Rotten to the Core (13 page)

“You don’t like him,” Bree said bluntly.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s the chief investigator. He has to investigate. But you know, I get the feeling nobody liked Jason much. And that includes his so-called friends.”

Bree took a large bite of toast and swallowed before answering. “The GreenGrow bunch, you mean?”

Meg decided not to mention Christopher’s guarded comments. Technically Bree was still a student, and it might not be appropriate to know what her faculty advisor was thinking. “Yes, and maybe some of his colleagues at the university as well. I didn’t see you at the wake on Friday.”

“You went? I thought it would be hypocritical for me to show up. I wasn’t about to mourn for the guy.”

“Fair enough. Look, Bree, you knew Jason, and you know about the organic groups around here. Would any of them have reason to want him dead? Was he really important enough to kill? Or was he just plain obnoxious? Not that that’s enough of a reason to kill anyone, but sometimes it’s tempting.”

That comment brought a lopsided smile from Bree. She helped herself to more coffee, clearly more relaxed. “Nobody’s said it’s murder yet. But, yeah, I can think of some people . . .” Her smile faded, and she leaned forward, both elbows on the table, cradling her coffee mug. “Okay, here’s the thing. A few years ago, Jason was kind of the wonder boy of the department, right? Smart, charming, funny. Kind of superfocused, but not in your face, if you know what I mean. But then he started to change. I guess that’s about the time I met him. He got more and more extreme. He’d started up GreenGrow with a buddy of his—”

“Michael Fisher. I had lunch with him.”

Bree looked startled, but she continued on with what she had been saying. “Well, for a while it went really well, but then Jason started trying to push a harder line, and that turned some people off and they dropped out. But he wasn’t willing to compromise. I remember one argument—” Bree stopped abruptly.

“Bree, if you’re worried about implicating someone, you don’t have to tell me,” Meg said.

“It’s not that, exactly. Maybe I got it wrong. But once, when we were at the GreenGrow offices, Jason and Michael really got into it. Michael’s a good guy, and he’s better at handling publicity stuff than Jason ever was, only Jason wouldn’t admit it. They disagreed about a lot of things.”

“But this was two years ago, right?” Meg asked. “And both Jason and Michael stayed with GreenGrow?”

“They worked it out. Sometimes Jason listened to Michael. And Michael didn’t really like being the public face, so he was happy to let Jason do that kind of stuff. At least until lately.”

“What changed?”

“I haven’t been involved with GreenGrow for a while, you know? But I heard things from other people. Jason just seemed to be getting more and more out there. Like he was on a crusade.”

Meg nodded. “I think I see what you’re saying.” She thought for a moment before adding, “You think he was unstable?”

Bree considered. “I hadn’t thought of that. You mean, like he was flipping out?” She finished her second piece of toast before going on. “You think the detective ought to know that? Maybe Jason went to health services or something, and there’s a file on him. Although I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t admit he had that kind of problem. He was always right and the rest of the world was wrong, you know?”

Briefly Meg weighed the option of presenting Marcus with this piece of insight—and rejected it. “Jason might have been overzealous, but that’s not necessarily a sign of mental illness. Which leaves us with Jason being annoying, and that’s not usually enough reason to kill someone.”

“You didn’t know Jason,” Bree muttered darkly.

“No, I didn’t. One more thing: do you think he was suicidal?”

Bree snorted. “Jason? No way. He had all the answers, and everyone who disagreed with him was just plain stupid. To kill himself would be to admit that he was wrong and they were right, and he wasn’t about to do that.”

Meg wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disturbed: if it wasn’t suicide, then Jason must have been murdered. “Listen, Bree . . .” Meg hesitated, unsure of how to phrase her next question. “Are we all right? I mean, you and me, and the job and all?”

Bree looked startled. “What? You having second thoughts?”

“No! I just wondered if you were. I mean, finding a body here, someone you knew . . . That could make some people uncomfortable.”

“I can handle it. I mean, sure, I’m sorry he’s dead, I guess, and I wish it had been someone else, someone I didn’t know, or he’d been found somewhere else, or . . . You know what I mean. But I still want to work for you. If you want me.”

“I do,” Meg replied firmly.

“Thanks. I can finish moving in soon—it’s just as easy to commute to classes from here, and the dorms are so noisy, it’s hard to get much done.”

“That’s fine with me. By the way, Seth was here yesterday, and he said he’d talked to you about building the apple storage chamber in the barn.”

“Yeah, we talked about it. Nice having a plumber to work with—he knows what I’m saying.”

“He’ll probably be doing a lot of the construction work himself, or at least supervising it. You haven’t seen the inside of the barn, have you?”

“Nope, not yet. We need to do a walk-through.”

The cat had stationed herself halfway between Meg and Bree, clearly hoping for some fallout from breakfast but not exactly begging.

“Any idea for a name?”

“What? Oh, you mean the cat?” Bree studied the cat for a moment. “Lavinia.”

“Why?”

“Emily Dickinson’s sister. Lived at home, never married. Liked cats, a lot.”

Meg laughed. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve lived in Amherst for four years, and I took an English class. She was called Vinnie for short.”

Meg regarded the cat. “Vinnie?” The cat stood up, stretched, and left the room. Meg turned back to Bree. “Was that a yes or a no?”

“You’ve never had a cat, have you?”

“No. My mother had allergies.”

“I’m guessing no. Vinnie sounds like a guy’s name anyway. What else you got?”

“Lavvie? No, that’s not even a name. How about Lolly?”

“Give it a try.”

“Lolly?” Meg called out tentatively. No sign of the cat.

