The clerk laughed briefly. “Oh, yeah, no problem. You and half the town—never seen so many registrations in a short period. Have a nice day now.”
Since there were people waiting, Meg gathered up her documents and turned to leave. At least she’d accomplished one tangible thing today. Seth would be pleased. She certainly was pleased. And the message waiting on her phone also cheered her.
“Hi, it’s Seth. Don’t know if you saw the flyers about the meeting at town hall tonight, but if you want to go, I can swing by and pick you up. Six thirty? Let me know.”
She punched in his number but got his voice mail. Before she could change her mind, she said, “Hi, Seth, it’s Meg. I’d like to go to the meeting. Six thirty is fine, unless you’d like to stop by for supper before. I think I’m making soup.”
12
Now she had a plan for the evening, and she had committed herself to making a pot of soup. Meg set about gathering her ingredients and went scrounging for a large pot. Surely the daughters or granddaughters of farmers would have a pot large enough to feed a crowd? Her search was rewarded with a battered but serviceable stockpot lurking in the back of a deep cupboard. She made another mental addition to her to-do list: inventory cupboards. And clean them, she added dubiously. The grease on some of them was probably older than she was.
After starting a hearty vegetable soup, she went back to the front parlor and surveyed her domain. So far she had been approaching the renovation project in a rather haphazard fashion— mostly assessing what needed to be done, rather than doing it. The net result was a lot of bald patches, as though the house had a case of mange. Of course, most of the work had involved removing modern crap, and there was still plenty of that left to do. She was undecided about some of the wallpaper, and Frances had viewed it with scorn. Downstairs, it would definitely have to go: it represented the worst of the early 1980s, when the sisters had died and her mother had inherited the place. That was probably the last time anyone had done anything to the first-floor rooms. She couldn’t believe her mother had been responsible for it, but she might have hired someone local to pretty up the place for tenants. It was clear that either she hadn’t spent much on it, or her delegate had pocketed half the money.
Meg wandered slowly from room to room, looking at the sun-filled spaces with a critical eye. Seth had said the place had good bones, and she was beginning to understand what he meant. The proportions of the rooms were pleasing. The ceilings weren’t low enough to be confining, as she understood was often the case in old colonials, and there were plenty of good-sized windows. Much of the original woodwork had survived, although she wasn’t sure what its condition was, and the wide-board floors were in surprisingly good shape. She had already checked out the fireplaces, and they were salvageable—for a price. In the hallway she ran her hand over the stair-rail. Seth had said the stairs were a nineteenth-century addition, but that still made them at least a hundred years old. Meg tried to imagine the number of hands that had passed over the satiny old wood. So much history. So much she didn’t know.
The smell of cooking onions and carrots and celery drifted from the kitchen. It made the house seem more lived in, somehow. Okay, Meg—what now? She checked her watch: almost two thirty. What could she do in the three or so hours before Seth arrived? She couldn’t face one more half-finished project left in a muddle, so she wanted to find something that she could actually finish; she wanted progress, not more mess. So maybe the kitchen was the best place to start. She wondered just what else she would find lurking in the dark corners of the cabinets. Note to self: mousetraps?
After two hours of steady work—interspersed with tossing more chopped vegetables into her soup pot—Meg had reached bedrock in all the lower-tier kitchen cabinets. She had divided her finds into two piles in the middle of the kitchen floor: things she wanted to keep, by far the smaller pile; and things that she couldn’t imagine anyone in the world using, past, present, or future. These included various pieces of bakeware, now welded together with rust; pans with holes; pans without handles; cookie sheets encrusted with black ick. A lot of sad, cheap stuff that nobody had wanted and had left behind. She would be glad to get rid of it.
She gave her soup a final stir, threw together a batch of cheese biscuits and popped them in the unpredictable oven, then took herself upstairs for a quick shower and to change into something respectable—something that didn’t make her look like a murderer. Not that she knew what a murderer would look like. She had never met one, to her knowledge. Though she might well have met one without knowing it, she realized. Somebody in Granford was a murderer.
