Red Delicious Death (15 page)

“I suppose. I never liked the competitive side. I was a lot happier running numbers in the back office.”

“Well, for a long time I liked being in the game. Now, I’m not so sure. I mean, it didn’t take much to make the whole house of cards fall down in the financial sector, did it? All that work we did, erased in a few months. Now nobody even trusts us, and nobody inside knows what to do about it. It sucks.”

“It does. But I can’t see you as a farmer. What else do you think you’d like to do?”

“I really don’t know. But thanks for letting me vent, and for letting me visit you here. It gives me something more to think about.”

“Any time. You can come pick apples later, if you want.”

Lauren smiled. “Maybe. But right now I have to go get pretty for my date with the scary policeman. You sure you don’t mind being left on your own tonight?”

“Anything resembling free time is always a treat. Don’t worry about me.”

Meg had been in bed, although awake and reading, when Lauren returned that night, but since she hadn’t tapped at her door, Meg had decided not to bother her. The next morning the weather held—Lauren was lucky. She might not wax so poetic about the rural life if she was cooped up in the house while the lawn turned into a sea of mud.

Meg had spent a quiet but productive evening going through yet another box of documents from the Historical Society. She had taken on the task of cataloging what she could, at the urging of Gail Selden, the Society’s overworked director, and had found she enjoyed it. It made a pleasant change from the manual work in the orchard and around the house, and she never knew what she was going to find among the old and brittle documents. It was also nice that there was no urgency to the project: the documents had been waiting patiently in their boxes for decades, so anything Meg could get done was a big step forward.

Last night’s find was an 1873 printed map of Granford, on which all the then-residents’ names were printed. She traced the road in front of her house: it was labeled “Warren,” and there was also another Warren next door—she’d have to look into that sometime. There was the brook that trickled through the Great Meadow, and kept it boggy. There was the Chapin place, over the hill. The town green, and the Stebbins house at the north end. And there was the Kellogg property, where Sam’s body had been found, over toward the north end of town, where there had been few houses in the nineteenth century. To the best of her recollection, there weren’t a lot more now. What
had
Sam been doing out there? If he had wanted to talk to Jake Kellogg, they had never connected—or so Jake had said. Did he have a reason to lie?

In the morning, Lauren stumbled down as Meg was scrambling eggs. “There’s coffee.” Meg nodded toward the stove.

“You are a goddess.”

Meg handed her a mug. “I heard you come in last night,” she said tentatively.

“We had a nice time. He’s a reasonably intelligent guy, he actually has some interests outside of law enforcement, and no, I didn’t sleep with him.” Lauren took her coffee mug and sat down at the table.

Meg set a plate with eggs and toast on it in front of her. “Well, that about covers it, doesn’t it?”

Lauren gave Meg a hard look and burst out laughing. “No, I mean it. He’s pretty knowledgeable about food—he picked a great restaurant, and knew what to order. He’s kind of a history buff—the American Revolution. No kids, no pets, no alimony. And he actually likes his job.”

“You going to see him again?” Meg asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like we’re in love, or even in lust, and we live a hundred miles apart. But I think we both enjoyed ourselves, so it’s a possibility.”

“Well, I’m
so
relieved!” Meg sat down with her own breakfast.

“So, what’s on the calendar for today?” Lauren asked, ignoring Meg’s sarcasm. “You have to go till something, or chop something, or spray something?”

“I think my schedule’s clear. What are you up for, city girl?”

“How about taking a run up toward the Kellogg farm?”

“Where Sam was found? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Oh, come on, Meg—you know you’re curious. Sure, Bill interviewed the guy, but you probably know better what questions to ask.”

“So it’s ‘Bill’ now?”

“That
is
Detective Marcus’s name, after all.” Lauren retorted. “Anyway, you’d be helping Nicky and Brian, right? Clear up this murder mess
and
find them some nice pigs, all at once.”

Meg didn’t know what to say. “Lauren, let me get this straight. You’re volunteering to go with me to talk to a pig farmer?”

“Maybe I have ulterior motives. And it’ll make a great story when I go back to Boston. ‘Guess what I did over the weekend? Worked on a murder investigation, at a pig farm!’ That’ll get attention.”

“Did your pal Bill put you up to this? Suggest it? Hint at it?”

“Not really. But from the way he talked, he doesn’t have access to a lot of local information, and I gather he’s not very welcome in Granford.”

“Huh.” Had the natives of Granford really taken her side over Detective Marcus’s? That merited thinking about. “Okay, I can go introduce myself to Jake Kellogg, tell him I’m a local farmer, and find out if he wants to sell pigs—or pork—to the restaurant. And it’s certainly likely that Sam will come up in the course of this conversation. So your role would be . . . ?”

“Faithful sidekick. Everybody needs one of those, right? I can ask lots of stupid questions. Hey, it’ll be fun.”

“Right, Tonto.” Meg wasn’t convinced, but neither could she see any harm in it. And she did want to get to know more people in Granford. “It may be muddy, you know. I’ve got some boots you can borrow—I’ll stick them in the trunk.”

“Great. Now, what does one wear to call upon a pig farmer? Can we just drop in?”

“I’d wait until church lets out, just in case. Other than that, people around here do a lot of ‘just dropping in,’ and in case you haven’t figured it out, farmers don’t get a lot of downtime. The pigs have to eat every day, so he should be around there somewhere.”

An hour later they were driving toward the Kellogg farm at the north end of town.

“What’s that hill?” Lauren asked. She looked surprisingly interested in her surroundings.

