Frances’s lecture on the community had apparently pulled her from her funk about Chandler’s death, Meg was glad to see. “I agree, in principle. But this is in my backyard, quite literally.”
“Meg, you can’t eat scenery, or pay your bills with it. The world changes. So will Granford. But that’s not your problem, is it? You’ll sell this place to some nice couple with two kids and a dog, and they won’t remember what the old Granford was like, and everyone will be happy. Right?”
“I suppose.” In fact, that had been Meg’s intention, and she was sure the family with two kids and a dog would be very happy here. But she could also see the old-timers’ viewpoint. It was always hard to deal with change. She’d weathered plenty in the past year, and she had expected her interlude in Granford to be something of a retreat, a time to regroup and recharge her own batteries. Instead she had found herself embroiled in a major public controversy, with a dead body on her hands. So much for planning.
But Frances had a point. The sooner the murder was cleared up, the sooner the public would begin to forget about it. After all, Chandler had been an outsider, and he wouldn’t be missed. As she had told Seth and Rachel, the bank would see to it that the project went forward uninterrupted. For them it was a business deal, plain and simple.
So why was Frances sitting in her kitchen? The clear morning light was not kind to the grooves bracketing her mouth, or the bags under her eyes. Or were those new? Was she really taking Chandler’s death that hard?
As if in answer to her question, Frances asked, “You knew Chandler before, right?”
How did word travel so fast? Sure, Granford was a small town, and murder had to be big news, but how did her personal connection get dragged into it so quickly? “Yes, in Boston,” Meg replied neutrally.
Frances pressed on. “I mean, you knew him, if you know what I mean.”
This was getting worse and worse. Meg barely knew Frances and had no way of guessing whether she was discreet, or whether she was the town crier for gossip. But apparently the word of her relationship with Chandler was already public property. Might as well make sure the right story got out. “Yes, we were seeing each other, but we broke it off last year.”
“He dumped you,” Frances said flatly.
Meg stared at her. “Yes, he ended the relationship. We both moved on. Frances, what are you asking?”
Frances shook her head. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. I guess I’m just upset. Look, Meg, one of the pluses—and minuses—of living in a small town is that everyone knows everyone else’s business. And people remember things. Like the time you went joyriding in your brother’s car in high school, or the wonderful cupcakes your mother baked for PTA meetings in 1983. You’re new here, so people are curious. And you haven’t spent much time getting to know your neighbors, which makes them even more curious. Please don’t think they mean it unkindly—they’re good people. But they’d be a whole lot happier to pin this murder on you than on one of their own. See what I mean?”
This was an angle Meg hadn’t considered. “Unfortunately, I guess I do. I’m sorry I can’t oblige. Yes, I knew Chandler, but until Monday I hadn’t seen him in months. I was totally surprised when he showed up here—I didn’t know about the project or his involvement in it. We had dinner, and then I sent him packing. The next thing I knew, he was dead. And that is the sum total of what I know.” Meg wasn’t sure how believable she sounded, even though it was the truth. She had to admit that the coincidence of her connection with Chandler was hard to dismiss. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Hey, don’t get defensive. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that it would help if you let people get to know you a little better. Get out more. And the fact that Seth vouches for you helps.”
What? When had Seth talked about her, and to whom? He’d known her a total of three days. But there was no point in asking Frances about that—better that she take it up with Seth. “Look, Frances, I don’t mean to cut this short, but I’ve got to make some calls.”
Frances stood up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. Don’t worry, whoever buys this place will probably be from somewhere else, and the murder will be ancient history by then. You just work on cleaning the place up, and get in touch when you want me to check it out again. Deal?”
“Sounds good to me. And thanks for what you said about the town. I’m used to living in a city, and the rules are different there, I guess.”
“Welcome to small-town Massachusetts. Oh, and you might want to see about getting that front door of yours planed down— first impressions matter, you know …”
Meg escorted Frances to the balky front door and watched as she pulled away. What was her visit all about? But before she could puzzle her way through Frances’s behavior, her phone rang. It was the detective’s office, requesting her presence in Northampton ASAP.
“Oh, before you hang up, can you tell me if I can use my drains?” Meg pleaded. Too late: the line had gone dead.
11
Half an hour later Meg arrived in the center of Northampton; the detective’s office was housed in the County Courthouse. Another new experience— and one which she would happily have avoided. With trepidation she entered the lobby and stated her business, then sat in one of the molded plastic chairs bolted to the floor in the bleak waiting area until Detective Marcus appeared. He nodded to the person at the desk, then silently escorted Meg through multiple sets of heavy automatic doors to his office. Inside, he gestured toward a chair in front of the desk, and Meg sat.
He took his time before addressing her, lining up the papers on his spartan desk, pulling out a couple of pencils and inspecting their points. Finally he began. “Ms. Corey, I asked you here to confirm the details of what you told us the other day. Often people omit critical details under the stress of the moment, and perhaps you can fill in anything that has occurred to you since.”
