Nipped in the Bud

Nipped in the Bud

Winter still has a firm stranglehold on the small town of Granford, and newly married orchard owner Meg Chapin is restless to begin her spring pruning and planting, while Seth busies himself with a new project of his own. But their relative peace is shattered when a gunshot breaks the winter silence and they discover the body of a dead woman on their land. What’s just as troubling is that the state police have hushed up the murder and are warning Meg not to investigate.

Never one to sit by idly with a killer on the loose, Meg starts digging for clues and probing for answers as discreetly as she can. When the victim turns out to have been an undercover reporter doing a story on the blossoming trade in illegal drugs in the area, Meg’s stunned to learn that this very modern crime has come to sleepy Granford. Unwilling to accept that the nasty business has put down roots so close to home—and led to a murder that occurred literally in her own backyard—Meg is determined to nip it in the bud before the town she knows and loves turns rotten . . .

Title Page

Copyright

Nipped in the Bud

Sheila Connolly

Copyright © 2018 by Sheila Connolly

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-946069-86-3

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Books by Sheila Connolly

About the Author

Chapter 1

Meg Corey—oops, now Chapin, she reminded herself yet again—stared out the window over the sink, her hands immersed in dirty dishes and soapy water. Outside the window lay an almost monochrome winter landscape—naked dark brown trunks, scattered drifts of cinnamon-colored leaves, a few evergreens, punctuated by patches of old snow. Even the grass was brownish. Her two goats, Dorcas and Isabel, had given up trying to graze and were chomping on the hay she’d left out for them. She’d bring them into the barn before it got dark.

Too bad her orchard lay on the opposite side of the house, running up the hill. She thought, not for the first time, of flipping the layout of the kitchen, moving the sink to the other side so she could keep her eye on the apple trees as the fruit grew over the summer and fall. There wasn’t much to see right now, and the currently bare branches taunted her: it was pruning time, all the experts said, but she hadn’t even begun. She liked to prune, cutting out the dead branches and clearing the space between branches and around the trunks to allow the apples to flourish, even though she felt guilty every time she killed a branch. Still, it was necessary to give the apples the best chance to prosper. And if she burnt the branches in the fireplace, they gave off a nice scent.

Are you washing those dishes or soaking them? Her relatively new husband, Seth Chapin, came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Meg looked down at the scummy pool of gray water in front of her. I forget. Maybe they need to soak a while longer. She dried her hands on a convenient dish towel, then pivoted to face Seth. I’m so busy most of the year that I forget what to do when I have free time. I’ve even done the taxes already—early. Meg’s financial background made her the logical choice to deal with tax filings, even though both she and Seth managed their own small businesses.

How’d we do this year?

Not bad. Better than last year. But the good weather helped. You have any projects going?

Winter’s my slow time too. Most people don’t want me tearing out walls and replacing windows when it’s below freezing outside. Of course, that means once it warms up I’ll be crazy busy. Seth had started out as a plumber working with his father, but after his father’s death he had shifted to his first love, renovation of local houses with the goal of preserving as much of the original structure and architectural detail as possible. His reputation had grown steadily in the Pioneer Valley, so he kept busy in fair weather. There were plenty of colonial houses in the area, so he wouldn’t run out of jobs anytime soon.

What’s Larry doing? he asked. I haven’t seen much of him.

Well, he arrived kind of late in the season when he took over from Bree, so I think he’s been polishing his apple skills with Christopher while things are slow. Has he talked with you about the tiny house?

When Meg had taken over the orchard, Bree had already been working there, guided by Christopher Ramsdell, a professor at UMass Amherst. Since Meg had no idea what her cash situation would be, she’d offered Bree the title of orchard manager as well as a room in the house, which had worked out well for everyone. But Bree was a long way away, and Meg and Seth had gotten married and they didn’t feel right about having Bree’s replacement, Larry Bennett, live in the same house. When they’d begun considering alternatives, the somewhat trendy concept of a tiny house had come up, and Larry had seized on it as ideal for his needs, which were few, but which definitely included privacy.

We discussed the basic requirements a while back. We’ve drawn up some plans, but we’re waiting for the weather to warm up a bit. Shouldn’t take long to put together, once we get started.

So he’s still staying at your house up the hill?

For now. I get the feeling he doesn’t much like having roommates, though. He’d rather have his own space, no matter how small.

He does seem like a real loner, Meg agreed. Are Christopher and your mother still, uh . . . ? Meg was reluctant to pin a name on their relationship, even though they’d been—seeing each other? dating?—for several months now. Seth’s mother, Lydia, had been a widow for years, and Christopher a widower, but somehow they’d mutually decided they were tired of being alone. Meg was happy for them both—and the idea of having internationally renowned pomologist Christopher only minutes away was reassuring, especially since he was the person who had kept the old orchard healthy for decades. Besides which, he was delightful company.

