One Bad Apple

by Sheila Connolly

  Meg struggled for a moment to figure out what she meant and then suppressed a laugh. Trust Lauren to put a lascivious spin on it. “No, I was up in the orchard and came back in a hurry. What’s up?” As she held the phone to her ear, Meg peeled off her coat and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  “Walking the back forty, eh? Don’t you sound like a country girl. Anyway, I did some nosing around for you, about the Granford deal? Seems to be on the up-and-up. Puritan Bank’s been making periodic announcements, and there are plenty of backers in place. And Chandler’s erstwhile assistant has been tapped to take over management of the project, at least for now.”

  “Cinda Patterson,” Meg said flatly.

  “You know her?” Lauren responded, her surprise evident.

  “We’ve met. And the bank made its own announcement here last Thursday, although the attending VP from the bank didn’t look too happy. So Cinda’s official?”

  “That she is. Not that she hasn’t earned it—she’s been their unofficial go-to gal ever since she showed up in town. And …” Lauren enjoyed spinning out a story.

  Meg reluctantly took the bait. “You’ve got something else?” “Oh, yeah,” Lauren replied gleefully. “You might just like to know about Chandler’s current whatever. Squeeze? Paramour? Inamorata?”

  Crap. “You don’t mean …”

  “The self-same Cinda.” Lauren completed the line with triumph.

  “That’s interesting. I thought Chandler didn’t like to muddy his own nest.” The Boston banking community wasn’t huge, and intraoffice romances could get sticky very quickly—and very publicly. At least she and Chandler had been at different banks, but she had been surprised how many people had known about them—and had known when there no longer was a “them.”

  “You said you’ve met Cinda? Wait till you get to know her. I haven’t met her myself, but from what I’ve heard they must have been soul mates. She’s a shark in the making. And she was his back-up on that project, and a handful of others like it. I think they were trying to put together a portfolio of small deals like that, market it as a package—you know, diversify the risk. And you know what they say about proximity.” Lauren was silent for a moment. “You and Chandler split … what, last fall sometime?”

  “More like summer, actually. Why?”

  “I think they were seeing each other before that.”

  Meg was surprised to find she wasn’t surprised. “Could be, not that he ever said anything. Hey, Lauren, it’s okay. It’s not like we were an affair for the ages or anything.”

  “Glad to hear that. Anyway, from what I hear, Cinda comes across as … what was that Madonna tour, years ago? Blond Ambition? Cinda looks out for Number One. Luckily she’s got looks and smarts, or so I’m told.”

  “I believe it.” Meg’s kettle started to whistle. “Look, I won’t keep you. Thanks for digging this up so fast. And if you hear anything else, let me know, will you?”

  “Sure. You playing detective now?”

  Meg laughed shortly. “Just trying to cover my derrière. Thanks—you’re a pal. Talk to you soon.”

  Meg hung up the phone and went to the stove to make tea, just as the first snowflakes hit the kitchen window, followed by a burst of wind. Cold air seeped around the rattling window frame.

  Chandler and Cinda, Cinda and Chandler. Last summer. That was food for thought. And it didn’t taste very good.

  20

  Christopher’s prediction had been right. It had snowed all night, and Meg awoke to bright sunlight reflecting off a foot or more of fresh snow. At which point she realized that she had no idea what to do with snow: she wasn’t even sure she owned a snow shovel, and she had no clue where it might be if she did. Nor did she relish the thought of trying to clear the driveway, even as far as her car. Still, the scene outside her bedroom window, where the once-grassy meadow was now covered with a thick white blanket, was too pretty to permit gloomy thoughts. Besides, she had nowhere she needed to be, and plenty to keep her occupied inside. She pulled on comfortable sweats and descended to the kitchen.

  She was surprised to hear a vehicle pull into her driveway. Peering out the kitchen window, she saw an unfamiliar truck with a snowplow in the front. Seth climbed down from the cab.

  She beat him to the back door. “You’re up early.”

  He smiled. “Good, you’re awake. Thought you could use a little help with the driveway.”

