One Bad Apple

by Sheila Connolly

  Stephen didn’t move from his slouch against the van. He nodded toward the direction from which she had arrived: Cinda and her pals were still visible. “What’s that all about?”

  Meg laughed bitterly. “Oh, just the new head banker and her construction cronies, carving up my land.”

  Stephen continued watching them, a half smile on his face. “Things’re really moving right along, aren’t they?”

  “I’m not sure I’m happy about that,” Meg replied tartly. “And it’s not guaranteed that the town will vote for the project, you know.”

  “Maybe not. But I think she’s doing a good job. Good deal for the town, too.”

  Meg had her doubts about Stephen’s affection for Granford. On the other hand, maybe he thought there was something in it for him. There was, of course, the money that the land sale would generate, some of which would flow to him. Would he take it and leave town?

  After a few more moments of watching, he turned back to Meg. “Hey, how about that sink?”

  “Sure. Hang on a sec.” Meg fled eagerly through the back door. The padlock key hung on a nail next to the door. She grabbed it and went back outside, leading the way to the rickety barn. She opened the padlock, then let Stephen pull open the sagging door. He’d pitched his apple core at the edge of her driveway, which annoyed her.

  “That’s gotta be the one,” Stephen said, pointing to a Victorian pedestal sink lurking in a dim corner. He lifted it easily and carried it to the van, slamming the door shut. “I’ll get the barn door for you. Thanks for letting Seth use the space.” He swung the creaking wooden door back into place and waited while Meg threaded the lock through the hasps again and closed it.

  “So you don’t have room at your place?” Meg asked, struggling for something safe to say.

  “Nah, Seth just keeps collecting more and more. Don’t know why he bothers with this old stuff, but some people like it. No accounting for taste.”

  “You don’t like historic restorations?”

  Stephen made a noise that sounded like a horse’s sneeze. “Pfah! Penny-ante stuff. You want to make any money in this business, you’ve gotta go for volume. Housing developments, office buildings, that kind of thing. Not this one-house-at-a-time crap that Seth’s into.”

  “There hasn’t been a lot of that kind of construction around here for quite a while, has there?”

  “But that’s going to change, right? Granford Grange first and then maybe some housing complexes. Things are gonna be different soon, and I aim to be part of it.” He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Shoot, gotta go. Thanks again for storing this stuff.”

  “No problem. Oh, Stephen, is Seth around?”

  “He’s on a job over toward Belchertown—new construction, probably take all day. That’s why he wants the sink, to show to the owners before he goes any further. Want me to give him a message?”

  “No, thanks. I just had a question. It’ll keep.” She forced herself to smile.

  “Right. Bye, then.” Stephen slammed the van door and pulled out, leaving Meg staring after him, her mind racing. She leaned against the barn door and watched the van disappear toward the highway, then walked slowly back toward the house.

  Stephen had answered a question she hadn’t even known she had. He clearly hated the family plumbing business—and working for Seth?—and had visions of bigger, better things. And he had offered one more reason for Seth to recuse himself from the town’s vote: not only did he stand to profit from the sale, but it could boost his business substantially. Funny, Seth hadn’t mentioned it. So why wasn’t Seth more enthusiastic?

  Meg picked up Stephen’s discarded apple core and took it inside to throw away. Her brain kept churning. She had too many bits and pieces that didn’t fit together, and new ones kept popping up. Like Chandler coming on to half the women of Granford: who knew how many had fallen for his charm? And she had no way of knowing which ones might be capable of murder, although the list kept growing. And what about Cinda? Cinda had been with Chandler on the night that he’d died, after he had had drinks with someone. Was she that someone? If not, had Chandler told her who it was? Had she told the detective?

  On the other hand, why would she have killed him? Based on what Meg had learned about her, Cinda was too smart to act out of anger over Chandler splitting with her. Unless, of course, he had planned to dismiss her from the Granford project and send her back to Boston. Cinda wanted to run this project—that much was obvious. How much control would Chandler have given her? And was managing Granford Grange enough of a motive to kill?

