Drizzled with Death(36)

“No sir. I’m just eager to hear the good news that I can be certified organic. I’m just itching to update my website and let the customers know they can feel even better about our products.” And my prices could move up the scale a bit, too.

“And your prices will go up a good bit, too, if you pass, now won’t they?” I gulped again. “I’m just teasing. Don’t get yourself so worked up. You won’t live to be my age if you never develop a sense of humor.” He walked over to the evaporator and started poking around. For the next forty-five minutes he looked everywhere, rummaged around in cupboards, cabinets, and closets. He asked questions, wrote the names of cleaners in his notebook, and even snapped a few photos on a camera that looked like it took actual film. As the moments passed, I felt myself relax and even thought we were developing a rapport of a sort. We made our way into the shop area, where he made a beeline for the coffeepot.

“Is this organic?” I was gulping so much I wondered if it was possible to get an extended warranty on my Adam’s apple. I looked at the gnome and scrutinized his face for signs of mirth, humor, anything to get me off the hook.

“I’m not sure. I serve organic coffee during the high season when there are tourists in the shop, but I’m afraid this might be some my sister brought in from the house the last time she deigned to visit. Will that count against me?”

“I’m just joking. You really do need to lighten up.” He was right, though. I tried my best to walk the walk and those little things all mattered. My grandparents still made the majority of the decisions about the groceries, and I hadn’t been able to convince them coffee drinking had changed a bit since they bought their first can of Chock full o’Nuts. They like to think they are keeping up with the times in a lot of ways, but shade-grown and sustainable cups of joe weren’t even on the list.

“Well, then, would you like a cup?”

“I never touch the hard stuff when I’m working. It goes straight to my head.” And he elbowed me in the ribs. “You’re looking kinda peaky. Why don’t we take the air while you show me your sugar bush?” I nodded and opened the door leading out of the shop and to the parking lot, where customers had crowded onto the grassy verges in the height of leaf-peeping season. We picked our way across the semifrozen ground and entered the sugar bush at one of my favorite points on the property. An old, tumbled-down stone wall runs for a ways and then peters out at a beech tree, which looks like the one used in every fairy tale illustration. Its leaves rattled and quaked in the slight breeze. As the trees grew denser and larger, the carpet of crackling leaves beneath my feet grew more luxuriant. Acre after acre of the stately trees stretched above my head, some so close their branches touched and made it feel like a sanctuary in the woods.

“Your application says you don’t buy sap from any other producers.”

“That’s right. We make our syrup exclusively from our own sap. We tap the trees and boil it down right in the shack using wood from our own property.”

“So you’ve got a fairly good-sized setup here. You’re pretty young for such an ambitious project.”

“I’m not as young as I look.”

“And I’m not as old as I look, but that doesn’t change how much effort it takes to make a go of something as big as this.”

“No disrespect, sir, but my family has been making syrup for four generations. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t go out with my father to check the buckets or watch him fill the evaporator pan with sap. I may be young but I have over twenty years’ experience.”

“But do you have it in running a business?”

“No. But I want to. And I’m hoping organic certification is going to help me to get there.”

“From the looks of things, I think you stand a decent chance of that. Let’s finish touring the sugar bush then we’ll see if I have any more questions.”

For the next hour or so we moved across the property in much the same way he had moved about the sugarhouse. He was observant, methodical, and thorough. But by the time we’d worked our way back to the shop, I felt pretty good about my chances.

“Well, now that the work’s all done, I’d be delighted to accept that cup of coffee if you’re still offering, organic or not.” He winked at me, dipping an overgrown eyebrow down under his spectacles, where it got tangled up in the frame. He yanked it out with a gnarled finger and accepted the beverage. We were making small talk about the likelihood of favorable weather in spring for a decent sugaring season when I heard more clomping on the front porch.