The room had fallen silent as everyone focused on the interchange, fascinated by the soap opera unfolding before them. Finally Seth abandoned his place at the table, strode to the moderator’s central podium, and spoke into the microphone. “I think we will all agree that the article on the warrant is not going to come to a vote tonight. If there’s any shred of legal structure left to this meeting, I move that we indefinitely postpone the article until the selectmen can determine a date for a continuation of this meeting. Do I have a second?”
Several people shouted out “second” at the same time. The moderator nodded at Seth and leaned toward the microphone. “Voice vote. Yeas?”
A surge of voices shouted “yea.” It was clear that no vote for the nays would be needed.
“The motion for postponement passes. The selectmen will determine when we will reconvene. Please, all of you, go home now and let us sort this out.”
Seth glanced toward the police officers flanking Meg as she stood forlornly in the middle of the aisle. Meg wondered briefly if what Seth had just done carried any legal weight. But what did it matter? People would be sorting out tonight’s events for years to come. Right or wrong, she’d given them a new piece of local mythology.
And at the same time, shocked herself. Never in her safe and tidy life had she stood up and spoken out in public like this, especially with such flimsy grounds. Of course, how often did anyone have the opportunity to accuse someone of murder, much less publicly? If she hadn’t been so horrified, the whole thing might have seemed funny to her: she had certainly found a way to introduce herself to a lot more people of the town. Although right now they might be more inclined to tar and feather her than to welcome her with open arms.
The crowd rose uncertainly, grumbling among themselves, then began to trickle out. Several people slid by Meg, avoiding looking at her; others stared openly as they passed. As Meg watched, Seth approached Cinda and leaned close to say something to her. For once, Cinda didn’t turn on the charm. She said something, and Seth responded calmly, gesturing toward the waiting police. She looked their way, then back at Seth, and nodded once, her neck stiff. She summoned her assistants to gather up her computer and the projector, and Seth escorted her up the aisle until they were standing close to Meg.
“I think we should take this out of here, don’t you?” Seth said.
Meg met Cinda’s eyes. “By all means. I’m happy to talk with the police.”
Art Preston finally pushed his way against the tide of the departing crowd. “Ladies, why don’t you come with me? Oh, not together. Collins, why don’t you take Ms. Corey here, and Ms. Patterson can ride with me.”
“Are you taking us into custody?” Meg demanded.
“No, Ms. Corey, nothing like that. I just thought the station would be an appropriate place to sit down and talk this through. You have a problem with that?”
Cinda had her temper under control, but her flushed skin betrayed her. “This is outrageous! You can’t do this to me, based on nothing but the wild accusations of this … woman.”
“I’m afraid we can, ma’am. In fact, we have to. An accusation has been made, and there’s enough credibility that we need to follow up. The sooner you talk with us, the sooner we can get it all cleared up. Right?”
Meg squared her shoulders. “No problem, Chief.”
“Well, then, let’s go, before it gets any later.”
“Art, I’m coming with you.” Seth’s interruption startled Meg.
“No need, Seth,” Art answered.
“I think I’d better.”
“If that’s what you want.” Art shrugged. “Ms. Patterson?” Cinda gave Meg one last hostile glare, then stalked toward the door, with Preston following in her wake. Officer Collins hovered, unsure of his next move: Meg wasn’t exactly a prisoner, but the police chief had said to take charge of her.
Seth stepped up. “It’s okay, Gus. I just want a word with Ms. Corey. She’s not going to cut and run. Are you, Meg?”
“Of course not. I want this cleared up as much as anybody.” After another confused look, Collins turned and took a few deliberate paces toward the nearest exit door, then stopped and turned to watch them.
“Meg, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Seth demanded.
No, not really. “Yes. I’ve derailed the development project until we can figure out who killed Chandler.”
“Well, this isn’t the best way of doing it. Do you have anything more than you did a few days ago?”
