Poison Apples (21 page)

“Anyhow,” Fallon said, “I want you to, um, leave her to me. We talk. She tells me stuff if I want. I’ll let you, um . . .”

“Sure. But give me a ring when you find something on Turnbull, okay? I’ve got to talk to him. But I want to do a little homework first.”

Fallon sighed, and chugalugged his Pepsi. He held up a fresh can. “You should try it, Hanna. You could use a little sweetening.”

Chapter Forty-three

Moira was in love with apples, Ruth could see that. She had a large white porcelain bowl on the dining room table with six varieties of apples. “Here’s one of my favorites, the Macoun,” she announced. It was large and bright red. “A dessert apple, highly flavored.” Already she was running into the kitchen for a paper bag. “For you, one each of six kinds,” she said. “I want you to try them, tell me what you think. Of course everyone buys Red Delicious. But have you ever tried the Jonathan?”

Ruth hadn’t. She accepted the apples, murmured over them. She had other things on her mind. “We had a small incident,” she explained to Moira, trying to look unconcerned. “Some teenagers, we figure, vandals. Knifing three of my cows. Oh, they’re all right,” she said when Moira cried out. “We’re keeping a close watch. Tim’s over there now. I’m bringing them in at night. I only mention it because you might think—”

“It might stem from that warning?”

“Yes. But no. Teen vandals, absolutely, Lucien Larocque next door saw one running away. There’s no connection. But even if there were—I mean, I want to help here. Besides, I’ve done all the interviewing already.”

She told what she’d found out. “Nothing important, really, at least it doesn’t seem so now. Rufus—well, did you know that his grandfather owned this orchard—started it, in fact? That may be something to think about.”

“Yes,” Moira said, biting into an apple, looking troubled, “that could be a reason for his wanting to own it back. And discourage us from owning it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Then there’s Don Yates. Seems a really nice guy. But...”

“But?”

“He knows the orchard. You have to suspect everyone, I guess. Awful to do that, but Don knows his way around this place. He knows apples. Though I don’t see any motive for his destroying them. He did warn us about—well, Opal. Oh, I know she’s Stan’s niece,” Ruth went on hurriedly, “but she was the one who let the goat go. Oh, you didn’t know that?”

Moira sat still, a chunk of apple in her cheek. “No, I didn’t know. But I can believe it. The first day she was here, she didn’t want any part of the Jamaicans. I don’t know where that prejudice comes from. Certainly not from her father.”

Ruth shook her head. “Anyway, Don thinks I should talk to Opal. Unless you want to. ...”

“No, no. You do it. I couldn’t. She wouldn’t talk to me anyway. She’s a strange girl. You don’t suspect her—I mean, hurting your cows?”

That stopped Ruth a minute. Could it be? Lucien hadn’t actually identified the person, simply described a dark figure. That could be anyone. Lucien’s eyesight was failing, he’d mentioned cataracts a while back. Looking at Moira’s horrified face, she said, “I’m sure not. A woman wouldn’t do that. Why would the girl have a hunting knife?”

Moira looked relieved. “Of course you’re right. You said teenagers. Teenage boys can be awful. Once Carol was involved with a kid we worried about. She was a small fifteen, he was over six feet, on the wrestling team. She dropped him when she found he was bragging about his relationship with her, saying they were sleeping together when they weren’t. Carol was furious! Then this other boy, Trevor Selleck, the one who killed her ...

“No, I didn’t mean to say that,” Moira said when Ruth looked up sharply. “That’s the word Stan uses. Trevor was twenty, he’d already graduated. He seemed nice enough, but she was still in high school. He’d been suspended once from school for using drugs—Carol said he’d been sabotaged by his friends. She was always excusing him! And then ... it happened again—alcohol this time.”

Moira was almost in a trance as she spoke, as though it were all happening for the first time. Ruth watched her carefully, waiting for an explosion but not wanting to stop her. It would be a therapy, talking it out with someone.