“Yo, Lolly!” Bree said loudly, and the cat reappeared in the doorway. “Guess that works.” She stood up and then knelt to give the cat a head rub. “Hi, Lolly-cat.” Then she turned back to Meg. “Hey, why don’t we take a look at that barn again? I want to know what kind of space I’m working with.”

Meg followed her outside and led the way to the barn. She opened the padlock, then hauled back the door. Seth had moved it easily; Meg hadn’t realized how heavy it was. She let Bree enter first, watching her: was she deliberately avoiding looking at the corner where the pesticide had been?
Meg, you’re getting paranoid.

They spent a pleasant half hour examining the barn and discussing what kind of chamber Meg would need. Bree was well informed about concepts and technical details, but less so about costs.

“So, Bree, tell me, what size crop should I expect?”

Bree puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. “That’s not an easy one. You should ask Christopher.”

“I will, but I just wanted a ballpark number. I’ve got fifteen acres, right? So what kind of yield per acre am I looking at?”

“Depends on a lot of things, like weather and pests. And then some apples vary a lot from year to year—like Baldwins. They tend to bear in alternate years.”

“Bree! Just give me some idea, will you?”

“Okay, okay. In an average year, with decent weather and no disasters, maybe five-fifty to six hundred bushels an acre.”

“Wow!” Meg did some quick math. “So that means maybe nine thousand bushels for the season?”

“More or less. And you’re going to need more than one unit.”

“What?” Seth hadn’t said anything about that.

“Yup. Different varieties of apple like different conditions. We can juggle a little, but I still think we’re gonna need two.”

“Great,” Meg said glumly. More materials, more costs. Meg had a business degree and a few years of hands-on experience in municipal finance, and all her training told her that she should take the easiest route and just ship the apples off to somebody and not worry about optimizing her profits by holding them. So far she was seeing a whole lot of investment and not much return—not good business.

Bree must have sensed her dismay. “Hey, it’s not that big a deal.”

“Easy for you to say—you’re not writing the checks.” Maybe she could get a home equity loan. But first she’d have to convince someone that there would be an income.

“What’re you doing about a truck?” Bree’s voice interrupted her dip into self-pity. Unfortunately the question didn’t improve her mood.

“Shoot, I hadn’t even thought about that. And what about boxes or crates or whatever I’m supposed to be putting the apples in?” Meg was embarrassed by the hint of hysteria in her tone.

“Hey, Meg, chill. Let me work up a list of what you’re going to need and where we can get the stuff. Too bad your relatives here didn’t hang on to some of that. Sure looks like they hung onto everything else, doesn’t it?”

A half hour later she watched Bree pull out of the driveway. As far as she could tell, Bree and Seth were on the same page about this storage thing she needed, and it sounded as though it would be relatively simple to assemble, although the equipment would no doubt be expensive. Just like everything else on the property.

Monday morning Meg found a mailed flyer in her mailbox announcing a public meeting of GreenGrow, to be held at a senior citizens center on the fringes of Amherst. It must have been sent before her lunch with Michael, yet it had her name on it, rather than “Occupant.” She felt vaguely troubled, although there was nothing menacing about the folded sheet itself. And she hadn’t exactly been invisible in the Granford area over the past couple of months, so her presence was common knowledge. Still, Jason had known about her orchard; had he sent this to her before he died?

She looked again at the flyer, apparently run off quickly at a local copy shop on cheap paper, with labels slapped on askew—clearly an amateur production. But if she wanted information about GreenGrow’s position, what they offered, what they fought against, the best way to find out would be to attend the meeting. Maybe even ask questions, if she could figure out what she needed to know. She checked the date: tomorrow night at seven.

Meg was still standing at the mailbox, her mail in her hand, when a regrettably familiar car pulled in, one with the Massachusetts State Police seal emblazoned on the door. It came to a stop, and Detective Marcus climbed out of the driver’s seat, while another officer emerged from the passenger side. Marcus’s face offered no warmth, but Meg didn’t expect any from him.

“Detective, what can I do for you today?”
Might as well be polite.

“Ms. Corey, I’m going to have to search your outbuildings.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I do. This isn’t a request. Are the buildings locked?”

“Yes, I keep them locked. The keys are in the house. I’ll get them for you.”

Meg turned and went back into the house by the kitchen door. So Marcus was taking Seth’s information seriously, although that horse was already out of the barn, so to speak. She deposited the mail on the kitchen table, then snagged the cluster of keys from its hook on the way and went back outside. “Let me unlock them for you.”

The detective held out his hand. “I’ll do that.”

Meg wondered briefly if she should protest, and if she should tag along after him in case he wanted to ask her anything. She decided against both. She wasn’t hiding anything, and she knew so little about the barn that she would have trouble answering any questions, which would make her look either stupid or evasive, neither of which would help. “I’ll wait inside until you’re done.”

“Fine,” he replied, then turned away and led the officer toward the barn door. Meg watched as they unlocked the padlock and slid the door back, then disappeared into the dark interior. Meg went back to her kitchen and busied herself with tidying up the few dishes she had left. Lolly strolled in, cleaned off the last few crumbs of food on her plate, then leapt up onto a counter and began washing her face. Meg watched, wondering if she was supposed to object. Did she want a cat on her counter? But the house was perennially filthy, with plaster dust and who knew what dirt of the ages kicked up by the wheezing furnace, so the presence of a cat could hardly add much. She’d have to see if Lolly was smart enough to stay away from the stove.

It was close to an hour later when the detective completed his tour of the barn. He knocked at the back door, and Meg let him in. “You’re finished?”

“I have a few questions for you.”

“Sit down, please. What do you want to know?”