A Gala Event

by Sheila Connolly

  “Well, let’s hope Gail can track them down,” Meg said firmly. “But what she told you was pretty much the truth. You’ve seen that building . . . well, maybe you don’t remember it from that night. Anyway, it’s tiny, and until a couple of months ago it had no on-site storage at all. So they decided to build under the building, rather than adding a new story or extension, to preserve its historic appearance. Seth played a part in that. Now there’s plenty of space, so Gail has been trying to track down the collections that were stashed all over town so she can get them all together in one place and sort through them before shelving them. But she’s only part-time; she’s got school-age kids.”

  “Aaron, you mind if we cut to the chase here?” Seth asked. “You have any money? Anything else? I mean, you can’t just wander around Granford sleeping in barns while you wait for Gail to track down what it is you’re looking for.”

  “I can’t complain if you ask, Seth. When you walk out of prison, you get what you had when you went in. Period. This state doesn’t believe in giving you any money to get started. Stupid, isn’t it? I guess they offered to help me find a job and a place to live, but I just wanted some time to hang out, you know? And I didn’t know if I wanted to stay around here or start new somewhere else. So I said no thanks. Hey, I know what I’m up against. I’ve got a criminal record, and it ain’t exactly for a nice white-collar crime. I’ve got no diplomas, although I got my GED inside. I’ve got a few bills in the pocket. I don’t expect anybody’s gonna want to hire me. Heck, I wouldn’t hire me. But my computer skills are pretty current, and I’m healthy.”

  Seth glanced at Meg again, but Meg had no wisdom to offer. The harvest season was pretty much over, and by the time he got up to speed on how to pick anything, it would definitely be past. Even if he helped Gail with her cataloging, the Historical Society had no money to offer him. Who did she know that was hiring, and wouldn’t be concerned about Aaron’s background?

  “You have any construction skills?” Seth asked.

  “Not exactly. I was a punk rich kid, remember? And they didn’t offer too many shop classes inside; I think they got nervous about the idea of putting criminals and tools together.”

  “Can you cook?” Meg asked.

  “Enough to survive. I can wash dishes, though.”

  Maybe Nicky and Brian need someone to help out, Meg thought. “Can you drive?”

  Aaron grinned. “I used to know how, but my driver’s license is a couple of decades out-of-date.” Then his smile faded. “Look, guys, I’ve got a couple of hundred bucks in my pocket, and one change of clothes—or, no, I don’t, since what I was wearing got pretty ripped up. Talk about a fresh start!”

  “Clothes aren’t a problem,” Seth said. “Money is. I wish we could offer you something, even short-term, but we’re not exactly rich and we barely get by. Both our jobs are kind of unpredictable. We could work out someplace for you to stay, at least until we get the documents sorted out.”

  Meg watched as an interesting variety of expressions crossed Aaron’s face. He took his time before answering. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help. Look, I hate having to ask for charity from anyone. I know I screwed up my life, my chances, but that doesn’t make it any easier to beg. I have no clue where I’m going from here, so I’m focusing on the one thing that I can accomplish. One simple thing: find my grandmother’s boxes and see if they have anything to do with how my family died. If there’s nothing there, I’ll move on. I’m not kidding myself that there’ll be some piece of paper that proves that I didn’t deserve to go to prison—that’s fairy-tale stuff.”

  It’s a no-win situation, Meg thought. She wanted to help Aaron. She was appalled that the state corrections system simply shoved released prisoners out the door and expected them to fend for themselves. Aaron had been incarcerated when he was little more than a child; how was he supposed to cope with a very different world now? No money, no home, no relatives to take him in, and no job prospects. No wonder so many ex-convicts turned back to crime—what other choices did they have? She wished she and Seth could take a time-out and talk about what to do, but it seemed kind of rude to leave Aaron sitting at the table while they conferred about him, as though he were an object that had to be managed.

