A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  “Okay, Susan, let me think about this, and talk it over with my mother. It’s not like there’s any deadline, is there?” After all, the symposium was over, and Daniel was already in the ground.

  “I guess not. Do you mean you’ll help?”

  “If I can, and if my mother agrees, and if we can find the time. Can I let you know tomorrow? I’ve got plans for tonight.”

  Susan stood up abruptly and unexpectedly hugged Meg. “Oh, thank you, Meg—you’re the best! I’d do it myself, but I’ve never done that kind of research, and I figured you could do it faster than I could. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

  When Meg shut the door behind Susan’s retreating back, she turned to Lolly, perched on the back of one of the decrepit armchairs. “What? Like I don’t have enough to keep me busy? Let’s see what Mother thinks about all this before we decide anything.”

  Lolly went back to sleep, and Meg went to take a bath and soak her aching muscles.

  24

  As Meg came down the stairs after her bath, Elizabeth and Phillip came through the back door, laughing and dripping.

  “Hi, Meg,” her mother said, shaking water from her coat. “I didn’t think New England weather could change so fast! One minute it was lovely, and the next, whoosh!”

  “You should have been here for the hailstorm last month,” Meg said.

  “Good heavens! How frightening. Was there any damage?”

  “No, my orchard came through all right, but there were others that weren’t so lucky.”

  “Drat!” Phillip stopped in the midst of removing his coat. “I forgot to stop at the liquor store.”

  “Did you remember groceries?” Meg asked.

  “Of course, dear. We’re all set for dinner. Phillip, why don’t you bring in the food and then you can go find a liquor store? Meg, where would the nearest one be?”

  “Go out to the highway and turn left, toward Holyoke. There are a couple along that road.”

  “Anything in particular you want, Meg? What does your young man drink?”

  My young man? “Beer and wine mostly. You can pick something that goes with the meal.”

  “I won’t be long, ladies.” Phillip retrieved the groceries, then took off again. Elizabeth bustled around Meg’s kitchen, looking quite at home.

  “Your father does like to keep busy, and I wanted him out from underfoot. I thought I’d make a roast chicken. Will Bree be joining us?”

  “No, she went looking for Michael when it started raining and we had to halt the picking.”

  “You’re done for the day?”

  “Yes, Bree let me off the hook. But it’s supposed to be nice tomorrow, so this is a short break. Listen, Mother, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “If it’s about Seth, I didn’t tell your father anything, I swear. But he’s not blind, you know, and he figured it out for himself.”

  Meg really didn’t want to get into that now. “No, it’s not that. Susan Keeley stopped by while you were out and asked if we could help her. She’s got an idea about what Daniel was so excited about.”

  “And she thinks we can help?” Elizabeth hadn’t stopped moving around the kitchen, checking the oven and assembling supplies.

  “Yes, she wants us to do a little genealogy work on Emily Dickinson and her local connections. Susan thinks that Daniel’s surprise could be an unknown cache of letters from Emily.”

  “Interesting.” Elizabeth took a chair opposite Meg. “I know I’ve seen the Dickinson name on a lot of the online lists that I’ve been looking at, but I’m not sure I’m qualified to sort out who’s who and how they’re connected. Did Susan have any suggestions about how to narrow the search?”

  “She thinks it’s got to be close, in this area, near Amherst, because Daniel seemed confident that he could lay hands on whatever it is quickly.”

  “And why would nobody have come across this before?”

  Meg shrugged. “I don’t know. This is Susan’s theory. She seems very eager to do it for his sake. Maybe she’s chasing smoke, but it couldn’t hurt to put together a family tree. You said you’d already found some connections between the Dickinsons and the Warren family?”

  “Yes, but very distant. It was more an exercise in ‘find the famous relative.’ We’re about as closely related to Ethan Allen and Johnny Appleseed.”

  “Well, Christopher Ramsdell once told me that it’s altogether possible that some of the apple trees in the orchard are descended from old Johnny’s trees, so maybe that’s not so far-fetched. Are you up for it?”

  “Can I get dinner started first?”

  “I wouldn’t stand in your way on that, believe me. And I don’t think there’s any big hurry. I told Susan I’d call her tomorrow, after I’d talked to you.” Meg watched as Elizabeth lined up the ingredients for stuffing a chicken. “What did you see today?”

  “Oh, mostly we drove around on back roads. It was rather nice, just wandering. And I’d forgotten how pretty it is around here. If you’re just sitting there, you can make yourself useful. Grease this cake pan for me, will you, please?”

  Elizabeth soon had a ginger cake in the oven, with the timer set. She washed her hands, took off her apron, and said, “Why don’t we sit down and go over this family tree stuff? Your laptop’s still in the dining room, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And while I think of it, I’ve also got some old maps from the Historical Society, and a lot of them have the names of property owners on them.”

  “Well, let’s see how much we can get done while the cake bakes. When it comes out, I’ll have to put the chicken in.”

