Golden Malicious (Apple Orchard Mystery) (7 page)

When Meg and Seth pulled into Meg’s driveway, Art Preston was leaning against the fence talking to Meg’s goats, Dorcas and Isabel, and his car was parked in the drive. Meg climbed out and gathered up several bags of vegetables. They’d stopped off at the farmer’s market on their way back.

“Hi, Art,” she called out. “Getting your goat fix?”

He gave Dorcas and Isabel one last pat each, then strolled over. “I was having an intelligent conversation. They’re good listeners.”

“More likely they’re hungry and they were hoping you were hiding something tasty. What brings you here?”

“Marcus was kind enough to share reports on your late logger, and I thought I’d drop off copies on the way home.”

“He’s not
my
logger, thank goodness. I’m surprised Marcus was willing to part with the information so easily.”

“I guess he figured there was nothing controversial in them.”

Meg concurred. “You want to stay for dinner? We’re throwing together something that involves vegetables, although we haven’t decided what yet.”

“Sure, why not? My wife’s visiting her sister on Cape Cod.”

“Then come on in. I think I’ve got beer.” Meg pulled open the screen door and wrestled her full bags through. “Bree?” she called out.

“Yo,” came the answer from somewhere upstairs, and then Bree came pounding down the stairs. “Hey, hi, Art. Something new happen?”

“Hey, Bree. No, nothing important. I’m just delivering some reports, and Meg asked me to stay for dinner.”

“Are you going to be around, Bree?” Meg asked. “I think it’s something vegetarian, although I’m not sure what. I couldn’t make up my mind what to get at the food stand, so I got a couple of everything, and it’s all better eaten fresh.”

“Curry?” Bree suggested.

“Veggie curry? Sure, but you’ll have to show me how to make it.”

“Where do you want this stuff?” Seth asked, coming inside with several more bags.

“On the kitchen table. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

As both Meg and Seth unpacked their haul, the table began to overflow with bright summer colors: a variety of lettuces, fresh herbs, small peppers, tomatoes, and more. “I should take a picture of this,” Meg said. “Bree, you sure we shouldn’t put in our own vegetable garden?”

“When you’ve got good stuff like this available from that organic farm only a mile or two away? Let them do it—looks like they’re doing a great job. Hey, you guys, why don’t you do the chopping? You can talk and chop at the same time, can’t you?” Bree grinned at Seth and Art, then handed them knives and cutting boards. She washed a batch of the vegetables in a colander, shook off the water, and put them on the table between Seth and Art, then set out a couple of large knives. “Go!”

Meg handed out beers all around, then sat down to admire the men’s efforts. “Anything jump out at you from the reports Marcus sent, Art?”

“I only glanced at them. The guy arrived under his own steam—his car was in the parking area. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, specifically the back, and nobody’s committing to anything. Could be somebody hit him from behind with something. Or, could be he tripped and fell backward and hit his head, although for someone used to forests it’s hard to see that. Still, accidents happen.”

“If he fell, why was he found under some bushes off the path?” Seth asked.

“Playing devil’s advocate, are you? But it’s a fair question, and there are several possible answers. For one, blows to the head are notoriously tricky. Clapp might not have been rendered unconscious immediately and might have tried to get help but ended up going the wrong direction because he was disoriented by the blow. Or he might have been knocked out at first, then woke up and started crawling, likewise the wrong way.”

“He could have been trying to hide from whoever hit him,” Bree volunteered, as she chopped large quantities of basil, whose pungent odor quickly filled the kitchen.

“That would work—
if
there was someone else involved. Or the final possibility: somebody knocked him out, killing him, accidentally or on purpose, and then dragged him into the bushes to hide him. But there’s no evidence that anyone else was there. Or rather, there’s lots of evidence that many people were there, like hikers, but nothing that points to any individual.”

“He wasn’t dragged by a bear or anything like that, was he?” Meg asked, suppressing a shudder at the thought.