She turned back to the mess of dishes in the sink but found herself staring out the window once again. Oh, look—it’s a fox. I haven’t seen many around here.

Where?

Meg pointed out across the meadow. He’s hard to miss with that lovely red coat. Or is it a she?

Can’t really tell from here. They’ve been rare in the area for a while. The foxes used to be a real nuisance to anyone who kept chickens, but fewer and fewer people do now.

What else do they eat?

Birds, small rodents. I’m no expert.

It wouldn’t be hard to know more than I do—I’ve been a city girl most of my life. Can I assume they don’t eat apples?

You’d have noticed by now. And they don’t climb trees, as far as I know. They’re mainly carnivorous. The only thing to worry about is illness—they can get rabies, and sometimes you see one with mange.

Like they lose their fur?

Pretty much. Mange is a kind of infection caused by mites. It’s itchy, and the foxes’ skin can get infected and then they can get parasites. Sometimes they die from starvation since the parasites are sucking up all their nutrition.

That sounds awful. Does mange spread? Should we worry about Max getting it? Max was the golden retriever they shared, after Seth had adopted him. Max had never met another animal or human that he didn’t like, so most likely he’d try to get close to a fox, which could be a problem on more than one level.

Apparently mange doesn’t affect dogs and cats. Or goats, if you’re wondering.

Is there anything to be done about it? For the foxes, I mean?

If you see it early enough, there are drugs that can kill off the mites. You can leave out food injected with the medication, which seems to work. Assuming you want to keep the foxes around?

I think they’re pretty, but I wouldn’t plan to make a pet of one. Is it a problem locally?

Not that I’m aware of, but an infected fox could wander into the neighborhood at any time.

Great. One more thing to worry about.

I wouldn’t put it high on your list, Meg. Unless it’s hunting season.

There was a fox-hunting season? Which is when?

Now. It ends at the end of this month.

How come I haven’t heard of this before? Meg demanded indignantly.

Because Granford is not very good hunting territory—there are better places for serious hunters in this area. Of course, there are always a few farmers who go after rats with a shotgun, because they eat their grain, but none of our closest neighbors keeps animals, much less shoots at pests.

Good to know, I guess. So I don’t need a bulletproof vest when I go out to feed the goats?

I think you’ll be safe. And I would have told you if I thought you needed one.

Do you need a permit to own a gun? Meg asked.

This is Massachusetts—what do you think?

I’ll assume that means yes. It seems you need a permit for almost everything in this state from what you’ve told me about construction, old or new. Somehow she’d finished the dishes while they talked, and they were draining. Meg dried her hands and turned back to Seth. Want to take a walk before it gets too dark?

Okay. Any place in particular?

Just out. Like I said, I feel restless when there’s nothing I have to do. It’s not raining or snowing, and I’ll have to get the goats into the barn before dark, so why not go now? We can look over the apple trees and see how much pruning we’ll have to do. And you can tell me about your latest plans for the tiny house. And walk Max.

You are something else, Seth said, laughing. You’ve got a foot-long to-do list for your free time.

Some people would call that an efficient use of time, Meg replied, but she wasn’t troubled by it. Neither one of them was a lazy person, which was probably why they fit so well together. Well, one of the reasons—there were plenty of others.

Ten minutes later, wrapped with cold-weather gear and accompanied by an eager Max, they made it out the back door. Meg inhaled deeply. It smells so clean, she said.

Smells like snow to me, Seth said.

You can tell?

Kind of. But I checked the weather report. Flurries only, it said, but I’ve got a delivery of lumber coming and I need to get it stashed in the barn.

Then walk faster, if you want to get any exercise in. Oh, wait—I might as well put the goats in the barn now, since we may be a while.

That task was quickly accomplished. Afterward, despite good intentions, they didn’t hurry. Without discussing it they headed for the top of the hill that the orchard occupied, then stopped to admire the view. The house stood solid and foursquare near the road, as it had for over two hundred years. The rows of mature apple trees straggled their way down the slope of the hill. Off to the north, a few acres of young trees stood in neater rows; she and Seth had planted them together before they were married, but they were small and probably wouldn’t bear any apples for at least a year, certainly not enough to take to market. But that little orchard had been a commitment to their shared future, and Meg had chosen heirloom varieties, suited to the region. They might not bring in as much money as the better-known standard varieties, but Meg wanted them in order to preserve their history.

