“Tell them about the symposium,” Rachel said, checking to see that everyone was well supplied with food. “It was such a shame that he put all that work into it and then didn’t have a chance to be part of it.”
“Perhaps I should begin at the beginning.” Balancing his cup and saucer, Kenneth settled himself in his chair. “Daniel enjoyed some renown as an expert on the works of Emily Dickinson, as you no doubt have heard. He’d published a goodly number of definitive articles in respected journals, and he was in demand as a lecturer. This particular event was something of a popular show rather than a scholarly one, although there were elements of both. Amherst College has a reputation for excellence to maintain, so they wouldn’t mount anything that was completely trivial. But the symposium was also geared to entertain the parents who were bringing their offspring to the college—sort of an intellectual welcome. For that reason, I think the publicity was couched in rather silly terms, as a competition between Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson for the title of Best American Poet. Did any of you attend?” When everyone signaled “no,” he went on. “The centerpiece was a debate between the opposing sides, represented by an interesting collection of scholars.”
“Were you part of this?” Meg asked.
“I was, in fact. As was entirely appropriate, given my standing as one who has studied Whitman in depth. But I wouldn’t have missed it in any case—I came along to see the debate, which promised to be entertaining.”
Elizabeth asked, “Did it live up to your expectations?”
“I think Daniel’s death put something of a damper on the proceedings, at least from the panelists’ point of view. I’m sure the general public was unaware of it. But Daniel’s personality—dare I say charm?—would have taken it to a different level.”
“Did you see him before he died?” Meg asked.
“I did. I told him I’d be in the area for a few days before and after the event, and he suggested we meet for a drink, so we did. More than a week ago—Friday, if I recall. We met, and then I took off to pursue some of my own research at a small library in Maine that owns some of Whitman’s papers, and stayed there for the weekend. I returned here this past week to be greeted by the news of Daniel’s death.”
“How did he seem when you saw him?”
“That’s what’s so interesting, in light of subsequent events, as I told Rachel. He was in good form—distracted, of course, since the school term was just beginning, and he was responsible for this symposium. But there was a curious undercurrent of . . . I’d have to say excitement. He dropped several hints that he was working on something new, that he thought would have a major impact. He was quite coy about it, but when I pressed for details, he said that I’d have to wait for the symposium. I had the general impression that he planned to make some sort of announcement there.”
“Which he never had a chance to do,” Meg said. “Mother, did he say anything to you when you saw him?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, nothing like that. But I’m not a member of the academic community, so he may have thought it wouldn’t interest me. And we had a lot of catching up to do. Tell me, Kenneth, what would constitute an important scholarly announcement? Not his retirement presumably?”
“I doubt that his retirement would be of great interest to the community, except possibly to new PhDs looking for a teaching slot to open up. Nor was he even contemplating leaving academia, as far as I know. He was still at the top of his game intellectually, and I don’t think he planned to retire anytime soon. No, I’d say this was more likely to be something else—something that would send ripples through our little pond.”
Meg was beginning to get frustrated by Kenneth’s arch style. “And what would that be? He was an Emily Dickinson expert, right? Would it have something to do with her?”
“That is a distinct possibility,” Kenneth agreed.
“Surely the scholarly community has been over Dickinson’s life and work with a fine-tooth comb?” Meg said. Even she knew that much about their local celebrity.
“Of course. But there is always something new to be said. That’s how we professors stay in business.”
“What would have been the impact of something like that, coming at the symposium?” Elizabeth asked.
“It would have made quite a stir, I’d guess. He’d gathered together many of his colleagues, after all. Trust Daniel to maximize his exposure—he always did have a flair for the dramatic. Sadly we’ll never know what, if anything, he might have found.”
“Do you think it was just hype?” Then a thought struck Meg. “Who’s been through his office on campus?”
“I would expect the police have,” Kenneth replied. “Perhaps his wife. I don’t suppose the college needs the office space immediately. Shortly, though—prime office space is always much coveted.”