Back downstairs in the kitchen, she was surveying the piles she had created when she looked up to see Seth at the back door. She opened it quickly. “Hi! I wasn’t sure you’d gotten my message, but I’ve made enough for an army. Come in out of the cold.”
He followed her into the kitchen, after stamping his boots on the step. “Smells good. Looks like you’ve been sorting stuff.”
“I have. The things that people save! It never ceases to amaze me. What’s the routine for trash pickup around here? Mostly I’ve been leaving stuff out in the barn or the connecting el, but the piles keep growing, so that won’t work for long.”
Seth laughed. “Actually, that’s a two-part question. Regular trash pickup you have to contract for, with an independent provider. But you might want to think about getting a Dumpster in, for the bigger stuff. Cheaper in the long run, and you can get rid of it all at once. I can call a guy I know.”
“I hadn’t even thought that far, but you’re right. No municipal service for trash, though?”
Seth shook his head. “Costs too much. There’s the town dump. You can get yourself a dump permit and haul it over there yourself.”
“I guess I’ll need to figure something out. Oh, before I forget—the detective said they’re done with my place as a crime scene, so I guess we can fill in the trench now.”
“No problem. I’ll call Jake first thing tomorrow.”
One more item she could check off her to-do list, Meg thought with relief. “Great! Why don’t we go ahead and eat? Sit down, and I’ll dish up.”
Seth sat at the kitchen table, after removing a pile of precariously stacked pans. Meg set a bowl in front of him. “Hey, this is good!” he said, spooning soup.
She added a basket filled with hot biscuits to the table. “You’re surprised? Thanks a lot.” She smiled. “Oh, wait a sec—I found something.”
Seth continued to eat as Meg rummaged through the pile of stuff she had moved to a counter.
“Ta-da!” She said, holding up her find. “Remember that metal gear thingy you found the other day? It goes to something like this, doesn’t it?”
“Got it in one. You know what that is?”
“I deduce … that it’s an apple peeler. Makes sense, doesn’t it, with an orchard just outside?”
“It does. And I’ll bet it still works—got any apples around?”
“In fact, I do. Christopher brought me a whole bag, and I was thinking about making a pie, but I ran out of time. But I’m sure I can figure out how to use it. Anyway, let’s worry about that later. Don’t we have a meeting to go to?”
The meeting took place in the largest room that town hall had to offer, but it was more than large enough to handle the twenty or so people gathered there. Meg recognized a couple of faces from the historical society meeting, but the rest were strangers to her. They were old and young, male and female, and their expressions ranged from curious to wary to angry.
“Are you involved in this?” She whispered to Seth as he led her into the room.
“No,” he replied in the same low tone. “This isn’t the town’s meeting, it’s the bank’s. The bank requested a meeting with the selectmen, to discuss what happens now. We suggested they make it an open meeting, although we really didn’t have enough lead time to get the word out. But we told as many people as we could, posted an announcement on the town website, stuck u
p flyers around town. I’m just here to listen.”
Three people huddled in conference at the front of the room. Meg nudged Seth again, after they had sat down in rickety folding chairs. “Who are they?”
Seth leaned toward her. “The one on the left is the chair of the Granford selectmen, Tom Moody. Don’t know the guy in the middle, but the blonde on the right came to a couple of meetings with Hale, so I’m guessing she’s with the bank. I’ve forgotten her name.”
Meg recognized her from Chandler’s visit. Lucinda Patterson, his “assistant.” Meg wondered if Detective Marcus had talked to her yet. If so, she didn’t look particularly ruffled. While waiting for stragglers to find seats, Meg studied the body language of the people in front. Cinda was conferring with—and deferring to— the man next to her. Another banker? Cinda smiled, laid her hand on the man’s arm, nodded, then stepped back with the proper deference. But Meg saw her scan the room, her expression calculating. Meg nodded as Cinda’s eyes passed over her and on to Seth sitting next to her.