“They were at the high school prom, Carol was in a blue satin dress; it fit her like a glove—she had a beautiful body. Nothing like mine.. . .” Moira looked down at her own pear-shaped torso, a little extra flesh around the belly; she waved away Ruth’s murmured protest. “She was so excited, he’d sent a corsage—a gardenia, it was like back in the fifties. Carol was on the prom committee. It was her idea to have a fifties ball, she was an old-fashioned kind of girl. Believed in people, their inherent goodness. He was late, but she understood. He had a job, earning money to go to college, he told her. He was an hour late, I felt sorry for Carol, all dressed up; the scent of gardenia filled the house. Then he arrived and it was like the world opened up, she was full of smiles, practically afloat. He’d rented a tux; he was a handsome fellow. Wore his hair a little too long for me, but Carol liked it. I thought I smelled more than gardenias as they left, I thought I smelled pot or alcohol on his breath, though he took care to stand away from me. Carol was so happy, so excited, I couldn’t complain. What could I say:
Let me smell your breath, young man?”

“Of course not,” Ruth murmured, and sipped her coffee.

“So they left in his car. It was an old car—I’ve nothing against old cars, the young can’t afford anything better, but it sounded like a tank, needing a muffler, perhaps. What could I do? The high school wasn’t far, only a few miles. They got to the dance all right. She was made queen! We have the pictures. Here, I’ll show you.”

Moira pulled a framed photo from a buffet. The girl was lovely: lustrous dark hair framing a heart-shaped face, large luminous hazel eyes. Moira was right: Compassion shone from her face. What would she have made of all this mischief in the orchard?

“I still have the green gown she’d made for the ball, folded away. She never wore it! At the last minute she spilled grape juice on it, couldn’t get out the stain; changed into the blue satin she’d worn the year before.” She jumped up. “Look, Ruth, Emily is the same height. Do you think perhaps she’d like it? I had it dry-cleaned and the stain came out. It does no good in the drawer. We can’t live in the past. Things should have a use. ...”

Before Ruth could object, Moira was dragging out the dress, smoothing it in her hands, thrusting it at Ruth. Branbury High didn’t have a ball like this, Ruth doubted Emily would ever wear it. But what could she say? She couldn’t refuse it. She had a thought. “Why don’t you give it to Emily yourself? I’m sure she’d be so pleased.”

“I don’t think I could explain. No, you give it to her. Please?” So Ruth took it. It felt fragile in her hands, as though it might disintegrate if anyone wore it.

But the story wasn’t finished.

“They left the school at midnight. There were designated drivers, of course, but the boy seemed all right, according to Carol’s best friend, Jen. He must have been drinking afterward because it didn’t happen—the accident—until two in the morning. We were frantic by then. Stan was ready to call the police, but I realized the dance went on till one; they’d have gone to someone’s house. It was such a big night! Graduation coming up and all.... And then, it must have been two-thirty, we heard a car, a knocking at the door. Stan went down in his nightshirt, I was at the top of the stairs. I remembered how dry my throat was, I couldn’t swallow.”

Moira dropped her head in her hands and Ruth said, “Don’t, don’t, Moira.”

But Moira had to finish the story. “It was the police. There’d been an accident, the car had missed the turn onto a bridge, hit a tree, spun off down the bank, into the river. The boy got out a window. He couldn’t get Carol out, he said, she was wedged in from the impact with the tree. He was crying, the police said—but what good did that do Carol? The ambulance came. But Carol was gone. She’d . .. drowned.”

Ruth thought of Vic, in that stolen car two years before— those fellows had been drinking. For a moment Carol was her loss, too. She pulled her chair closer to Moira’s, put a hand on her friend’s arm. Moira blew her nose, said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get into all this! So self-indulgent of me. I don’t know what launched me into it....” She took a bite of an apple, tried to smile through its white flesh.

Ruth wanted to put an arm around her, but Moira seemed, somehow, separate, sitting there with her half-eaten Macoun apple.

It was almost a relief to see Opal coming down the stairs in jeans and T-shirt—had she been listening? Ruth stood up, called to the girl. “Have you got a minute, Opal? I’m helping out your aunt here, need
your
help. Could we talk? Out on the porch, maybe?” She still had the green ball gown in her hands; she laid it carefully on the table.

The girl glanced at the gown, pursed her lips—perhaps she would have wanted the dress for herself, although she was shorter, thinner than Emily—it would be a poor fit. “I don’t know anything. Anything about anything. My father is dying, did you know that? They won’t tell me, my mother won’t tell me. But I know. He’s dying, and I’m up here picking apples. They don’t want me down there. Mama wants Daddy to herself. She doesn’t care about me. Nobody cares about me!” Throwing back her head, she ran to the door and slammed it hard.

Moira looked distraught. “It’s not true about the parents. Her mother calls every other night. Annie May may be a kook, but she loves her child, I’m sure of that. There’s something else that’s bothering Opal. I don’t know what it is. I’ve tried to find out, but she won’t talk. To me, anyhow.”