“But would the police know what to look for?” Meg pressed.
Kenneth looked thoughtful. “Regrettably, I think they’d see no more than a lot of papers and books. If the police have seized his computer, they might find something relevant there, although they might not know what they were looking for. But I should add, if Daniel had something he believed was important, and that he wished to keep secret, it’s unlikely that he would keep it in his office on campus.”
“Where, then? At home? And what would be important?”
“I’d have to guess a personal document of some sort, or a reference in someone else’s document that might shed new light on Miss Dickinson’s life. I would think it would have to be an original source. Of course, the Holy Grail would be an autograph Emily Dickinson document, something in her own handwriting, particularly a poem. As you say, the research on her poetic oeuvre has been exhaustive. You may recall a scandal, oh, a decade ago, when a Dickinson poem surfaced at auction and was bought by a local library. It turned out to be a forgery, but a particularly skilled one that fooled a number of experts, and there was heavy competition when it came up for auction. But my point is, anything new by or about Emily would be highly prized—and coveted.”
“Interesting,” Meg said. “We’re not talking just about dollars, but about prestige?”
“Certainly,” Kenneth agreed. “If Daniel had come into possession of a physical object—say a letter, or a poem—as for where he might keep it, I don’t know the particulars of his home situation. As I said, we didn’t often meet socially. I’ve never been to his home, and I only met his wife, Patricia, at the funeral.”
“May I summarize?” Elizabeth asked. “You’re saying that Daniel seemed excited about something, and that he may have planned to make an announcement about it at the symposium. Obviously that didn’t happen, but he may have left a trail among his papers or on his computer, which are now the property of his wife? Or possibly the college?”
“I’m no lawyer, but that sounds about right.”
Elizabeth tapped her finger on the table, and responded slowly. “As it turns out, Patricia stopped by Meg’s house earlier.”
“Whatever for?” Kenneth appeared puzzled.
“I’m not sure. I knew of her, but I didn’t know her—like you, we met for the first time at the memorial service. You spoke to her there, too, as I recall.”
“Ah, yes, I did,” Kenneth said. “I was happy to see that the event was well attended—many of the faculty put in an appearance, as well as the symposium panelists. Daniel would have been pleased.”
Elizabeth continued, “Patricia said she wanted to talk about my memories of Daniel, and I was happy to share.” Elizabeth’s mouth twitched. “She did say that she regarded Emily Dickinson as the ‘other woman’ in Daniel’s life—apparently he was borderline obsessive about her. So that much, at least, would fit. And you’re guessing he had found something, something that he thought was important.”
“Yes. Sad to say, we may never know what it was,” Kenneth said softly.
They shared a moment of silence, which Rachel broke. “Elizabeth, don’t you think it’s a little odd that Daniel
’s wife came calling? Maybe she thought you knew something.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “He never said a word to me, but I suppose she wouldn’t know that. And I have no way of knowing how much he shared with her. Kenneth, do you know if she is an academic?”
“I think not. I recall Daniel saying that one academic per family was enough.”
Meg interrupted. “You know, what’s even odder is that she said Daniel had my name.”
“Why would she know you, Meg?” Rachel raised her eyebrows.
Meg replied, “Patricia found a slip of paper with my name and address on it on Daniel’s desk at home. If I had to guess, I’d say he probably made a note because he saw the name ‘Corey’ in the local papers, and wondered if I was related to his friends, Elizabeth and Phillip Corey.”
“Which may be what led to his contacting me at home,” Elizabeth followed. “I hadn’t heard from him in years, and then suddenly he invited me up here.”
“And your husband . . . ?” Kenneth said delicately.
“Has gone fishing. So far he knows nothing about any of this. He knew Daniel, too, when they were in graduate school. That’s how we all met. In Cambridge.”
“Ah,” Kenneth said, and nodded, as though this explained everything. Meg wondered if there was some sort of academic code that she didn’t share, but saying the magic word “Cambridge” immediately made Kenneth shift his evaluation of Elizabeth.
