There was so much she had to do, and yet she didn’t want to move, so she lay still, running through the events of the day before. The detective had as much as said that she was a murder suspect; that meant he thought she was capable of killing a man. She didn’t know whether to feel flattered or horrified.
Seth was also near the top of the detective’s short list, but she couldn’t reconcile the cheerful, friendly, helpful man she knew with the idea of a cold-blooded killer who stuffed his victim into a septic tank. Although, she had to admit, there would be a certain poetic justice to it, if plumber Seth were the killer. Which he was not.
Why not, Meg? You barely know him. Why have you decided he isn’t a killer? Because you want him to be one of the good guys?
Because you like him? Or something more? Uh-oh.
Meg lay still and shut her eyes again. This was not what she wanted to think. Okay, so she had finally purged Chandler and his rejection from her system, which was fine until he ended up dead on her property. But she wasn’t looking for another relationship, and certainly not here and now, when she would be leaving in a few months. And Seth was too nice a guy to use for a brief fling. It wouldn’t be fair to him. If he was interested at all, and she had no reason to believe that. He’d been kind to her, but from what she’d seen, he was kind to everyone. Maybe he just pitied her: poor, clueless Meg, stuck in the drafty old house with no friends. Let’s try to cheer her up.
Meg, you’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t you? She had jumped into this whole improvement project with little thought and less research. If she had been thinking, she would have known that she didn’t have the manual skills or expertise to do what needed to be done. She wasn’t even sure she could have told someone else to do it and then overseen the project, and she probably would have been exploited in every way possible. Maybe she was depressed—beaten down by the recent blows in her life. So she had simply seized on the opportunity to flee? That didn’t sit well with her vision of herself as a competent, intelligent woman. Of course, the converse would be that she had assumed that she could handle anything she set her mind to, including carpentry, wiring, and wallpapering. That thought made her laugh—surely she wasn’t that deluded? Probably the truth lay somewhere in between.
The numbers still scared her. It seemed that every repair came with a big price tag, and each one somehow led to another repair that had to be done. Since she had never owned a place of her own, she had been unprepared for this peculiar phenomenon of old houses, and her naïveté was proving expensive. But it was too late to turn back now, and she had to cling to the belief that she would recoup all these expenses when she sold the house.
But she still wasn’t sure what impact the Granford Grange project would have on the sale. She hadn’t done any research about Granford before landing here; she had known nothing about the development controversy. Would she have been so willing to come here if she had she known that Chandler was involved? Probably not. It would have been awkward to see him, and she might have stayed away just to avoid that minor unpleasantness. She could have told her mother to hire a team of cleaners to pretty the place up and then sell it, sight unseen. They might have lost a little money on the transaction, but it would have saved Meg a lot of aggravation—particularly the part about being considered a murder suspect.
Self-pity was getting her nowhere. Time to get up and tackle the endless to-do list. Time to get serious. She’d been dabbling so far—starting a lot of things, finishing nothing. At her current pace, she’d have the house ready to sell sometime in the next decade rather than May. She swung her legs out of bed, shivering at the chill. Clothes, coffee, food, then … something she would decide after coffee.
The phone rang from downstairs. Meg debated briefly about ignoring it, but maybe it was the detective with good news. Or Frances, who’d miraculously found a buyer who loved challenges and would take the place as is. She couldn’t afford not to answer. With a muffled curse she grabbed up her clothes and dashed down the stairs.
She picked up on the fifth ring. “ ’Lo?” she puffed.
“Meg, darling, is that you? You sound out of breath. I’m not calling too early, am I?”
Her mother. The last person she wanted to talk to. “No, Mom, I was awake.” She struggled to pull on her jeans while keeping the phone wedged against her ear. “How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been just fine, dear, but I wondered if you had fallen into a black hole?”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that there’s been so much to do here, I haven’t had a minute.” Frantically Meg went through a list of things she didn’t want to tell her mother at the moment: house in crappy condition, land threatened by development deal, and, oh yes, dead Chandler. No, her mother did not need to know all this, not until Meg had managed to clear up a few things.
“Well, dear, I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job. You’ve always been so capable. When do you think you’ll be ready to put the house on the market?”
Meg sighed as quietly as she could. “I’m not really sure, Mom. There’s a lot that needs to be done. I talked to a local Realtor, and she said spring would be a good time. Houses always look better in the spring.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea. How are you enjoying Granford? I seem to remember it was a charming little place. So New England.”
“I don’t think much has changed, Mom. Listen, did you ever have a genealogy for the family? The Realtor said it might be good to know more about the history of the house, and we’re related to the Warrens, right?”
“Distantly. I think my grandmother applied to the Daughters of the American Revolution, and that might explain it. I’ll have to look for the forms she filled out. But isn’t it a lovely house?”
Mom was clearly viewing her memories through rose-colored glasses. “It’s nice, but it does need a lot of work. And you never mentioned the orchard.”
“My word, is that still there? I remember that from when I was a child. It’s lovely in the spring. And I think Aunt Lula gave me some apple butter that she’d made herself. It’s all so long ago.”