Meg looked at him for several seconds. He was right: she didn’t have a leg to stand on, just a lot of vague suspicions, even if they all pointed in one direction. But at least she had bought some time. “No,” she admitted.
He shook his head. “Look, we’d better get going. It may be a long night.”
Meg nodded and turned to leave, Seth close behind. She had no idea what Seth was thinking. She had come waltzing in out of nowhere and made a flogging mess of things, on his home turf. Well, time to go lay out what she knew to the police and let them laugh at her. She knew how full of holes her theory was, but she had to follow through. She knew in her gut that Cinda had been involved, and she wasn’t about to let her get away with it, not without a fight. Granford deserved better. But how could she get Cinda to implicate herself? She’d been pretty damn careful so far.
Officer Collins waited silently until Meg climbed into his police cruiser. She had to give the police credit; they weren’t taking any chances until they had heard both of their stories and could make a guess who the good guys or bad guys were. Gals. Whatever. She sat silently in the rear seat as they drove the short blocks to the police station. She felt powerless, dragged along by the process she had started without any idea where it was going to end up. Damn it, Meg, what’s wrong with you? Chandler died, and you want to see that avenged. Fine. You think Cinda did it. Less fine, but that’s what you believe. Now you’re about to go head-to-head with the lovely Cinda—smart, sophisticated, determined Cinda. Who would stop at nothing to get her own way. And, she had to admit, Cinda could point to plenty of evidence that Meg had as much reason to kill Chandler as she did. The same reasons, in fact: Chandler had toyed with her and dumped her. And that had driven her to the wilds of Granford—or so Cinda would claim. Maybe she should admire Cinda: Cinda had stood up for herself and sought revenge, had acted instead of running away. Maybe murder was a little extreme, but at least Cinda didn’t lack self-esteem.
Meg reviewed the facts in her mind. Keep it simple. Tell them what you know, and what you think happened. And Meg knew she was right, and hoped in her heart of hearts that when faced with the truth, Cinda would crumble.
So why didn’t she believe that was going to happen?
It was probably too much to hope that Seth would support her, even though his word would carry a lot more weight with the police than hers would. But at least the chief of police was willing to listen—and the Town Meeting had been postponed.
They had arrived at the police station. As Officer Collins helped her politely out of the backseat, Meg stole a look at her watch. Was it really only nine? How long were they going to be here? Would they put them all together or interview them separately, like on television? Did the Granford station even have more than one interrogation room? Maybe they’d have to go someplace else, like the church or town hall or even the historical society. Meg suppressed a hysterical giggle at the mental image of giving a statement under the glassy stares of all those long-dead animals. Get a grip, Meg!
Officer Collins led her to a small room with a table and two chairs. She sat down and listened to Cinda’s voice raised in obvious displeasure, out in the hall; she couldn’t hear any words, but her tone was clear. Chief Preston came in and shut the door behind him.
“Well, Meg, you’ve certainly started something here.”
“I didn’t do it just to make trouble, you know,” she protested. “Chandler was murdered and dumped on my property, so I’m involved. I’m just trying to cle
ar myself. What happens now?”
Art sighed. “Meg, you know I don’t have any jurisdiction over the murder. The state police are handling that.”
“I know that! I’ve talked to them, and they don’t believe me. And if you can’t do anything, why am I here? And Cinda?”
“I just wanted to get you out of that meeting before I had a riot on my hands, and bringing you and Ms. Patterson here seemed to be the easiest solution. Look, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll decide whether it’s worth calling Marcus.” He pulled out a small notepad and opened it. “Why do you think Cinda Patterson was part of Chandler’s murder, in any way, shape, or form?”
Meg inhaled, then let her breath out slowly, buying time. Finally she launched into her recital of the sequence of events, starting with her defunct relationship with Chandler, her flight to Granford, and her interactions with Cinda, and ending with the discovery of the book and the receipt and the conclusions she had drawn from it.
