Cinda emerged from the bathroom, looking even crisper than before, which Meg would not have believed possible. “Ready?”
Meg held up the book. “Is this yours?”
Cinda peered across the room as she pulled on her suit jacket. “What … oh, that old thing. Chandler gave it to me—said he thought I might find something useful in it. You know, bone up on the history of Granford, use it to impress the locals. I haven’t had time to look at it. It’s not really my kind of thing, you know.”
Meg wavered. Should she mention it was her book? Cinda would probably be glad to return it to her, since she obviously had no interest in it.
Meg closed it with a snap—with the receipt still inside. “Do you think I could borrow this? Since I’m selling the house, it might be a good idea if I knew more about the history of the town. My Realtor says buyers like that kind of information.”
Cinda waved a careless hand. “Please, take it. I simply don’t have the time to look at it.”
“Thanks.” Meg slipped it into her tote bag. “Are you ready to go?”
“I am. Meg, I’m so glad you’re on board with this. I’m just so excited about this project …” Cinda burbled on as she followed Meg out into the hall, carefully locking the door behind her.
Meg made appropriately noncommittal answers, while in the back of her mind she was puzzling over what to do next. Chandler had had the book, and now Cinda had the book. When did the credit card receipt go in? Cinda didn’t seem concerned about it, but did she know the slip was there?
There was someone else in the elevator when she and Cinda boarded, sparing Meg the need to make further conversation, which gave her more time to gnaw on her problem. She wished there was someone she could consult with. She had a feeling the right thing to do would be to take the book and the slip directly to the detective’s office. After all, she was already in Northampton, wasn’t she? And this was evidence in an open murder investigation, wasn’t it? She certainly hoped so. If someone else had been with Chandler that night, that could let her off the hook. And she was curious to know what story Cinda had given him.
The downstairs restaurant, its tall windows facing the main intersection in Northampton, was bustling, filled with older, prosperous-looking people. Once Meg had looked at the menu, she realized why there were no younger people in the place: no way they could afford it. Nor could she.
Cinda was speaking, and Meg fought to focus on her. “It seems a shame to lose any momentum, just because of a single unfortunate incident.”
So Chandler’s murder was now no more than an unfortunate incident. “If you have a viable project, you shouldn’t have any trouble moving forward,” Meg said, more tartly than she had intended.
Cinda looked startled. “You’re right, of course. And the numbers are sound, believe me.” She went on, stopping only to give her order to the harried waitress. An iced tea, despite the frigid weather—no alcohol for Cinda, who no doubt wanted to keep her head clear for business.
“You’re awfully quiet, Meg,” Cinda said as she ran out of steam. “I was hoping that you could help me shape my presentation to the town.”
“Haven’t you spoken to them before?”
“Yes, but Chandler always took the lead. This is my first presentation as project manager, and I want to be sure to make the right impression. Our bank has put a lot of work into this, and I’d hate to be the one who dropped the ball.”
I’ll bet. Might be a blot on your sterling record. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. The project stands on its own merits.”
“Of course. But, Meg, as I’m sure you know, there is such a thing as a herd mentality. And a town meeting like this, it draws a small group of citizens, mostly the ones who feel strongly about the issue, pro and con, and they may well react emotionally rather than logically when it comes time to vote. Which can work for us or against us. Do you see what I mean? This vote will be binding, and I want to be sure it goes the right way.”
And how far would you go to assure that? Meg wondered. “You seem to have an excellent grasp of the process. I admit I had to do some homework to be sure I understood it.”
“As have I, Meg.” Was there a flash of steel in her eye?
“I don’t doubt that. So, what can I tell you?”
“You’ve gotten to know Seth Chapin fairly well, haven’t you?”
Meg’s hackles went up. “What’s your point?”
Cinda was shrewd enough to read Meg’s reaction. “Please, I don’t mean to imply anything. But from what I’ve seen, Seth is something of a … bellwether, I suppose you could say. He’s a community leader, and people respect him. And he has a personalstake in this project. If he’s in favor, that will carry a lot of weight. Has he said anything to you?”
