One Bad Apple

by Sheila Connolly

  “You mean, would it take a man to do it? A good whack with a rock or a pipe would have done the trick, man or woman.”

  “What about putting him into the tank?”

  “He weighed, what, maybe 190? A man could do it. A strong woman could do it. Or two people working together. Or somebody in a panic. Lots of possibilities.”

  Since the detective seemed willing to share, if grudgingly, Meg pressed on. “Where was he staying?”

  He gave her a long look, weighing his response. “Kept a room at the Hotel Northampton. Nothing disturbed there, or if there was, someone cleaned up real well.”

  Meg nodded. “Chandler was always very tidy. And he didn’t travel with a lot of fuss. Was his car there?”

  “That Mercedes? In the parking garage. Neat as a pin.”

  “So where do you think he was killed?” Please, not in my backyard, Meg prayed silently.

  “Don’t know yet,” he said reluctantly.

  They both fell silent.

  “Do you have any suspects?” Meg asked finally. Apart from Seth and me, of course, she added to herself.

  “Can’t say, Ms. Corey.” The detective had shifted back to stonewall mode, but at least Meg had gleaned a few kernels of information.

  “Then is there anything else you need?”

  He stood up. “No, I think we’re done. For now. Look over the statement—if it’s okay, sign it and send it back to me. And let me know if you remember anything else that might help.” He handed her a business card, then looked around again. “Nice place you’ve got.”

  Everyone seemed to like her house—more than they liked her. “Thank you, Detective.” She followed him to the front door.

  He headed for his car, and Meg watched him through the storm door as he pulled out of the driveway. He had done everything by the book, asked all the right questions, but Meg was still uneasy. From what he had said, or hinted, it seemed that she and Seth were still the primary suspects, singly or working together. Would he look any further?

  This was ridiculous. She had come to bucolic Granford for some peace and quiet, and some therapeutic construction work, and somehow had landed herself in the middle of a murder investigation—the murder of someone she knew, no less, and in which she seemed to be a suspect. It made no sense to her. Who around here had known about her defunct relationship with Chandler? Only Seth, and that was after Chandler was dead. Well, Cinda might have known. Maybe she could corroborate the fact of the breakup? The detective said he had talked to Cinda. He had to, if he was doing his job. Unless he was determined to pin Chandler’s death on Meg or on Seth. But why would he be?

  Meg was so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the approach of another car, and she was startled to see Seth walking toward her back door. As she opened the door she felt a stab of doubt, then shook it off. She had no reason not to trust Seth.

  “Hi. Do I have a plumbing problem that I don’t know about?”

  “No, but I wanted to talk to you about something. Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Meg stepped back to let him pass. “You want coffee?”

  “If you’ve got it made.”

  “Always.” At the rate people were visiting, she was going to have to get a bigger coffeemaker. Meg poured two cups, then sat down at the kitchen table, gesturing toward the other chair. “So, what’s up?”

  “Was that the detective I passed?”

  “Yes. He wanted to go over my statement again.” She waved at the sheaf of paper on the table, where the detective had left it. Meg debated with herself for a moment about bringing up his attitude toward Seth, but decided to leave well enough alone. “But that’s not what brought you here, is it?”

  “No. I was wondering if I could borrow your barn, or at least part of it?”

  That was not what Meg had expected to hear. “Sure. I’m not exactly using it, except as a place to keep my trash. What do you want with it? Don’t you have space of your own?” Oh, God, was he planning to hide stolen merchandise or something?

  Seth grinned, as if reading her thoughts. “I do, but I’ve filled it. Or at least, the plumbing business has, but I’ve got this other problem …”

  “What?”

  “I collect architectural salvage. It started through the business. You know—somebody would want to remodel, and they’d say, ‘Get rid of this old stuff.’ So I ended up with a bunch of Victorian sinks and bathtubs, fixtures, even wainscoting—that kind of thing. And the contemporary stock takes up all the business’s storage space, so I was wondering if I could use your space for the overflow. Since you’re not really using it …”

  “No problem,” Meg said magnanimously. “Of course, I can’t guarantee that the place won’t fall down around your ears. But do you ever plan to use the stuff you collect?”

