up and took her dishes to the sink. “You ready to head up the hill?”

Before Meg could answer, a truck pulled into the driveway. She expected it to be Seth’s, but she saw that it was Ethan Truesdell again. Meg took her own dishes to the sink and watched as Ethan slid out of the driver’s seat and stalked toward Seth’s office. Since Meg knew Seth wasn’t there yet, she wasn’t surprised when Ethan reappeared a few moments later and headed toward her back door. She opened it before he knocked.