“No marks on the body to suggest that, per the report,” Art said.

“You said the blow came from behind?” Seth asked, slicing peppers.

“Yeah,” Art said, “by someone right-handed. Unless he fell.”

“Defensive wounds? Signs of a struggle?”

“Jeez, people—listen to yourselves,” Bree said, laughing. “Who’s playing Sherlock Holmes now?”

“I’m trying for Columbo,” Art said with a smile. “Make people think I’m harmless and then I zap them with the right question.”

“Bree, we’re just trying to work out how it happened,” Meg protested. “Was there blood, Art?”

“Oh, ick, you all—we’re making dinner here,” Bree said.

“No blood. You want me to cover putrefaction next, Bree?” Art asked.

To forestall that subject, Meg jumped in. “Have they figured out
when
he died?”

“Best guess, maybe twenty-four hours before you found him, which would make it Sunday sometime. Now, Marcus did confirm that Clapp was working for the logging company that Nash uses, but nobody there sent him out on a Sunday. Although his crew said their next cut was scheduled for the end of the month, so Clapp could have been out there tagging trees for that. He lived close enough that he might have stopped by to get ahead of the game.”

“So let me get this straight,” Seth said slowly. “David Clapp, who was familiar with the site, goes out to check out the trees and tag for the next cut. Either he falls over backward, hits his head, and crawls away from the path, or somebody comes up behind him and whacks him in the head, then hides the body?”

“Maybe. If that’s what happened, the attacker didn’t do a very good job of hiding Clapp’s body. It was out of sight, but not all that far from a path that’s used regularly. Even Meg noticed the, uh, evidence. On the other hand, could be Clapp tripped over a root and fell over backward, hitting his head, then got up again and stumbled his way under a bush,” Art said amiably.

“Come on, Art—what’s your guess?” Seth challenged.

Art sighed. “I don’t think he fell,” he said carefully, “but it’s not ruled out. And that, I’m sorry to say, was Marcus’s conclusion. He hasn’t exactly closed the file, but he has no reason to suspect anyone else was involved, and no evidence to work with.”

“I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed,” Meg said. “We already knew he wasn’t robbed, because Marcus retrieved his wallet while we were there. Has he looked into why on earth anyone would want him dead? Any enemies? What do we know about David Clapp?”

“The state police are still interviewing his colleagues, family, friends,” Art said. “There’s nobody obvious, like an ex-wife or a jealous workmate. Good family man, couple of sons. If you’re wondering why nobody was looking for him, sometimes he spent a couple of days in different areas in this part of the state planning for the next cuttings, so he wasn’t always home at night. He hadn’t been where you found him for long, Meg. You’d be surprised how fast decomp sets in, especially in weather like this. Anyway, he had no debt beyond his mortgage. No criminal record—not even a speeding ticket. Most people said they liked him, and he pulled his own weight on the crew. Model citizen all around.”

“What if he stumbled onto something he wasn’t supposed to see?” Bree chipped in, mixing herbs and spices in a food processor.

“Out in the woods? Like what? A Druid coven performing human sacrifice? There’s nothing there but trees. No rare, exotic flowers or birds or snakes that would interfere with their harvesting trees. Just woods.”

“No buildings on the property?” Seth asked.

“Nope. There’s a portable john for picnickers near the parking area, and that’s it.”

“You people are ridiculous—why do you
want
to think it was anything more than an accident? He was a good guy and it’s too bad he died, but that’s all there is. And you chop way too slowly. Hand it over—I want to start cooking,” Bree demanded.

“So where does that leave us?” Meg asked. “An ordinary guy going about his business dies or is killed—by accident or by someone unknown—for no apparent reason?”

“There’s almost always a reason when someone is killed, but in this case nobody’s found it yet,” Art reminded her. “And we have no reason to think he was killed. Look, the simplest answer, and without any other evidence, the one Marcus is most likely to choose, is that the guy tripped, hit his head, crawled in the wrong direction, and died. There’s nothing in the file or from the autopsy that contradicts that solution. I’d bet Marcus is going to close this case quickly.”