  “What are you, psychic? I just realized I know nothing about shoveling snow.”

  “Not a problem—I can have you cleared out in a couple of minutes.”

  “Bless you. Can I give you a cup of coffee? Heck, I seem to spend all my time pouring coffee down you and everyone else. How about this: can I offer you a bowl of hot oatmeal?”

  “If you’ve got brown sugar.” Seth stamped his feet on the stoop, then stepped into the kitchen, suddenly taking up a lot of the free space in his bulky sweater and down vest.

  “Sit,” Meg commanded, and started assembling oatmeal, sugar, milk, and utensils. “How did you know I’d need rescuing? I didn’t even think about it myself until I woke up this morning,” she said, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove.

  Seth dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He hesitated before answering. “Lucky guess. But there was something else … Listen, I thought we should talk. About me and Detective Marcus.”

  Something in his tone made Meg stop foraging and study him more closely. He looked uncertain, which was unlike him. “Do I need to sit down?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  Meg sat anyway. “All right, talk. Is there a problem?”

  “There’s no pretty way of putting this. Look, Meg, you and I, we’re both suspects in Chandler Hale’s murder. I hope not the only ones, but we’re going to be under some suspicion, just because of how and where he was found. And that may affect how people treat you. Doesn’t seem fair, but that’s the reality. Me, I’ve lived here all my life, and people know me. May not like me, but they know who I am, and they’ll give me some leeway.”

  Meg couldn’t see where he was going. “Seth, I think I understand what you’re trying to say, but why do you think you need to say it at all? I’m not naïve, and I’m not about to feel hurt if local people would rather blame an outsider than one of their own. I’m an outsider, period. What is it you’re worried about?” She paused, searching his face, and then was struck with an awful thought. “You don’t think I actually killed him, do you?”

  “No, of course not. For one thing, you couldn’t have hoisted him into that hole by yourself.”

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. So I’m off the hook because I couldn’t have lifted a body?”

  Seth shook his head. “No, that didn’t come out right. I don’t believe that you had any reason to kill Hale or any desire to. I can’t see you killing anybody. But … there’s something you have to know, about me, my history here.”

  Meg was becoming more and more mystified. “What? You have a criminal record?”

  “Sort of. I need to explain …” Seth stopped again, searching for words.

  Meg decided it might be easier if she wasn’t staring at him while he tried to find his way. “Go on. But I’m going to start that oatmeal.” She stood up, found a measuring cup, poured oatmeal into it, then stirred it slowly into the boiling water. None of that instant stuff, nope, not her. Her mother had brought her up right.

  What the hell could Seth want to tell her, and why was it so difficult for him?

  “So. Detective Marcus and I have, uh, sort of a history.”

  “So you do have a criminal record.” Meg strove for a light tone as she concentrated hard on mashing lumps in the oatmeal.

  “When I was a senior in high school, I got into a fight with another guy on the football team and did a pretty good job of beating him to a pulp. First and only time, honest.”

  “And you were arrested?”

  “Yeah. It probably wouldn’t ha
ve gone that far, except that the other guy was Marcus’s son. He wasn’t detective then, but he was in law enforcement, and he has a long memory.”

  “What happened?” Meg watched the roiling surface of the oatmeal as large bubbles rose to the surface.

  “The charges were dropped, finally.”

  “Why?”

  “Why were they dropped? Or why did I get into the fight in the first place?”

  “Both, I guess. Are they related?” Meg turned off the heat under the pan. It wouldn’t hurt it to sit for a few minutes. She turned to face Seth, leaning against the counter.

  Seth was silent for several beats. “Let’s just say that there was good reason for the fight, and leave it at that. All parties agreed, in the end.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Seth?”

  “Because the story’s going to come out again. Oh, yeah, Seth Chapin—didn’t he beat some guy up once? So maybe he does have a violent streak. Or—how do they put it these days?—he has problems with anger management. Maybe last time the mess got covered up, or somebody got bought off. Which is a joke, because Dad never had that kind of money or clout. Or, maybe Seth got really pissed off at Chandler Hale about losing his land and whacked him one. That’s the problem with a small town: people remember, and it’s usually the bad things they remember. I didn’t want you to get tarred by association with me.”

