Seeds of Deception

by Sheila Connolly

“So we’ll be there by lunchtime?”

  “Thereabouts. Are you hungry already? You haven’t finished breakfast.”

  “Just thinking ahead. Do we have a place to stay?”

  “Yes. I thought you’d given up on planning?”

  “That’s for the big things in life. I can still obsess with the little things, can’t I?”

  “If you insist. Yes, we have a reservation at a respectable motel not far from Monticello. I doubt it will meet the standards of our present accommodations, though.”

  “What could? Besides, I wouldn’t want to muddle the memories—one fabulous hotel is plenty.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. My bank account thanks you.”

  “Hey, this honeymoon belongs to both of us—you’ve got to let me chip in financially.”

  “I won’t argue,” Seth said amiably. “So, are you ready to hit the road again?”

  Meg drained her coffee cup. “I am now.”

  Meg felt a pang of regret as they pulled away from the hotel, but she was looking forward to Monticello. They headed toward Interstate 95 south, and skirted Baltimore, then took the beltway to avoid Washington, abandoning the interstate and aiming for Charlottesville, Virginia. As Seth had predicted, it was almost exactly four hours later that they arrived at their destination. They hadn’t stopped along the way.

  The approach to Monticello was not what she had expected. Maybe she had assumed there would be a tacky strip mall with neon lights advertising TJ’s favorite ale. She shook herself: why should she think that? Jefferson was respected, even beloved, for his role in American history. But as she knew too well, that didn’t always translate into treating memories with good taste.

  They drove partway up a hill and parked near the visitor center. “Do you want to take the tour?” Seth asked.

  “I think we’d better—I can’t say I know much about the building, apart from the fact that Jefferson liked to think up ingenious ways of doing things. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. We can tour the grounds after the tour of the house.”

  “With maybe a quick stop at the café in between?”

  “Sure.”

  They bought tickets and joined a group gathered under the portico on the far side of the building, overlooking the gently rolling Virginia countryside. The docent began by explaining the intricate sundial-clock under the portico, apparently designed by Jefferson, but the group of visitors did not linger long—even in Virginia it was cold in winter, and there was much, much more to see inside. Meg marveled at Jefferson’s clever wine elevator, and puzzled over the bed that spanned the space between two adjoining rooms. She’d always heard that Jefferson was a tall man, over six feet, and it seemed unlikely that he could have fit in the bed, unless he had slept sitting up. But mostly Meg enjoyed watching Seth in his element. He understood the intricacies of both design and assembly, and he looked like a boy in a candy store—or would that be a comic book store these days? Coming to this place had been a good decision.

  They finished the interior tour at the back of the house, and Meg and Seth peeled off from the tour group. “Food now?” Meg asked.

  “Sure. But humor me—let’s walk down to the end of the lawn here.”

  Mystified, Meg followed him along the perimeter path. At the far end he stopped and turned her around, and she burst out laughing. “It’s the view from the nickel! Although I guess I should say the old nickel. It really does look like the coin, or vice versa. I just hadn’t put this place together with the coin. Wow.”

  “It does. The café’s back in the visitor center, but we’ll have to walk down to see the orchard anyway.”

  “Lead on, since you seem to have done your homework.”

  They ate sandwiches quickly, reluctant to waste the daylight, then climbed partway up the hill again to visit the orchards and other plantings. This was Meg’s territory. “So, there’s the vegetable garden,” she said, pointing, “and then there are two orchards, plus vineyards. The South Orchard is right below the vegetable garden, and has the widest variety of fruit trees.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework, too,” Seth said.

  “When it comes to the apples, yes, I have. Did you realize that Jefferson planted his orchard before he began building the house? Did you know that this hill, or small mountain, is high enough that warm air rises to the top of it, which protects blooming trees in the spring? Which was good for the more sensitive plants like peaches and grapes, but not so good for apple varieties. He had to pick mostly ones that thrived in the South, which limited his options.”

  “I never thought about that. Too bad we can’t take advantage of that for our orchard.”

  “We’ve got plenty of northern apples that can tolerate the cold. Anyway, Jefferson planted over a thousand fruit trees in the South Orchard, on a grid pattern, with eighteen varieties of apples. Peaches did best, plums not so well. Jefferson concentrated on cider apples and a couple of dessert or eating apples—the Newtown Pippin and Esopus Spitzenburg, which actually originated in New York. A lot of the Pippins were shipped to England. And that, sir, is just about all I know.”

  “Well done. Do we have any of those?”

  “No, but I’d like to add a couple, more for sentiment than because they’re in high demand. At least now—I think the market for the less common heirlooms is still growing. I should order trees now, if I want to plant them in the spring.”

  They wandered through the gardens. As Meg had feared, there was little growing, but the layout and orientation of the various beds were clear. Near the bottom of the hill they came upon the cemetery. After a few silent moments she said, “It seems that not only is Jefferson buried here, but lineal descendants may also be buried here, even now.”

  “I did not know that. So there’s an element of genealogy, too. But I doubt that either of us has any ancestors here.”

  “Not likely.”

