Death of a Bad Apple (4 page)

“What do you mean, an outsider?” I asked, the reporter in me also kicking in.

Honey pinched her mouth and shook her head. “Let's just say, it could have been someone who's in competition with our organic apples up here. If our crops are eventually sold off or destroyed, the competition could move in and replace them.”

“But who's in competition with organic apples?” Aunt Abby asked, frowning.

The room went silent as we pondered the possibilities. Then Honey Smith said aloud the thought that had come to my mind.

“GMOs.”

Aunt Abby's frown deepened. “GMOs?”

“Genetically modified organisms,” Honey said, shaking her head as she spoke. “But don't get me started.”

I'd learned over time that when someone said, “Don't get me started,” it meant I was in for a long tirade. Honey was no different. She continued, adding the occasional air quotes.

“These GMO companies think their stuff is the fruit of the future. They're growing what they consider ‘perfect' apples, when in fact there's nothing more perfect than a naturally and lovingly grown apple. Even the name ‘genetically modified organisms' sounds hideous. These people are playing God with their genetic experiments, and we all know what happens when scientists start fooling around with Mother Nature.”

I could think of a few
good
things offhand—test-tube babies for childless couples, crossed crops that yielded new and plentiful foods, the arrest of certain diseases—but I decided not to argue with our hostess. She sounded as if her mind was made up, and I didn't want to do anything that might spoil this weekend. Instead, I took another sip of wine.

“And I'm not alone,” Honey continued. “The whole valley is protesting these ‘Frankenfruits' and we've all joined together to keep companies like Eden Apple Corporation from taking over our farms and businesses. First it was this drought we're in, now this.”

Roman Gold set down his wine and looked up at Honey, who stood by the fireplace, her arms crossed.

“Do you really think the GMO companies are threatening your business?” he asked, his eyebrow raised in question.

Ah, the reporter was stoking the fire for his article. I'd learned quickly in the news business that there was nothing like a good controversy to get people to read your stories.

“Of course they are,” Honey said. “Just ask anyone.”

“I plan to,” Roman said. “But I'd like to get your feelings about it first. Why are you so against modified apples?”

“Like I said, they're not natural,” Honey insisted. “They haven't been well tested. They contain more pesticides. They cause disorders like ADD and who knows what else in children.”

Uh-oh. She was beginning to lose her credibility
with unfounded blanket statements like that. I watched Roman's reaction to see if he remained nonpartisan. He eyed her, as if digesting what she'd said, but I noticed he wasn't taking any notes or using a recorder. Maybe he had a really good memory.

“And you think these—what did you call them?—‘Frankenfruits' will put you out of business?” he asked.

“It's already happening. We recently lost the Jefferson Farm,” Honey said, her anger visibly growing. “So tell me. If you see a big red apple on the shelf that promises not to turn brown after you cut it open and you compare it to a smaller one that
will
turn brown, which one are you going to buy? It's almost like comparing apples and oranges.”

Not quite, I thought, but I got her point. I wondered what had happened to the serene and pleasant woman who had welcomed us to the inn. She seemed to be growing more and more hostile toward Roman Gold, as if she thought he was the enemy, not the GMO companies.

“And what about the environment?” Honey added, her voice rising. “All those pesticides can't be good for the land we use or the air we breathe.”

Roman shook his head and sat back. “I don't know. It seems as if there will always be room for both. People like to have a choice. You have your die-hard organic food lovers and those who prefer perfection. Look at all the varieties of apples available. There are plenty of different kinds for everyone to enjoy.”

Honey stared at Roman for a few seconds, as if
sizing him up. I was afraid she might throw him out of her inn because of his pointed statements, but surely she realized he was just gathering information so he could present both sides for fair reporting. I guessed the situation was too close to home, so to speak, for her to understand the other side.

“That's easy for you to say, Mr. Gold, since you're not
in
this business,” Honey said, gripping her wineglass tightly. “But my livelihood depends on my apple sales. What with my storage building destroyed, the threat of the ‘New Apple' from Eden Corporation, and all the other pests and problems I have to deal with on a day-to-day basis, I'll be lucky to keep my bed-and-breakfast going, let alone my orchard. If I lose all this, I'm out on the street.”

