doubt. She swung her legs out of the bed, walked to the bathroom for a quick shower, then toweled off and pulled on her clothes. She threw the few things she had unpacked back into her bag, and in minutes she was ready to follow the enticing scent of baking down to the kitchen. There she found a scene of controlled chaos: Rachel shifting pans on the stove and in and out of the oven, while serving breakfast to what Meg deduced to be her husband and two children.
“Matthew, eat your muffin. The bus’ll be here in ten minutes. Chloe, do you have your lunch money? Hi, Meg, have a seat— this crew will be out the door in a minute. Oh, right, you haven’t met my husband. This is Noah.”
Rachel’s husband, a gangly man with disorderly dark hair, sprawled in his chair, clearly amused by the hubbub in his kitchen. He extended his hand across the table. “Noah Dickinson. And before you ask, no relation.” He grinned.
“What? Oh, you mean Emily. Nice to meet you, and thanks for taking me in for the night. I’m Meg Corey.”
“I know. You’re the celebrity of the day. The murder was on the local news.”
Meg quailed inwardly. She hadn’t even thought about that. She sat wordlessly and waited while Rachel herded her family out the door. In less than five minutes, a blessed silence fell, and Rachel dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief.
“End of round one! Thank goodness I don’t have any guests at the moment, but the spring season will be starting soon enough. With all these colleges in the area, there are always people looking for a place to stay.” Rachel bounced up again and went to the stove, where she waved a coffeepot in Meg’s direction. Meg nodded in response to the unvoiced question, and Rachel poured two mugs of coffee. “What do you want to eat?”
“Those muffins smell wonderful. That’ll be plenty for me.”
Rachel took a basket, lined it with what looked like an antique linen napkin, then added six large muffins, and brought the basket and the mugs to the table. She went to the refrigerator for butter, retrieved a silver-plated jelly tray and some mismatched antique butter knives, and placed them on the table. Finally she sat down again. “There,” she said triumphantly. “So, talk, before Seth shows up and eats all the muffins. If you don’t mind, that is. I have a tendency to ask a lot of questions, and Seth says I pry.”
Meg took a warm muffin and sliced into it, then slathered it with butter. If she had wanted to speak, she couldn’t have: she was too busy inhaling the homemade apple muffin. Between bites she managed, “These are wonderful!” She took a second muffin and quickly finished half of it before responding to Rachel’s curiosity. “No, I don’t mind, and anyway, I owe you. I don’t know what Seth has told you, but here’s the outline. My mother inherited the house from the last of the Warren family maybe thirty years ago, and held on to it. I came out here to fix it up, and a couple of days ago the septic tank went kerflooey— that’s how I met Seth.”
Rachel smiled at her. “The old Warren house. It’s a great place.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. You know it?”
“Sure—remember, we grew up just over the hill. I’ve been going by the house most of my life. You’re lucky. You’ve got the wetlands protecting you on one side, which means your views are safe.”
Gail had said something like that, but Meg suspected that the term “wetlands” more likely meant “bog.” “And, it seems, an orchard on the other side.” Meg eyed a third muffin. After all, she needed to keep up her strength.
“Of course! Warren’s Grove. It’s so pretty in the spring! And you know what? There’s a good chance you’re eating one of your own apples right now, in that muffin. I think the people who were living in the house sold the whole crop to the co-op group not far from here. The co-op holds a street market in Northampton on Saturdays, come summer.
“Matthew, eat your muffin. The bus’ll be here in ten minutes. Chloe, do you have your lunch money? Hi, Meg, have a seat— this crew will be out the door in a minute. Oh, right, you haven’t met my husband. This is Noah.”
Rachel’s husband, a gangly man with disorderly dark hair, sprawled in his chair, clearly amused by the hubbub in his kitchen. He extended his hand across the table. “Noah Dickinson. And before you ask, no relation.” He grinned.
“What? Oh, you mean Emily. Nice to meet you, and thanks for taking me in for the night. I’m Meg Corey.”
“I know. You’re the celebrity of the day. The murder was on the local news.”
Meg quailed inwardly. She hadn’t even thought about that. She sat wordlessly and waited while Rachel herded her family out the door. In less than five minutes, a blessed silence fell, and Rachel dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief.
“End of round one! Thank goodness I don’t have any guests at the moment, but the spring season will be starting soon enough. With all these colleges in the area, there are always people looking for a place to stay.” Rachel bounced up again and went to the stove, where she waved a coffeepot in Meg’s direction. Meg nodded in response to the unvoiced question, and Rachel poured two mugs of coffee. “What do you want to eat?”
“Those muffins smell wonderful. That’ll be plenty for me.”
Rachel took a basket, lined it with what looked like an antique linen napkin, then added six large muffins, and brought the basket and the mugs to the table. She went to the refrigerator for butter, retrieved a silver-plated jelly tray and some mismatched antique butter knives, and placed them on the table. Finally she sat down again. “There,” she said triumphantly. “So, talk, before Seth shows up and eats all the muffins. If you don’t mind, that is. I have a tendency to ask a lot of questions, and Seth says I pry.”
Meg took a warm muffin and sliced into it, then slathered it with butter. If she had wanted to speak, she couldn’t have: she was too busy inhaling the homemade apple muffin. Between bites she managed, “These are wonderful!” She took a second muffin and quickly finished half of it before responding to Rachel’s curiosity. “No, I don’t mind, and anyway, I owe you. I don’t know what Seth has told you, but here’s the outline. My mother inherited the house from the last of the Warren family maybe thirty years ago, and held on to it. I came out here to fix it up, and a couple of days ago the septic tank went kerflooey— that’s how I met Seth.”
Rachel smiled at her. “The old Warren house. It’s a great place.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. You know it?”
“Sure—remember, we grew up just over the hill. I’ve been going by the house most of my life. You’re lucky. You’ve got the wetlands protecting you on one side, which means your views are safe.”
Gail had said something like that, but Meg suspected that the term “wetlands” more likely meant “bog.” “And, it seems, an orchard on the other side.” Meg eyed a third muffin. After all, she needed to keep up her strength.
“Of course! Warren’s Grove. It’s so pretty in the spring! And you know what? There’s a good chance you’re eating one of your own apples right now, in that muffin. I think the people who were living in the house sold the whole crop to the co-op group not far from here. The co-op holds a street market in Northampton on Saturdays, come summer.
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