  Half an hour later, Meg had decided that what they really needed was a giant piece of paper so that they could map out all the connections between Dickinsons. There certainly were plenty, scattered all over Hampshire and Hampden counties—no way was she going to look any farther afield than that. It was daunting. “I think I’ve got a big piece of Tyvek somewhere, and we could sketch this out on that. Maybe it would look clearer to us if we could see it, rather than trying to keep all these people straight in our heads.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ve got to take the cake out, and I could use a break anyway. Do you think Susan had any idea of the scope of what she was asking us to do?”

  “Probably. Did you see anything like Emily’s family tree lurking among Daniel’s papers?”

  “Not that I remember, but I certainly wasn’t looking for anything like that. Or it could have been on his computer. Do you really think this will lead to anything?”

  “I don’t know, but it can’t hurt, I guess. And you can learn a lot about the Warren family while you’re at it.” Meg followed her mother into the kitchen. “It’s kind of sad that the line dwindled out like that. From what little I’ve seen, there were Warrens all over Granford, especially within a mile or two of here, and most of them were related. And they all had plenty of kids. Mother, why didn’t you and Daddy have more kids?” A question that Meg had somehow never asked.

  Elizabeth stopped what she was doing and turned to Meg, leaning against the counter. “We tried. It never happened. And we were happy with you, with the way things were. Maybe that was selfish of us, but we rationalized that we could give you more—more things, more attention—as an only child. I can see that it might have been lonely for you. But does that affect how you feel about having children?”

  “To be honest, I’ve never felt a burning need to have kids, or even one kid. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, to feel like that.”

  “Don’t you like children?”

  “I do, but as people, not as generic things. Look, if the circumstances were right, I’d certainly consider it, but right now I don’t feel deprived by not having children.”

  Elizabeth turned back to rubbing herbs and butter on the chicken. “Seth doesn’t have children, does he?” she said.

  “No. He was married once before, but no kids.” Although Meg had to admit she had thought Seth would make an admirab
le father.

  As if echoing her thoughts, her mother said, “I think he’d be a great father.”

  Phillip’s car pulled into the driveway, and a minute later he bustled in the back door. “Success! Your local selection leaves something to be desired, but I think we should find something we all like here. Do I smell ginger cake?” He put down the clinking bags and gave Elizabeth an enthusiastic kiss.

  “You do,” Elizabeth replied, “and I’m all buttery from the chicken, so watch out for your sweater. Do you want to join us here, or do you want to go find something manly to do?”

  “I can chop a mean vegetable. But actually, I’d love to see some more of the house, if you don’t need Meg.”

  “I’ll let Mother wrestle with the naked chicken. I’d love to show you the house, Dad. I have no clue what’s in the attic, but you should enjoy the basement—you can still see some of the original logs, and there’s a well under the kitchen here.”

  “Basement it is. Lead on, my dear.”

  Meg dutifully led the way down the narrow stairs from the dining room to the basement. Parts of the floor had received a thin and patchy layer of concrete over the years, but there were still areas of bare dirt. The center was occupied by a massive brick structure, and Phillip made a beeline for it. “What on earth . . . ?”

  “That was built to support the original fireplaces, which were in the middle of the house. I’ve been told that the space in the center was used as a smokehouse, but that may be fanciful—I’d say it’s more likely that when the fireplaces upstairs were rearranged in the nineteenth century, somebody thought this would make good storage. I don’t know—I’ve been so busy I haven’t done as much as I could to learn about the history of the place.”

  Phillip wandered to another corner. “And this would be the well you mentioned? I thought it would be bricked over.”

  Meg followed him. “No, it’s still open, and there’s still water in it. I guess if I ever had to fend off a siege, I’d be all set. If you look up, you can see the patch in the subflooring above it there—once upon a time they could probably lower a bucket and pull water right up into the kitchen. Very forward-thinking.”

  “Indeed.” Phillip turned then to look at her. “What a wonderful house this is—so much history!” He paused briefly. “Are you happy here, Meg?”

  Where did that come from? “I suppose. Why do you ask?”

  “I know it’s been a hard year for you, with a lot of changes. I want you to know that I’m proud of you, and so is your mother. You could have walked away from all this, but you chose to stick it out, to try something new. I respect that.”

  Meg felt a surprising prick of tears. “I kind of fell into it, and things kept happening . . . But I guess I am enjoying it, even though it’s hard work. I like the town, and the people. Living here seems more ‘real’ than living in Boston did.” Meg hesitated, but if they were being honest, here in the dim and damp basement . . . “Daddy, were you really okay about Daniel, about Mother coming up on her own to see him?”

  A pained expression passed quickly over Phillip’s face and vanished. “I wish I had been here. We were all good friends once. Long ago. I’m sorry that Daniel’s dead.”

  He didn’t exactly answer my question, Meg thought. But she suspected that it was the best she was going to get.

  “So what’s going on with you and this Seth Chapin?” her father asked.

  Meg could feel herself blushing. “I don’t know. Something. But I’m not rushing into anything.”

  “That’s fine. I just didn’t want to put my foot in my mouth at dinner. He seems like a nice fellow.” Phillip checked his watch by the dim light from the small cellar window. “What about the rest of the house? I’d like to squeeze in a nap before dinner.”

  Relieved by the sudden diversion, Meg said, “Sure. Let’s go upstairs.”

