Red Delicious Death (4 page)

“Be right down,” came a voice from the back of the house.

Since graduating from UMass with a degree in agriculture at the end of May, Briona Stewart had taken on the official job of orchard manager for Meg. Bree might be untested, but she clearly knew a lot more about orchards than Meg did. Meg was still getting used to the idea of having someone else living under her roof full-time, but since the salary she could afford was pitifully small, she’d hoped that offering room and board would help. Bree guarded her privacy jealously, and there had been a few bumps along the way, but they seemed to have settled into a routine in the past month.

Meg went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, looking for ideas. The sound of the refrigerator door prompted Lolly to appear, and she wrapped herself around Meg’s ankles. “No, silly cat, it’s not dinnertime yet, and you’ve still got food in your dish. I’m trying to feed
people
here.” Meg reached down to scratch behind Lolly’s ears, and after accepting her due, Lolly strolled back toward the dining room. Meg pulled out a package of chicken breasts.

“Yo, Meg—you wanted me?” Bree clattered down the back stairs that led from her room above to the kitchen.

“I just wanted to know what your dinner plans are. I asked Seth to come by and eat, because we’re going to the selectmen’s meeting after dinner.”

Bree grinned at her. “That makes, what—three times this month already? You two are moving right along, hmm?”

“We’re moving at our own pace, thank you very much. Anyway, he’s here, I’m here—it just makes sense to eat together. Heck, you’ve eaten with us most of those times,” Meg blushed despite herself. “Besides, we’re both busy. How about you and Michael? You’ve been spending a lot of time together lately,” Meg parried.

“We’re fine. Point taken.” Bree didn’t volunteer any more.

Meg didn’t want to pry, so she changed the subject to plans for the harvest. “How’s the hiring going? Will we have the same crew as last time?”

“Looks like.”

“Did you have any trouble getting them to sign on?” Meg knew that when he had been running the show, Christopher had usually employed Jamaican pickers, as did many of the orchard growers in the area, but she had had some concerns about Bree handling the crew of mainly older men. Bree had Jamaican parents herself, but she was also young and female, and Meg hadn’t been sure how well the men would accept her.

Bree shrugged. “Not really. A few made some comments, but my auntie set them straight. She knows them from way back.”

“Good. Then we’re all set?”

“As soon as we have apples. You decided who you’re selling them to?”

“Um, I’m working on it.” In fact, Meg had fallen behind in her marketing plans. At first it had seemed unreal that her bare trees would produce a crop. And then she had wanted to be sure she understood the ins and outs of selling her apples: Supermarket chain? Local cooperatives? Setting up her own farm stand? The end result was that she hadn’t done anything yet, but she knew she couldn’t put it off much longer. The first apples would ripen in less than two months.

“How’s the barn build-out coming?” Meg asked instead. Seth had promised to fit out the climate-controlled holding chambers she would need when her crop ripened, and that date was approaching fast.

“We’ll get there. Seth’s got a lot going on—trying to put his offices together, handling your orchard stuff, and making a living besides. That’s one busy man.”

“Tell me about it. Plus he’s a selectman, which eats up more time.”

“No wonder he doesn’t have any time for romance, eh?” Bree grinned wickedly.

Seth arrived promptly
at six. He still knocked, rather than walking right in, which Meg thought was both sweet and silly, given how much time he spent at the house. But he was always careful not to intrude. “Hi, Meg, Bree. Something smells great.”

“Bree offered to do the cooking,” Meg said. Bree waved and turned back to stirring something. “So, who’s going to be at the meeting tonight? I don’t know if I’ve met them all.”

“There are three members of the Board of Selectmen: me, Tom Moody, who you should know from the Town Meeting, and the redoubtable Mrs. Caroline Goldthwaite. Then there’s Jeannine Crosby, the selectmen’s secretary, who keeps the minutes, and Jack Porter, the town treasurer. I don’t think Jack’s coming, though.”

“What about a finance committee?” Meg asked.

“Five members, appointed by the selectmen. They meet separately. Tonight is just a regular working meeting.”

“Who handles zoning?”