  “Oh, sure. There are plenty of people who go the other way, want to restore their own places with authentic period pieces. Most of the time I can bring the old ones up to code. So you see, it balances out in the long run, but I need a holding area in between. Listen, I could swap you—check out your fixtures, maybe set you up with something more period appropriate? Like as a rental fee?”

  Meg thought about the low-end fixtures that someone had shoehorned into her pathetic bathrooms. “It’s a deal. What I’ve got now is lousy modern stuff.”

  “Done.” Seth sipped his coffee and looked at her critically. “You okay? You look kind of down.”

  Meg laughed bitterly. “Why would I look down? The detective thinks I killed Chandler.” Or that you did, she added silently. “This place eats money, and it’s cold. I don’t know anyone around here except you and Rachel and my real estate agent, and now I’m going to be introduced to anyone new as ‘that woman who owns the place where they found the body.’ Everything’s just peachy keen.”

  “I’m sorry, Meg.” Seth looked as though he meant it. “It can’t be easy for you. I’m surprised you don’t just bail out and leave.”

  And where would I go? Meg asked herself. “This was supposed to be a time to rethink my options. Funny, I hadn’t included ‘going to jail’ on the list.”

  Seth looked troubled for a moment, and then his expression brightened. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. I’ve got to pick up some fixtures from this guy I know—he keeps his eyes open for salvage items I might like. Want to come along? Might do you good to get out of the house, get some fresh air and sunshine.”

  Was he kidding? The thermometer outside her window registered a balmy 27 degrees, and gray clouds hung low. The to-do list loomed. But suddenly Meg knew she couldn’t stomach scraping another wall or ceiling or floor … “Sure. Let me suit up. Give me a minute.”

  As Seth finished the last of his coffee, Meg pulled on boots, found her insulated jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves. She grabbed some tissues, for her nose that always ran in the cold. Should she leave a note for the authorities, in the event Seth turned out to be a serial killer and dumped her body somewhere? She snorted. Don’t be ridiculous, Meg.

  Once in Seth’s van, Meg asked, “Where’re we going?”

  “Eric’s got a place near Hadley. Have you been there?”

  “No. Should I have been?”

  “Probably not. If you’ve driven to Amherst, you might have gone through it. There’s a farm museum, and they grow great asparagus. Although this isn’t exactly the right time of year for that.”

  “Museums haven’t been high on my list lately. More like hardware stores. Is this Eric’s full-time job?”

  Seth laughed. “No, actually he teaches French literature at UMass. But he’s like me—he loves to collect things. Junk, some people call it. Personally, I think our culture is much too obsessed by new and shiny things. Do you realize how hard it is to find anyone to repair anything these days? Most people just throw broken things out and buy a replacement.”

  Seth warmed to his subject, and Meg settled back to listen, watching the landscape roll by. She kept forgetting there was so much country around Granford. Gradu
ally the land flattened out, and she could see level fields, broken by patches of trees. They passed through an intersection that seemed to be all there was of downtown Hadley, and shortly after that Seth turned left and followed a meandering country lane for a few miles, before pulling into a drive that ran alongside a gray clapboard house with a large, unpainted barn behind. At the sound of their approach, a man emerged from the barn and waved.

  Seth clambered out of his seat. “Hey, Eric. Thanks for the heads-up about the stuff. Oh, I brought along some company. Be gentle with her—she’s new to scavenging, but she can use some odds and ends for her place.”

  That was news to Meg. She climbed out of the van and joined the men. “Hello. Eric, is it? I don’t know what Seth is talking about, but I’m pretty sure all the salvageable stuff has been peeled off my house.”

  “She lives in a colonial in Granford—lots of potential.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Meg. Let me guess: your plumbing gave out, and that’s how you connected with Seth?”

  “Right you are.”