  At the end of the day, edgy and frustrated, Meg made herself a cup of tea and, leaning on the countertop in the kitchen, contemplated the Great Meadow outside her window. Fancy name for a swamp. How appropriate: she felt as though she were wading through a swamp, trying to find a path, and she kept sinking deeper into it. Still, the view was soothing even at this bleak time of year. She shut her eyes and willed herself to relax, to think clearly. An occasional car passed on the road. One slowed, then pulled into her driveway with a crunch of gravel. She opened her eyes and saw Seth emerging from a car. He rapped at the back door, and she opened it.

  “Hi, there,” Seth said with his usual good cheer. “Stephen said you had a question? I was on my way home and thought I’d swing by. And I’ve got some information to pass on, although you’ll have to tell me what it means.” Then he took a harder look at her. “You all right?”

  Meg sighed. “Just tired. Come on in.”

  Seth shut the door behind him and shucked off his coat, hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair. He stopped again, eyeing Meg curiously.

  Meg realized he was waiting for her to do something. “Oh, sorry. Sit, please.”

  He sat down at the table, still watching her.

  Meg poured two mugs of tea and sat across from him. “Why don’t you go first?”

  “Okay. I had a little chat earlier today with Art.”

  “And?”

  “Detective Marcus is keeping him in the loop on the investigation, as a professional courtesy. He said you’d given something to the detective, something about a book?”

  That’s right, she hadn’t had a chance to mention that to Seth. “Sorry—I haven’t talked to you since, have I? When I had lunch with Cinda yesterday, I found a book that I had loaned to Chandler the day he was here. I’d forgotten all about it, but I recognizedit when I saw it in Cinda’s room. She said Chandler had given it to her.”

  “So?”

  “It wasn’t the book that was important, it was the bookmark. There was a receipt inside, a credit card slip with a time stamp for the night Chandler died. And it was for a lot of drinks, more than Chandler would have had alone, so I figured there was someone with him. I took it to the detective as soon as I left Cinda’s, and he said he’d look into it. I’m glad to see that maybe he did. So what did he tell Art?”

  “Okay, now what Art said makes more sense. He told me that the detective had the place checked out and found the server, who remembered Chandler. And he said Chandler did have a companion, and it was a woman.”

  “Could he identify her?” Meg said.

  Seth shook his head. “The server was a guy, but … to be blunt, he was more into men than women. So he remembered Chandler very well, down to his cuff links, but he couldn’t remember much of anything about the woman, except that she was maybe thirtyish and had dark hair, kind of shoulder length. The description was too vague to be much use. It was late, and the place was dark, and he was coming off a long shift … You get the picture.”

  “Too bad,” Meg said glumly. One more dead end. Cinda in a wig? Not likely.

  They drank their tea in silence for a few moments. Finally Meg said, “Seth, is there anyone else you can think of who wants to stop this project?”

  He shook his head. “You think I haven’t been over this in my head? Sure, there are lots of people who care a lot, but nobody I can think of who would be willing to kill someone. Is t
hat how they do business in Boston—eliminate the opposition?”

  Meg ignored his jibe. “What about someone that Chandler had promised something to and reneged on, or hadn’t been willing to promise anything to?”

  “Meg, you’re not making a lot of sense.”

  She was beginning to feel desperate. “Seth, Chandler was a user. He used people, women in particular, to get information, and to do that he flattered them and wooed them and made them feel special, maybe even slept with them—and then dropped them when he had what he wanted.”

  “Are you talking about anyone in particular? Like, you, for instance?”

  Meg shook her head hard. “No, not me. But we didn’t last, as you know. Maybe that was part of the problem with us—I wasn’t much use to him.”

  Seth’s expression hardened. “Cinda?”

  “Yes, Cinda. I talked to a friend of mine in Boston, and she said they were a couple. That surprised me, because Chandler liked to keep his private life and his professional life separate.”