Rachel had followed the exchange, but now she interrupted. “So let me get this straight. For whatever reason, Daniel got in touch with Elizabeth and invited her to visit, even though it was one of the busiest times of the year for him, right?” When Kenneth nodded, she went on, “And then, boom, he’s dead, under kind of weird circumstances.” When Kenneth started to say something, Rachel held up one hand. “Life goes on—the symposium happens, without him. There’s the memorial service before, and a day or two later Patricia shows up on Meg’s doorstep and chats up Elizabeth. Now you, Kenneth, you say you think Daniel was hatching something, but he didn’t tell you what, and hinted he was going to make some surprise announcement at the symposium. So let me ask you this: What would be important enough to kill him for? And why on earth did whoever it was drag him to the far end of Amherst and break into a cider mill? Isn’t there some more convenient place to meet him, even if this person wanted complete privacy?”
“That’s the sticking point. Why there, of all places?” Meg agreed.
They fell silent. None of this makes sense, Meg thought. Daniel was well liked, respected, successful. The police had said they had no evidence of financial wrongdoing—no blackmail money coming in or going out. He wasn’t sleeping with any students. He might have planned to sleep with Elizabeth, but he hadn’t made any moves on her, and the only person who would have cared was his wife. Or maybe her father, Phillip, but he hadn’t known anything about this. Had he? But maybe Patricia didn’t know that nothing had happened. Still, why would she have taken him to Dickinson’s Farm Stand to have it out with him? Did the place hold any special meaning?
Rachel stood up, interrupting Meg’s thoughts. “Sorry, guys, but I’ve got more people coming in tonight, and I’ve got to finish prepping the rooms. You’re welcome to continue this discussion, but I’ve got to get moving.”
Kenneth had stood when Rachel did—a nice courtly touch. “I quite understand, Rachel. Don’t worry about my room—I think I can live with my own mess.”
“You’re staying on?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, I had originally booked for a few more days. And now I’d hate to leave until this is resolved—I feel that I owe Daniel that much. Maybe I can offer some help to the authorities?”
“You might be able to give them some insights into his professional life. Although I’m pretty sure they’ll have talked to the faculty and to the other people who came to the service. Have they contacted you?” When Kenneth shook his head, Meg added, “It can’t hurt to introduce yourself to them. Get in touch with Detective Marcus at the state police headquarters in Northampton, if you think you know anything that might be relevant.”
“You seem quite well informed about the process,” Kenneth said.
“I am.” Meg didn’t elaborate. She turned to Elizabeth. “Mother, we should go and let Rachel do what she has to do. Rachel, thanks so much for the lovely tea. Kenneth, it was a pleasure to talk with you. We should get together again in the next couple of days and see if we come up with anything else, especially if you talk to the police. Sorry I have to run.”
Kenneth waved them off. “Go, go. I have your number. And I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can make some progress here.”
Let’s hope so, Meg thought grimly. Because if it involves dead poets, I don’t think the police will.
16
“Kenneth seems nice,” Elizabeth said in the car on the way home.
“He does,” Meg agreed. “Interesting that he thought Daniel was onto something. But as he pointed out, we may never know what. I wonder where he was last weekend.”
“Are you seriously considering Kenneth as a potential murderer? I’m sure any number of people can vouch for his relationship with Daniel over the years. Are you suggesting that Kenneth may have taken out a hit on Daniel out of professional jealousy? That he couldn’t stand to be trumped one last time by a long-term rival?”
Meg laughed. “That does sound a bit melodramatic, but anything is possible. Too bad Kenneth doesn’t know Patricia—he could’ve asked to look at Daniel’s papers. He might actually know what he’s looking for, if he found it. I wonder if the police will think of that. Did Patricia say if she worked outside the home?”
“She didn’t mention it,” Elizabeth said. “You know, I could probably ask her about Daniel’s papers, and whether she would mind someone going through them.”