As her mother fell silent, presumably lost in her memories, Meg pulled on her sweatshirt and socks. “Was there anything you wanted, Mom?”
“Why, no, dear. Can’t I just call you up to chat? After all, I haven’t heard from you since you took yourself up there. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Meg braced herself for the question she knew was coming.
“You haven’t heard anything from that lovely Chandler Hale, have you? I was so disappointed when you said you’d broken up.”
Mom had never met Chandler. Chandler didn’t do the “meet the relatives” thing, and now it was a bit too late. Suppressing a panicky giggle, Meg answered, “No, Mom. I told you it was over. And there’s no chance that we’ll get back together.” Because he’s dead.
“Well, I hope you’re getting out now and then. It’s not good for you to stay cooped up there without any human contact, you know. You were always such a solitary girl.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m meeting lots of new people.” Like the chief of police and the detective. And a nice plumber. Somehow she didn’t think her mother would appreciate hearing about any of them.
“I’m so glad. Well, I’ll let you get back to your chores. And maybe your dad and I could plan a trip up there to see what you’ve done, before you sell.”
“That would be great, Mom. Think about April. Good talking to you, and give my love to Dad. I’ll try not to wait so long to call.”
“Good-bye, darling. Take care.”
“I will.”
With a sigh of relief Meg hung up the phone. No, her mother did not need to know all the details of the past week. Maybe when Chandler’s murder was resolved. Or maybe never.
She was finishing the last of her coffee when she heard a knock at the front door. If she had come here for solitude, Meg reflected as she went to open it, she had sadly misjudged the neighborho
od.
When she finally wrenched the door open, she was surprised to find Rachel. “Aren’t you busy with guests?” she said. “Oh, sorry, that came out wrong. Come on in! It’s freezing out there.”
“Nobody at the moment, thank goodness. Winter’s usually slow, unless there’s something happening at one of the colleges. I was headed this way anyway—the three of us try to get together and have lunch or dinner with Mom every couple of weeks. And I said to myself, I need to check out the Warren house—it’s been years since I saw it.”
“Any idea if it will ever stop being the Warren house?” Meg asked as she led the way to the kitchen.
“Nope. Probably never. The Warrens spent over two hundred years here, and it’s going to take a while for anyone to replace them in local memory. Around here, everyone knows the Warren house. But, hey, didn’t you say you were related to the Warrens yourself?”
“Yes, but only distantly.”
Rachel nodded approvingly at the kitchen. “Nice. And I hope you’ll keep it simple. I hate all that cutesy country stuff with gingham and ruffles and demented-looking geese.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Meg laughed. “I haven’t even considered decorating, and most of what’s here is the worst of cheap kitsch. If I ever get around to prettying it up, I’d like to keep it as close to the real thing as I can—with a few modern necessities like electricity and plumbing.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous plumbing. Come on, show me the rest.” Rachel strode toward the stairs as though she owned the place, and Meg had no choice but to follow. Meg tried to see her house through Rachel’s eyes. Left to her own devices, she always saw the flaws, the things that needed to be done. It took an effort for her to step back and look objectively—and to quell the deprecating comments. Her first thought was of honey: golden light, warm polished maple boards. It was very quiet; a few dust motes drifted through the light from the multipaned windows.
In the cold front bedroom, Rachel waved her hand at the side window. “The orchard, right?”
Meg joined her in front of the window. “Yes. Do you know, I didn’t even notice it for weeks? I don’t come into this room very often. But even if I had, I’m not sure I would have recognized it as an orchard. Doesn’t look like much this time of year, does it?”
“Wait until spring,” Rachel replied.
Despite the cold, Rachel insisted on seeing everything, including the somewhat ramshackle connecting el and the barn at the back. “Seth was right, you know. Good structure, nice space, lots of charm and history. And colonial lends itself to modern tastes, I think—clean lines, well-aged wood. Let the building speak for itself, without cluttering it up.”
She was right, Meg realized. “Thanks, Rachel. I’ve had trouble seeing past the dreck.”
Rachel shook her head. “That’s just surface stuff. But this house was built to last. The early Warrens had money—you can tell, because they put in more windows than they had to, and big ones at that. Glass was expensive in those days, so they were making a statement.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that. I never paid much attention to eighteenth-century history, except for the Revolutionary War, the Constitution, all that stuff. I keep forgetting that they lived it here.” That was something she had to process.
“Sorry—I grew up with it, and I forget other people didn’t. But I’d be willing to bet that the Warren who built this place fought in the Revolution. I know our ancestors over the hill did, and so did most of the able-bodied men around here at the time. So now you’re living in a piece of history. Cool, huh?”
Meg found herself warming to Rachel’s enthusiasm. “I guess it is, at that. Thank you for reminding me.”
Rachel checked her watch. “Listen, I have to leave in half an hour. If I’m not there, Mom tries to do all the cooking, and she’s just not up to it anymore.”
Meg felt a pang of jealousy. It would be nice to be part of a warm and welcoming family right now. Her mother just didn’t fit the bill.
She led Rachel back to the kitchen and after pouring them each a cup of coffee, said, “So it’s you and Seth and Stephen? No other siblings?”
