Red Delicious Death (34 page)

Bree turned from the stove. “Hi. I didn’t know if you’d be back for dinner, but I made plenty. Where’ve you been?”

Meg went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. “I went over toward Hadley to talk to the last of the markets about stocking our apples. I need to put all this together, but if you add it all up, I think we’re in pretty good shape. I’ll let you look at the list, and you can tell me if I’m off.”
Please don’t tell me that right now, though—I’m not sure I can handle anything more today
. “And I’m starving, if you don’t mind sharing.” She poured a glass of wine and sat down. Lolly emerged from somewhere and wrapped herself around Meg’s ankles. “Hello, you silly cat. Do I smell interesting?” Maybe it was from the pigs: Lolly was definitely entranced by the scent of something on Meg’s pants.

“No problem.” Bree filled two plates and set one in front of Meg before sitting down across from her. Then she took a harder look at Meg. “You look lousy. Something wrong between you and Seth?”

“No, nothing like that. And I don’t think I can talk about the rest, not just yet. Can we eat first? I think Seth will be by a little later, and I’ll know more then.”

Bree shrugged but didn’t argue. Instead she launched into a description of what she’d done that day, and Meg was content just to listen.

Seth arrived as they were finishing the washing up. Meg took one look at his face and went to him, and he grabbed her and held on. This had to be bad news.

Bree was watching, and said, “You want me to go somewhere else?”

“No,” Seth replied, “this is going to be public soon enough, so you might as well stay. Meg, you have anything to drink?”

“There’s beer and wine.”

“Beer’s good.”

Meg peeled herself away from him to retrieve a bottle from the fridge; and while she was there, she pulled out the wine bottle and refilled her glass. It looked like she might need it.

When they were all settled around the table, Seth said bluntly, “There’s no pretty way to put it. Caroline Goldthwaite’s dead.”

Meg went cold. “What? How?”

“Pills. Must have been right after she got home. She left a note.”

Bree interrupted. “Who? Is Caroline Goldthwaite the old lady on the town Board?”

Meg took a deep breath and told Bree, “I was out at Kellogg’s farm today to talk about the pigs, and I ran into Mrs. Goldthwaite—I hadn’t known she lived near there. And while we were talking, I realized that she could easily have killed Sam. It seemed crazy, but I told Seth, and he and Art went out to her place to talk to her.” She turned back to Seth. “Was I right?”

Seth looked ten years older than he had when he left. “Unfortunately, yes. Art and I got out there and knocked. No answer, but the door wasn’t locked. We went in and found her laid out on the bed, with the pill bottle on the table next to her. I think she’d been saving them for a while. In her note she claims she had cancer, pretty advanced, apparently. That took a toll on her, and she had plenty of pills. Art took the note with him, but I can tell you what she said.” Seth took another pull on his bottle. “She kept it short and bitter. You had it about right, Meg. She hadn’t planned to hurt anyone, but when she ran into Sam when she was out walking that day, she just snapped. She claimed that he’d already fallen into the pigsty, and by the time she had made her way to the gate and back, he was unconscious. She wrestled with her conscience, but then . . . she decided to hold him down. She admitted that, as well as saying that she’d hoped that his death would derail the project, drive Nicky and Brian away, and that Granford would remain just as it has always been—at least for the time she had left.”

“How awful.” Meg shut her eyes and pictured Caroline Goldthwaite as she had been only hours before, her head held high, her gait steady, walking away to her death. And that parting comment. She’d been right: Meg
had
understood—too much. Meg felt the beginning of tears.

“Wow,” Bree said. “So she killed herself and left a confession. I thought things like that happened only in movies.”

Meg and Seth exchanged a glance, then Seth said, “Unfortunately this was quite real. It’s an awful thing she did. And it’s a shame that that’s what people will remember about her, rather than her long history with this town.”

Bree had seen the look that passed between them, and she stood up. “Listen, I think I’m going to head upstairs. See you in the morning.” She beat a hasty retreat, leaving Seth and Meg alone in the kitchen.

“Well,” Meg began, then stopped. Seth looked terrible—drained and sad.

“Yeah, well,” he answered. His bottle was empty.

“I’m sorry, Seth. I wish I’d been wrong. I admired her, in a way. She stood by what she believed in.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, Meg. She made a choice—one choice that ran counter to everything else she had ever done in her long life. Thank goodness she left that note. I’d rather know for certain than have this murder hanging over the town.”

“But I still feel awful. And you must feel worse—you’ve known her all your life.”

“I have. Doesn’t make it easy.” He stood up slowly. “I should go.”

Meg stood quickly and walked around the table to stand in front of him. “Why?”

“I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

“Oh, Seth, do you think I care about that? You’re hurting, I’m hurting. Stay, please. We can comfort each other.”

He studied her face. “I guess I’m not used to having anyone worry about me.”

“Neither am I. But we could get used to it, couldn’t we?”

He sighed. “Meg, I would really like that.”

She went to him, and he pulled her close.

Meg pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant and stopped the car. This early in the morning, there were few other vehicles in the lot—most, she surmised, there to deliver produce fresh from the field, just as she was. She walked around the car to haul the bushel basket full of apples from the front seat, where she had carefully strapped it in.

She had picked them herself only an hour earlier, and she had reveled in every minute of it. If there hadn’t been other pickers around, she would have talked to each apple, apologized for tearing it away from the tree, promising it a happy afterlife. She had come to understand the truly primitive need to celebrate each harvest, because it was such an uncertain and wondrous event each year.