  “I hear a lot of that. Well, let’s get in out of the wind. Seth, I put the fixtures you might like in back …”

  Meg followed them as they wended their way through the piles of stuff in the dim and drafty interior of the barn. She could make out a rudimentary order: stacks of multipanel doors and window sashes, a couple of mantelpieces, boxes that appeared to hold odds and ends of hardware. It was intriguing in its way, and Meg recognized a few things that looked as if they might have come from a house like hers, or maybe even from her own. She sighed. It never ceased to amaze her what people did in the name of taste, pulling out perfectly respectable materials just to replace them with something cheap and ugly.

  She dawdled as Seth and Eric haggled over some sinks and tubs. She peered into a dark corner, then stopped abruptly. “What’s that?” She pointed to a handsome Victorian wall clock hanging on the back display.

  “Good eye, Meg.” Seth gave her an amused look. “Looks to be about 1850. Let’s get a closer look. Could be fake or repaired, or it might not work at all.”

  “Seth, you cut me to the quick,” Eric said, in mock dismay.

  “Would I have a fake? Of course, I’m not saying it works, exactly …”

  “Let’s find out.” Meg picked her way through the maze of materials to take a closer look. Up close, the clock was even more appealing. She had no way of guessing its date, but she could tell it was mechanical, a pendulum peeping out from behind dirty glass. She found the latch that held the door shut, opened it, and gave the pendulum a gentle push: it swung gently back and forth. The ticking noise was soothing.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Eric had come up behind her. “Not high-end, but a pretty piece nonetheless. And all the finials are intact, and the glass is original.”

  “Does it keep time?” Meg asked dubiously.

  “It might. It’s an eight-day—that means you wind it once a week. It rings the hours, but you can disable that if you want. Sometimes these days people get annoyed at the noise. But there’s usually some adjustment mechanism, if the timing’s off. Heck, why do you need to know exactly what minute it is, anyway?” Eric grinned.

  Meg was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Are you selling it?”

  Eric glanced at Seth before answering. “One fifty?”

  I can’t buy this, Meg thought. I’m already hemorrhaging money for the house. Still, it was a lovely thing, and it would go so well …

  She was surprised when Seth said, “It’s a fair price.”

  She stopped fighting herself. “I want it. Can I give you a check, Eric?”

  “Fine. I’ll trust you. And if it bounces, Seth can answer for it.”

  Five minutes later, Meg and Seth emerged into the daylight. The clock was swathed in bubble wrap, its pendulum nestled in more. Meg climbed into the passenger seat, cradling it like a baby in her arms, while the men loaded some porcelain sinks and a box filled with something that clinked into the back of the van. She wondered just what had gotten into her, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret her momentary madness. It just felt right.

  Seth joined her in the van and started his engine. “If it doesn’t work, I can take a look at it. I like to fix things, and clocks were still pretty simple at that period.”

  “I’ll see. I can’t believe I just did that. I know my bank account won’t like it.”

  As they passed through Hadley again, Meg searched for something to talk about. Finally she said, “Anything new on Granford Grange?” Might as well see if she could come up with a nugget to keep Cinda happy. Besides, she was curious.

  “Not publicly. You said you registered to vote. You’ll be at the meeting? It’s a week from Monday, you know.”

  “I think so. You said it’s just this one item on the warrant, isn’t it? I’ve been doing a little research on the whole eminent domain issue, and I can see why it’s controversial. It sure does have people stirred up around here.”

  “I think it should. Dollars and cents aside, decisions like this have a real impact on the character of the town, how you want to live. It’s good that people feel strongly about it, and that they have a forum to air their opinions. I just wish I knew what was going to happen.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “To be honest, I really don’t know. Right now it’s too close to call. And I’m stuck right in the middle, because I can see both sides.”

  “That can’t be much fun. Has Puritan Bank done a good job of, uh, persuading people?”

  Seth shrugged, his eyes on the road. “Probably. Hale could be a bit hard to take, but he was thorough, and he had all the numbers. And he was around to answer questions—he didn’t just phone it in.”