The growing tension between Honey and Roman was abruptly broken by the sound of someone knocking on the front door. After three quick raps, the door opened and the visitor let himself in. We all looked over at the grinning, ruddy-complexioned man with bright red hair. He wore a blue parka zipped to the neck, baggy denim pants, and work boots. He raised a gloved hand and gave a wave to the group, then removed the gloves and unzipped the jacket.

“Am I intruding?” he asked as he slid off his jacket, revealing a plaid flannel shirt and overalls. He swiped his curly red hair back in an attempt to tame it, but those curls would never be tamed. Besides, he needn't have bothered. He was pretty adorable just the way he was, with those freckles and that red hair, like someone out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I shot a
glance at Aunt Abby and saw her eyelashes flashing double time, the incorrigible flirt.

“Red!” Honey exclaimed, moving from the fireplace to greet him. All of her building anger seemed to dissipate as she gave him a big hug. “I'm so glad you could stop by and meet my weekend guests.”

“Well, you did invite me,” Red said, suddenly looking a little self-conscious as he glanced at the group.

Honey wrapped an arm around the man and gave him a squeeze. “Everyone, I want you to meet my dearest friend and companion, Roscoe Cortland, the largest apple grower in the county. Everyone calls him Red. He owns the Red Apple Farm, just down the road from me. In fact, he's the one who first saw the smoke on my property and called the fire department. If it hadn't been for Red, I might have lost everything.”

“Unfortunately not in time to save the storage building,” Red added. Honey slid her hand into his.

“You did your best,” she said. “I thank you for that.”

He gave her a sweet smile. She blushed.

Well, how about that? These two were a couple! And why not? They looked about the same age—forty-something. Honey appeared to be single—she hadn't mentioned a husband, nor had I seen another man around the place. Besides, they had a lot in common. Like apples.

Roman stood up and reached out a hand. “I'm Roman Gold,” he said, introducing himself.

Honey turned to Red. “Mr. Gold is writing an
article about the Apple Fest and he's featuring my bed-and-breakfast inn. Isn't that nice?”

All of her hostility toward the reporter seemed to have disappeared.

“Nice to meet you,” Red said. “If you want to see my farm, come by any time and I'll give you a tour.”

Roman turned to Paula, who hadn't said a word and was still curled up on the couch looking sleepy. “This is my, uh, photographer, Paula Hayashi. She'll be taking photos for the article. Maybe she can stop by?”

Paula gave Red a half smile and said, “Hey.” Her long black hair fell over half her face and she shook it back.

“Ma'am,” Red said in greeting.

I thought I saw Paula wince a little. Still young, she didn't like the title “Ma'am,” I sensed. Then again, what woman did, no matter what her age?

Jake rose and offered his hand. “Jake Miller.”

Red shook his hand.

“This is his friend Darcy Burnett and Darcy's aunt, Abby Warner,” Honey explained. “Abby owns a food truck and she's participating in the festival tomorrow, with her special salted caramel-apple tarts. And Jake makes yummy cream puffs filled with some kind of apple custard.”

“Welcome, all of you, to our peaceful valley,” Red said. I scooted over to give the man some room to join us on the couch while Honey reached for the bottle of wine.

“Got any of that apple beer, Honey Bear?” Red asked.

Honey smiled and set down the wine bottle. “I'll be right back.”

Red grabbed a handful of apple chips that had remained untouched by the rest of us and settled back on the couch. After a brief go-round of banal questions from him such as “Where you all from?” and “How was the drive?” Abby, the shameless flirt, turned her green eyes on Red and batted her eyelashes. She just couldn't help herself, even if the man was attached to her friend.

“Tell us about
you
, Red,” she said, taking a coquettish sip of her wine. “What's it like being an apple farmer?”

Red shrugged. “I don't know anything else. I grew up on the farm. My dad handed it over to me just before he died. My great-grandfather started out with pears until the blight wiped out the crop. That's when he turned to apples.”

“Goodness,” Abby said, “that must have been awful.”