Meg sorted through her possible answers, discarding most of them. “I think it’s safe to say that he has mixed feelings about it. But from everything I’ve seen, he’s been as fair and evenhanded as anyone could hope for, publicly. It’s a decision for the community to make, and he’s not about to throw his weight around.”
Cinda gave her a long look, then shrugged. “He seems to be an honest man. I’ve been hoping we have him on our side, but he’s been noncommital when I’ve talked with him. But at least he’s not against us.” And then she deftly changed the subject.
The rest of lunch passed uneventfully, and talk drifted to safe topics. Meg was relieved when Cinda grabbed the check quickly, scribbling her room number on it. Meg accompanied her to the lobby.
“Thanks for the lunch, Cinda. I don’t know if I helped much, but I warned you that I hadn’t been here very long.”
“Meg, I appreciate your candor. And sometimes an outsider, a newcomer, can see things more clearly than someone in the thick of things. May I call you if I have any more questions? And you will be at the meeting, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Meg said drily. “Good luck. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Thank you. Oops, I’ve got to run. Another conference call, you know. Bye.”
Cinda turned and boarded a waiting elevator. Meg hesitated in the middle of the lobby, conscious of the solid weight of the old book in her bag.
This was evidence in a murder. The detective needed to see it. Detective it was, then.
Meg walked the short block to the courthouse and entered the building, stopping, as required, at the front desk. “I’d like to see Detective Marcus, please.”
The young officer behind the desk looked at her critically. “He expecting you?”
“No. But this is about the Hale murder investigation.”
The officer picked up the phone and pushed a button on the console, then turned slightly away so that Meg could not overhear him. When he was done, he pointed toward the cluster of plastic chairs in the waiting room. “Wait there.”
Meg sat and watched various people come and go. Mostly women—visiting inmates? It was fifteen minutes before Detective Marcus appeared, stopping for a word at the desk before he approached her. He didn’t look happy to see her.
“What is it?” He said without preamble.
Meg stood up. “I found something I think you should see.” He studied her for a long moment before saying, “Okay. Follow me.”
She followed him silently back to his office and took the chair he pointed to. He sat behind his desk and stared at her. “What did you want to show me?”
Meg pulled the book out of her bag and laid it on the desk between them. “This is a book, a history of Granford, that came from my house. I know it’s the same book because of the inscription inside. Chandler saw it there last Monday, when he came to the house, and asked if he could borrow it. I said yes, and he took it with him.”
The detective made no move to look at it. Unnerved by his silence, as no doubt he intended, Meg pressed on. “Today I had lunch with Cinda Patterson at the Hotel Northampton, where she and Chandler were staying, and I saw the book in her room. I asked if I could borrow it.”
>
“What’s your point? Hale probably gave it to her.”
“I know, and that’s what she said. But when I looked inside, I found a receipt from a bar or restaurant in Northampton, from Tuesday night. And it’s for multiple drinks, more than Chandler would have had on his own. That means someone must have been with him.”
“So?” The detective was not about to concede anything, and Meg was beginning to wonder why she had bothered to come.
“Look, Detective, this means that someone was with him that night, the night he died. When I was clearly somewhere else. Do you know who it was? Was it Cinda Patterson?”
Detective Marcus looked at her, but his expression gave away nothing. “Ms. Corey, I appreciate your coming forward with this, but as I’ve told you before, I’m not under any obligation to give you details of an ongoing investigation.”
Meg’s anger simmered. “Has anyone come forward? Why don’t you go ask at that restaurant, see if anyone remembers seeing Chandler and who was with him? And why don’t you ask Cinda how she came by the book? She says Chandler gave it to her, but she didn’t say when.”
“Ms. Corey, that’s none of your business. Was there anything else?”
For a long moment Meg wrestled with the thought of telling the stone-faced detective that Cinda had been sleeping with Chandler. In the end she decided she needed time to think it through: the fact gave her a good reason to be angry with Chandler, or at least the detective might think so.