“I’m starting the rice,” Bree broke in. “Dinner in fifteen. And I agree with Art—the simplest solution is the most logical one here. You don’t really have to find evil plots
all
the time, Meg.”

Meg held up her hands. “Okay, I surrender! Another beer, guys?”

The talk turned to other things over dinner, followed by ice cream. Art went home shortly afterward, leaving the folder of photocopies with them. Bree excused herself and headed up to her room.

“You want to sit outside for a while?” Seth asked Meg.

“If I’ve still got bug repellent,” Meg answered.

“Water’s down in the Great Meadow, you know,” Seth replied. “That means fewer mosquitoes.”

“The one good part of this drought I keep trying to forget about, I guess. Sure, let’s go watch the bats come out of the barn.”

They made their way through the gathering dusk to the pair of Adirondack chairs overlooking the Meadow that lay behind Meg’s old barn. Meg dropped into one with a sigh. “I don’t know why I should be tired. I didn’t do any manual labor today. Maybe I’m just frustrated.”

“Why?” Seth asked, settling in the chair beside hers.

“The usual. The house needs some serious repairs that I can’t afford. The orchard needs a permanent irrigation system, which I also can’t afford. Finding that nasty beetle. Not to mention poor David Clapp’s dead body. Sorry, I’ve got that backward: finding David Clapp should be more important than finding the beetle. Or maybe they’re linked. I notice that neither one of us mentioned the beetle angle to Art.”

“Because there’s no evidence that it’s connected,” Seth replied. “What’s the point?”

“None, I guess,” Meg said, but she was still troubled. She decided not to pursue it any further—for now. “How about you? Any unpleasant surprises at Donald’s house?”

“You mean, like bodies falling out of the walls? Nope, it’s pretty straightforward. I may need to get some heavy equipment in to square up the walls again in the corner, but otherwise it’s structurally sound. I love working with the wood, and Jonas puts out a good product. Sometimes sawmills cut corners, like not drying their lumber long enough, and then people like me have problems with it twisting and warping, and the homeowner blames us for the shoddy work. But I can count on Jonas’s wood.”

“I assume it costs more than if you ordered lumber from the big box stores?” Meg asked, feeling the tension seeping out of her body as she relaxed in the dusk.

“Yes, and sometimes customers balk at the extra expense, but not people like Donald, thank goodness. He loves that house.”

Meg could understand that, but she didn’t want to dwell on all the repairs she should be doing on her own house, authentically or otherwise. Looking out over the darkening meadow, she asked, “Do you think this view has changed much since my house was built?”

“Probably not. I think you showed me the documents about grazing rights on the Meadow there, back in the eighteenth century—some years it was simply too wet for cattle. So it’s been wetlands from the beginning. Back in the day the term ‘meadow’ and ‘swamp’ were more or less the same, in some cases. As for the forest beyond? I’d have to look more closely. It’s likely that it was cleared and what you’re looking at is regrowth, but even that’s old now. Why, are you thinking of selling lumber?”

“I never even thought of that. I guess I could have some of the trees cut and made into boards, and hold them until or in case I need them for the house. I like the idea of continuing an old tradition like that.”

“Agreed. Definitely an idea—I can ask Jonas what it would cost. And I—”

“Could probably get a good deal for me,” Meg finished his sentence, laughing. “Put it on the to-do list, page thirty-seven.” Meg reached out a hand, and Seth took it. They sat in peaceful silence, hands linked. Bats emerged from the barn and swooped through the dusk, eliminating their share of mosquitoes.

“I should go in,” Meg said, reluctant to move. “Are you staying?”

Seth’s hand tightened on hers, and then he stood up and pulled her to her feet. “Anytime you want.”