“Of course. I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“Let me review the basics, to save time. You have resided in Granford for approximately a month now? And you lived in Boston before that?”
Meg nodded, and recited the basic details of her move to Granford once again. She clamped down hard on an urge to elaborate. Better stick to the facts, even though the laconic man across the desk made her want to babble.
“Why were you fired?”
Was he deliberately trying to provoke her? “I wasn’t fired. I was laid off because my position was declared redundant. My former employer merged with another bank, and after the merger they eliminated a number of positions. They offered a reasonable compensation package.”
“Your mother is the owner of record for the Granford property?”
“Yes, for about the last thirty years or so. She added my name to the title recently, when I agreed to renovate and sell it.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Chandler Hale.”
“When we were both in Boston, we … dated for approximately a year, maybe less.” Meg struggled with finding the appropriate term to describe their relationship. Everything sounded so stilted. “We ended the relationship about six months ago.”
“Before you lost your job?”
“Yes. There was no correlation between those two events. Chandler worked for another bank.”
“You didn’t work together?”
Meg shook her head. “No. We worked for different, competing banks.”
“And he never discussed the Granford development project with you?”
“Not that I recall. As far as I know, his involvement in the development project postdated our relationship.”
“You didn’t expect to see him in Granford?”
“No. It was a complete surprise to me.”
Detective Marcus said nothing for several beats, his eyes never leaving her face. Meg forced herself to meet his cold gaze. Finally he said carefully, “Is it possible that you followed Hale to Granford, in hope of rekindling your relationship? And that you took it hard whe
n he indicated that he wasn’t interested?”
Meg was stunned, then angry, but she kept a tight grip on her emotions. “I assure you, that was not the case. And you can check the property records—my mother’s owned this place for decades. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
He ignored her. “So you deny that sequence of events?”
“Of course I do! Listen, Detective, Chandler and I were no longer involved with each other, and I had no idea what he was doing, in Boston or in Granford.”
But even as she voiced what she knew to be the truth, she could see all too clearly how someone else might see it differently. At least, someone who didn’t know her, or someone who wanted to do her harm or use her as a convenient scapegoat. But she wasn’t a hysterical, jilted lover, and even if she were, she would never have killed Chandler, either in the heat of the moment or with—what was it they called it?—malice aforethought. Anyone who knew her would attest to that. The problem was, no one around here knew her.
“You had dinner with Hale at the Lord Jeffery on Monday?”
“Yes. When he and his assistant came by the house and found out that I was living there, he invited me out. We caught up on what we’d been doing, discussed impersonal things, and then the Granford project.” Meg hesitated a moment before going on, wondering if she was handing him more ammunition for his suspicions. “At dinner he asked me if I would keep an eye on things locally and report to him, before the town voted on the project. I gather there are people in Granford who aren’t thrilled by the project, and he wanted to know what the opposition was saying. I told him I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that.”
“The waitress at the restaurant reported that there was some hostility between you.”
Naturally she would have to have noticed that. “Yes. I was angry that Chandler had asked me to spy for him, and I told him so. He put me in an awkward position, and I didn’t like it. I asked him to take me home, and he did. He left after dropping me off, and I didn’t see him again after that. All this should be in your notes, right? And haven’t you found anyone who saw him later? Where was he staying? Didn’t he have any business meetings the next day? You must have talked to his assistant by now. What did she tell you?”
“Ms. Corey, I’ll ask the questions. But no, so far you’re the last person to have admitted to seeing him.”
Meg wondered if she looked uncomfortable. “Not what’s-her-name?”
He was definitely unhappy with that question. “Lucinda Patterson. Ms. Patterson has been in Boston since yesterday. I’ll be speaking to her later this afternoon.”
So he hadn’t managed to track her down, which made him look bad. Meg wondered exactly when Lucinda had gone to Boston, but she didn’t think the detective was going to volunteer that information. “Detective, how long had Chandler been dead when he was found?”
The detective looked startled by her question. “Hard to say, given the conditions. He’d eaten dinner. ME puts it at maybe twelve hours.”
Meg suppressed a “gotcha.” “So you’re saying he was alive for at least a full day after I had dinner with him?”
The detective nodded, looking pained.
“Then surely you’ll be able to find someone who saw him in those twenty-four hours? You are looking, aren’t you?”
“We know our business here, Ms. Corey, even if this isn’t the big city.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” They sat silently for a moment until Meg asked, “What happens now?”
“We continue to investigate. We are interviewing people both here and in Boston. People who knew both of you.” He stood up. “Thank you for coming in. We can reach you at the Granford address?”
Meg stood as well. “Yes, of course. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Oh—one last thing. Is my place still a crime scene, or can I use my water?”
“We’ve got all we need.”