  “That does put things in a different light,” Seth said slowly.

  “There’s more. He dropped her, not too long ago. But she wasn’t the only one he was fooling around with. And now there’s this mystery woman he was with the night he died.”

  He help up a hand. “Meg, I don’t want to hear what amounts to gossip. Maybe you don’t like Cinda, but she’s got a lot riding on this project professionally. I can’t believe she would think that killing her boss was the best way to get what she wanted.”

  “Why not? Maybe she thought she could get away with it,” Meg replied bitterly. “It sure gave her a great motive, especially if Chandler was about to send her back to Boston.” But even to her own ears her argument sounded weak. Cinda resorting to murder? Improbable, as Seth had pointed out. Maybe it was time to give up: she couldn’t prove anything to anyone, and her suspicions kept falling on deaf ears. Maybe she should just pack up and get out of Granford before she lost what was left of her sanity. Or dignity.

  “Seth, why didn’t you tell me you’d been married?” The words were out of her mouth before her brain caught up.

  Seth looked startled at her abrupt change of subject, and as she watched, his expression changed. She wanted to crawl into a hole. He’d been a friend, nothing more, and now she was poking into his private life. She had no right to ask him anything personal—even though her personal life seemed to be common knowledge in Granford. She didn’t belong here; she just kept getting it wrong.

  “I didn’t think it mattered,” he said quietly after a long pause. “It was over a long time ago.”

  “Does she think so?” Meg parried. And hated herself for doing it. He’d as much as said it wasn’t her business. What did she hope to gain?

  “Meg, I don’t know what you’re getting at. Yes, I was married once. It ended. So what?”

  “Rachel and Gail believe that Nancy thinks she still has a chance with you. If the plumbing business goes under.”

  Seth stood up, so abruptly that the mugs rattled on the table. “You’ve talked to Rachel and Gail about this? Jesus, Meg, what do you want?”

  She stood up, too, and faced him. “I want to know who killed Chandler! I want to know why everybody around here knows things I don’t. But this is Granford, where everybody has lived in their neighbors’ hip pockets for the last two hundred years and can tell you what their crazy great-uncle ate for breakfast. I’m not part of this place, and I’m the one being accused of killing Chandler. It’s not fair!”

  As Meg fought back tears, she thought she saw pity on Seth’s face. “Meg, I think you need to cool down. I’m sorry that you’re a suspect, and I don’t believe you killed him. But I think you’re grasping at straws. I don’t see that my ex-wife has anything to do with this, and I think you’re throwing mud at Cinda because on some level you’re jealous of her, whether or not you admit it. She took Chandler from you, and she’s the one with the hot job.”

  “I never had Chandler! Not in any way that mattered. She was welcome to him. Tell me, Seth, did Cinda come on to you?”

  “What? Try to seduce me, to get me to go along? You’re suggesting she used Chandler’s tactics? You really are losing it, Meg.”

  “I’m asking. Yes or no?” Meg said stubbornly.

  Seth leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “No. Maybe I should take that as a compliment. Maybe she figured I wouldn’t be easy to manipulate.” He paused before adding, “Unlike the way Chandler manipulated some of the women around here. If what you say is true.” His doubt was clear.

  “Seth, I’m sorry I even had to bring this up. I know how it must sound.” Desperate.

  “Do you?” But his expression was still closed to her, and Seth chose his words carefully. “I can see how it looks to you. Cinda’s smart, ambitious. Knows her business. Uses her charm when she has to. But last time I checked, that’s not a crime. So, what are you proposing to do with your suspicions? Go to the detective? He already figures you’re a jealous woman. Maybe he’s not far off.”

  “Seth!” But even as she protested, she had to acknowledge that he had a point. Was she being irrational? Meg stood up and stalked across the kitchen, looking out at the gathering darkness. “Listen, I know you don’t know me very well, but I really don’t feel that way. I didn’t know the woman before I came to Granford; I didn’t know she was involved with Chandler. Chandler and I were over, period. So, for the record, no, I’m not trying to attack Cinda for my own personal reasons.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “Seth, my own issues aside, if somebody doesn’t get to the bottom of this, what if the town passes the article? It’ll be too late to turn back.”