“More coffee, anyone?” Meg waved the pot at Seth and Bree, each reading a section of the paper at the kitchen table the next morning. They mumbled what Meg interpreted as a “no,” so she refilled her own cup and sat down. “Bree, what’s next on the schedule?”

“I’m going to run some soil moisture tests today, but I think we can wait for tomorrow to water again. Although if it’s going to stay hot for a while, we may need to go to a daily schedule. You got some other project you want to jump into? A short one, anyway?”

Meg sat back. “Let’s see—I could put on a new roof, repaint the entire house, build a chicken coop, maybe take up weaving so I could do something useful on those long, cold winter nights. That would mean I’d have to get some sheep, although I suppose I could try spinning goat hair.” Meg stopped when she realized that both Bree and Seth were staring at her as though she had lost her mind. She held up both hands. “Hey, just kidding, guys. But you must have figured out by now that I don’t like to just sit around, especially when the weather is good.”

“You want to come along to Donald’s?” Seth suggested. “Most of the damaged stuff has been cleared away, so I’m about ready to start rebuilding. You could get a good look at eighteenth-century construction, up close. Maybe I could teach you how to plaster, the old-fashioned way.”

“Doesn’t that involve horsehair?” Meg asked.

“No problem—I know—”

“A man with a horse,” Meg completed his sentence. “Sure, sounds like fun. Will Donald mind?”

“As long as you don’t try to suggest modern improvements, he’s happy to have visitors—he loves to talk about his house. And you can learn a lot from him.”

“Sounds good. Oh, and let’s invite your mother to dinner, and maybe Rachel and her clan, since I might have time to cook something nice. Over the weekend, maybe?”

“I’m sure Mom would love to see you,” Seth said amiably.

“Bree, you want to ask Michael to come over, if we do a cookout or something?”

“Maybe.” Her tone was not exactly enthusiastic.

Meg and Seth exchanged a glance. If Bree and Michael were having problems, Bree wasn’t about to confide in her. It was hard enough living with a full-time roommate—with only one bathroom—and Meg tried to give Bree some privacy. Of course, since Seth was around so much, that made it all the more difficult. Meg decided to take the coward’s route and change the subject. “So, Seth, if we’re going to Donald’s, can I be your apprentice? Maybe we could draw up an indenture, or whatever they’re called.”

“I’ll take it under advisement. How do you feel about tools?”

“Power tools that cut, like circular saws, scare me. Drills I can manage.”

“Well, that’s a start. I can show you manual tools that do the same thing, only a lot more slowly. But they build up your muscles.”

“I’ve got plenty of muscles these days from the orchard. You should know.”

“Believe me, I do.”

They smiled at each other, which led Bree to snort. “I’m leaving, so you two can be alone to talk about, uh, tools and stuff.”

“Have a good day,” Meg chirped, with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Ha!” Bree said, and she vanished up the stairs to her room.

Meg turned back to Seth. “Seriously, I’d love to come. Maybe I can carry your toolbox.”

“Works for me,” Seth replied. “Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”

Meg wondered if she owned anything that
didn’t
fit that category. Farmwork required clothing with only a few primary characteristics: primarily, durability, and washability.

Fifteen minutes later they were pulling up in front of Donald’s house. He was waiting for them—poor man, did he never dare leave his property these days? There seemed to be no one else to watch it for him.

“Hey, Donald!” Seth called out. “I brought Meg along—hope you don’t mind.”

“No problem, as long as she doesn’t slow you down. Hello, Meg, nice to see you again.”

“And you, Donald. Things are looking neater now.”

“They are, although I hated to part with any of the old wood. You can see all the tool marks on the beams—you know just how each one was shaped and fitted. And in my case—and yours, too, I hear—you even know whose hands did the work.”

“True. It does make the building more personal,” Meg agreed.

“Nash’s just delivered the wood, Seth,” said Donald, pointing to a stack of lumber off to the side, covered with a tarp. “Looks good. Where do we start today?”