Turning to their left, Meg could see Seth’s former house, where Larry was living, and beyond that the roofline of what had been his family home, where his mother had stayed after the death of Seth’s father. The farm Meg and Seth were living on, which Meg had inherited, was the only producing land on this side of the old road—the rest were now residences only, lovingly maintained. The town was beyond their sight, though at the crest of the hill they could hear the sound of passing cars on the local highway.

It all looked lovely and peaceful in the approaching dusk, and Meg leaned against Seth—her husband!—and allowed herself to simply relax and enjoy the view. Even Max was still, as if sharing their mood.

It didn’t last. Meg heard the sound of a gunshot. She couldn’t distinguish between kinds of guns, so she looked at Seth. Rifle, he said. A little too close for comfort. There are regulations about discharging firearms near settled areas, which this is. Plus, the light’s fading fast, so it would be hard to see your target.

Do you have to report it to someone?

Wouldn’t be much use if I can’t identify the shooter. I’ll let the police know that somebody isn’t following the rules.

Alert to the sound of any possible hunter, Seth hadn’t been paying attention to Max, who suddenly took off toward where the gunshot had come from. Damn it, Max, come back here, he yelled after the running dog.

Max ignored Seth and kept heading for the tree line. Meg told Seth, You’d better go after him—we don’t want that idiot hunter out there to think Max is a deer.

Unfortunately you’re right. Maybe you should go back to the house.

Which was exactly what she didn’t want to do. You have your cell phone?

Always. You? When Meg nodded, Seth said, I’ll be back as soon as I catch up to that critter. Seth set off at a brisk run, but Max already had a head start. The dog vanished into the trees, and after a few seconds started barking loudly. At least if he kept that up no one would mistake him for a deer. Seth disappeared into the woods after him, calling his name.

Meg wavered. She wanted to wait until man and dog came back, safe and sound. But it was getting darker by the minute, and she was cold. She compromised by sitting down, her back against a tree, ready to wait. She looked up at the sky: no stars visible. Maybe Seth was right and there was snow coming—they hadn’t had a lot this winter, so they were probably due for a storm. Massachusetts weather was getting increasingly unpredictable, and extreme as well: one week it could average sixty degrees, and the next week they’d get three feet of snow. Meg was still new enough to apple growing that she didn’t know how the trees, established or new, would react to such inconsistent conditions, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

Despite the cold, she was almost drowsing as darkness fell. The ringing of her cell phone, buried deep in one pocket of her coat, made her jump. She fished it out and checked the number: Seth’s. What’s wrong? she asked, jumping to the logical conclusions. Did you lose Max?

Max is fine, and I put him on his leash. The problem is, there’s a body. Human.

That last gunshot we heard?

Probably. Blood’s still fresh.

Someone you know?

No, luckily. I’ve never seen her before.

And the shooter?

Gone long before I arrived. Max made enough noise to drown out a herd of elk.

What now?

I’ve called Art, but I’d better stay here so he can find the spot. You go back to the house, maybe make some coffee. I’m guessing it’ll be a long night.

Okay. Be careful, will you?

Of course. I’ve got someone to come home to now. He hung up.

Meg struggled to her feet, her legs stiff from sitting in the cold. Oddly enough she wasn’t surprised: things had been too calm lately. A dead body would certainly change that.

Chapter 2

Clearly she wasn’t going to be able to sleep after what Seth had told her—not until he was back, safe and sound, and ideally with an explanation for why someone was dead in the woods. To occupy her mind while she trudged back toward the house she found herself wondering: was the body on her land? The house that was now hers had originally included over a hundred acres, back when it was a working farm. Now she had about fifteen acres of established trees in the older part of the orchard and another two or three of new plantings where her land and Seth’s met. The property was ringed with old-growth trees, but she wasn’t clear how far into those her land extended. Nor did she really know all the neighbors who lived beyond. Seth had said earlier that they weren’t farmers, but that was about all she knew. Were there children living in those houses? Certainly if there were their parents should be alerted that there was someone who was careless with a weapon lurking among the trees.

Or else that someone had killed deliberately and disappeared under cover of darkness.

That was a chilling thought. Why there, why now? There were enough homes nearby that people would hear a shot, just as she had. That would at least narrow down the time the shooter was there. Had anyone seen someone exiting the woods? Getting into a car? Or maybe she was getting ahead of herself and it had been a suicide—although a rifle was not the easiest weapon to use for that. A handgun would have been a better choice. But again, why here? There were certainly more heavily wooded areas around, where a body might lie undetected for a long time.

She’d reached the house and let herself in—locking the door carefully behind her. After hanging up her down-filled coat, she filled the electric kettle so she could make coffee and scooped up her cat, Lolly, from her favorite perch on top of the refrigerator, and Meg