One small blessing, at least. After the detective had escorted her out of the building, Meg sat in her car for a few moments. If she was going to be fair to him, she could see how it would look: poor Meg, her guy dumps her, she loses her job, and now she’s stuck out here in the boonies with no friends. Then Chandler shows up to rub her nose in it, and she gets mad and whacks him with the proverbial blunt object. No shortage of those around her place: tools, assorted pieces of old lumber, tree branches. Of course the detective would consider her a likely candidate for murderer.
But if she had killed Chandler, why would she do such a lousy job of hiding the body? How stupid did the detective think she was? No, bad argument: until a few days ago she hadn’t even known she had a septic tank, much less how it operated and what effect a body might have on it. Clearly there were gaps in her intelligence. And she had to admit that tank was certainly convenient—if she had been the person who killed Chandler.
She wasn’t, but Chandler was undeniably dead. So who had killed him? She gnawed at the question like a dog with a bone for the duration of her trip back from Northampton, but came up with no answer. She didn’t know enough about the town of Granford and its people to make even a wild guess.
Rather than go back to her cold, messy, empty house, Meg decided to make a detour to the nearest market and stock up on groceries. She wanted comfort food. Cooking in general didn’t excite her, but maybe the smell of a burbling pot of soup or a hearty stew or even an apple pie—would those apples Christopher had given her be any good for pie?—would make the place more welcoming and provide a tantalizing reward for her labors. She had earned it. And it would mask the less appealing smells of dry rot and mildew that had become the backdrop to her days.
Decision made, she pulled into the parking lot of the supermarket along the highway outside of Granford and parked. As she approached the door, she noticed a colorful sheet of paper taped at eye level. On closer inspection, she found that it was an announcement from Puritan Bank about a meeting at Granford Town Hall that evening, to update the citizens of Granford on the future of the Granford Grange development project. Odd name for the project; as far as she knew, a grange was a building, not a strip mall. Still, it sounded pretty and vaguely historic. In any case, it was clear that the bank wasn’t wasting any time, or maybe they were worried about losing momentum. Should she attend? Well, why not? She had a stake in the project, and she was curious to see what spin the bank would put on Chandler’s death. And on a more personal level, maybe she could test the waters and see if those worthy citizens treated her as though she were the prime suspect in his murder. Not a comforting thought, but she needed to know.
Which reminded her: she had promised Seth that she would register to vote. She searched her memory about how she had gone about that in Boston and came up blank. But she was sure that the town clerk would know, and that meant a trip to town hall. She could do that on the way home.
She filled her cart with groceries, shocked to realize how depleted her cupboards were. Had she eaten at all over the past few weeks? Or was she turning into one of those weird old maids who existed on cereal and the occasional can of cat food? She was beginning to understand how that could happen. Or maybe she was channeling Lula and Nettie, but at least they’d had each other to talk to. Frances was right: she needed to get out more, talk to other people, just to keep some sort of perspective. The historical society meeting had been pleasant enough, but sparsely attended, and they didn’t meet again until the next month. At least she could get a library card. Maybe there was some sort of adult-education program around, and she could learn something useful, like how to use a table saw. She snorted at that thought, drawing a startled glance from a teenage clerk shelving cans.
Groceries safely stowed in her car, Meg drove back to the center of Granford. The municipal offices occupied a stately Victorian house perched on the low hill overlooking the town green. The town clerk’s office turned out to be on the ground floor. Inside, Meg waited while the two men in front of her took care of various licenses and permits, then she stepped up to
the desk. “I’d like to register to vote.”
The clerk, a woman about Meg’s age, looked up at her in curiosity. “New in town?”
“Yes, I’m Meg Corey, and I just moved to a house on County Line Road. That’s within the town limits, isn’t it?” Was it her imagination, or did the clerk’s expression change?
“Sure is. You registered anywhere else?”
“In Boston, but I don’t live there anymore.”
“Granford is your official residence?” When Meg nodded, the woman fished out a form from under the counter and pushed it toward her. “Fill this out. And I’ll need some ID with your current address on it.”
“Oh,” Meg said, feeling absurdly disappointed. “I haven’t been here long—my driver’s license still has my old address. What else would work?”
“Photo ID, bank statement, paycheck, government check, utility bill,” the clerk recited in a monotone.
“I changed the address on my bank account, but I haven’t gotten a statement yet. Wait! I know.” Meg fished in her purse, where she remembered stuffing a batch of bills she had grabbed from her mailbox. She leafed through them. Half of them had been forwarded from Boston, but then she struck gold. “Aha! My first utility bill—I wanted to make sure the lights stayed on.” Meg smiled at the clerk, who responded with tepid enthusiasm. She handed her the driver’s license and the bill, and concentrated on filling out the form, then handed it back to the clerk, who returned her ID. “Does this make me eligible to vote in the Special Town Meeting?”
One Bad Apple Page 10