By ten minutes past the hour, only a few more stragglers had arrived, and the board chair must have decided no one else was coming. He cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice—I’m glad to see you here, Andy—give you something to plug into the paper next week, right?” A subdued laugh swept the room, and Andy laughed with them. Seth leaned toward Meg and whispered, “Editor of the local weekly.”
Tom Moody went on. “I won’t waste any of your time. John Cabot here is the one who requested this meeting, and he wants to fill you in on what’s going to happen with the Granford Grange project, after the unfortunate death of Chandler Hale. I’ll let him do the talking.”
With almost palpable relief, Moody stepped back and crossed his arms. John Cabot replaced him at the podium, and Cinda assumed a position a discreet pace behind him.
“I apologize for the short notice of this event,” Cabot began, his voice properly grave, “but I thought it was important to quell any rumors that might be circulating. Chandler Hale was a valued member of my team at Puritan Bank, and he had been doing a wonderful job for us—and for you—in the planning of Granford Grange. I’m here to assure you that he was a thorough and careful man, and left his records in admirable condition. There will be no interruption in the planning and execution of this community’s project—you can count on that. One of the reasons I called this meeting was to introduce you to Chandler’s former assistant, Lucinda Patterson. Some of you in town will have met her at various meetings, but I wanted to announce that she will be taking over Chandler’s role in moving this project forward. She has the full support of the bank behind her, and she is more than qualified to represent us. But I’ll let her speak for herself.” Cabot smiled perfunctorily, then waved Cinda forward. She quickly moved front and center.
“Thank you, John,” she began. Her voice was low but easily heard, and she spoke with assurance. “I appreciate your kind words and the confidence that the bank has placed in me.” Then she turned to face the small crowd, addressing them directly. “The death of Chandler Hale was a tragic blow to our department, and he will be missed. But he was part of the team, as I have been, and I know that he would want to see his work go on. He kept me fully informed on all aspects of this project, and I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with a number of you in the past few months—Fred, Martin.” She flashed a smile of her own, showing off her perfect white teeth. “I look forward to seeing this through to completion. And I will be available, now and in the future, for any questions you might have. Yes?” She pointed to someone seated toward the rear of the room, where Meg couldn’t see.
Seth leaned toward Meg. “Do you know her?”
Meg moved closer and whispered, “I met her the other day with Chandler, the first time he came by. I don’t know how long she’s worked for the bank, but I can’t recall Chandler ever mentioning her. Not that he would have, I’ll bet. She’s, uh, easy to look at.”
Meg wasn’t sure Seth had heard the last part of that, because he was flagging Cinda’s attention. “Ms. Patterson?”
Cinda dimpled to a carefully calculated degree. “Cinda, please. It’s Seth Chapin, right?”
“Yes. Tell me …”
Meg tuned out Seth’s informed but technical question while watching Cinda at work. Blonde, yes, but not dumb. She was saying all the right things, and in a properly subdued tone. Chandler had done all the hard work—or had he? Perhaps Chandler had fronted the project, but had Cinda actually put the deal together? The next few weeks should prove interesting. Meg wondered how well connected Cinda was to the local population, and how she would handle dissenters. From what she had seen so far, Cinda looked up to the challenge.
The meeting didn’t last more than half an hour, clearly intended more to reassure the townspeople than to provide any new information. Outside the town hall building Meg inhaled deeply: the air was chill, with a hint of wood smoke. Seth had hung back, exchanging a few words with his colleagues, but he joined her quickly and guided her back to his truck.
Once they were settled and he’d turned on the engine, he asked, “What did you think?”
“The message I got was that the bank wants this project to go forward,” she said slowly. “If they didn’t, they could have taken this opportunity to bow out gracefully. I take it to mean that the financing is in place. Which is a good thing, if that’s what the people here want. Do they, do you think?”
