One Bad Apple

by Sheila Connolly

  When Chandler had broken off their relationship, she had been surprised and, looking back on the episode, mildly hurt, but nothing like devastated. She smiled to herself: if the detective considered her a wronged woman bent on revenge, he was barking up the wrong tree. She had never felt strongly enough about Chandler to consider killing him, and she certainly hadn’t wished him dead. She wondered idly who Chandler had been seeing recently. She was quite sure there was someone—there always was.

  She had no answers for anything. Standing up, she disposed of her apple core in the kitchen. Break over: back to the ratty wallpaper.

  18

  Meg slept soundly after her energetic work, but she woke up with Chandler’s murder on her mind. Seth thought the detective would find Chandler’s killer, but would he? She wanted closure; she wanted to be sure she wasn’t a suspect, improbable though that seemed to her. She wanted to do something to move the investigation forward.

  That thought surprised her. What could she do? She didn’t know anyone in the area; she didn’t know the lay of the land. But, she realized, she did have one advantage: she knew the banking industry and, more specifically, the Boston banks, including the one Chandler had worked for. She knew them far better than the local police ever would, and she knew what questions to ask. Maybe someone from Boston had followed Chandler out to the western part of the state and thought it would be convenient to eliminate him here, to avoid dirtying their own nest. It was worth looking into.

  She checked her watch: almost eight o’clock. Her friend Lauren would no doubt be in her office. Lauren had somehow survived the merger purges at the bank and had emerged with a more exalted title and a slightly larger desk, which she deserved, and Meg didn’t begrudge them to her. Would she have time to talk? At least Meg could get the ball rolling. Her mission: find out as much as she could about the business side of the proposed Granford deal. She also wanted to pump Lauren for as much personal information as she could about the late Chandler. She dressed quickly, then went to the kitchen, picked up her phone, and hit Lauren’s speed-dial number.

  Lauren answered the phone, clearly breathless. “Hey, Meg, you’re up with the cows now? Sorry I haven’t called, but things have been really crazy here. So, have you decided you’ve had enough of country and you want back in the game in Boston?”

  Meg laughed: same old Lauren, running a mile a minute. “Hey, slow down and breathe, will you? I know you’re busy, so I’ll keep it simple.” But having said that, Meg wasn’t sure how to start. “You remember Chandler Hale?”

  “Chandler? Of course—he’s hard to miss. So, what about him?”

  “Well, for a start, he’s dead.”

  “What? When?” Clearly Lauren hadn’t heard the news.

  Meg sighed. “It’s complicated, but as far as the police can tell, it was last Tuesday night. I’m surprised you didn’t hear. I’m sure he’d be devastated to know he didn’t make the front page.”

  Lauren apparently covered the phone with her hand and said something muffled to someone. “Sorry. They can’t seem to function around here without my holding their hands. Back to Chandler … I’ve been so swamped, I must have missed it. So, tell me more. But, no, wait—why do you care? You two were over ages ago.”

  “Oh, yes, definitely ancient history.” It was the truth. The next part was harder. “But the thing is, his body was found on my property.”

  Silence from Lauren’s end, for several seconds. “Oh, wow! Do you need a good lawyer?”

  Meg almost laughed. “No, nothing like that. But look, Lauren, I can really use your help. I know how busy you are, so I’ll give you the bare outline. The detective wants to believe I had something to do with Chandler’s death, because that would make his life easier, but he hasn’t got any evidence, because of course there isn’t any. I want to know who might have had a reason to want Chandler out of the way. Chandler was working on a commercial development deal in Granford—that’s why he was here. There are a lot of people in town who feel strongly about the whole deal, and that means there are a lot of potential local suspects. The police and the detective are working on this end of things, but I thought since I knew Chandler and I know the Boston scene, I might be able to find out what was going on at that end.”

  “You sure you aren’t a suspect, Meg?” Lauren sounded disappointed. “Because if you did it, I can think of at least six, no, seven women who would probably throw you a killer party. Ooh, bad pun.”

  “I suppose I am, ridiculous though that sounds. I didn’t even know he was here until he came looking for the tenants at my house. And, no, I didn’t have any desire to kill him. We were never that serious,” Meg said. “But the sooner this gets cleared up, the sooner I can get the house on the market. I don’t want this hanging over the place.”

  “Hey, it might bring you a lot of lookers.”

  “I don’t want lookers, I want buyers. Or at least one. You interested in a country place?”

  “Ha!” was Lauren’s response. “I’ll leave that to you.”

  I don’t want it, Meg thought. “Look, can you sniff out who’s involved in this deal? I know the bank but not the players, if you know what I mean. To me the whole deal seems pretty run of the mill—a strip mall in a rural area. Not a big deal by Boston terms. But is there anyone who would want to see Chandler eliminated? Was this a pet project of his, and will the bank support it without him at the helm? They’re making the right noises, but that might just be PR. That’s the kind of thing I’d like to find out.”

  “I see what you’re getting at. Let me ask around. There could be more going on than meets the eye. Business has been tight lately, and there aren’t that many start-up projects. If the bank is trying to establish a presence in a new market, with an eye toward bigger things, maybe the Granford deal was just the opening wedge, and somebody else wanted a piece of the action. Chandler didn’t always play well with others, did he? I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Meg felt a surge of relief. “That’s great! And thanks. I’ll owe you.”

