Red Delicious Death (9 page)

Art’s statement met with a few seconds of shocked silence.

Finally Seth said, “So someone shoved him into the muck and held him down until he suffocated?”

“Oh, God, Art,” Meg whispered. “That means it
is
murder. How awful.”

Art’s face was grim. “Exactly. I don’t have to ask you to keep this quiet, do I? I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you knew the guy and his friends. In fact, you’re probably about the only people in town who did.”

Meg, Seth, and Bree exchanged wary glances. “Damn!” Meg said. “Does that mean that Marcus is going to want to talk to us?”

Art sat back in his chair, his shirt buttons bulging. “Maybe. Depends on how he wants to handle things. I think he’ll probably downplay the whole murder angle, at least for now. The press is going to be all over this, you know. And it doesn’t make Granford look good.”

Seth asked, “He wasn’t killed somewhere else and dumped there, was he?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Footprints were kind of messed up, but his car was found a mile or two away—of course, the state police are checking that out. No obvious tire tracks, although the lane to the piggery was pretty dry—the only muck was along the verge and in the pen itself, so maybe tire tracks wouldn’t show. But I don’t think anyone could have carried him—he had to run a good 220 pounds. Most likely he died on that spot. Any idea what he might’ve been doing out there?”

Meg finished the last of her beer, now lukewarm. “Nicky said that he was looking for suppliers, remember? I suppose that included pigs—pork. What kind of operation does the farmer run? I don’t know anything about raising pigs.”

“Jake Kellogg’s got a real nice setup,” Seth volunteered. “A couple of acres, maybe a dozen pigs at a time. I think he sells to a couple of local restaurants. Anyway, his pigs live in little huts in a field, at least in warm weather, and they can roam around. He feeds ’em real well, too. All pig operations smell, but this one’s well sited, and there’s nobody downwind to complain.”

“What’s Jake like?” Meg asked. “I don’t think I’ve met him.”

“Probably not. He’s not the most sociable guy. He’s got to be fifty-odd now, but he’s in good shape. He and his wife raised four kids there—the youngest is still at home. The rest live in-state, but they aren’t interested in the farm.”

“Is he the type to overreact to trespassers?” Meg asked.

“Nah, not Jake,” Art responded. “He’s pretty easygoing. Besides, nobody’s going to wander along a back lane and walk off with a pig, are they? And before you ask, I don’t think physically he could have hauled Sam around himself . . .” Art finished dubiously.

“Jake had a hernia operation a couple of months ago,” Seth added. “I’d wager he saves the heavy lifting for pig food.”

“Seth, how do you know everything about everyone?” Meg asked, half-admiring, half-baffled.

“I talk to people, that’s all. And Mom took them over a casserole, when he got out of the hospital. She’s known him forever, and his wife.”

Art interrupted, “Maybe you all can tell me more about Nicky and Brian? Seeing as they’re newcomers. You folks and Frances are probably the only ones who’ve spent much time with them.”

“You think they might have killed their business partner? Who was also their friend?” Meg bristled at Art’s implication: suspect the outsiders. Of course, Sam was an outsider, too. It certainly would be much tidier if they had kept it in their little outsider circle.

Art was still talking. “You’re the one who brought them to Granford, right, Meg?”

Meg nodded reluctantly. “A friend of mine from Boston knew them. She called me and said that a young couple was looking for a place out here to open a restaurant, using local products. They’d checked the obvious places, Northampton and Amherst, and decided they couldn’t afford either of them, so I told Frances Clark, and she found some places in Granford for them to look at. They loved the Stebbins house as soon as they saw it, and the deal went through quickly.”

“Was Sam Anderson part of the deal?”

“You mean, did he put money up? He was a working partner, at least. I think Nicky said he chipped in what he could, but I don’t know whose names are on the deed. I gather most of the money came from a wedding present from Nicky’s father. I just did a friend of a friend a favor, putting them together with a real estate broker. And I thought Granford could use a decent restaurant.” Meg was having trouble controlling her voice. Sam, dead? He had seemed so vital, so enthusiastic, when he had stopped by.