  Meg reached into an overhead cupboard for some bowls, all the while trying to frame a response to what Seth had said. “Seth,” she began slowly, “do you have an alibi for the night Chandler died?”

  “Huh? Heck, we don’t even know exactly when he died—we just know he had dinner with you in Amherst, he brought you home, and he was dead the next evening sometime, after he got back from Boston.”

  “You heard about that? Where he was that day, I mean?”

  “Sure, Art filled me in. He had to have died after six o’clock. And that night I did what I would normally do: had dinner with Mom till about seven, took care of some billing for the business, went home and went to bed with a good book, fell asleep after about ten pages. Alone. So, no alibi, past dinner. I had plenty of time to do the deed, if I had wanted to.”

  Meg carried the bowls to the table. “I never said I suspected you. And I can’t imagine that people around here would—after all, they elected you to the board of selectmen, didn’t they?”

  “I suppose. I just didn’t want you to get dragged into this mess, or make things any worse. Although you’re in it anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Obviously. I knew him, and he was found in my septic tank.” She sat down opposite Seth. “You sure you aren’t worried that people think I killed him, and that your reputation is going to suffer? Let’s see. The detective believes either Chandler came here to seduce me and I fought back to protect my virtue, or he came here to rub my nose in the fact that I couldn’t have him, and I got so mad that I killed him. And then there’s the crowd-pleaser: you and I did it together. The detective likes that one.”

  Seth looked at her and began to laugh. Meg responded with mock wrath. “What, you don’t think I’m capable of murder? Beware the wrath of a woman scorned. Or trifled with. Or something.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I have trouble visualizing you bashing him over the head and stuffing him into the tank. It can’t have been easy. He must have weighed close to two hundred.”

  “One ninety-five—he was very proud of maintaining that,” Meg responded absently, spooning a liberal amount of brown sugar onto her oatmeal and stirring it in. “All right. We’ve agreed you didn’t kill him, and I didn’t kill him. So who did?”

  Seth’s attention had wandered to his own hot cereal. “This smells great. Oh, what? Who killed him … Frankly, I have no idea.”

  “Great. You know, your police buddy made a good point— who else knew about the open tank? Or was that just dumb luck, to have a place to dispose of him sitting there, ready-made?”

  “Who else knew? Heck, anybody who drove by and saw the backhoe from the road would have known what was going on. Your neighbors. Total strangers. I think the better question is, who wanted Chandler dead?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, but I haven’t come up with anyone yet. But you have to remember I hadn’t seen him lately. He might have made a whole new crop of enemies.”

  She was surprised by Seth’s next question. “Did you care about him?”

  Meg met his look. “Chandler? Once, maybe, I thought I did, or could. He was charming and smart and … powerful, I suppose. He was going to go places, make things happen, and it was kind of fun to be a part of that. Am I upset by his death? Not personally—but that doesn’t mean he deserved to die. And I’m pissed that whoever did it, did so here, whether or not that person wanted to point a finger at me. I didn’t do anything to earn that.”

  “I think you’ve got a right to feel that way. I didn’t mean to pry—I just didn’t want you to think that I was taking his death too lightly, if he was someone who meant something to you.”

  “That’s nice of you, but don’t worry about it.”

  Seth’s worries had not blunted his appetite, and he finished his oatmeal quickly. But as he chased a last lump of sugar around his bowl, Seth ventured, “You know, there’s no reason for you to believe me. You’re taking a risk here, you know. I could be a serial killer sizing you up for my next victim.”

  “Seth,” Meg said, “you’ve been a good friend to me, and I appreciate it. Besides, if you hid someone, I’ll bet no one would find him. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to lose a good plumber— they’re even harder to find than good friends.”

  Seth smiled at her, and then his cell phone rang.