Preston nodded. “Meg, you haven’t told me anything I don’t know. Marcus has kept me filled in on the investigation. He told me about that receipt, and what he found when he followed up on it. But the waiter at the restaurant wasn’t much use, and his description was pretty vague—a woman with dark hair. Could’ve been almost anybody.”
Meg shook her head impatiently. “I know. In fact, I know who the woman at the bar was, and so does the detective now—Seth’s ex, Nancy. But let me finish. When Chandler died, Cinda stepped into his shoes on the project, right? When I met her, I didn’t trust Cinda, so I asked a friend in Boston to ask around a little. I wanted her to find out how Cinda came to take over this project. What she found was that Cinda arrived at the bank and shot straight up the ladder, with Chandler as her mentor. But my friend also said that Cinda and Chandler had been involved in a personal relationship.”
“Like you used to be.” His voice was not unkind.
Meg looked at Art Preston’s face, trying to find any encouragement. “Yes. Look, I’m not stupid. What I’ve told you, you can take in more than one way. My history with Chandler gives me a motive to kill him and to lay the blame on Cinda. But my friend also said that Chandler had broken up with Cinda not long before he died. Which means not only was she jilted by him but she also might have been worried about losing her job, or at least this project—although I’m sure she would have sued him up one side and down the other for sexual harassment if that had happened. So she had stronger motives than I did, overall.”
Chief Preston sighed. “Meg, this is all very interesting, but I haven’t heard anything new, and certainly nothing the state police could act on. You don’t like the woman, but so what? It’s a big jump to accusing her of murder.”
“I’m getting to that. Let me break it down: I saw Chandler on Monday afternoon, and gave him that book. The detective found out that Chandler was in his Boston office the next day, Tuesday, but he came back that evening. He went out again to some bar in Northampton and had drinks with Nancy Chapin. He paid for the drinks by credit card, which tells us that he was still alive at eight fifteen. After that, he walked back to the hotel, to his room. Maybe he picked up the book to read it, but for whatever reason, he stuck in the credit card slip, maybe as a bookmark. So when did Cinda get the book? Did he deliver the book to her? Or did she come to his room? Maybe she had seen him with Nancy and went a little nuts. Or maybe she made one last play for him and he rejected her or threatened her job, and she lost control. All we know for sure is that he died that night and ended up in my septic tank, before I got home at ten.”
Preston didn’t look convinced. “There’s another piece you don’t have. Cinda and Chandler were together in his room at eight thirty, to take a conference call. It lasted until nine or so. They were talking to somebody in their Boston office, and there’s a record of it—Marcus checked it out. Chandler was still alive at nine.”
“And with Cinda! Doesn’t that look suspicious to you?”
“She says she left after the call and went back to her room. And doesn’t that make it even more unlikely that she did the deed? Say she hit him over the head, in a fit of whatever— without leaving any evidence in the room, mind you. What did she do about the body? Can you see her dragging him out of the building and driving him to your backyard? And the timing’s pretty tight. You were home by ten, right? So she had to kill him and get him to your place and hide the body before that, all in an hour. Assuming she even knew the hole was there, and what it was. Would you believe this story if you heard it?”
The combination of fatigue and desperation was catching up with Meg. “I know it sounds silly if you put it like that, but she could have had help. And she did know about the hole—she’d seen it.”
“Say she did have help. You have any candidates in mind?”
Meg felt a stab of despair. This interview was going as badly as she had feared. “No, but from what I’ve seen, she’s pretty good at getting men to do whatever she wants. Somebody out there was an easy target. Look, add up all the pieces. Cinda is smart, ambitious, determined. She wanted Chandler, and she wanted this project. She lost Chandler, but she wasn’t about to lose the rest of it. So she got rid of him.”