  In the end she turned to Seth and said, “What can we do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said to her. Then he turned to Aaron. “Let me ask around, see if there’s somebody who needs short-term help right now. I can fill them in on the situation, or at least part of it. And maybe the pickers know about someplace with spare rooms; some of them have already moved on, so there should be some vacancies. Does that work for you?”

  Aaron looked like he was struggling between different responses, but in the end he said, “I would appreciate your help. I’ll try to clear out as soon as I can.”

  Bree came clattering in the back door and stopped dead at the sight of a stranger at the kitchen table. “Uh, hello?”

  Meg made introductions. “Bree, this is Aaron Eastman. He used to live in Granford, years ago. Aaron, this is my orchard manager, Briona Stewart. She lives upstairs.”

  Aaron had stood up, and he said politely, “Good to meet you, Briona.”

  “Bree,” she said absently, studying Aaron’s face and clothes. Then she turned to Meg. “He the convict from the Historical Society?”

  “Bree!” Meg protested, even though she was right.

  “What?” Bree shot back. “I live here. I’ve got a right to know who’s here in this house.”

  “Yes, you do,” Meg replied, trying to control her anger, “but don’t be too quick to judge, until you’ve heard the whole story.”

  Aaron spoke again. “She’s right, Meg. Yes, Bree, I was just released from prison, for a crime that happened twenty-five years ago. And my reentry into Granford has been a little rocky, since I managed to terrify Gail Selden into attacking me. But this is your home, and I don’t have any right to make you uncomfortable. I won’t be staying long.”

  “Huh,” Bree said, still studying him. “All right. Meg, you’d better fill me in. And Mister Aaron Eastman, if I made assumptions about you that are wrong, I apologize. I should know better—I get that all the time, just because I’m young and black and a woman running an orchard.”

  “Thank you, Bree.”

  Before anyone else could say anything controversial, Meg said, “Bree, do you need me in the orchard today? Seth and I were thinking of visiting Rachel.”

  “She hasn’t had that baby yet? Sure, we’re clear. Have you fed the goats yet?”

  Meg wondered what she was talking about—the goats had plenty of food at the moment—but then she realized that Bree wanted to talk to her alone. “Not today. Why don’t you give me a hand?”

  Outside, Meg and Bree crossed the driveway and went into the barn, where they couldn’t be seen. “What the hell you playing at?” Bree demanded.

  “I’m trying to help someone who could use a little help,” Meg said tartly. “What, you think he’s going to murder us in our beds and rob the place? Good luck with that; there’s nothing to steal. He was in prison for something that happened when he was younger than you are. And he might not have done it.”

  “Oh, right, now you’re playing the bleeding-heart card?”

  “No. I’m not that naïve, Bree. But there are some odd angles to this, and I said I’d help.”

  “Like you don’t have enough else to do?”

  “I know. You’re right. But I feel sorry for him. And what if he really wasn’t guilty?”

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. And I don’t know how much we can find out, or how to prove anything. It was a long time ago. Look, Bree, this doesn’t affect what you’re doing. I’ll give it a couple of days. If we don’t find anything relevant, he’ll be gone, I promise.”

  “I’ll remind you of that. You know
, you keep taking in strays, and things are getting crowded. Cats, goats, a criminal. I hope you aren’t planning to add an alpaca?” Bree nodded toward an approaching animal that Meg hadn’t noticed.

  “Oh, sugar. This is the third time one’s gotten loose. Seth’s going to have to check out the fences sooner rather than later.”

  “Well, at least it’s not my new roommate.”

  11

  Back at the house, Seth called Rachel and his mother, both of whom were delighted by the idea of getting together. Lydia Chapin happily accepted the offer of a ride to Amherst, where Rachel and her husband ran a bed-and-breakfast. At least during normal times: Rachel’s unexpected pregnancy, ten years after the birth of her son Matthew, had kind of put that on hold. Luckily her husband Noah’s schedule gave him some flexibility to deal with the children.

  Lydia lived just over the hill from Meg, in a house similar in age and style to hers. Meg had always hoped that the same hands had built them both: the Chapin and Warren families had lived side by side since the later 1700s. She was waiting outside, well wrapped against the chilly wind, when Seth and Meg drove up. She hopped quickly into the car.