And this was the official “debut” for her apples, so she wanted to make sure they were perfect, each and every one. They were Gravensteins, a variety that she now knew had originated in Denmark in the seventeenth century. They ripened early and were good for cooking, but didn’t hold well. They were the ideal choice for the recipes that Nicky had concocted for this special day, or so she said—Nicky hadn’t shared the details of the menu with anyone except Brian and Edna.

Meg walked around to the kitchen entrance on the opposite side of the building. She could see through the screen door that the kitchen was a hive of activity. Nicky was directing traffic; Edna was at the stove, checking something in a steaming pot; and a couple of what looked like high school students were busy chopping all sorts of colorful things.

Meg rapped on the screen door. “Nicky?” she called out.

Nicky looked over and let out a squeal of glee. “Meg! You’ve brought your apples! Come on in.”

Meg wrestled her way through the door with her basket and stood uncertainly on the other side. “Where do you want them?”

Nicky looked around the kitchen, where almost every surface was covered with food. “Here, just give them to me. Oh, they look gorgeous!”

“Picked them myself, this morning. So far the crop looks great.”

“Oh, Meg, I’m so happy for you. And for me! I feel so lucky. Look, I don’t have time to chat now, but you’ll be at the dinner, right?”

“You know I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll get out of your hair and let you work.”

“Thanks! Later!” Nicky whirled away.

Meg nodded at Edna and tilted her head toward the back door. Edna nodded in return. When Meg left, Edna joined her a few moments later.

“Hey, Meg,” she said.

“Hi, Edna. Look, I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to be sure there weren’t any problems. How’s Nicky holding up?”

“What, you wanna fix something else? Everything’s going great, don’t you worry. All the folk have delivered their stuff—one lady even brought some flowers for the tables. Nicky’s having a grand time, and can that girl cook! She’s even giving me ideas, and I been cooking since before she was born. So you just take yourself home and come back looking pretty later.”

“Thanks, Edna. That’s what I plan to do.”

As she drove away, Meg told herself to stop worrying. Everything had come together beyond her best hopes. And her orchard was doing well—Bree predicted a bumper crop.

September. How had it arrived so fast? And everyone told her that time was going to move even faster, as different apples ripened and needed tending. Sort and grade, ship and hold. She assumed there was a rhythm to the whole process, but this was her first time through it. She was determined to observe every part of it—and if she was lucky, to enjoy it.

When she got home, Bree was standing in the driveway talking to a couple of the pickers. As they trekked off toward the orchard, Meg said, “All good?”

“Yup,” Bree answered. “Oh, Seth stopped by and said he’d pick you up around six.”

“You need a ride, or is Michael bringing you?”

“I’m good—I’ll come with Michael, to make sure he doesn’t change his mind. Hey, listen, I wasn’t quite sure what to wear. This isn’t going to be fancy, is it?”

Meg laughed. “You know these people—half of them will show up in jeans. It really doesn’t matter. We’re here to celebrate the restaurant opening, not to impress anyone. And I’d wear something with a comfortable waist, so you can enjoy the food. Not that you have to worry.”

“You’re looking pretty trim yourself—all this exercise, hauling bushels and baskets and whatnot around. You deliver the apples?”

“I did. It was controlled chaos in the kitchen. Thanks for finding some kitchen staff for them.”

“Pickers’ kids—they can always use the money.”

“Anything else I need to do?”

“Nope. It’s all under control.”

Despite her protestations to Bree, Meg debated long and hard about what to wear, standing in front of her closet. She couldn’t remember the last time she had dressed up; probably before she had moved to Granford. She hadn’t even unpacked more than one of her “nice” business outfits. But still, she wanted to honor the restaurant. And if she admitted it, she wanted to remind herself that she was female, not just a farmer who wore muddy jeans and muck boots. A little corner of her mind wanted to show Seth that she cleaned up pretty good.

In the end she pulled out a simple dress with fluid lines, which slipped over her head and fell to her knees. Bree was right—she’d lost weight, not surprising with all the unfamiliar physical work she had been putting in. The dress skimmed her body, and she felt loose and free in it. She scrabbled through the dark closet looking for shoes and came up with a pair of strappy low-heeled sandals that would do—after she blew the dust off them. A shawl against the cool night air of September completed the outfit.

“I’m leaving now!” Bree called out from downstairs, and she heard the slam of the screen door, and a car pull out of the driveway.

Meg ran a comb through her hair and dashed on some makeup, just in time to hear Seth’s voice. “Meg? You ready?”

“Coming,” she replied. One last look, and she added a pendant on a silver chain before heading down the stairs.

She picked up her bag in the hall and made her way to the kitchen, where Seth waited at the back door. Fishing her keys from her bag, she pulled the kitchen door shut behind her and locked it, then turned to face Seth. “I’m . . .”

She was stopped by the expression on his face, one that she couldn’t identify. It was something like yearning, with a hint of surprise.

“You look . . . wonderful,” he said.

Oh
. For all the time they had spent together, he had never seen her dressed up. And she had dressed up, for Granford, for the restaurant—and for him. She swallowed a shallow “oh, this old thing” response and managed to say, “Thank you.” For a long moment they didn’t move, and then she stepped off the stoop. “We should go.” It was time to christen the restaurant.

He took her elbow to escort her to the car. Driving to town, Seth was silent.
Tongue-tied?
she wondered, and smiled out the window. She didn’t break the silence until they neared the restaurant, approaching from the opposite end of the green. The building sat like a dowager queen, its windows glowing. A small crowd of people stood in clusters on the porch, glasses in their hands, while two young servers circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres. “It looks just like I imagined it,” she said.