“Sally Thayer—I don’t think you’ve met her either.”

“Should we be talking about the restaurant deal if it’s not finalized?”

“I think we can talk about it in general terms—there are a lot of details to be worked out, things that the town, or at least this board, hasn’t considered before. Even if Brian and Nicole don’t go for it, it’s still a good idea, so maybe we need to open up that can of worms.”

Meg made a face at him. “That’s a lovely image for a restaurant. You know, if we want the town to support this, then they have to be able to afford a meal there. If it’s too upscale, the people of Granford will get annoyed.”

“Agreed. But we’re a long way from that yet.”

The Granford Selectboard
met in a room in the Victorian town hall on the green—which had a convenient view of the proposed restaurant site. Meg wasn’t sure what her role at the meeting was: she had some small legal standing as a resident, albeit one of less than six months, but she had a limited knowledge of the inner workings of the town. And what little the town’s citizens knew of her was not exactly positive, after she had disrupted the last town meeting in a rather spectacular way.

“Hi, Tom—you remember Meg Corey, don’t you?” Seth began, guiding Meg over to Tom Moody, seated at the end of the long oak table. He stood up promptly and offered his hand.

“Hard to forget her, don’t you think?” He softened his statement with a smile. “Welcome, Meg. You don’t plan to drop any bombshells tonight, do you? Because I’d like to get home in time to watch the Red Sox game.”

Meg returned his smile, relieved by the warmth of his reception. She had seen him before, at the last town meeting, but now she could see he was close to Seth’s age, and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds, in the wrong places. “You don’t have to worry. Nice to see you again, Tom, under happier circumstances,” Meg replied.

“Meg, this is Mrs. Caroline Goldthwaite, our third selectman—or maybe we should be saying ‘selectperson’?” Tom gestured to a woman already seated at the big oak table. She was probably past seventy, her silvered hair neatly set, carefully dressed in a pressed blouse and tailored skirt, and wearing pearls. Meg promptly felt shabby in her jeans and shirt.

Mrs. Goldthwaite didn’t rise, but waited for Meg to approach her before she extended a slender hand; when Meg took it, it was cold and dry, despite the warmth of the June evening. “ ‘ Selectman’ will do fine, Tom. I don’t hold with this feminist silliness. Meg, I’m happy to meet you at last. Your reputation precedes you.”

“I’m happy to be here, Caroline.” When a faint cloud passed over the woman’s face, Meg quickly added, “Mrs. Goldthwaite. But I’m here mainly as an observer, and maybe as a consultant. I’m happy to listen and learn.”

Once everyone had settled themselves in chairs, supplied with bad coffee from the office pot, Tom Moody declared the meeting open. The three board members ran through a number of business items, which Meg had little interest in, so instead she studied the participants. Seth brought his usual enthusiasm to the discussion; Tom was more laid-back; and Mrs. Goldthwaite frequently looked as though she smelled something objectionable, although her comments showed that she knew quite a bit about the articles under discussion—and disapproved of most. This was an elected group, wasn’t it? Meg reflected. Did Caroline Goldthwaite represent a sizable constituency in Granford?

“Meg, do you have an opinion?” Seth’s voice interrupted her musings.

“Oh, sorry. What was that?” Great: now she’d been caught wool-gathering.

“Why don’t you explain what your area of expertise is, as a start?”

“Of course. Before I moved to Granford, I was a municipal bond analyst for a Boston bank. That means I evaluated the underlying credit strengths and weaknesses of the issuer, reviewed the issuer’s financial history, that kind of thing. I left when my bank was bought out by another one, and my position became redundant. That’s when I decided to move here and take over the house and orchard on County Line Road.”

“The Warren place,” Mrs. Goldthwaite sniffed. “It’s a shame what’s been allowed to happen there over the years. Absentee owner.”

Meg refused to apologize. “Yes, my mother inherited it some years ago, but she hasn’t been here since. I’m planning to rectify the neglect, and I’m running the orchard now.”

Tom broke in, “Well, I for one am happy to have you here, now that that other little mess has been cleared up. Granford can use some new blood, and the fact that you’re smart is a plus.” He smiled at her. “Has Seth filled you in on Granford’s dismal financial state?”