“Keep trying,” Ruth said, and prepared to leave. “I have to get back to my spooked cows. When Emily comes off work this afternoon, tell her to come right home. I need her.” Moira’s story had made her paranoid. She suddenly wanted to see Emily, touch her, warn her. About what? Men?

“The dress! You forgot the dress,” Moira called out, and Ruth went back for it; then out to the pickup. She saw Opal coming out of the barn with an apple pail. She was small, but sinewy, she could have knifed those cows, couldn’t she?

Ruth shook her head to dismiss the thought.

Chapter Forty-four

It was easier, Colm discovered, to interview the praying women in pairs. One woman would goad the other, sometimes to the point of wasted time, sometimes to an interesting discovery. For example, this morning, Saturday, he’d refereed a talking contest between one Evelyn Petcock and one Thelma Boggs, who had first tried to convert him to the Messengers, then, seeing it hopeless, had accused the other of being disloyal, sympathetic to Samuels.

“That Aaron Samuels,” Thelma said, “is a pervert, a scourge on society.”

“That’s what I said, Thelma.”

“Oh no, you didn’t, Evelyn, you said you thought the boy seduced
him.
You said that, Evelyn.”

“I did not! I said it was probably his mother’s fault, the way he was brought up. And that teacher made it worse.”

“Those teachers,” Thelma argued, “going home at three o’clock, nothing to do till eight the next morning. And the outrageous salaries they get! Paid by us, the taxpayers. It’s not right.”

“And then they go and seduce young boys,” said Evelyn, as if to prove her loyalty to the Messengers.

Colm, who had been a teacher for two years and worked at it day and night before he discovered it wasn’t his calling, ignored the comments. “Why did you go to pray on his porch?” he’d asked Evelyn.

“Oh, we had to, didn’t we?” She looked at Thelma, who was glaring into her lap, still upset by the “outrageous” salaries. “I mean, our pastor said we had to. And Cassandra, poor thing—she backed him up. Of course, they didn’t always get along.”

“How so?” Colm asked.

“We shouldn’t talk about the dead,” said Thelma, looking fiercely at Evelyn, and Evelyn said, “Well, anyway, we went. We prayed. And that very night Aaron Samuels went and shot himself.” She shuddered, hugged her chest; then suddenly remembered a doctor’s appointment she was late for, and the interview ended.

But Colm determined to pursue the question with the next group—a threesome this time. He did the paperwork on a house he’d just sold to a young couple from Poughkeepsie, New York, who wanted to get “back to nature,” had a quick shot of Guckenheimer and cider, then drove to the home of Gertrude Bliss, where he found the three women drinking herb tea.

Gertrude’s home was childproof, animalproof, and guestproof: The two upholstered chairs and sofa were covered with plastic, the shelves and fireplace mantel practically bare except for a dozen photographs, all of the same glum-looking adolescent girl. He saw no evidence of children or pets; Gertrude herself was probably in her late fifties. Something stuck to his cheek as he entered; his hand discovered a hanging fly catcher, fall of dead flies. He tried to look blasé. Gertrude offered him a seat on a plastic-lined rocking chair; it made a wheezing sound as he sat. The other two women—Gertrude’s sister Minerva Bliss, and Alma Herringbone—wheezed down together on the sofa and regarded him suspiciously. Of the three, only Minerva appeared to be under fifty—but barely.

Alma was the spokesperson, it seemed, and an interrogator. Before Colm could open his mouth, she was leaning forward, staring him down, hurling questions at him. Why was he here? What had they done wrong? Was he afraid of prayer? “Are you aware,” she said sternly, “of the power of prayer? How many folks prayer has cured of life-threatening diseases? Terminal cancer, oh yes. My own uncle, in the hospital with prostate cancer, a tumor as big as a—a—” Her hands made swooping circles in the air.

“A pomegranate,” Minerva offered, and Alma said, “Bigger. Bigger than a pomegranate. And every day we prayed, we had groups praying across the country. And he’s still alive today!” she finished triumphantly.

“How long ago was that?” Colm asked, and she replied, “A year, a whole year. A whole long, long year.”

Colm asked if he’d had radiation therapy, and she said, “Well, I don’t know. But it wasn’t what cured him. It was God. God, through us. God cured him.” The other women nodded, marveled at the wonder of it.