  So it must have mattered to him, Meg thought. “And now?”

  Seth shook his head. “There’s some momentum. Once the idea is out of the bottle, it’s hard to stuff it back in.”

  Meg turned to watch his profile. “What’s your position?”

  “As a selectman or as one of the landowners?”

  “Either. Both.”

  He sighed. “As a selectman, I have to say I think it would be good for the town, as long as the size and nature of the development are reasonably controlled. As an owner, it makes me sad, but I’ll survive. Oh, back to the selectman view, I have no idea how we’re going to reconcile all these opinions and hammer out something that will make the maximum number of people happy. You’ll notice that I don’t say ‘everyone,’ because that’s never going to happen.”

  Meg considered this, then asked, “So, after everyone in town has had his or her say at the meeting, what happens?”

  “Well, in fact, anyone can ask that the article be put to a vote, at any time—that means discussion would be cut off. Then the people there have to vote about whether they want to keep talking, or go ahead and vote on the issue, and that takes a two-thirds majority. But if somebody cuts off the dialogue too soon, they aren’t going to be very popular in town. So it’s really hard to call.”

  “Democracy in action.”

  “Don’t knock it—it’s worked for over three hundred years. Anyway, once everybody has spoken, then it comes to a vote. Voice vote first, and if that isn’t clear enough, then individuals have to stand up and be counted. That’ll take a simple majority.”

  Back at the house, Seth carried the clock while Meg unlocked the back door and held it open for him. Inside, she turned to him. “Can we hang it?”

  Looking mystified, Seth followed her into the parlor. Meg stopped in front of the fireplace. “See? There’s a hook there already.Want to bet it’s the right place?” She lovingly unwrapped her prize. There was a slot cut out of the wooden back for hanging. Meg held her breath and lifted the clock up over the mantel and settled it on the hook.

  She had guessed right. “Look at that! Like it had always been there. Now, we have to see if it works. Wasn’t there a key to wind it?”

  Seth reached into a
pocket, pulled out an old-fashioned key, and handed it to her. Meg opened the front of the clock’s case, inserted the key, and wound carefully, stopping when she met resistance. She moved the hands to the correct position, then with one finger gave a gentle nudge to the pendulum. It swung and kept on swinging. Meg closed the front and latched it, then stood back to admire. “Voilà!” She watched the pendulum, making sure it kept going. “What’s the second keyhole for?”

  “Probably the chimes. If you don’t wind that, it won’t make noise.”

  “Ah. I’ll have to check that out. But for now I think I’ll let it settle in to its new home. It looks perfect there.”

  “It does. Well, I should go.”

  At the door, Meg said, “Seth, I can’t thank you enough for that excursion today. You were right—I needed to clear my head. And look what it got me!”

  “Happy to be of service, ma’am. And it does look good there. You have a good eye.”

  Meg closed the door behind him and turned to admire her acquisition. It was so unlike her to make a spontaneous decision like that. But the clock had called to her; she had seen it in her mind’s eye, exactly where it was now. No doubt there had been one like it before, in the same place.

  Then it struck her: this was the first time she had added something to the house. She had spent weeks throwing out unwanted stuff and peeling off later additions, and she still wasn’t anywhere near done. But the clock was the first thing she had brought in—something that she had chosen. It had felt right, and it fit, as she had somehow known it would. Its steady beat echoed reassuringly in the nearly empty space. Like a heartbeat, Meg thought suddenly. After so long, the house was coming alive again. Meg smiled to herself, absurdly pleased.

  And she had Seth to thank for it. Seth seemed to spend a lot of time looking out for other people. His sister. The town. Meg. Unlike Chandler, who had taken care of Chandler first and foremost. And paid the price?

  17

  Sunday Meg woke early and remained huddled under her multiple blankets, taking inventory. She could hear the balky furnace rumble to life, and after a few moments a feeble puff of warm air drifted from the heating grate. If she strained her ears, she could just hear the ticking of the clock. The sound of it warmed her.