Free Sour Apples by Sheila Connolly

for Ethan to tell him in person.”
    “Why would anybody kill a dairy farmer?” Bree asked, her mouth full.
    “That’s the big question. The only thing out of the ordinary was that a couple of the cows had gotten sick lately, and apparently Joyce had a lab look at what was making them sick, and Seth said it turned out to be lead. You know anything about lead poisoning in farm animals?”
    Bree chewed and swallowed before answering. “Not really—I didn’t do much with animal husbandry in school. Where’d the lead come from?”
    “Nobody knows yet. Seth’s going to look into it, since Joyce’s cows had been grazing on land leased from the town just before they got sick. Or at least that’s the assumption, that the lead came from the field. I suppose it could have just as easily come from something in the milking barn or the feed—although I think Joyce didn’t use purchased feed, just grass. Or somebody deliberately poisoned the cows, though it’s hard to imagine why anyone would do that either.”
    “What did they test? Blood? Milk?”
    “The lead was in the cows’ blood. I don’t know about the milk, but Joyce could have tested that herself—she used to be a dairy inspector. Joyce told Seth that she’d ordered soil tests, once she knew what she was looking for, but the results haven’t come in yet. I suppose the police will have to look at the barn and all.”
    “But Joyce seemed to think it had to be something in the land they just started using?”
    “I think so. They’ve been operating without any problems for a couple of years, and that pasture is the only thing they changed, so it seems logical that that’s where the problem lay. Which makes me wonder about soil testing—is that something we need to do?”
    Bree scraped her plate with her fork, then stood up to help herself to seconds. “Depends on what you’re looking for. We’ve tested for soil composition and nutrients, but I’d have to check to see if we’ve looked at anything toxic here. Probably, because Christopher was pretty careful when he was overseeing the orchard for the university.”
    Meg wasn’t about to question the professor’s expertise. “Is there anything that was used in the old days, before the university took over, that would have lingered?”
    “I doubt it. I can give you some references if you want to research it. In your spare time, that is—we start spraying tomorrow. Weather’s supposed to be clear for the next few days, and we need to grab the opportunity.”
    “Sounds good to me. I don’t think Lauren’s going to be around much, so I’m free.”
    “If she shows up, you can hand her a sprayer. This comes first.”
    Meg tried to picture Lauren dousing trees, and laughed. “Yes, ma’am. Though I can’t envision Lauren in overalls and muck boots.”

7
    As Bree had predicted, the next morning dawned fair and fine: perfect spraying weather. Luckily the orchard was small enough that the two of them could handle the spraying with light equipment in a day or two, if conditions permitted.
    Meg was in the kitchen as the sun came up, and as she drank her coffee, she mulled over her choices for the new apples. She liked Bree’s concept of a historically correct mini-orchard. People retained a fondness for John Chapman, better known as Johnny Appleseed, who had been born in Massachusetts. Of course, most of them didn’t know that Johnny had had no interest in propagating and disseminating any particular variety of apple, although he had been instrumental in helping to establish orchards as the country’s population moved westward. His main interest had lain in cider apples rather than eating apples—including the fermented end products of cider apples. Johnny had liked his applejack.
    Still, a lot of dependable and tasty apples had originatedin Massachusetts—Roxbury Russets and Baldwins, for example—and others had evolved in the last two centuries. It might be fun to have a dedicated local historical