Free Golden Malicious (Apple Orchard Mystery) by Sheila Connolly Page A

accident or by someone unknown—for no apparent reason?”
    “There’s almost always a reason when someone is killed, but in this case nobody’s found it yet,” Art reminded her. “And we have no reason to think he was killed. Look, the simplest answer, and without any other evidence, the one Marcus is most likely to choose, is that the guy tripped, hit his head, crawled in the wrong direction, and died. There’s nothing in the file or from the autopsy that contradicts that solution. I’d bet Marcus is going to close this case quickly.”
    “I’m starting the rice,” Bree broke in. “Dinner in fifteen. And I agree with Art—the simplest solution is the most logical one here. You don’t really have to find evil plots
all
the time, Meg.”
    Meg held up her hands. “Okay, I surrender! Another beer, guys?”
    The talk turned to other things over dinner, followed by ice cream. Art went home shortly afterward, leaving the folder of photocopies with them. Bree excused herself and headed up to her room.
    “You want to sit outside for a while?” Seth asked Meg.
    “If I’ve still got bug repellent,” Meg answered.
    “Water’s down in the Great Meadow, you know,” Seth replied. “That means fewer mosquitoes.”
    “The one good part of this drought I keep trying to forget about, I guess. Sure, let’s go watch the bats come out of the barn.”
    They made their way through the gathering dusk to the pair of Adirondack chairs overlooking the Meadow that lay behind Meg’s old barn. Meg dropped into one with a sigh. “I don’t know why I should be tired. I didn’t do any manual labor today. Maybe I’m just frustrated.”
    “Why?” Seth asked, settling in the chair beside hers.
    “The usual. The house needs some serious repairs that I can’t afford. The orchard needs a permanent irrigation system, which I also can’t afford. Finding that nasty beetle. Not to mention poor David Clapp’s dead body. Sorry, I’ve got that backward: finding David Clapp should be more important than finding the beetle. Or maybe they’re linked. I notice that neither one of us mentioned the beetle angle to Art.”
    “Because there’s no evidence that it’s connected,” Seth replied. “What’s the point?”
    “None, I guess,” Meg said, but she was still troubled. She decided not to pursue it any further—for now. “How about you? Any unpleasant surprises at Donald’s house?”
    “You mean, like bodies falling out of the walls? Nope, it’s pretty straightforward. I may need to get some heavy equipment in to square up the walls again in the corner, but otherwise it’s structurally sound. I love working with the wood, and Jonas puts out a good product. Sometimes sawmills cut corners, like not drying their lumber long enough, and then people like me have problems with it twisting and warping, and the homeowner blames us for the shoddy work. But I can count on Jonas’s wood.”
    “I assume it costs more than if you ordered lumber from the big box stores?” Meg asked, feeling the tension seeping out of her body as she relaxed in the dusk.
    “Yes, and sometimes customers balk at the extra expense, but not people like Donald, thank goodness. He loves that house.”
    Meg could understand that, but she didn’t want to dwell on all the repairs she should be doing on her own house, authentically or otherwise. Looking out over the darkening meadow, she asked, “Do you think this view has changed much since my house was built?”
    “Probably not. I think you showed me the documents about grazing rights on the Meadow there, back in the eighteenth century—some years it was simply too wet for cattle. So it’s been wetlands from the beginning. Back in the day the term ‘meadow’ and ‘swamp’ were more or less the same, in some cases. As for the forest beyond? I’d have to look more closely. It’s likely that it was cleared and what you’re looking at is regrowth, but even that’s old now. Why, are you thinking of