“It’s actually a ridge that runs east-west. That’s where the town ends—Amherst is on the other side. And the Connecticut River is over that way. I think we’re getting close . . . yes, here we are.” Meg pointed to a large mailbox with the name “Kellogg” written on it in faded letters. Next to it was a long unpaved drive, leading to a trim and well-maintained farmhouse, with a large barn behind. Meg pulled into the driveway and stopped next to the barn. A man in his fifties, wearing well-worn jeans and a shirt with its sleeves rolled up, came out from the barn and stood waiting. He was followed by a dog, who sat next to his feet. Both looked reasonably friendly, or at least nonthreatening.

Meg got out of the car. “Hi. Are you Jake Kellogg?”

“Sure am. And you’d be?”

“Meg Corey. I’ve got an orchard south of town.”

“The old Warren place. You here about the body?”

At least Jake had been the one to bring it up. “In part. I’m also interested in your pigs.”

“Okay. And your friend?”

Lauren had climbed out of the car and advanced on Kellogg, her hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Lauren Converse, Meg’s friend from Boston. I just came along for the ride—I’ve never seen a pig farm.”

Jake gave her a long look, and finally smiled. “I’ll bet. The pigs are maybe half a mile down that way.” He gestured toward the rutted dirt road that led past the barn and beyond. “Think you can walk it? We can talk along the way.”

“No problem,” Meg said, relieved. “And thanks for being willing to talk to us. I’m sure you’ve already given your story to the police. And the press?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second. I thought that might be who you ladies were. But I guess I’m not photogenic enough for our local paper.” He smiled, deepening the crow’s feet by his eyes. “Let’s go, then.”

As Lauren picked her way among the ruts, she asked, “It wasn’t the pigs . . . ?”

“That killed him? No way.” Jake set a brisk pace, and Meg had to hurry to keep up. “That’s a myth. Pigs might’ve nosed around a little, to find out what a dead guy was doing in their wallow, but that’s about it.”

“Is farming your main occupation?” Meg asked.

“Heck, no—I couldn’t make a living at it even if I tried. I’m a construction engineer for a company over in Springfield.”

“Then why the pigs?”

“Sentiment, mostly. I’ve got generations of farmers behind me who worked this land, and I kind of hate to see it end. Besides, I like pigs. They’re smart, they’re cleaner than you’d think, and they’re not hard to manage.”

“Do you sell them?”

Jake sighed. “Enough to keep my numbers down. There are a couple of restaurants in Amherst that buy the meat. I let somebody else do the killing and dressing.”

Meg felt obscurely relieved. It would be hard, she thought, to kill an animal you’d raised. Apples didn’t inspire the same feelings, even when you bit into one. “Have you heard about the new restaurant opening in town?” She hoped “opening” was still true.

“Sure. Hard not to, what with their chef being found dead here and all. You saying they might want pigs?”

“I’d like to talk about it. You didn’t see Sam?”

“Nope, not when he was alive. Of course, I’m not around all day. But it does seem kind of wrong to wander around a person’s property without permission.”

And to die on it
, Meg added silently. “We think he was looking for providers for the restaurant. Didn’t the police mention that?”

“Might’ve, but since I never met the man, it didn’t make much difference. Here we are.”

Meg looked out over a gently sloping field dotted with what looked like little tents. The field was bordered on two sides by sparse forest, on the third by the lane where they stood, which continued on past the pig field. The whole was enclosed with a sturdy wire fence, at least three feet high, and in good repair. She looked around but couldn’t see any houses, not even Jake’s farmhouse. She noted that there was a muddy patch at the lowest corner, and she thought she detected a pungent whiff of pig manure. There were perhaps fifteen pigs wandering through the field; maybe half had turned to look at the human intruders, and a few of those were ambling toward the fence for a closer look.

“Tell me about the pigs,” Meg opened.

“What do you want to know?”

“Assume I don’t know anything about them, which is pretty much true. For a start, I didn’t know you could raise them in an open field. What are all those little buildings?”

“Pigs need shelter. They can sunburn, you know. Those shelters are called pig arks, and they’ve got bedding inside. You move them around now and then, to let the ground recover. Pigs keep their dung away from their living areas, as you can see.”

“What do they eat?”

“Mostly grass. It’s a good deal—they keep the grass down, and they churn it up with their feet. Their dung helps fertilize it. I supplement their diet with some feed, but I don’t have to do it every day. Heck, sometimes I come out just to talk to them. They’re good company.” He looked at Meg and Lauren, trying to gauge their interest. “And if you’re thinking about them as food, a pig raised like this tastes better. They grow slower, which lets the fat develop. You know, sometimes I feed ’em apples. If you end up with a bunch of windfalls you can’t sell, I’ll be happy to take them.”

Meg smiled. “I might. This will be my first crop, so I don’t know what I’m going to have, but I’d love to let you have some. Would you be willing to sell pigs to the restaurant?”

“If they can pay. I have to cover my costs, but maybe we could work something out. Tell ’em to call me.”

Meg felt a surge of warmth—she’d actually done something to help Nicky and Brian. It was quickly squashed by Lauren’s next question. “Where’d they find the body?”

Jake grimaced, but answered, “Over in the corner there, in the muck.”

Lauren strode over to the corner. “The guy was found inside the fence? He would have had to get over it, right? Why would he do that, do you think?”

“No idea. He was a city guy, right? Most city folk keep as far away as possible from livestock. Heck, a lot of the restaurant people, they don’t even know how to break down an animal. They like to buy their meat all neatly packaged. Maybe your restaurant guy wanted to get up close and personal with the pigs he planned to cook. Or maybe we’ll never know.”

“I met him a couple of times,” Meg said. “He seemed very enthusiastic, so I could see him wanting to know the whole history behind the pigs he bought.”

“Did they find his car?” Lauren said.

“Police asked about that,” Jake replied. “Wanted to know if it was in my driveway, or down this lane. I told ’em I hadn’t seen it—I think they found it down the road a ways. Looks like he came in on foot.”