“Meg,” Seth said gently, “Art isn’t accusing you of anything. You acted with the best of intentions, and I’m sure everything was aboveboard.”

“Sorry,” Meg said, contrite. “I guess I’m feeling kind of defensive.”

“Meg, I didn’t mean to point any fingers at you,” Art said. “Or at Nicky and Brian. They seem like good kids. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land here. And I’m sure Detective Marcus will be asking the same kinds of questions.”

“And I’m sure he’ll find an excuse to badger me,” Meg replied. “For the record, as far as I know, Nicky, Brian, and Sam are exactly what they say they are: nice young people who want to start a business in a small town, a town that can really use the business. I have no idea why Sam is dead, or who would have wanted to kill him.” Meg glanced briefly at Bree, who gave her a small nod.

Bree had been quietly following the conversation, until now. “Chief, Sam was gay,” Bree said flatly. “I saw him around a couple of Northampton bars I’ve heard about. I don’t know if he hooked up with anybody—he’s only been here a couple of weeks, right? But that’s not a motive to kill anybody around here, is it?” Bree challenged the police chief.

Art responded, “Of course not, but that’s something to check out. Not that Anderson was killed because of his sexual preferences, but it’s possible he got mixed up with the wrong person over there. Could he have been meeting someone out at Kellogg’s? He wouldn’t have a lot of privacy, living over the restaurant with Nicky and Brian.”

“So he went looking for a nice private field?” Bree scoffed.

Meg intervened. “Bree, I don’t think that’s what Art meant.” Bree subsided, but she still looked stormy.

“You going to tell Marcus?” Bree asked.

Art sighed. “I think I have to, but I don’t have to tell him you told me, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“So we should expect a visit from our favorite detective?” Meg asked, not without bitterness.

“Probably just a formality, Meg. Like I said, you knew all three of them.” Art checked his watch, then stood up. “I’ll get out of your hair now. I’ll let you know if I hear anything new.”

Meg stood, too. “Thanks for the barbecue and the food. What do I owe you?”

Art stepped back in mock dismay. “For shame, Meg—can’t you accept a simple gift? Didn’t cost much. And I’ll make it back in cheesy jokes about ‘grilling my suspects.’ ”

“Don’t you dare! All right, thank you for the gift. It was very thoughtful of you, and I will think of you every time I grill something.”

Meg said good-bye and watched Art pull out of the driveway, then rejoined Bree and Seth, who were talking about apples. She picked up a few pieces of discarded lettuce and wandered over to the goat pen to offer the snack to them. The goats accepted eagerly.

Seth joined her by the fence. “Nicky was really broken up by Sam’s death. I can’t see her killing anyone, unless someone criticized her cooking and she took a chef’s knife to them.”

Meg kept her eyes on the goats, who stared back. “But you don’t think that about Brian?”

Seth sighed. “Meg, don’t read something into everything anyone says. I didn’t see Brian’s first reaction, and when he showed up at the restaurant, he was mainly concerned with comforting Nicky. So I’m not going to judge one way or the other. I don’t think either one of them is a killer, but I’ve been wrong before.”

Meg turned to face him, leaning against a fencepost. “I can’t see one of them killing Sam either, but we’ve
both
been wrong. Damn it! I like them. Think they’ll cut and run now, if it really is murder?”

Seth watched the goats meander away, once the lettuce was gone. “I don’t know. I hope not, on behalf of the town. Heck, even for myself—I can use the work, and I kind of wanted some good food, too. I won’t push them, but if they want to open in September, they’ve got a lot to do between now and then. They can’t afford to waffle about it.”

“Don’t they get any time to grieve?”

Seth was quick to reply. “Of course. They can push the date back. Or they can throw in the towel. It’s up to them.”