  “I’m so glad you suggested this, Seth,” she said.

  “I can’t take credit for it; it was Meg’s idea.”

  “Well, it’s a good one. I hate to say, I haven’t spent nearly enough time with Rachel as I should. Oddly enough, my job seems to have picked up recently.”

  “I’m not getting over to Amherst much, either,” Meg admitted, “but the orchard eats up all of my spare time, and more. Although things are finally tapering off now.”

  “That’s good. I’d ask how the wedding plans are coming, but I assume you’d tell me if there was anything I need to know. So, what’s the story about the convict at the Historical Society?”

  “Lydia!” Meg protested. “How do you hear these things?”

  “I talk to people. And now I’m talking to you. If I’ve got any part of this wrong, you can correct me. What happened?”

  Meg recounted the events of the past few days, starting when she came upon Gail covered with blood. Lydia made the appropriate horrified noises. Meg stopped short of Aaron’s arrival the prior evening, although she wasn’t sure why. Lydia was a very fair-minded person, and would give anyone a second chance.

  “I remember the fire at the Eastman house,” Lydia said pensively. “It was big news then. Of course, this town doesn’t often have much to talk about.”

  “Did you know the Eastmans?” Meg asked.

  “Ken and Sharon? You really have to ask? We weren’t exactly in the same social circles. Seth’s father, Stephen, was a plumber, and Ken Eastman was a financial wizard of some sort. We had no money to speak of, so we weren’t on his radar. But the fire, now, everybody knew about that. I gather that Seth sneaked over there to check things out, although he’d never admit it to me.”

  “My lips are sealed, Mom,” Seth said, his eyes on the road.

  “It was a terrible thing that three people died. Of course, this was before everybody had smoke alarms in every room. I could understand why the mother couldn’t make it out; she had some mobility issues. But her son and his wife? Of course, maybe they were overcome by the fumes before they could move. And Aaron doesn’t remember anything?”

  “That’s what he says,” Seth told her. “That’s what he’s said from the beginning.”

  “Do you believe him?” his mother asked.

  “More or less. Look, you and Dad did know Chief Burchard, right?” Seth said.

  “Sure. He was a nice guy.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Seth, are you fishing for information on that poor man? He was honest, if that’s what you’re asking—I mean, didn’t take bribes to look the other way. Not that there was much to look at anyway. If anything, I’d say that he was a bit too laid-back. He liked to play the good ole boy, shaking hands with all the guys, paying silly compliments to the women.”

  “Are you saying he was lazy?” Meg interrupted.

  Lydia thought for a moment. “Not lazy, exactly. Just prone to taking the easiest path. You know, if it looks like an elephant and smells like an elephant, it probably is an elephant, and he wasn’t going to look any more closely.”

  Meg laughed. “I love the image of an elephant in Granford!”

  “You know what I mean,” Lydia said, laughing with her. “It never would have occurred to him that someone might have dressed up a horse in a gray tarp and stuck a hose on the front, and sprayed it with the, uh, residue from his manure pile.”

  “And it worked just fine for him, for years. He retired happily. Is he still alive?”

  “I think so, over at the retirement center in Holyoke. But I don’t know if he’s still got all his faculties, if you know what I mean.”

  It took Meg a second to work out what she meant: interviewing him about something that had happened in the distant past probably wouldn’t be fruitful. Or maybe it might be, Meg thought, since in many cases older memories were clearer to people with dementia or Alzheimer’s than something that had happened the day before.

  “Here we are,” Seth said cheerfully, having stayed out of the more recent parts of the conversation. “Mom, you brought lunch?”

  “Of course . . . that box in the trunk. You’ll carry it in, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Mom, like I always do.”

  Which freed up Lydia and Meg to march up the front steps of Rachel’s handsome Victorian home and ring the doorbell—or rather, twist it, since it was an authentic one installed in the door. Noah opened the door quickly. “Come in, come in, please.” He stepped back to let them enter.