Meg nodded. “The broad outlines. The bottom line is, the town has no dependable revenue sources, and we’re losing a lot of the working population, which eats into our already shrinking tax base. The new development on the highway will help, and may even keep current residents or attract some new ones, but it may not be enough to stem the tide.”

“That about sums it up.” Tom nodded. “Eroding tax base, growing expenses—fits Granford and most of the small towns in the state, or even the country. Makes you wonder just why we keep asking to be elected.”

Mrs. Goldthwaite spoke stiffly. “I consider it a privilege to serve this community, as my ancestors did before me. And surely you exaggerate the problems. This town has survived since the eighteenth century, and I’m sure it will continue to do so.”

Meg watched as Tom and Seth exchanged an exasperated glance over Mrs. Goldthwaite’s head. Apparently this was not a new debate.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t do something to improve conditions, Mrs. Goldthwaite,” Seth said. “In fact, there’s one piece of new business on the table, and we owe it in part to Meg. There are some potential buyers looking at turning the Stebbins place into a restaurant.” At the look of utter dismay on Mrs. Goldthwaite’s face, Seth hurried to add, “A nice one, of course, not a fast-food place. It’s not a done deal yet, but I think in principle it’s a good idea, and there are a number of municipal issues we should consider, in the event that this does go forward. I believe the buyers will need some approvals from the town, at a minimum, and we should be prepared for that request.”

“I for one am appalled,” Mrs. Goldthwaite said imperiously. “That lovely house on the green? You want a car park, and nasty cooking odors, and trash blowing about? Surely there must be a private buyer who would love it as it is.”

“Mrs. Goldthwaite,” Tom began, trying to swallow his exasperation, “that place has been on the market for close to a year without even a nibble, and you know Frances Clark has been working her tail off to sell it. So we should at least consider this option. Seth, what are your concerns?”

“We’d have to check the zoning—we might need a variance. Structurally the building is sound enough, but they’d need a whole new kitchen and I’d have to be sure it’s up to code. I can handle that. What I know less about is permitting, liquor licenses, all that stuff. We need to know what hoops the town has to jump through to get this up and running. And the buyers want it all to happen yesterday.”

“You’ve met them?”

“I did, with Meg. In fact, it was a friend of Meg’s who pointed them toward Granford, and I think we owe her a vote of thanks. It’s a good idea, and a good opportunity for Granford.”

Mrs. Goldthwaite gave an audible sniff but said nothing.

Tom ignored her. “I agree with Seth—seems like the perfect setting, and we sure could use some decent food in this town. We can ask Fred Weatherly—he’s the town counsel, Meg—to look into the legal details, and talk to the assessor’s office. All just in preparation, Mrs. Goldthwaite.”

Caroline Goldthwaite sat rigid in her chair. “I shall reserve judgment until I have seen the details, but I want to go on record that I think it is a poor idea.”

And what
, Meg wondered,
would you consider a good idea?
Yankee thrift was well and good, but the town needed an infusion of cash from somewhere, and this seemed like a relatively benign solution. Meg was startled to hear her cell phone ringing in the depths of her purse. She pulled it out: Frances. “Excuse me, but this may be relevant.” She stood up and walked over to the window overlooking the green, where the Stebbins house was bathed in evening light. “Frances?” she answered.

“They did it! Offer made and accepted—assuming you get the folks at Town Hall on board. First real sale this year!” the real estate agent crowed.

“That’s great, Frances. I’m at Town Hall now, so I’ll pass on the news. Thanks for letting me know.”

“And there’s more! I got the owners’ permission to let them go ahead and move in as soon as tomorrow while the paperwork clears, but they’ve already done the credit check and all that, so there shouldn’t be any problems. I owe you a bottle of champagne, lady!”

“I’ll take you up on that! See you.”

Meg turned back to the others. “The buyers have made an offer, and the sellers have accepted it. Granford will have a restaurant—if we can make it happen.”

Seth grinned at her, Tom applauded, and Mrs. Goldthwaite sat silent, her eyes empty.