Meg listened as Christopher spoke knowledgeably without notes. The slides he had brought ranged from early deeds to bills of sale and advertising flyers for various farm products. After a while she found she was finally warm—and struggling to stay awake. She was jerked from a near doze by the sound of a cell phone.
“Oops, sorry—it’s mine,” Gail said, pulling the phone from her pocket. She strode toward the back of the room and spoke quietly into it, then returned. “Sorry, folks, I’m going to have to duck out on you—crisis at home. John, can you talk about the stuff I brought over, and make sure the items get back to the society building? Tomorrow’s plenty of time. And can anybody here work this dang projector?” A couple of hands went up. “Next meeting’s the fourteenth of next month, and we’re going to have to review the budget. I’ll send you a reminder, with the details. Christopher, please go on. I’m sorry I’m going to miss the rest of your talk. Bye, all.”
Gail bustled out of the room, and Christopher resumed without a hitch. It was clear that he loved his subject, and the small crowd listened patiently; some people asked intelligent questions. Finally Christopher wound down, and John moved quietly to the front, demonstrating various tools that Meg didn’t recognize. Christopher seized on one that had a wickedly curved blade at one end, and proceeded to demonstrate how to use it, swinging it with enthusiasm and putting John in some peril. Meg sighed with relief when Christopher put it down—as did John.
After a few questions, the group stood up and moved en masse toward the refreshments. Meg hung back. She felt awkward trying to break into the group, all of whom obviously knew each other. Nor did they make any effort to approach her. Was this a sample of Yankee reticence?
Christopher noticed her hesitation and came over. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked.
“Yes, I did, although I have no idea what most of that stuff is. Easy to forget our agricultural beginnings, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed. We’re so accustomed to stopping in at the market and finding whatever we need, we’ve lost sight of where it comes from. Which these days may be Mexico or China, all too often.”
“You don’t approve?”
Christopher shook his head, more in sorrow than in disagreement.“We live in a global economy, I know, but I don’t think a journey of a thousand miles improves the flavor of a tomato. And I fear the next generation will not know what they’re missing. But I do what I can in the orchard. You’re in for some happy surprises come harvest time, I assure you.”
Meg didn’t see any point in reminding him that she didn’t expect to be around in the fall. Together they drifted toward the table with the food and helped themselves to coffee and cookies. Extrovert Christopher had no trouble engaging several people in conversation, and Meg listened and smiled and sipped her coffee. When she looked at her watch, she was surprised to find it was nearly ten. Christopher did the same, then exclaimed, “Heavens! And I’ve an early class. Good people, thank you for putting up with my obsession this evening.”
People laughed and thanked him, then turned to clearing away the tables and packing up the projector. Meg was left standing alone, unsure whether she should offer to help but recognizing that she didn’t know where anything went anyway. She was relieved when Christopher turned to her again. “Shall I see you to your car?”
Meg smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you. I should be getting home myself.”
“Well, then, let us take our leave. Good night, all!” Christopher escorted her up the stairs and out to the parking lot. The temperature had dropped yet again, and emerging from the relative warmth of the church, Meg shivered.
With a cheerful wave, Christopher headed for his car. Meg climbed into hers quickly and turned on the engine and the heater, full blast. She looked around at the town. No lights showed, and there were few cars on the road. Sleepy didn’t begin to describe it. Moribund, maybe.
What had she learned tonight? Gail seemed pleasant. The others … She’d have to reserve judgment about them, because she hadn’t talked with most of them. But what did it matter? She didn’t plan to stay around long enough to make friends. She’d have to get back together with Gail, find out what she knew about the house. Funny that everyone she met seemed to know it well. Better than she did, certainly.
The drive home took no more than five minutes, and when she approached the house, she was glad she had left some lights on. This was not the city; this was open country, with houses spaced widely. From the looks of those she had passed, most people were already tucked into bed.
Meg, you’re not in Boston anymore.