Meg smiled sweetly at him. “No, Detective. I just wanted to be sure you had all available information.” Especially information that could clear me. “But you will agree, won’t you, that if there was someone who was with Chandler that night, then it could have been the killer?”
“I’m not ruling anything out, Ms. Corey. Thank you for stopping by.” Detective Marcus stood up, indicating that the meeting was over.
“You will keep me informed, won’t you?”
Detective Marcus declined to answer. He escorted her to the front of the building, and then Meg found herself on the sidewalk, feeling deflated. He hadn’t exactly jumped for joy at her precious piece of evidence. But of course, she had no idea what he knew at the moment. Maybe he had already identified the other person and it had turned out to be a respectable contractor who had gone straight home to a hot dinner with his wife and six children. Meg could only hope that the server at the bar had not left for Alaska to seek his fortune and that he had a good memory. But she had no confidence that the detective would tell her what he did—or did not—find out.
As she drove back to Granford, she wondered just what role Cinda had played in all this. The innocent interpretation would be: Chandler met someone for drinks, after he had returned to Northampton from Boston; later, Chandler came back to the hotel and, seeing the book, had the brainstorm that Cinda should do a little light reading and delivered it to her door. Which would be credible if it weren’t for the receipt carefully tucked inside, which meant it had been late in the evening. Why would he have given the book to Cinda so late—surely it could have waited until morning? Unless, of course, Cinda was right there in the room with him. That was altogether possible, but it didn’t make Cinda a murderer.
A second alternative: an unknown stranger, who had accompanied Chandler back to the hotel. Someone who hadn’t come forward and admitted to being with him. If the detective was doing his job, he could find out who had been at the bar with Chandler. Did he already know about Chandler and Cinda’s personal relationship? Would Cinda have told him? No one else around here knew about it, as far as Meg was aware. But there was no way she could tell Detective Marcus, especially since she wasn’t sure how he would view that information coming from her. Still, the fact remained: Cinda had the book; the book had the receipt. Cinda had to be involved. And whether or not it was Cinda in the bar with Chandler, at least there was some evidence to point to someone other than Meg.
As Meg let herself in the back door, she saw that the message light was flashing on her phone. When she retrieved the message, she found it was from Lauren.
“Hey, girl, where are you? I thought you never got out of that money-pit of yours. Anyway, quick news flash about the late Mr. Hale and the lovely Cinda. Word has it that they split up more than a month ago. Must’ve been sticky, working with him—but I’ll bet she would’ve slapped a gender discrimination suit on him in a minute if he tried to remove her from his pet project. Interesting, no? Anyway, gotta go. Talk soon.”
Yes, Lauren—very interesting. It would be really satisfying to go back to the detective and rub his nose in the fact that Cinda had as much—or more—reason to be pissed at Chandler as the detective thought Meg did. But the detective would accuse her of grasping at straws and trying to throw the blame anywhere else.
As Meg digested Lauren’s news, another thought hit her. If Chandler and Cinda were no longer together, why would she have gone to his room, or he to hers, that night? And if that hadn’t happened, how would she have gotten the book? It looked more and more credible to Meg that Cinda could’ve been the one sharing drinks with Chandler. In fact, maybe he or she had decided that it would be preferable to meet in a public place, rather than in one of their rooms, under the circumstances. Meg wished she knew where the place was, but she wasn’t up to speed on Northampton bars. Most likely it was close to the hotel. Maybe Chandler had had enough of the stodgy hotel bar and had wanted a change of scene.
But why hadn’t Cinda mentioned it to anyone?
23
A night’s sleep didn’t bring Meg any brilliant insights. She had a gut feeling that Cinda was involved in Chandler’s death, but she didn’t see how, and she couldn’t prove it anyway. She knew that Detective Marcus preferred either Meg or Seth as Chief Suspect. No way she was going to take that lying down, but what could she do about it? The Special Town Meeting was drawing closer minute by minute, and there the people of Granford would make a decision that would irrevocably change the face of their town. To do that, they deserved facts—all the facts. Such as why their lead banker had been found dead, and who had killed him, and if his death had had anything to do with the project or was purely personal. Suspecting what she did, could Meg let Cinda move forward? That felt wrong. But how could she stop her?