“A whole generation of growers was nearly ruined,” Honey said, reappearing from the kitchen. She carried a large tray that held some kind of dessert—apple based, no doubt—along with a single “Wise Apple” beer. “That's why we're so concerned about our future crops.” She set down the tray and handed the beer to Red. “I've been telling my guests about the GMO apple situation.”

Honey sat down and began slicing up what looked
like apple upside-down cake with some kind of glazed drizzle on top. It smelled heavenly.

Roman spoke up. “Honey seems to be quite worried about these modified apples, concerned they might have an impact on Apple Valley's industry. What's your take on it, Red, if I may call you that?”

“Red, it is.” He took a slug of his beer before answering. “Well, we apple growers are concerned enough to band together and try to put a stop to this GMO nonsense. One of the farmers here, Adam Bramley—he's head of the American Apple Association—he organized a group called NoMoGMOs to fight them. None of us wants to lose our farms and our income, and we're not gonna just do nothing and let that happen, right, Honey Bear?”

Red Cortland was proving to be as passionate and outspoken as his Honey Bear. Was the threat of these GMO apples really that viable?

I remembered the recent fires and asked Red, “I heard Honey's fire was arson. Any idea who might have done that?”

Honey and Red shared a look. Red set down his beer and shifted his weight on the couch. “We're looking into it,” he said mysteriously. “Meanwhile, I'm gonna make sure nothing like this happens again. Honey lives here by herself, you know, and I'm divorced, so we're talking about me moving in with her, now that some crazy fire-starter is running around the county.”

“Oh, Red, there's only been two fires, and I'm fine. These people don't need to hear about all this.”

Red shook his head. “You're a brave woman, Honey Bear, but until we catch whoever's done this, I won't rest.” With that he took the proffered plate of apple cake from her hands, picked up his fork, and went to work on it as if he were plowing a field.

•   •   •

We made small talk for the next half hour—nice weather for fall, best places for various apple treats, what it takes to run a farm—avoiding the hot topic of GMO fruits. I was about to signal Jake that we retire when there came another knock on the door.

“Who could that be at this hour?” Honey asked, checking the clock that hung over the fireplace.

It was nine thirty, a little late for uninvited callers, and I hoped the night wouldn't drag on much longer with this new arrival. I was pooped and ready to hit the hay.

“I didn't invite anyone else,” she added.

Honey went to the door and opened it. In stepped a tall, gangly man wearing khaki slacks and a long-sleeved brown V-neck sweater with a tan shirt underneath. He was good-looking, tall, with tan skin and a full head of mostly dark hair that matched his trendy goatee. By the look of the intruding silver along his hairline, I guessed him to be in his forties as well.

“Sorry to intrude,” he said to Honey when he noticed us all the parlor, “but I saw the lights on and figured you were up. You have guests, I see.”

“You're always welcome here, Nathan,” Honey said. “We were just talking about the festival and my guests want to know all about it. I'm sure you can
share a few inside stories and tips on where to find the best apple treats.” She turned to us. “Everyone, this is Nathan Chapman, the festival organizer and the man to talk to if you want any information about Apple Fest.”

“Chapman?” Roman said. “As in John Chapman, better known as Johnny Appleseed?”

Nathan grinned and nodded. “Yes, sir. I'm a descendant of his brother, Nathaniel. My great-great-grand-uncle helped turned this valley into apple orchards, a long, long time ago.”

Nathan Chapman! I immediately recognized the name from the article I read and the audiobook I'd been listening to.

Nathan entered the parlor, nodded at everyone, gave me a leering smile with bloodshot eyes. I had a feeling he was drunk and undressing me with his eyes, and I looked away. Roman and Jake were about to rise when he said, “Don't get up. I'm just passing through.” He returned to Honey still standing in the doorway and said quietly, “I wanted to talk to you about something, Honey, but I can see you're busy entertaining. It can wait.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“No hurry at all,” he answered, the grin seemingly frozen on his face.

“Well, why don't you join us for a glass of Wise Apple's new release?” she suggested.

Nathan's smile suddenly vanished. “You're serving Crystal's wine?” He shot a look at Red, who shrugged.

What was that all about? I wondered.

Honey linked her arm in his and dragged him back to the parlor. He stood between two couches, waving away offers to sit down, while Honey poured him a glass of wine. He took it and downed half the glass.