  “Probably. I hope it passes, for the sake of the town.”

  “And you want Cinda running the show in that case? Is the project really worth overlooking Chandler’s murder?”

  “Meg, you can’t prove that Cinda had anything to do with this.”

  “Believe me, I know that. Look, I’m sorry about this whole mess, but I didn’t ask for it.”

  Seth stood up. “I hate to leave things like this, but I’ve got to get going. Listen … be careful, will you? This is a dangerous game you’re playing, throwing accusations around.” With a last look, he headed for the door.

  “Seth, wait!”

  He hesitated at the door. “What?”

  “Can you postpone the Town Meeting?” Her last desperate shot.

  He looked disgusted. “Meg, you have no idea what goes into planning a meeting. There are legal requirements, announcements, time limits, all that kind of thing. We just can’t turn off the process because you have some vague suspicions. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  Meg didn’t move, staring blindly into space as the door shut behind him.

  She felt more miserable than she could ever remember feeling. How had things gone so horribly wrong? She had come to Granford to accomplish something simple: fix up the house and sell it. Somehow that had evolved into a murky soap opera slash murder, with her as a prime suspect. As far as she could tell, nobody was going to end up happy. Except possibly Cinda, assuming she managed to smooth everything over with her combination of charm and brains, and the project went ahead as scheduled. Cinda would get everything she wanted, and Meg would get … squat.

  So why did it hurt so much? She could walk away from Granford once the house was sold and forget the whole mess. She could go someplace and start rebuilding her life, find a new job, new friends. Chandler would still be dead, but was it really any of her business?

  The answer that popped into her head surprised her. She liked it here. She liked the house: it was tough, and it had withstood years of neglect and mistreatment. She admired the sense of community she had found in Granford. She liked the people she had met. She wanted to see the town prosper, yet retain its own character.

  Was that what this was about? The place had gotten under her skin while she wasn’t looking? And if that was true, maybe what she couldn’t sto
mach was that Cinda held the power to twist things around to serve her own selfish ends. She couldn’t stand by and watch while good and decent people got hurt for someone else’s impersonal financial gain. She didn’t want to see her orchard turned into a parking lot, putting Christopher out of a job, eradicating a piece of history. Maybe she had no control over how the town voted, but at least she could do her best to see that the citizens had all the facts before they made a decision.

  Seth didn’t believe her, and that hurt. If she was wrong, she had probably alienated him. And then she thought, Damn, I’m going to have to find another plumber.

  But she wasn’t done yet. She had one last option. If no one was going to listen to her, she was going to have to make a lot more noise; if she had already destroyed her reputation in this town, she might as well go out in a blaze of glory. She had the perfect venue: the Special Town Meeting. As a registered voter and a local property owner, she had every right to speak at the meeting. And she was going to.

  25

  Meg chafed at the delay, but there was nothing she could do until the meeting Monday night. She spent the next few days holed up in her house—there was certainly plenty to keep her busy—but she couldn’t shut up the nagging voices in her head. Somehow she was not surprised to see Frances’s car pull into her driveway Sunday afternoon, but she was definitely relieved at the distraction. She opened the door before Frances had a chance to knock.

  “Hi, Frances. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about how we’re handling the sale of your place. Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Meg wasn’t sure she was in any mood to talk business, but it beat her noisy thoughts. Frances walked into the hallway while Meg struggled with the door. When Meg had managed to close it, she turned to find Frances in the parlor.

  “Nice,” Frances said approvingly. “You’re doing a great job.”

  “Thanks,” Meg replied with mixed feelings. She was beginning to resent putting this much work into something she might not get to enjoy.

  “Hey, did you get a chance to talk to Gail?” Frances rubbed an almost-affectionate hand over the now-bare plaster.