be movie producers. I didn’t expect to read about murders there. I’d forgotten Chuck would be writing up Silas Snow’s murder, even though Aubrey had mentioned Chuck’s interviewing Vernon earlier.
I gathered my thoughts and answered Chuck’s questions as briefly as I could. I definitely slurred over my reasons for going to the Snow fruit stand in the first place, of course. And I tried to be matter-offact about finding the body.
“At first,” I said, “I thought the hand and foot must belong to a scarecrow.”
“What made you realize it was a body?”
The recollection of how that foot had wiggled sprang into my mind, and I couldn’t answer. I put my hand over my mouth and shook my head.
Joe moved in and put his arm around me. “I think that’s enough, Chuck.”
But I couldn’t let Joe protect me. I tried to speak. “I knelt down,” I said. “I troweled—I mean, I touched! I touched the boot. It didn’t move like a scarecrow’s boot would move.”
“What did you do then?”
“I ran through those pumpkins like a friend. I mean, a fiend!” I stopped and took a deep breath. “I ran like hell, Chuck.”
That seemed to settle Chuck’s curiosity. He thanked me and moved on to Aubrey, posing him on the porch of the cottage.
I guess I was still a bit shaken; I wanted to get away from Chuck before he thought of any more questions. So I walked away, following the sand lane further, toward wherever Ken McNutt had been. Joe followed me.
To my surprise, the bushes and trees behind the cottage thinned out quickly.
“What’s back there?” I said. Joe and I walked about a hundred feet and came out in an apple orchard.
“McIntosh?” I said.
Joe touched one of the hanging apples. “Looks more like Jonathan.”
“I guess we’ve reached the active part of the Snow farm.”
The trees weren’t too large. Fruit farmers, I’ve come to realize, don’t want their trees to get very tall. They’re easier to prune, spray, and pick if they’re shorter and wider.
This orchard stretched on for a long way, hundreds of trees marching along in straight lines, forming squares and rectangles and diamonds. The ground beneath them, of course, was cleared. Most growers mow around their trees. I wasn’t sure why.
Joe was a native of orchard country. I turned to him. “Why do fruit farmers mow around trees?”
“Most of them believe tall grass takes nutrients from the trees. Besides, they want to keep the area smooth and even so they can run tractors and trailers down the rows without bouncing fruit around and bruising it.”
Now, in October, the fruit trees were still a dull green, but the oaks and maples—the woods around edges of the orchard—were turning brilliant reds and oranges.
“It is beautiful,” I said.
“Silas was a good grower,” Joe said. “Everything looks neat. Spic-and-span. The only thing I see is one ladder out of place.”
He gestured, and I saw it, too. A three-legged ladder, the kind used for picking fruit, was standing beside a tree. But it wasn’t an apple tree. It was a taller maple at the edge of the orchard.
“Lee! Joe!” Aunt Nettie’s voice came from behind us.
“I guess she’s ready to go,” Joe said.
“So am I.”
We called out, then made our way back down the lane and into the yard of the cottage. Aubrey was pulling up Monte’s stake. Aunt Nettie was holding the long leash, and the puppy immediately made for the bathroom “wing,” pulling Aunt Nettie behind. Monte crawled under the bathroom, finding an easy path between the cement blocks that held the room up. He began digging around in the sandy dirt.
“Come on, Monte!” Aubrey sounded exasperated. “You’ll get mud in the car.”
He took the leash and hauled the pup out, over Monte’s loud objections. As predicted, the dog was a mess, his chocolate hide covered with gray dirt. Joe held him by the collar while Aubrey brought a towel and a brush—more puppy gear—from the SUV and cleaned him
I gathered my thoughts and answered Chuck’s questions as briefly as I could. I definitely slurred over my reasons for going to the Snow fruit stand in the first place, of course. And I tried to be matter-offact about finding the body.
“At first,” I said, “I thought the hand and foot must belong to a scarecrow.”
“What made you realize it was a body?”
The recollection of how that foot had wiggled sprang into my mind, and I couldn’t answer. I put my hand over my mouth and shook my head.
Joe moved in and put his arm around me. “I think that’s enough, Chuck.”
But I couldn’t let Joe protect me. I tried to speak. “I knelt down,” I said. “I troweled—I mean, I touched! I touched the boot. It didn’t move like a scarecrow’s boot would move.”
“What did you do then?”
“I ran through those pumpkins like a friend. I mean, a fiend!” I stopped and took a deep breath. “I ran like hell, Chuck.”
That seemed to settle Chuck’s curiosity. He thanked me and moved on to Aubrey, posing him on the porch of the cottage.
I guess I was still a bit shaken; I wanted to get away from Chuck before he thought of any more questions. So I walked away, following the sand lane further, toward wherever Ken McNutt had been. Joe followed me.
To my surprise, the bushes and trees behind the cottage thinned out quickly.
“What’s back there?” I said. Joe and I walked about a hundred feet and came out in an apple orchard.
“McIntosh?” I said.
Joe touched one of the hanging apples. “Looks more like Jonathan.”
“I guess we’ve reached the active part of the Snow farm.”
The trees weren’t too large. Fruit farmers, I’ve come to realize, don’t want their trees to get very tall. They’re easier to prune, spray, and pick if they’re shorter and wider.
This orchard stretched on for a long way, hundreds of trees marching along in straight lines, forming squares and rectangles and diamonds. The ground beneath them, of course, was cleared. Most growers mow around their trees. I wasn’t sure why.
Joe was a native of orchard country. I turned to him. “Why do fruit farmers mow around trees?”
“Most of them believe tall grass takes nutrients from the trees. Besides, they want to keep the area smooth and even so they can run tractors and trailers down the rows without bouncing fruit around and bruising it.”
Now, in October, the fruit trees were still a dull green, but the oaks and maples—the woods around edges of the orchard—were turning brilliant reds and oranges.
“It is beautiful,” I said.
“Silas was a good grower,” Joe said. “Everything looks neat. Spic-and-span. The only thing I see is one ladder out of place.”
He gestured, and I saw it, too. A three-legged ladder, the kind used for picking fruit, was standing beside a tree. But it wasn’t an apple tree. It was a taller maple at the edge of the orchard.
“Lee! Joe!” Aunt Nettie’s voice came from behind us.
“I guess she’s ready to go,” Joe said.
“So am I.”
We called out, then made our way back down the lane and into the yard of the cottage. Aubrey was pulling up Monte’s stake. Aunt Nettie was holding the long leash, and the puppy immediately made for the bathroom “wing,” pulling Aunt Nettie behind. Monte crawled under the bathroom, finding an easy path between the cement blocks that held the room up. He began digging around in the sandy dirt.
“Come on, Monte!” Aubrey sounded exasperated. “You’ll get mud in the car.”
He took the leash and hauled the pup out, over Monte’s loud objections. As predicted, the dog was a mess, his chocolate hide covered with gray dirt. Joe held him by the collar while Aubrey brought a towel and a brush—more puppy gear—from the SUV and cleaned him
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