“Now that the debris is out of the way, I want to show you exactly what I’m planning, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds good to me,” Donald said.

Meg trailed after them, listening. It was an unexpected pleasure hearing Seth talk about his work. Although when they’d first met, he’d been managing the family plumbing business, he’d always made it clear that his heart lay in renovation and restoration. Still, knowing it wasn’t the same as seeing him in action. Not only was he knowledgeable, but he obviously cared about the building: sometimes he’d run his hand over one of the beams as though the house was a living thing. Certainly it was a tough one, Meg thought, having withstood the impact of a hurtling chunk of metal.

“What about finishes?” Donald asked.

“I know a guy who specializes in paint restoration. I assume you want to go with the original colors?”

“Of course. Look, I even found a sample from the dining room cupboard.” Donald picked up a broken board lying against the lath of a bare wall and handed it to Seth. “See? There on the edge? That’s what it would have looked like in 1750.”

“Good catch, Donald.” Seth handed the fragment to Meg. “These days that color would probably be called Colonial Blue, and there’s a good reason for that.”

“What about nails, Seth?” Donald asked anxiously. “I’m sure you know as well as I do that a lot of these beams were originally pegged together, without any metal. Like there.” He pointed at some intersecting beams.

“I don’t think current code will allow it,” Seth said, adding, “but I’ll go back as early as I can.”

“Which would be what?” Meg asked.

“Hand-forged nails, mostly,” Seth replied promptly. “They existed back then, but early builders used wooden pegs because nails were expensive and hard to come by. In fact, nails were considered so valuable that if a building burned down, people would scavenge whatever nails they could.”

“So you can’t tell the age of a building from its nails?”

“Not necessarily. These days you can still get cut nails, but they’re later than this house. Sorry, Donald, but I draw the line at forging my own nails, even for you.”

Donald sighed. “I understand. What about splitting your own lath?”

“That I can do.” Seth smiled at him. “You want to talk about glass now?”

Feeling overwhelmed with details, Meg drifted off to study the wall construction. Clearly the beams had been cut by hand—the adze or saw marks were plain to see. It was hard for her to imagine starting with a grove of trees and arriving at a substantial building, like Donald’s or her own. Yet people did it all the time back in the eighteenth century, because there were no other options. There wasn’t much brick construction around here, although she’d seen elegant brick and even fieldstone buildings in parts of Pennsylvania and New Jersey when she was growing up. Not that she’d paid much attention to them. Here in this part of New England, however, it seemed that almost everything was made of wood. She wondered again about having boards cut from her own trees, to use in her house. Was it practical, or silly and sentimental? Either way, the idea of emulating her ancestors pleased her.

“Meg?” Seth’s voice interrupted her.

Meg turned away from the injured wall. “You need something?”

“I’ve got to get to work now. You can stay and watch if you like, or you can take the van and pick me up later.”

“Seth, I can drive you home if you want,” Donald volunteered. “I think I can leave the place for that long.”

“Meg? What do you think?”

“I love seeing what you do, but as much fun as it would be to ‘help,’ I think I’d just get in your way here, so I should probably go.” She held out her hand. “Keys?”

Seth tossed the keys to her, and she caught them one-handed. He was already deep in conversation with Donald again, but she didn’t mind: it gave her pleasure to see him so happy in his work.

What now?
she wondered as she climbed into the van. Her to-do list was endless, but much of the time she didn’t want to do any of the items on it. Maybe she should do something indulgent, something as frivolous as buying a new pair of shoes, or worse, some personal pampering. She thought for a moment. There weren’t any spas nearby, but she could really use a haircut. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a professional trim, rather than just chopping at the annoyingly long pieces or tucking the whole mess under a cap. But where to go? She could ask Rachel, Seth’s sister. Meg hadn’t talked to her in a while, since summer was Rachel’s busiest season: she ran a lovely bed-and-breakfast, and her two kids were out of school. Meg smiled. Rachel probably had less free time than she did. But she might know where Meg could get a decent haircut. Before starting the van, she pulled out her cell phone and hit Rachel’s number.