“And if they do decide to stay, now they have to find a new sous chef. You have any ideas about that?”

Seth’s eyes grew distant. “Maybe. There used to be a decent diner at the east end of town—closed a few years ago when the last owner died. They had a cook working for them who was pretty good, name of Edna Blakely. She would have bought the place, but she couldn’t round up the money. She’s been kicking around, working here and there, ever since. Maybe she’d be interested.”

“If Brian and Nicky go forward, you could mention her. You know, Seth, it never ceases to amaze me how you know everybody in town, and their entire life histories. What would this town do without you?”

“Muddle along, just like they have for the past two or three hundred years. Still, I like to help out.”

“I know. And I’m grateful. I don’t know what
I
would have done without you.”

“You would have muddled through, too—you’re not a quitter.” Seth moved closer. “But I’m glad you stuck it out, and I’m glad I could help.”

“Mmmm.” Meg closed the gap between them. The goats watched them with interest.

Meg spent the next few days worrying, even as she kept busy with orchard-related tasks. She hadn’t heard from Detective Marcus, for which she was grateful. Nor had she heard from Nicky, but Meg hesitated to intrude on her grieving.

Finally Nicky called. Without preamble she said, “Meg, would you and Seth meet us here at the house this afternoon?”

“Sure, I can be there. Although I don’t know where Seth is.”

“That’s okay, I’ll call him. How about two o’clock?”

“That’s fine. See you then.” Nicky hung up before Meg could ask anything further.

Meg looked down at her cat, Lolly, who was taking a leisurely bath in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Well, cat, what do you think? Is she going to tell me that they’ve had enough of Granford and they’re running back to Boston?”

Lolly gave Meg a brief glance and resumed washing.

“Gee, thanks. You’re a big help.” With or without the cat’s input, Meg really wasn’t sure which way Nicky and Brian would decide. She didn’t know them well, not enough to guess, so she’d have to wait to find out.

Meg went back to her chores, which kept growing week to week. Feed cat, feed goats. The painting of the ground-floor windows was nearly done, but apparently she should repoint the foundation before winter, whatever that meant. During the few trips she had made to the basement to check on the furnace, she had noticed plenty of air whistling through the gaps in the fieldstone. Of course, once she had an income from the orchard, she could probably take out a home equity loan for the improvements, but she didn’t want to saddle herself with payments, and she’d probably be depressed by how little the house was worth, particularly in the current economic climate. Cash would be better.
Don’t I sound like an old Yankee?
Meg chided herself. At least the apple storage compartments were paid for out of her severance pay—although she suspected that Seth had undercharged her. Still, it was a fair trade-off for the space he occupied in the barn. She reflected again on how convenient it was to have a plumber and handyman around. For repairs, of course . . . and for other things.

Meg left the house in good time for her two o’clock date at the restaurant, but as she drove past the green, she caught sight of Caroline Goldthwaite struggling to remove something from the trunk of her car, which was parked next to the store. On an impulse Meg pulled in next to her car.

“Can I help you with that?” she asked, getting out of the car.

Mrs. Goldthwaite straightened up, not without difficulty, and faced her. “Meg Corey, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Let me get those for you.”

Mrs. Goldthwaite moved to block Meg’s path. “I’m perfectly capable of handling a few potted plants, thank you.”

Meg stopped, surprised at the hint of rudeness in Mrs. Goldthwaite’s tone. Maybe she didn’t like to be reminded of her age? “I’m sorry. I only meant to help.”

Mrs. Goldthwaite shut her eyes for a moment. “Perhaps I overreacted. And I would appreciate your assistance. I prefer to use well-established plants, rather than wait for seedlings to grow. They seem to take so long, and they look rather sparse until they leaf out. But the larger pots are a bit heavy.”

“I can understand that.” Meg reached into the trunk and pulled out a pair of red geraniums in six-inch plastic pots. “Where do you want these?” she asked.