  “Right, you will,” Lauren responded cheerfully. “Give me a day or two. They won’t arrest you before then, will they?”

  “I hope not.” Meg wasn’t even sure if she was joking.

  After a pause, Lauren asked slyly, “So, how’s your love life?”

  “What love life? All I do is scrape, paint, and clean. I’ve barely had time to meet anybody, except the manager at Home Depot. Heck, I’ve probably seen more of my plumber than any other man.”

  “Is he hot?”

  “Hot? I hadn’t thought about it. He’s nice, he’s under ninety, and at least he shows up when he says he will. Actually, he’s a neighbor—the next property over. And an elected official of the town. And his land is involved somehow in the development project.”

  “Huh. It really is a small town, isn’t it? He sounds like a keeper—there can’t be that many fish in your little pond there. Although if this were a novel, he’d be a likely suspect. You know, an evil heart under that squeaky-clean exterior.”

  “No, he’s a good guy, and he bailed me out when the plumbing went wonky. Old systems tend to do that, I’ve learned. The hard way.”

  “There are things in this universe that I’d rather not know, and that is one of them.” Lauren held another garbled conversation with someone at the other end. When she spoke again, she said, “Sorry, I have to rush—this place is a zoo. But I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks. I’d really like to get this cleared up before I become known in town as ‘the lady with the body.’”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You always land on your feet, right? Gotta go—sorry I don’t have more time to chat. I’ll e-mail you with whatever I find, I promise! And maybe call you over the weekend so you can tell me all about the hot plumber.” She hung up without a good-bye.

  Still, Meg felt encouraged. Lauren was plugged in to the banking network and had an ear for juicy gossip, which she used discreetly and judiciousl
y. If there was dirt on Chandler—or his enemies—Lauren would ferret it out. Maybe it was a long shot, but Meg didn’t want to leave any stone unturned. Plus it felt a lot better to be doing something positive, rather than sitting in her drafty house waiting to be arrested.

  19

  Meg found that her brief conversation with Lauren had left her both energized and confused. Had she sounded like Lauren, before she had lost her job? Always harried? She wandered into her parlor. Minus the offensive wallpaper, the walls looked kind of ragged. They were true plaster, surprisingly strong, given their age. And they had never been painted, which amazed her. What was she going to do with them? Home decor was definitely not her strong suit. Maybe she should send some photos to her mother and ask for suggestions. But something simple, definitely—she liked the room clean and bare. It reminded her of an Andrew Wyeth interior.

  Looking out through the front window she noticed the UMass van pass by, heading toward the orchard. It might be a good idea to talk to Christopher, find out what he had heard—and what he would do if the orchard fell to the bulldozers. Suddenly invigorated, Meg pulled on her boots and coat and left the house, walking briskly up the hill. Outside, she realized that the sky was leaden and there was a damp feeling in the air. Snow? She hadn’t been through a snowstorm here, major or minor, and she did a quick mental check of her supplies. Then she laughed—the Boston TV channels had always reported the stampede to grocery stores to stock up on bread, milk, and candles whenever a storm loomed. Half the time the storm dumped two inches of slush and everyone looked foolish. But still, she didn’t know enough about her current home to know how dependable the power was. Or if she had enough flashlights or candles, or even oil lamps. Or if her furnace required electricity, and what she would do if her heat went out.

  She had reached the top of the hill without even noticing— and without panting, which was a pleasant change. She spied Christopher alone in the middle of the orchard, staring intently at a tree. She headed toward him.

  “Hey, Christopher. I thought I saw you drive by. What are you looking at?”

  “Ah, Meg, how nice to see you—and you’re positively rosy cheeked! We missed you Friday. I had the class here practicing their pruning, and I wanted to make sure they had done it right, and see what more needs to be done.”

  Meg smiled. “Do you grade them on pruning?”

  “Not exactly, but I want to be sure they understand what they’re doing. This year’s group is excellent. Smart, and quick to learn.”

  Meg shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. “Tell me, why do students go into agricultural pursuits these days? Particularly orchards? I thought the big commercial interests had taken over everything.”

  “An excellent question, my dear. And I think I’d have to give you two answers. The first would be that, as you’ve noticed, farming has become very much a corporate pursuit. But there is still need for people to run the farms, whatever their scale. Today’s students focus much more on the science of it—crop genetics, for example. The chemistry of pesticides. Marketing and advertising, for heaven’s sake!”

  “You don’t approve?” Meg asked.

  Christopher’s smile was wry. “Yes and no. The world will always need to eat, and the more efficiently we produce food, the better off we’ll all be. I acknowledge the need for utilizing all available tools, particularly science, to make that happen. And these students will need jobs, and it’s up to me to prepare them for the reality of modern agriculture.”

  “But?” Meg prompted.