6
The following morning Meg came down to the kitchen feeling satisfied with herself. She had dealt with her plumbing crisis efficiently and successfully, and now she could tell prospective buyers that the septic system was in good shape. Moreover, she had gotten out of the house, gone to the meeting, and even enjoyed herself.
She filled the coffeemaker with water, then scraped off the dishes she had used for a sketchy dinner the evening before. As she rinsed, she looked out over the meadow, trying to imagine it in spring, in summer, with grasses blowing in the wind, the trees in full leaf … She looked down to see water rising in her sink, topped with greasy scum.
“Damn!” To think she had believed Seth when he said he’d fixed it. Had he taken her for a gullible idiot and done a shoddy patch job? At least she hadn’t paid him yet, and the trench was still wide-open. Well, he had said to call if there was a problem, and she was looking at one now. She grabbed her cell phone and punched in the number she had come to know far too well.
Seth answered on the second ring. “Chapin Plumbing.” Damn him, how could he always be so cheerful?
“Seth, it’s Meg Corey. Something’s screwed up with the plumbing again. Like last time. You told me it was going to be fine!” She was mad, in large part because she had been feeling so good about things just minutes before. And Seth had said it would work, and she had believed him.
“Hey, slow down. What’s the problem?”
Meg stalked over to the sink and recoiled. “The sink’s backing up again. I don’t want to look any further.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Sit tight.”
Meg devoted the ten minutes it took him to arrive to building up a good head of steam. When Seth knocked at the back door, she opened it before he could lower his hand. He took a look at her face and nearly backed away. “Okay, show me.”
Wordlessly she pointed to the sink, where the problem was obvious. He looked at it and his brow furrowed. “This should not be happening.”
“Tell me about it.”
“No, really. This system was clear yesterday; there’s no way it should block up like this. You used it last night?”
Meg nodded. “I even took a shower before dinner.”
“I’m going to have to go take a look. Sorry about this, Meg.” Seth strode quickly out the back door. Meg closed the door behind him and watched as he stared at the muddy trench where the tank sat. He shook his head, then went to his van and emerged with a long pry bar, which he used to lever up the top panel on the tank. Then he knelt down next to the open porthole and poked around into the dark depth of the tank.
Even from the kitchen door Meg could see his expression change.
He stood up slowly, clambered out of the hole, and approached the kitchen door. Meg opened the door and stepped outside to join him. His face was almost green. “What?”
He took a deep breath. “Meg, you’d better call 911. I think I’ve found your problem. There’s a dead body in there.”
She stared at him in horror. “What do you mean?” He couldn’t mean what she thought he did, could he? No, she didn’t want to believe that.
He spoke with slow precision. “When I opened the clean-out for the tank … There’s a body in there. That’s what caused the blockage. Human. A man. I didn’t look any more closely, but it’s pretty clear whoever it is … was … is dead. Make the call, will you? I’d do it mysel
f, but my hands are kind of muddy.”
Silently Meg backed into the kitchen and fumbled for the phone. She punched in 911 and waited a few moments until someone answered. “This is Meg Corey in Granford—81 County Line Road. There’s a dead body in my septic tank. No, I don’t mean an animal—a man. The plumber just found it. Him. Seth Chapin. He’s here now. Right. No, I know it wasn’t there yesterday.The tank was just installed yesterday. I don’t know who you need to send, but just do it, please.”
She put the phone down and stared at nothing for a moment. Then she shook herself and, pulling on her coat, made her way out the back door. When she sat down on the step next to Seth, she was surprised to find she was trembling, which seemed silly. She hadn’t even seen the body.
“They coming?” Seth said without looking at her.
“I guess. Who … how long … ?” She fumbled for the right question.
Seth looked down at his hands, hanging between his knees. “I’m going to guess that this wasn’t an accident or a suicide. Which means it’s a homicide, and that means it’ll involve the state police in Northampton, the county seat. But the police chief’ll be here first, since he’s only a mile or so away.”