Preston stood up. “Meg, I’m sorry, but I think we’re done here. You’ve disrupted a Town Meeting for your own ends, whatever they are. You’ve fed me a line of BS that’s straight out of a bad movie. I think you’re a good person, but maybe you’ve been under a little too much stress lately. Ending a relationship, losing your job, moving to a new place—they’re all hard, and you’ve been hit by all of them in a short time. I’ll see if I can persuade Ms. Patterson not to take legal action against you, and I don’t know if the town can hit you with anything, but I have to say, you haven’t given me a thing that I can do anything about. I’m sorry, really I am.”
Why had she expected anything else? And he was right: given a choice, why should he believe her? “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I can understand how it looks to you. Am I free to leave?”
“Sure. I don’t even have jurisdiction on this, you know.”
“I know. But, can I ask one last thing? Try to make sure Detective Marcus keeps looking, will you?”
“I’ll do what I can, Meg. I don’t want to see someone get away with this any more than you do. Anyway, I guess your car’s still over at the school. I’ll find an officer to take you back there.”
Meg stood up wearily and followed him to the waiting area. Cinda and Seth were seated side by side; Cinda had her hand on Seth’s arm and was leaning close to him, talking earnestly. But when the door opened, she stood quickly. She eyed Meg with icy contempt, then turned to Chief Preston with a practiced smile.
“Are you ready for me now? I do hope we can get this resolved quickly. I have no idea what this woman has been telling you, but I’m more than happy to give you my story.”
“Come right in. Meg, you wait here till I track down Collins for that ride. Seth, you mind hanging around awhile longer?” Meg sank into the chair Cinda had vacated.
Meg stared at the worn pattern on the floor, wondering how long she was going to have to sit here. How long before Seth would speak to her again, if ever. She felt numb. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? She had just stood up in a public meeting and accused someone of murder. And—surprise— nobody believed her. But she’d tried to go through the right channels, and no one had paid attention to her. Maybe she was desperate, but she hadn’t seen any other way to get this out into the open, or to stop the juggernaut that would change the face of the town.
“You want coffee?” Seth’s voice startled her from her thoughts.
“What? Oh, sure. Sugar, please.” She watched him stride off toward a small room near the reception area. Obviously he knew where the coffee was; obviously he’d been here before, and not as a suspect. Obviously he belonged here, and she didn’t. She wondered how long it would take to sell her house so she could leave for good.
; “Here.” Seth was back with the coffee. Meg took the cup and stirred it idly with the plastic straw. She had no idea what to say, so she just waited.
“She explained about the book,” Seth said quietly.
“Oh?” Meg found she didn’t really care anymore.
“She says Chandler called her when he got back to the hotel, about eight thirty, and she went to his room so they could take a conference call. Some guy from the bank in Boston, following up on something Chandler had asked for earlier that day. Anyway, there’s a phone record, and the guy remembers talking to both of them. Cinda claims that was when Chandler fobbed that book on her, and then she went back to her room for the night. End of story. So Chandler was still alive at nine.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? Probably some junior number cruncher who had to work late to run the latest numbers for the deal.” It would have saved her a lot of useless worrying if the detective had told her about Cinda’s alibi, and now she’d made a fool of herself publicly. But there was still that hour after the phone call ended. Plenty of time to drive Chandler’s body from Northampton to Granford, if she’d had some help.
“I still don’t like it,” Meg said stubbornly. “She’s hiding something. And she still could have done it, with help. The timing might be tight, but it’s possible. She wants us to believe that she tucked herself in with that book while some unknown killer showed up at Chandler’s door at 9:02 and killed him, and then disposed of the body in a convenient hole several towns away?”
“Maybe.” Seth seemed unconcerned—or maybe he was just humoring her. “But, Meg, there’s no evidence to connect her to his death, no matter what you want to believe.”
He was right, and Meg knew it. She lapsed into silence. After no more than fifteen minutes, the door to the interview room opened, and Chief Preston escorted Cinda out. She was laughing at something he had said, and looked completely at ease. Meg’s heart sank: Cinda had won over yet another male? How did some women manage to have that effect on men? How could men be so willfully oblivious? Meg stood up, as did Seth.
One Bad Apple Page 24