  He answered quickly. “Seth Chapin. Right. Now? I guess. I’ll have to swing by the shop first and pick up what I need. Half an hour? No, make it an hour—I don’t know what the roads’ll be like. Say, ten?” He signed off, and sighed. “Sorry. Another emergency. I should have been a doctor—although I probably would have made less money. But I’ll clear your drive first.”

  “Thanks.”

  He bounded up, energy and good cheer apparently restored by their conversation and food. As he headed toward the door, he turned to her. “Meg, I’m glad you trust me.” And then he was gone.

  Meg continued to sit, watching her oatmeal congeal, lost in thought. She had always been a numbers person, good with math, and good at seeing patterns and connections. She had never been a good “people” person. People were not logical, and they were a lot harder to read than a balance sheet. Looking back, she could see now that her instinctive reaction to Chandler had been right: he had never really cared about her. She had gone along with his halfhearted pursuit because she was flattered by his attention, and because she didn’t really trust her own instincts. Now she had made a quick decision about trusting Seth, but was she right or wrong this time?

  21

  True to his word, Seth cleared the end of her driveway nearest the road in three or four quick passes with the plow, then chugged off down the road. It was sweet of him to have taken care of it for her, but she was in no hurry to go anywhere. In Boston she had seldom used her car, and she had never spent much time learning to drive in snow. It was not a skill she’d thought she needed, and she was usually content to wait until the snow had melted. Unless, she added to herself, it took weeks to melt. Ah well, one day at a time.

  The cell phone rang, and when she picked up the phone she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Meg,” Cinda’s voice gushed in her ear. “I’m so glad I caught you. I can really use your help. Could you meet me here in Northampton for, say, lunch?”

  How clueless was Cinda? Meg wondered. But she relented: Cinda was a city girl, just as she had been. “Uh, Cinda, have you looked out your window this morning?”

  “What?” Meg heard a sound of clattering curtain rings. “Oh, how pretty—it snowed. But the road is perfectly clear.”

  Meg sighed. Maybe in Northampton, the bustling c
ounty seat, the roads were clear, but in idyllic rural Granford they most definitely were not. “Sorry, Cinda, I’m out in the country, and I have no idea if or when the roads here will be plowed. Why don’t we do this tomorrow? Things should be pretty well cleared up by then.”

  Meg could almost hear the pout in her voice, but Cinda rallied. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think. Of course it can wait. But,” she added with calculated self-deprecation, “I’m just so worried about the special meeting coming up, and I want to make sure I have all my bases covered. I’d really appreciate your help here, Meg.”

  Cinda was quick on her feet, Meg reflected. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. Is there anything in particular you want me to think about?” Given the state of the roads, Meg didn’t think she’d be traveling around trying to talk to people today.

  “Well, you’re in place, so to speak. I’m still playing catch-up, after Chandler … If you could give me a sense of who the players in town are, who’s really going to make the decisions. You know what I mean.”

  Meg did. But she also knew that she hadn’t been around long enough to have forged the kind of connections that Cinda could use. If she really wanted to help Cinda succeed, she would have to ask … someone like Seth. As in fact she had. Was that what underlay Cinda’s question? Had Cinda made assumptions about Meg’s relationship with Seth and assumed she would go to him first? The detective had made that same leap of logic. Or was Cinda just testing her? “Yes, I do. I’ll see what I can find out. Lunch tomorrow, then? I’ll meet you at the hotel around noon.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you so much, Meg. I’m really looking forward to working with you.” Cinda hung up. Meg stared at the phone, confused. Now she was working with Cinda? Not likely. But if Cinda had been close to Chandler, she might have a better idea about who killed him. If Cinda wanted to use her, she could just as well use Cinda. She gave a fleeting thought to Cinda as murderer, and almost laughed out loud. Cinda, of the designer suits and French manicures? Cinda, who might weigh 110 pounds soaking wet? And why would Cinda want to kill her meal ticket? Chandler had brought her onto the project; Chandler had been her mentor. Among other things.