  For several long moments they stood silently in front of the largest monument, which Meg guessed was not the one that had originally graced Jefferson’s burial place. “He really loved this place, didn’t he?” she said softly.

  “He did, I’d say,” Seth replied as quietly. “It was his home, in the best sense of the word.”

  Meg moved closer. “I’m glad we came.”

  Seth put his arm around her. “So am I.”

  7

  Reluctantly they tore themselves away and walked slowly back to where they had parked. As they approached the car, Seth asked, “No souvenirs?”

  “I’d rather wait and get a tree later—then I’ll think of this place every time I see it.”

  “I like that idea.” Seth started the car and pointed it down the hill.

  Partway down there was another historic marker in front of a modest nineteenth-century building. “What’s that?” Meg asked.

  Seth slowed to read the sign. “It’s the former estate of James Monroe.”

  “I didn’t know he had one. Not much of a place, is it? For a former president, I mean.”

  “The contrast with what we’ve just seen is rather striking, I must say. And Monroe was also governor of Virginia, secretary of state under President Madison, and president for two terms.”

  “And you know all this why?” Meg demanded.

  “I like history.” Then he grinned. “I cheated and looked at a guidebook.”

  “Well, I for one feel sorry for Monroe, having Jefferson looking down on him in his humble home.”

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate your sentiment, although I always thought he sounded like a rather cranky man. I think he once sued the government for reimbursement for his presidential expenses. Motel now?”

  “Fine. I’m sure there are other things worth seeing in this area, like the University of Virginia, but I don’t feel compelled to investigate. I am enjoying not feeling obligated to play the d
iligent tourist.”

  This time Seth had selected a conveniently close, modest motel. “Sorry it’s not up to last night’s standard,” he said.

  “Hey, it’s clean, relatively quiet, and has all the necessities, like a bed and running water. It’s fine,” Meg assured him. “And it makes last night all the more memorable. Is it time for dinner yet?”

  “Didn’t you just eat?” Seth demanded.

  “It’s been at least two hours. I’m just thinking ahead. There seems to be a restaurant here.”

  Seth sighed melodramatically. “All right. Let’s get checked in, and then we can eat.”

  Check-in took little time, since on a Tuesday in December there were few tourists. As Meg had assumed, the room was clean and functional, and the fixtures worked. Maybe it wasn’t up to her parents’ standards, but she had no complaints.

  They took their time over dinner, starting with a leisurely glass of wine. They were halfway through a pleasant if not noteworthy meal when Meg’s cell phone rang in the depths of her purse. She’d forgotten to turn it off, and it took her a few moments to retrieve it. She was surprised to see her mother’s number on the screen. “Hi, Mother. We were going to call you in the morning. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to disturb you again so soon, Meg, but I need to talk to you about your visit. It might be better if you didn’t come right now.”

  Her mother’s voice sounded curiously uncertain, and Meg’s senses went on high alert. “Is something wrong? You’re sick? Daddy’s sick?” She glanced at Seth.

  “We’re fine, dear, but there’s been a little trouble at the house.”

  Meg’s imagination leapt to worst-case scenarios: it had burned down, it had been burgled and/or ransacked, there had been a tornado (in Montclair, New Jersey? In December?). “What is it?”

  “Well, the repair shop couldn’t get the parts they needed soon enough to suit your father, so yesterday your father rented a car and we drove home. We’ll deal with our car later.”

  This rambling and evasive story was very unlike her mother, and Meg was becoming increasingly concerned. “And? The house was in ruins when you got home?”

  “No, it was fine. Well, more or less. So we parked the car in the driveway and went inside, and got a bite to eat, and went to bed.”

  Elizabeth was still waffling about something, Meg thought. “Mother, will you please get to the point? What did you call to tell me?” Meg looked at Seth across the table and shrugged in frustration.

  “Well, you know the Hagens across the street? This morning they saw the unfamiliar car parked in our driveway and they were concerned, since they knew we had been away for your wedding, so they called the police to check the house. When the police arrived they were being cautious, so they checked the outside before they tried the door. And they found something.”

  “What?” Meg had to work hard not to scream into the phone.

  “A body. In the backyard.”

  That brought Meg to a screeching halt. “What?” she all but whispered. Now Seth was looking at her with real concern. She swallowed. “This was last night? What have you been doing since then?”

  “Well, of course we had to go to the police station and make a statement about where we were.”

  “Wait—why? You’re respectable citizens, and a simple call to the hotel in Amherst would establish that you’ve been there all along, right? And Daddy’s a lawyer, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, yes, but there was a little trouble with an arrest of the police chief’s son a while back that involved your father, so the chief wasn’t in a very generous mood. But the police let us come home this morning.”

  “Who was the . . . body? Someone you knew?”

  “Actually, yes. He’s the handyman we hire to do small jobs around the property—you know, mow the lawn, or shovel snow, or watch out for ice dams. I don’t recall if you’ve met him, but we’ve been using him for years. Enrique Rodriguez, that’s—that was—his name. When we knew we’d be away for a bit, we asked him to stop by once a day to make sure that everything was all right. Take in the mail, that kind of thing.”