“Ah.” Meg couldn’t think of anything better to say, so they sat silently, contemplating the gash in the driveway, and the tank, and the dark hole in the top, and what lay inside. She was startled when Seth stood up abruptly.
“Well, we’ve got company,” he said. “Here’s where the fun starts.”
Meg dragged her eyes away from the trench to see a police car pulling into her driveway. It stopped, and a rangy man in uniform stepped out of the car, buttoning his coat. He seemed to be in no hurry: he looked up at the house, then at Seth and Meg, then at the hole in the driveway. After completing his thorough survey of the scene, the officer walked over to the back door.
“Seth.” He nodded before turning to Meg. “You Ms. Corey?”
Meg stood up and held out her hand. “Yes, Meg Corey. I moved here last month.”
The officer took her hand and shook it briefly. “Art Preston, Granford chief of police. Nice place you’ve got. So, where’s our victim?”
Seth pointed across the driveway. “In the septic tank. I’m the one who found him.”
“Ah.” The officer turned and once again scanned the scene before approaching the crater. “New installation?”
Seth moved to stand beside him. “Yeah. It went in yesterday. The old one was shot to hell. Jake didn’t have time to fill in the trench yesterday. He was going to come back this morning.”
“Don’t suppose you want to confess to stuffing the body in there when you hooked it up?”
“Sorry, Art, it wasn’t me. You want to take a look now?”
The chief grimaced. “Let’s wait for the ME and the rest of the team. Detective’s on his way from Northampton. I don’t want to mess with the scene any more than necessary, not that it’s going to make a rat’s ass worth of difference. Jake dig the hole?” Chief Preston pulled a notebook out of his pocket and opened it to a new page.
“Yeah.”
“Ah.” Chief Preston made a note.
“Chief?” Meg’s voice sounded feeble to her own ears. “You have any idea who it might be? I mean, is anybody missing?”
“Can’t say, ma’am. Man can’t have been there more’n twenty-four hours. Right, Seth?”
Seth nodded, but then Meg interrupted. “Less than that—I was here until after dinner.”
The chief made another note. “And you went out after that?”
“Yes, to the historical society meeting.” Where plenty of people saw me, Meg reflected. “I arrived home about ten.”
“You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. It was dark, and I came in by the front door. I didn’t go anywhere near the trench.”
They all stood silently for a moment, until Meg asked, “What happens now?”
“We wait for the state crime scene unit—they need to get pictures. And the medical examiner, of course. Maybe you’d rather wait inside, ma’am?”
Meg couldn’t decide whether she should go inside: she was sure she didn’t want to see whatever it was they were going to pull out of the septic tank, but on the other hand, the police chief, who couldn’t be more than ten years her senior, was treating her like she was a fragile flower of womanhood. Seth still looked unnerved by his gruesome discovery. The police chief just looked thoughtful. She stayed put.
Five minutes later an unmarked van pulled into her driveway and parked behind the police car. A stocky gray-haired man climbed out and approached the group.
“Hey, Art, Seth. What’ve you got for me? And who’s this nice young lady?”
Much as she appreciated being called “young,” Meg thought she ought to assert her rights on the scene. “I’m Meg Corey, and I’m the new owner.” Meg was getting tired of trying to explain the ownership, so she decided to keep it simple. “You’re the medical examiner?”
The man nodded briskly. “That’s me. Samuel Eastman, at your service. I heard the Tuckers left, but I didn’t know anyone was here. What a mess, eh?”
Meg summoned up a faint smile. “Well, the septic system was a goner, but the body’s new.”
“We’d better take a look.” He went back to his van, rummaged around, and emerged a few moments later with a mask and latex gloves, which he pulled on. Feeling useless, Meg went back to the steps again and watched as the three men went over to the trench and stared into it. They conferred, their expressions serious and intent. Then the ME knelt and poked around the depths of the septic tank, inserting his arm deep into the opening. He emerged clutching something triumphantly, and Meg guessed it was the victim’s wallet. Still gloved, the ME opened it, reached in, and extracted a driver’s license.