She had finished breakfast and was doing the last of her laundry when her phone rang. When she answered she was surprised to hear Rachel’s voice.
“Hey, Meg. How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” Meg said, wondering if she meant it. “What’s up?”
Rachel hesitated briefly. “Listen, do you mind if I stop by for a minute? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” Meg replied, mystified. “How soon?”
“Give me fifteen.”
Meg went back to stuffing sheets in the dryer and turned it on. Miracle of miracles, Rachel had actually called first instead of just appearing, the way everyone else seemed to.
Rachel arrived in thirteen minutes, bearing a bag that turned out to contain homemade apple muffins. Meg recognizedthe aroma before Rachel had even opened the bag. “Coffee?”
“Always.” Rachel plopped down at the kitchen table. “Nothing like some good carbs and caffeine to pick you up, I always say. You seem to be surviving all right.”
Meg sat down gratefully. “At least the detective hasn’t arrested me yet. I don’t think he likes me much.”
Meg saw Rachel stiffen slightly. “You’ve talked to him again?” Rachel asked.
“More than once. Yes, I knew Chandler. No, I hadn’t seen him in months before he showed up here. No, I didn’t kill him. I don’t think the detective wants to believe that.”
Rachel bit off a large chunk of muffin and said around it, “I know he’s talked to Seth.”
“Rachel, Detective Marcus can’t think that Seth killed him.”
Rachel chewed pensively, avoiding Meg’s eyes. “The detective isn’t too fond of Seth.”
“I know. Seth told me.”
<
br /> Rachel stopped chewing and stared at Meg with surprise. “He told you?”
“He said he had been arrested once, for beating up the detective’s son. Why? Am I missing something?”
“Well, that’s not the whole story.” Rachel chewed some more, then sighed. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Look, I don’t want you to get the idea that Seth has a mean streak or a violent temper or anything. I guess he told you as much as he did because he didn’t want you to be surprised by anything the detective said or hinted at. But he probably didn’t tell you the rest of it … because it involved me.”
“Oh.” Meg didn’t know what to say. “Listen, you don’t owe me any explanations. It’s your business, not mine.”
Rachel snorted. “Well, since you and my brother are now the prime suspects in a murder that the detective would be only too happy to pin on one or both of you, I’d say that makes it your business. When Seth lit into Bobby—that’s Marcus’s son—it was because Bobby was trying to get into my pants, and he didn’t seem to understand the meaning of ‘no.’ Bobby and Seth were both on the football team in high school. Seniors when I was a lowly junior. I thought Bobby was really hot, and I followed him around like a puppy dog at football practice, while I was waiting for Seth to give me a ride home. And then after a game one weekend, things got a little out of hand. Bobby had been drinking. I guess he knew how I felt, not that it was hard to tell, and he decided to give me a treat—him. Right there under the bleachers. I discovered real fast that I wasn’t interested, but by then there was no stopping him, at least until Seth came looking for me and found Bobby on top of me.”
Rachel studied her muffin, avoiding Meg’s eyes. “Well, he really lit into Bobby. I’d never seen him like that—and I haven’t since. He and Bobby were pretty well matched, but Seth hadn’t been drinking, so he did some damage. And he told Bobby that if he ever spread any nasty stories about me, he’d finish what he’d started. I guess it worked, because I never heard anybody talk about it, after. But Bobby’s dad was a cop then, and he was real pissed about what Seth had done to Bobby—messed him up enough, he couldn’t play football for the rest of the season. So he arrested Seth for assault. Didn’t stick. I don’t know who told what story, but in the end it all went away. Last I heard, Bobby went into the army after graduation.”
One Bad Apple Page 19