  She led him up to the second floor, where they spent a happy few minutes talking about woodworking and the drawbacks of multipaned sash windows, but the tour didn’t take long. They ended up in front of the guest room. At the door Phillip stopped and turned to Meg. “I mean what I said. You’ve become a fine young woman, and I’m very proud of you. Wake me up at six thirty, will you?”

  He slipped into the bedroom and closed the door, leaving Meg gaping. She had probably engaged in more intimate conversations with her parents in the past few days than in the decade that preceded it. Were they getting old? Or had she really changed?

  Seth arrived promptly at seven, armed with another bottle of wine and a potted chrysanthemum, and Meg met him at the back door.

  “Right on time,” she said. “Trying to impress?”

  “I’m always on time, in case you haven’t noticed. How is everything? I saw that the pickers quit early.”

  “Yes, Bree said we shouldn’t work in the rain and dismissed us. And then Susan Keeley, Daniel Weston’s grad student, came by and gave Mother and me a research project—we’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

  Seth followed Meg into the kitchen, where Elizabeth was setting the chicken on a platter. “Hello, Seth—nice to see you. Phillip, would you prefer to carve in the kitchen or the dining room?” she called out.

  Phillip came into the kitchen, his damp hair still bearing the tracks of the comb. “In here—then you don’t have to watch me make a fool of myself. I never can find the joints on a bird and I end up mangling the poor beast. Seth, good to see you again!”

  “You, too, sir.”

  And the evening rolled on. Sometime halfway through dinner, Meg wondered why she had ever been worried about getting these people together. They were talking with enthusiastic gestures, and Meg felt warm and happy. Probably the wine she had drunk played some role in that, but it was not the only reason. Her father had asked earlier if she was happy; at this moment, she would say yes.

  “Meg said Susan had asked you for something?” Seth asked Elizabeth.

  “Yes, apparently Susan asked if Meg and I could do some basic research on Dickinson family connections in this area, on the chance that their descendants might have some material that had come down from Emily Dickinson. She thinks it could be related to whatever Daniel was so excited about, and it may have been a factor in his death, so I’m more than willing to help her. We won’t know unless and until we find out what it is, though.”

  “Interesting. Well, there’s no shortage of Dickinsons around, even today. Not many in Granford, though.”

  “I saw several on the old Granford maps. Have they’ve all died out?” Meg asked.

  “Like the Warrens,” Seth agreed. “Maybe you should check the local cemetery.”

  “They won’t talk to us,” Meg said, and giggled. “Seth, do you memorize phones books in your spare time?”

  “No, but I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve worked with some of the Dickinsons in Amherst. And of course, my sister married into one of the Dickinson branches, though my brother-in-law’s family connection is pretty minor.”

  “The closest connection I’ve found between us and the famous Emily is fifth cousin,” Elizabeth said. “That’s not exactly an intimate link either. But I’m nowhere near finished. I do hope Susan isn’t in a hurry, because it’s slow going.”

  “I’ll have to leave it to you, Mother, because if the sun is shining tomorrow, I’ll be in the orchard. Dad, does having Mother chained to the computer mess up your plans?”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted. And if this will help solve Daniel’s murder, I want to be a part of it. Would you like me to clear the table and bring in the cake now, Elizabeth?”

  “That would be much appreciated, Phillip.” Elizabeth winked at Meg.

  The evening wound down happily, and it was after ten when Meg found herself saying good night to Seth outside the back door. The rain had stopped, and Meg could smell earth and damp, and heard the occasional drip from the trees onto the growing pile of leaves that would probably turn into mulch by the time she got around t
o raking them. She was pleasantly tired and still buzzed from the wine. “That went well.” She leaned against Seth in the dark.

  “What did you expect?” He wrapped his arms around her.

  “I don’t know. I never brought any boyfriends home to meet the family.”

  “You were afraid your parents would eat them alive?”

  “Nope, no boyfriends.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Thank you. That’s nice.” Meg reveled in his embrace just a bit longer, then pushed back. “I’d better go back in. Tomorrow’s going to be busy.”

  “I’ll let you go.” He kissed her gently. “And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For getting all of us together. Good night, Meg.”

  25

  Elizabeth was already at the computer when Meg came down the next morning. She barely looked up when Meg entered the dining room. “I made coffee,” she said, waving vaguely at the kitchen.

  “Thanks. Have you seen Bree?”

  “No. And I didn’t see her car in the driveway. She must have spent the night at Michael’s.”

  “Need any help there?”

  “Thanks, but I think I have the hang of it. I want to get done as much as I can before your father comes down.”

  “He’s still asleep?”

  “Dozing, I’d say. He gets tired more easily than he used to, although he tries to pretend he doesn’t. He’s past sixty, you know.”

  Meg had done her best to avoid thinking of her parents as “old,” but the math was inescapable. “What were you going to do today?”

  “I’ve gotten rather intrigued by this research, and I’m afraid if I leave it, it will all get muddled in my head. Do you think maybe you could take your father up to the orchard and show him that? Maybe you could persuade him to pick apples or something. I think I’ll have a much better idea of where all these Dickinsons fit by lunchtime.”