Seth pulled out of the parking lot. “That’s still an open question. I have to say …” He hesitated a moment.
“What?”
“We’ve still got some time until the Town Meeting, time that I’m sure the project’s supporters will use to try to persuade the people who are on the fence about it. And I think that Ms. Patterson is going to win over more of them than Chandler did.” He grinned. “At the risk of sounding sexist.”
“You mean, she’s going to flash her pretty smile and toss her blonde hair, and the old codgers of Granford are going to fall all over themselves to go along with anything she wants?”
“Something like that.”
“You may have a point. I’d guess that Chandler’s attitude probably turned off a lot of people—he could be pompous, and he usually thought he was right. Cinda will be a pleasant change.”
“And she’s smart enough.”
“You think that, too? I agree—whatever the outside package, I don’t think Cinda’s lacking in brains. And Puritan Bank doesn’t hire people just for their pretty faces. So I’d say the bank is still behind the project, and no matter who’s in charge, they’ll see that it keeps moving.”
Seth pulled into her driveway and stopped. “Assuming the town votes for it.”
Meg put her hand on the door handle. “Thanks for asking me along. I wish I knew more about what was going on, and how it might affect … well, to put it bluntly, the value of this property. I know you have other concerns, but I’m not here for the long haul.”
“Understood. Look, Meg, you know more about how this works from the financial side than I do, and you’ve got an outsider’s eye. I’d appreciate any insights you can give me. If Granford is selling its soul, I want to be sure that the town gets the best deal possible. One we can live with in the future.”
“Fair enough. And I’m happy to help, if I can. Well, I’ll let you go. Thanks again, Seth.”
Meg watched his truck pull out of her driveway. Note to self: get more gravel for the driveway, before the mud season—as soon as the trench is filled. She let herself in the back door, locking it behind her. Then, shrugging off her coat, she stacked the dishes from dinner in the sink and filled a bowl with hot, soapy water.
Scrubbing the dishes gave her time to think. Seth had asked her to look critically at the deal, as an outsider. A smart move on his part, but what surprised Meg was that she didn’t resent his request for help the way she had Chandler’s. She wasn’t sure what that meant. The fact that it was Seth who had asked her wasn’t important, was
it? But she trusted Seth’s motives, where she hadn’t trusted Chandler’s.
Seth had called her an outsider. Yet the town clerk had demanded proof of address—proof that, in effect, she was an insider. Filling out a form stating that Granford was in fact her one and only residence felt like a significant step, but she wasn’t sure in which direction. It had driven home to her yet again that she had nowhere else to go. But that meant she was free to go anywhere, right?
If only she knew where that was.
13
By the next day Meg was beginning to understand the term “cabin fever.” She didn’t want to spend a day cooped up with her thoughts, much less staring at the open trench in her driveway, which looked far too much like a grave; she needed a distraction. Then she remembered the historical society. Research on the house—that would be a good excuse to get out and talk to someone, anyone. It would also advance at least one of her goals: getting the house ready to sell.
After breakfast, Meg set out for the Granford Historical Society. She knew from the handout she had picked up at the meeting that the place was open at odd times, depending on the availability of its director or other volunteers, but she hoped she would get lucky. When she pulled into the drive that passed in front of the building, she was gratified to see that a paper sign hung crookedly on the door, proudly proclaiming “Open.” After parking in the empty lot, Meg mounted the single slab of granite that served as the front step and knocked firmly. For a moment there was silence, then a distant voice called out, “Hang on, I’m coming.” This was followed by a crash and some creative if muffled curses. Meg waited patiently until the door finally opened, and then she was confronted by Gail, dressed in jeans and a grubby sweatshirt, her hair disheveled.
“What?” Gail barked.
“I’m sorry. Have I come at a bad time? You are open, aren’t you?”
One Bad Apple Page 11