“Not the police?” Meg asked.
“Do you seriously think that they would recognize an academic discovery?”
“No, I think that’s beyond them. But are you thinking that might be a motive for killing Daniel?”
Elizabeth sat back in her seat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been involved in the academic community, but it is a possibility, if remote. Do you have any better ideas? I’d like to be able to hand that detective of yours something to look at, other than me.”
Meg sighed. “Mother, Marcus isn’t stupid, and I doubt that he sees you as a serious candidate for killer. But he does have to do his job, so you’re on the list. Still, I think this angle is worth looking into, and the police aren’t the best ones to do that. You have a plan?”
“Let me talk to Patricia tomorrow and see if she’ll let me look at Daniel’s papers. That’s a start. Maybe she has some idea what had Daniel so excited, but no one has asked her yet and she doesn’t see a connection.”
“Well, I promised Bree that I’d help with picking tomorrow, so you’re on your own.”
“That’s probably for the best, dear. I can speak to Patricia as a peer, and if you came along, she might feel that we were ganging up on her. I think I can handle a simple conversation with a grieving widow.”
Meg wondered just how seriously Patricia was grieving. She had seemed relatively composed at the service, but she had almost broken down when she had visited Meg’s home. On the other hand, Meg had sensed a certain coolness when she’d spoken about Daniel, and there was that odd crack about Emily Dickinson as the “other woman.” “Then go, and come back and tell me all about it.”
They drove a couple of miles in silence. Then Meg said, “I know this is an idiotic question after two teas, but have you thought about dinner?”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Not exactly. So far I’ve had four meals today. Are you actually hungry?”
“No, but Bree will be. I just thought we should have a plan.”
“Well, I’m sure we can figure something out.”
An hour later, Bree ambled into the kitchen. A timer went off, and Elizabeth went to the stove to check som
ething.
“Smells good,” Bree said, sitting down next to Meg at the table.
“Thank you, dear,” Elizabeth said. “What have you been up to?”
“Picking. No, not me—watching the other guys pick. Planning. The usual.”
“Who buys your apples?”
“We thought about the pros and cons of doing a farm stand,” Meg began, “but we decided we didn’t want to deal with staffing that kind of thing—and other people around here do it better and already have a following. We also talked about selling the whole crop to a major vendor, but we don’t really produce enough to interest most of the chains. We’re still feeling our way along. Right now we’re selling mainly to the local farmers’ markets like Dickinson’s and a couple of local groceries.”
“Eat while it’s hot,” Elizabeth said. “Once again, I hadn’t realized how many decisions went into all of this. Good thing you have a business degree, Meg.”
“That it is.” Meg dug into her food. One plus of farming: she could eat all she wanted, knowing she would burn it off picking. She’d have to be careful come winter, when there was less to do.
An hour after dinner, Bree had long since vanished, and Meg was trying to read a book, lulled by the consistent tap-tap of her mother at the computer. What had she started? She was reading the same paragraph for the fourth time when her mother said, “Heavens, look at the time! You need your sleep, young lady. And I think I’ll take this lovely volume”—Elizabeth held up a heavy book, and Meg could barely make out the title: History of Hadley, which she knew to be exhaustively thorough—“and do some background reading.”
Meg smiled. “It’s better than a sleeping pill—I don’t think I’ve made it past the first couple of chapters. See you in the morning, then.”
“Good night, dear.”
Meg trudged up the stairs, feeling the weight of the day’s exertions. Farming was hard work, no question about it. In earlier centuries, people had had no choice, if they wanted to eat. Now they did have choices—and most people opted out of farming, letting the big corporations take over and manage food production. Maybe it was efficient, but something had been lost along the way. There was something fundamental about watching your crop grow and being able to hold—and eat—the end result. Still, she would never have considered it if she hadn’t stumbled into it, driven by an odd set of circumstances. And she was still so new, and there was so much to learn!
A Killer Crop Page 14