  “How long . . .” No. Meg stopped herself. She wasn’t about to interrogate her mother over the phone—she’d already had a hard day. “We’ll be there by lunchtime tomorrow—it’s only about six hours.” She looked at Seth for confirmation, and he nodded.

  “Meg, darling”—her mother started to protest—“you don’t need . . .”

  “Yes, I do. You want me to stand by and just call now and then to see how the murder investigation of someone you knew is going? Wait, the man was murdered, wasn’t he? He didn’t have a stroke or a heart attack in your back-yard, did he?”

  “No, dear.” Her mother sighed. “It was the traditional blunt force object, in this case a loose brick from the patio.”

  “And he didn’t happen to fall and hit his head?”

  “Not possible, according to the medical examiner.”

  “Are you all right, Mother? And Daddy?”

  “We’re . . . coping. Your father is angry, both that this happened and that the police treated him shabbily, or so he believes. I’m just . . . tired.”

  “Then I’ll let you go now. See you tomorrow in time for lunch.” Meg cut off the call before her mother could protest. No matter what Elizabeth said, Meg was pretty sure that she wouldn’t have called unless she was looking for some support from Meg. Who also happened to have experience in murder investigations, although not in New Jersey.

  She jammed her phone back in her bag and looked up to see Seth watching her. “What’s the story?”

  “Handyman-slash-caretaker found dead in the backyard from a blow to the head with a brick. Neighbor saw the rental car at the house and got worried, so called the cops. The local cops are not inclined to look kindly on my father due to some conflict over the police chief’s son.” And no doubt her father had only made things worse when he was dragged to the police station and kept there far too long. He’d have been tired after driving half the day, and already ticked off about the car troubles. “You heard what I told Mother. Are you okay with going up there tomorrow?”

  “Of course I am. This is family.”

  “Thank you. So at least we can finish eating, and use that hotel room.” Although Meg wasn’t sure how much sleep she’d be able to get. Was this some kind of weird karma following her around? “I didn’t want to make you drive all that way at night, and I doubt there’s anything we could do tonight, anyway. I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Seth asked. “You didn’t arrange this murder just to mess up our honeymoon, did you?”

  “No, of course not. But we do seem to keep stumbling over bodies.”

  An hour later she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what her mother had told her. The man—who she could not remember meeting—had been doing his rounds, making sure the place was locked up. Someone had come up—behind him?—and whacked him with a brick, and he’d died. Had the blow killed him? Wait, when had he been killed? Earlier in the week? Then the exposure could have killed him once he was unconscious? How long had he lain there behind the house? It was unlikely anyone could have seen him from the street or from either side—her father believed in privacy, which he achieved through high privet hedges rather than fences. It could have been one night, or it could have been days. Wait—how had he gotten there? Probably a truck, if he was doing odd jobs. Wouldn’t the snoopy neighbor have noticed his truck parked there overnight? If it wasn’t there, where was it?

  Her mother hadn’t said that the house had been broken into, or that anything was missing. The garage? Her mother’s car? What kind of problem had her father had with the police chief that could cause so much hostility? Was that recent, or an old grudge? Anyway, her father should have a more than ample alibi, what with hotel and meal receipts, gas receipts, car rental agreement
, and the like. Assuming he didn’t have a fit and refuse to submit any of his corroborating evidence, operating under some misguided principle that his word should be enough. Unfortunately she could see him doing that, and Meg wasn’t sure her mother could talk him out of it.

  “Meg,” Seth whispered in her ear, “get some sleep. You can’t do anything right now, and if you don’t sleep you’ll be useless tomorrow. We’ll sort things out when we get there.”

  Meg rolled over so she was facing him, and he put his arms around her. “Why does this keep happening? Am I cursed? Is it contagious?”

  “I will pretend to consider that suggestion seriously, if it makes you happy. What kind of law does your father practice?”

  “Criminal, but mostly white-collar, corporate stuff. Which is why I wonder how the police chief butted heads with him.”

  “You can ask that tomorrow. What else?”

  “Was the intent robbery? Did the poor man interrupt the robber on the way in or the way out? Mother didn’t say anything about a theft, but she wasn’t exactly herself.”

  “You can ask that tomorrow,” Seth repeated, in hypnotically low tones.

  “They have a good alarm system in that house, and I’m sure they left it on, even with the guy keeping an eye on things.”

  “Tell me what the house is like,” Seth said soothingly.

  “Nice. Fieldstone colonial, built in the 1920s. Too big for them, of course, but it makes a statement. I mean, seriously, the front hall has to be fifteen or twenty feet across. Who needs a hall like that?”

  “We don’t. Much of a lot?”

  “No, well under an acre. Nice neighborhood, mostly older people who’ve been there a while. Train to New York for the commuters . . .” And Meg faded into sleep.

  Seth was already showered and dressed when Meg woke up the next morning. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Seven.”

  Meg sat bolt upright in bed. “Shoot, it’s six hours to Montclair. We should be on the road by now.”

  “Don’t worry. I doubt anything is happening fast. Take a shower. I’ll go get some food and you can eat in the car. All right?”