“Nope. Dad died a few years ago, but Mom’s doing pretty well. She keeps herself busy. And the guys don’t help as much as they might—it’s a man thing, I guess. They just don’t see what needs to be done.” Rachel sipped at her coffee. “What about you? No family around?”
Meg shook her head. “I’m an only child, and so was Mom. We used to live in New Jersey, but Mom and Dad moved to northern Maryland a while ago, and they’ve got plenty to keep them busy there. We talk on the phone, and I try to visit for major holidays, depending on work.” Which was no longer an issue. Where would she be by the time Thanksgiving rolled around? She moved quickly to change the subject. “Mom didn’t even want to come up here to look at the house. She told me to go ahead and do whatever needed to be done. I didn’t realize just how much that was. She’ll show up in time to move a few trinkets around and think she’s done her share.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it done. It just takes a lot of elbow grease.”
“Tell me about it! So, do Seth and Stephen live with your mother?” Funny, she had never thought to ask.
Rachel laughed. “Not hardly. Stephen moved out as soon as he could—he wanted a place of his own so he could entertain his, uh, lady friends. Although ‘lady’ might be stretching the truth a little. He’s got a condo a couple of miles down 202. Seth lives in one of the other family houses on the property. The Chapins ran to big families in the old days, but they stayed close to home. Convenient for the business, anyway. That operates out of what used to be farm buildings near the highway—you’ve probably seen it.”
They chatted for the allotted half hour, and then Rachel stood up and stretched. “Well, I’d better head on over to the house. Look, Meg, if you ever feel overwhelmed, just give me a call. I can’t say I’ve ever been a new kid around here, but I know it must be hard when you don’t know anyone. And things have been kind of complicated …”
“You mean, things like finding a dead body?”
Rachel grinned. “Exactly. But these are good people here, and once you get to know them, you’ll like them. Just give them a chance. Okay, gotta run. Thanks for the tour!”
Rachel left, but some of her energy lingered. Meg went back to the parlor. Rachel was right: the room had good lines, and it was time to haul out the tacky carpet, which she had left in a heap days before, and the lumpy upholstered chairs. Once she got the room cleared out, she could tackle the faded, blotched wallpaper. The sight of the garish flowers offended her every time she looked at them.
The clock ticked steadily over the fireplace. Meg smiled at it: it kept good time.
The sound kept her company as she hauled and scraped. At least the exercise kept her warm. It also gave her time to think. She had been treating Chandler’s death as both a tragedy, which it was, and a personal inconvenience, which it also was. But she hadn’t considered it as a problem, one that could be analyzed and solved. And while her hands were busy, she could certainly think about it.
What did she know? One, Chandler had been murdered, by a blow or blows to the head. Two, while it might not have taken a lot of physical power to overcome Chandler, especially if he had been surprised, it definitely would have taken strength to transport him to her property and stuff him through the relatively narrow opening of the septic tank. Three, either the detective didn’t know, or he was unwilling to share with her, exactly where Chandler had been killed. If it was at his hotel, someone had concealed it well. She had heard nothing but nice things about the hotel, so she assumed that any nasty evidence like blood would be glaringly obvious in a well-cleaned room. His car had been found in the parking garage, where it should have been, and the detective had checked that for evidence, so that was ruled out.
She had cleared one wall of its atrocious paper. For a break, she ambled into the kitchen and retrieved one of Christopher’s latest gi
ft of apples from the refrigerator. Back in the dining room she munched on it while contemplating how much more remained to be done to clear the rest of the wallpaper. Christopher was right: the apple was crisp and sweet. No supermarket apple would have survived in such good condition after a couple of months in cold storage.
Back to the question of Chandler’s murder. She didn’t have a lot of tangible evidence to work with, so maybe she needed to look at motive. Why would anyone want to kill Chandler? Was it business or personal? On the business side, she had the impression that there were people in Granford who held strong opinions about the Granford Grange project, both for and against. She didn’t know those people well enough to gauge the likelihood of any of them turning to violence, but it was possible. She’d have to ask Seth or Rachel. Who else was involved—or rather, who wasn’t, in a small town? Who was going to do the actual construction? What about the shop owners of Granford, who might be squeezed out by major chain coffee shops or hardware stores? The list just kept growing. Still, killing Chandler seemed rather extreme—and it wouldn’t necessarily stop the project. So who benefitted with Chandler out of the way? Would the financing consortium Chandler had assembled hold together without him? Based on Friday’s impromptu meeting, Cinda Patterson had stepped up to fill Chandler’s shoes (Meg allowed herself a brief giggle at the mental image of Chandler in stilettos or Cinda in wingtips), and the bank was standing behind her.
And she couldn’t dismiss personal motive. In another time, Chandler would have been called a “ladies’ man.” He liked women. No, Meg amended, he liked being with women. He liked the way a beautiful woman on his arm raised his status in the eyes of his peers. He liked the thrill of the hunt, the ultimate victory. But did he really like women as people? Meg wasn’t so sure of that. He’d never been married, and he hadn’t sustained any long-term relationships that she knew of. Yet he had seldom lacked for female companionship, and she could attest that he wasn’t gay.
One Bad Apple Page 15