  Christopher shook his head. “Maybe I’m a throwback. But it seems to me that by treating this merely as a business, they’re missing something. They have no sense of the honorable tradition of working with the soil, bringing forth a harvest. Of course it’s hard, dirty work. And unpredictable—I know all too well how easy it is for a single storm, or an unexpected infestation or infection, to wipe out an entire crop, and with it, a year’s work. And most smaller farmers these days operate on a very thin margin, so one such event can doom the farm, if they can’t make that year’s loan payments.”

  “And what was your second answer?” Meg said gently.

  “That there are still a few romantics who want to do something basic, simple, hands-on. A generation ago they might have been called hippies, living on communes and trying to believe that they were somehow in harmony with the earth. And many of them failed miserably because they had no idea what they were doing in practical terms. So I try to give my students a balanced view—somehow blend the romance and the science. And the math and the economics. But it’s not easy.” He sighed.

  Meg felt guilty as she framed her next question, but she had to know. “Christopher,” she began carefully, “what will you do if the developers take this land, this orchard?”

  Christopher dragged his eyes away from the apple trees. “Do you mean the university or me personally?”

  Meg shrugged. “Both. Either. Does the university have other orchard sites?”

  “Sad to say, no. Once they had an orchard on campus—which is now long buried under student housing, alas. Would they acquire a new study site? Unlikely. We were lucky to come upon this one, and to negotiate an ongoing agreement to use it. As you can guess, it takes time to develop an orchard. It doesn’t happen overnight. Would the university be willing to invest in both the land and the staffing to re-create this? I can’t say for certain, but I would doubt it. Perhaps they would just cede the field to the researchers at Cornell—although I don’t think it’s wise to put all the research eggs in one basket, if I may muddle my metaphors.”

  “And you?” Meg pressed.

  “Ah, my dear, that is the question. I’ve nurtured this orchard for decades now—brought it back from years of neglect. I know it well, each and every tree. I don’t know if I have it in me to start over, even if the university would offer that. I’m not far from retirement. Oh, I’m in good health—and in sound mind, I hope— but I am perhaps not the best choice to oversee a new beginning. And I fear the university nabobs might agree with that assessment.”

  “Could they force you to retire? Or put you out to pasture, so to speak—teaching introductory courses or something?”

  “I see you know a bit about the politics of educational institutions. To be honest, I don’t know what they’d do, were this orchard to be lost. They haven’t paid much attention to the situation here—being, I am persuaded, far more interested in fostering a more active football program. Which, I will admit, would be more lucrative than this little project. But I can guess that matters are coming to a head rather rapidly.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Meg answered. “You told me you had met Chandler Hale?”

  Christopher nodded. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I seem to remember some conversation about retaining a few apple trees around the parking lot as decoration. He appeared surprised when I told him that they would not flourish under such conditions.”

  Meg could picture Chandler’s cavalier response, the careless arrogance of his tone. Oh, certainly, he would keep some of the trees—as window dressing. Until they were killed by the exhaust fumes from the parking lot.

  And Meg could also see that Christopher had every right to be angry at such an attitude. He had put years of his life into this orchard, and Meg could tell from the way he looked at it that he loved it. Take it away and he would quite possibly lose his job, as well as the object of his affections.

  Was that enough motive to kill?

  Meg shivered, not just from the cold, and wrapped her arms around herself. Time to change the subject. “Is the pruning done?”

  “Nearly. We were out all day Friday. We keep the trees well cut back, so there is only some fine-tuning to be done.”

  “So, if the pruning is done, what’s next?”

  “These will be dormant until sometime in March. The next stage is silver-tip, followed by green-tip, which would bring you up to the first of May. Come April, we’ll need to begin our spraying p
rogram, for diseases like apple scab, crown rot, and fire blight, and insects, starting with mites and aphids.”

  “You certainly have a full schedule,” Meg said, once more appalled at how little she knew. How did any poor apple survive to maturity, with so many threats?

  “That we do, my dear.” Christopher cast a practiced eye at the sky. “It looks as though we’ll have some snow. I don’t suppose I’ll get much else done today.”

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea or something?”

  “Ah, how kind, but I think I had better get back to the university. Perhaps another time. Oh, and could you let me know the outcome when the town votes on the project? I don’t want to be caught by surprise.”

  “You aren’t going to be there?”

  “I think not. You haven’t attended one of these events, have you?”

  Meg shook her head. “No. Boston does things differently.”

  “I am not a Granford resident, and while in theory I might be permitted to attend, I could not speak, nor could I vote on the matter, regardless of my interest. So I would prefer not to watch the spectacle.”

  “I understand. And of course I’ll let you know. It was nice to see you again, Christopher.”

  Meg turned away and hurried back down the hill, glad to be moving again. Unfortunately she couldn’t outrun her own thoughts. Christopher as killer? Laughable. He was a sweet man, dedicated to his profession—not a murderer. Or so she thought. But she kept coming back to the inescapable fact: Chandler was dead, and somebody had killed him. Just because everyone she met around here was kind and friendly didn’t exempt them all from suspicion.

  As she struggled to open her door, she could hear the phone ringing inside. She grabbed it up on the sixth ring. “Hello?” she gasped, out of breath.

  “Hey, babe!” Lauren’s cheerful voice came. “Did I interrupt you in the middle of something interesting?”