Miracle of miracles, Rachel answered. “Meg! How are you? Anything wrong?”

Funny how everyone seemed to expect crises from her. “No, not a thing. As a matter of fact, I have a couple of hours free, and I realized I really, really need a haircut. Can you recommend anyone?”

“Sure—I keep a list of all local services, just in case a guest asks. Hang on a sec . . . Yes, here we go: the New Hare. It’s in the mall—you know, the one on Route 9 as you come toward Amherst? Ask for Laurel—I think you’ll like her. She’s about our age. I’ve known her for years and she’ll do a good job for you. Listen, I’ve got some stuff to do, but why don’t you stop by after? I’d love to see you, Meg. I can serve you iced tea on the veranda and we can pretend that we’re genteel ladies.”

“If you’re sure you’re not too busy, I’d love to.”

“No problem. And I want to hear about whatever you and that brother of mine are up to. He never calls. Usually Mom has to fill me in. Everything good?”

“I think so. Let me call the hair place and I’ll let you know when I’ll be up your way, okay?”

“Sure.” Rachel hung up, and Meg punched in the number she had given her, and found there was a slot open mid-afternoon. Perfect: she could find a bite to eat, wander through a clean, air-conditioned mall, get her hair cut, then stop by and see Rachel. That would be plenty of self-indulgence for one day.

Meg presented herself at the New Hare salon promptly at two, fortified by fast food and replacement clothing that farming had reduced to shreds. There was only one hairstylist in sight, a slender, dark-haired woman wearing practical shoes. She greeted Meg warmly. “Hi, I’m Laurel. You said Rachel Dickinson sent you? She’s good people. Come on, sit down, please.” Laurel pointed to a swivel chair at her workstation. When Meg was seated, Laurel sank her fingers into Meg’s hair. “You’ve been out in the sun a lot, haven’t you?”

Meg sat and stared at her own reflection, something she avoided as much as possible. Time to get some moisturizer, apparently—something she’d never needed in her former indoor life in Boston. “Well, I’ve turned into a farmer in the past year, and I haven’t had a professional haircut since I left Boston—no time. Mostly I just hack at the bits that fall in my eyes.” She hoped this haircut wouldn’t cost her a lot of money, though from the humble looks of the salon, she didn’t think it would be expensive.

“I’d never guess,” Laurel drawled. She stepped back and looked critically at Meg’s reflection in the mirror on the wall. “I suppose you don’t have a lot of time for deep conditioning and that kind of thing?”

“Nope. Strictly no-frills. Wash and wear, if you know what I mean.”

“What kind of style? Length? Chop it all off?”

“I don’t want to look like a twelve-year-old boy, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t want anything I have to fuss with to make it look good. And I hate hair in my face.”

“Color?”

Meg shook her head vigorously. “No time to keep up with it. I’m fine with what I’ve got.”

“Got it. Clean and simple. You’ve got good bone structure, so you can handle it. A bit of curl, which doesn’t hurt. Nice body. This should be easy. Let’s get you washed, okay?”

At the shampoo station, Meg relaxed into the sensation of someone massaging her scalp with nice sudsy stuff that smelled good.

“I don’t see much of Rachel in here either, what with the business and her kids. Great lady, though. How do you know her?” Laurel asked.

“I’m, uh, seeing her brother.”

“Seth? He did the plumbing when we remodeled the shop here. How is he?” Laurel’s voice was warm.

“He’s good. He’s trying to get out of plumbing and do more restoration work. Did you hear about the house in Granford that was hit by a car? That’s what he’s working on today.”

“Sure, I heard about that. Small world, isn’t it? Say hello to him for me, will you? He’s such a great guy.”

“I agree. And I’m always amazed at how many people know him. I’m glad Rachel recommended this place. I was surprised that you had an opening for me today.”