  Rachel was enthroned on the plush-covered settee in what had once been the front parlor, her feet raised on a tufted ottoman with fringe. She was draped in paisley shawls. “Rachel, are you trying to look Victorian?” Meg demanded, with a smile.

  “How’m I doing?” Rachel shot back.

  “Well, you definitely look like a lady of leisure, with a dash of Jabba the Hutt thrown in.”

  Rachel smiled. “That bad? At least it won’t be for much longer. Sometime in the next two weeks.”

  “Everything on track, dear?” Lydia asked, settling herself on an overstuffed armchair.

  “So my doctor tells me. Hi, Seth!” Rachel called out. “Oh, goody—you brought food, Mom. Just put the box in the kitchen, Seth, and see if you can find some clean plates. So, ladies, what’s the dirt?”

  Now Meg, Seth, and Lydia exchanged glances. Rachel most likely had not heard of the excitement on Friday, Meg reasoned, because if she had, she would have asked directly. It was good that the news hadn’t spread beyond Granford, but did they want to talk about it now? And if so, what spin should they put on it? Rachel, the baby of the family, wouldn’t have heard much about the Eastman fire when she was growing up.

  Seth disappeared into the kitchen, and reemerged two minutes later with sandwiches on paper plates. Rachel beamed at him. “Thank you, big brother. Now, what about drinks?”

  “Coming up.” He headed back toward the kitchen.

  Rachel leaned toward Meg and Lydia and said, “I’m really going to miss being waited on like this. One of the perks of late pregnancy.” Then she sat back and said in a louder tone, “So either nothing at all has happened since the last time I talked to any of you, or something big has happened and you don’t know how to tell me. I assume it’s door number two?”

  Seth reappeared with glasses and bottles of soda, which he set on the table. Then he sat down next to Meg and helped himself to a sandwich.

  “Yes.” Meg said. “Listen, Rachel—”

  Rachel interrupted her. “Let me guess. It’s more fun, and I need to exercise my brain. Unless someone we all know has died?”

  “No, nothing like that, dear,” Lydia said. “It’s—”

&nbs
p; Rachel held up one hand. “Nope, let me do it. So nobody near and dear has died. Is somebody dead?”

  Seth volunteered, “Yes, but—”

  Rachel covered her ears with her hands. “What part of ‘me do it’ do you not get? I’m bored out of my mind and I feel like a whale, so let me have my fun, okay? Now, if there had been a murder, or a significant local citizen had passed away unexpectedly, I probably would have heard that on the local news. Likewise, if somebody died and no one knows who he or she is, there might be an appeal for help. Ooh, I have it! It’s a cold case!”

  “Uh, sort of?” Meg said.

  “And somebody died in the past.”

  Meg silently held up three fingers. Rachel stared at her. “Three people died in the past? All at once or serial?”

  Meg held up one finger this time.

  “Three deaths, same time. In Granford?”

  Meg, Seth, and Lydia nodded in unison, and Meg wondered if they looked like a row of bobblehead dolls. “Wow,” Rachel said. “That’s pretty rare. How did they die?”

  “That’s going to be a little difficult to mime, Rachel,” Meg said. She looked around the room and her eyes lit on the fireplace; she pointed at it.

  “Three people died in a fire,” Rachel said to herself. “In Granford. Arson?”

  More nods. “Was anyone arrested?” Rachel asked.

  Nods again. “Got it!” Rachel crowed. “The Eastman fire.”

  “Rachel, how do you know about that?” Lydia said.

  “Uh, well, I never quite told you, Mom, but when I was a kid we used to ride out there on our bikes. If you were there at the right time of day, you could almost believe you could hear the screams of the people trapped inside. Let me tell you, we moved a lot faster on the way back.”

  “Rachel,” Seth said, “they razed what was left of the building right after it burned; there was nothing there.”

  “Except some rubble and holes,” Rachel said. “Don’t be so literal, Seth. We were kids, and we were looking for some spooky thrills. We grew out of it. So what the heck does the Eastman fire have to do with now?”