After a word to the other men, Seth came over and sat next to her again. “You okay?”
Meg nodded. “So far. You know who it is?”
“Chandler Hale.”
7
Interesting, Meg thought. The world seemed to be rotating clockwise, and there were green sparkling spots on the fringes of her vision. Did this mean she was going to faint? She had never done it, so she had no basis for comparison. Chandler Hale was lying—or did she mean floating?—dead in her new septic tank. It was a lot to take in. Snap out of it, Meg!
The spots cleared, the whirling slowed. Seth was watching her, clearly concerned. Meg tried to summon up a smile. “It’s okay, Seth. I’m not going to pass out on you. Are you sure it’s Chandler?”
“That’s what the ID says, although since he’s facedown we won’t know for sure until we get him out of there. We’re going to wait for the detective for that.” He hesitated, as if wondering how to phrase his next question. “You knew him?”
Meg laughed, without humor. “You could say that. Until about six months ago, we were … seeing each other, in Boston. Wait a minute—you knew him?”
“He is, or I guess he was, heading up the Granford Grange project. I’m on the Granford Board of Selectmen, and we’ve been involved from the beginning.”
“Small world. I don’t suppose you happened to notice how he died? Like is there a stake through his heart or something?”
“Sorry. It’s kind of dark in there, and I admit I didn’t want to look too closely. I didn’t see any blood, though. The ME will take him away and figure it out.”
Meg fought a hysterical giggle. “Poor Chandler. He was always so … fastidious. He would be appalled by this.”
Chandler, dead. Someone she knew, had known well. Someoneshe had seen only two days earlier—and someone with whom she had parted on less-than-happy terms. Someone who might possibly have been killed right here. Why would anyone kill Chandler? And why here?
Seth was still watching her. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead. And I’m sorry it had to be here that he was found.”
Something about his tone
made Meg look at him curiously. “You didn’t like him much, did you? But I don’t suppose you killed him.”
“No, of course not. And by the way, if I had killed him, I wouldn’t have dumped the body in your lap. Besides, it’s not a great recommendation for my plumbing efforts, is it?”
If Seth was trying to be funny, he fell flat, but the effort was endearing. Meg studied him: he wasn’t green anymore, but he looked as rattled as she felt. “You didn’t ask if I killed him.”
“Did you?” Seth gave her a ghost of a smile.
“No. And just for the record, I had no reason to want him dead.”
“Then that’s all right.”
It was a funny way of putting it, but suddenly Meg was very glad that she had Seth sitting beside her. “What happens now?”
Seth leaned back and stared at the sky. “The state detective is on his way. Art’s just here to keep an eye on things, since it’s in his jurisdiction. The detective will probably want a statement from you, and I guess you can ID Chandler.”
Meg sat up straighter and turned to face Seth squarely. “You know, I hadn’t seen Chandler in months. And then he showed up at my door here, two days ago. We had dinner that night. Uh …” Meg paused, wondering how much more she should say.
“What?” Seth prompted, casting a quick glance at the men huddled by the trench. No one was paying them any attention.
“We had an argument, a minor one, at the restaurant that night. All very civilized—Chandler wasn’t the type for public scenes—but someone might have noticed we weren’t happy. Then after dinner we came straight back, and he dropped me off here and left. That’s the last I saw of him.”
Seth waited a moment before responding. “I don’t mean to pry, but was there anything about your argument that might be important? I mean, were you rehashing old stuff, or was there something else?”
“We’d both agreed that the past was past. He wasn’t trying to rekindle things, if that’s what you’re asking. His real purpose for inviting me to dinner was to find out if I’d be willing to feed him inside information about Granford and about how the development deal was going—to be his spy. I told him I wasn’t interested, although I think I said it in slightly stronger language.”
One Bad Apple Page 6
