One Bad Apple (11 page)

“Forget it. Folks around here help each other out. You’ll like Rachel, and she’ll never forgive me it I don’t bring you over and let her pump you about the murder.”

Meg sobered for a moment. “It is a murder, isn’t it? Nobody commits suicide in a septic tank, and it certainly would have been Chandler’s last choice.” She shook herself. “Well, let’s hope the detective knows what he’s doing and gets this cleared up fast.”

“Amen to that,” Seth said, rising from his seat. He quickly paid the check, and after they’d bundled back into their coats, he escorted her back to his van.

Rachel turned out to be a brisk, no-nonsense woman who looked very much like her brothers, only shorter and rounder. She gave Meg a quick once-over and grinned, looking even more like Seth in the process. “Welcome! How’re you holding up? Seth gave me the bare outlines. Are you exhausted? Your room’s ready, if you just want to go to sleep. But if you want some coffee or dessert or something …”

Meg didn’t have the heart to squash her eagerness. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Rachel. I’m sorry to just land on you on such short notice. And I think I can stay awake a little longer, if there’s coffee.”

“How about this? I don’t want the kids to hear all the gritty stuff, so why don’t you go up and get settled, and I’ll get my family sorted out, and then you can fill me in. Okay?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great. It’s up the front stairs, second door on your left. Give me ten minutes, maybe, and then come on down to the kitchen. Seth, you want to say hi to the little monsters?”

“Sure.” He followed Rachel toward the back of the house, and Meg trudged up the stairs. The room was lovely, and she wondered if she could ever create something as nice in a home of her own. The contrast with the faded wallpaper and scuffed woodwork in her current bedroom depressed her. She went into the small attached bathroom and splashed water on her face, then prowled around the room. Rachel had left an eclectic assortment of books, and Meg picked up one with the appealing title
Till the Cows Come Home
to read before bed. Not that she expected to have any trouble sleeping tonight. In fact, she would have been happy to collapse on the high ruffled bed right now, but it seemed rude not to give Rachel the inside scoop, since she was doing her a huge favor. Meg waited another few minutes and then made her way down the stairs and followed the sound of voices to the kitchen at the rear.

Seth and Rachel looked up when she entered the room. “Seth’s been filling me in on what happened! How awful. Not just a body but someone you knew. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand, believe me.”

Meg sat down at the table with them. “No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not, but I don’t have any trouble talking about it. Chandler and I parted ways a while ago—we just weren’t a good fit. And I still have trouble visualizing him around here. Country was definitely not his thing. He must have thought there was money to be made.”

Rachel poured Meg a mug of coffee and set a plate of home-baked cookies on the table. “Seth’s been keeping me up-to-date about the development project, but you might know more from the banking side. What’ll happen now?”

“I don’t know the details so I’m just guessing, but I assume the bank will have people ready to step into Chandler’s shoes. If it’s a financially viable project—and Chandler didn’t get involved with shaky deals—then they’ll want to go ahead.”

Through a mouthful of cookie, Seth mumbled, “So if anyone killed him to stop the project, they’re out of luck?”

“Most likely, although whoever it was might not have known that. But yes, you’re probably right. Is that good or bad?”

“For Detective Marcus, it doesn’t help. For Granford, it’s not clear. The project hasn’t come to a vote yet, and won’t until the Town Meeting. You know about that?”

“Chandler mentioned something about it, but I’m a little unclear about the details,” Meg said.

Seth looked at her with mock horror. “You don’t know what a Town Meeting is? Good heavens, woman.”

“No. And before you ask, I’ve never been particularly interested in local politics. Local finance, maybe. I lived in Boston for most of my adult life, and I don’t remember running into anything about town meetings. So go ahead: educate me.”

“With pleasure.” Seth took another cookie and settled back in his chair. “I’ll give you the short form, but I expect you to do your homework. The history of the Massachusetts Town Meeting goes back over 350 years. Regrettably most people— like you—don’t pay much attention to them. Which means, in effect, that a very small percentage of residents gets to make the decisions for everyone in a town. Town officers are elected at Town Meetings, and the budget is approved. I told you I’m a selectman for Granford.”

He looked at her to make sure she was paying attention before going on. “Every town has to have an annual Town Meeting, and there are also Special Town Meetings, which the selectmen may call, or if enough voters want one, they can request one themselves. That’s where the vote on the project comes in. It’s a Special Town Meeting, with only one article on the warrant: approval of the Granford Grange project.”

Meg took another cookie and tried to look alert. “Can we cut to the chase? What’s going to happen at this Special Town Meeting?”

Seth sighed. “The article is basically a request for approval of the seizure of certain properties by the town through eminent domain to permit the construction of the project. And believe me, a lot of people are interested in that. It should be quite a meeting.”

“Hold on—the town is planning to seize the land? I’ve seen eminent domain applied only when the state wanted to take land for a new highway or some other municipal project.”

“You haven’t run into this before?”

“You mean when I was working at the bank? Actually, no, or at least, not directly. I dealt mainly with bond structuring, debt issues, that kind of thing. We were usually brought in to handle the financing once the deal was in place. Although I do recall reading something about a Supreme Court ruling about implementing eminent domain for commercial purposes. That was a couple of years ago, wasn’t it? I haven’t seen much about it since, but I guess I’m not surprised that Chandler would take a run at it.”

Seth nodded. “That’s what’s going on here. And you’re right. Hale suggested it when he first approached the town. He thought he could make it work, if he could convince the voters. That’s why there’s a Special Town Meeting scheduled.”

“And that means my orchard and part of your land?” Meg didn’t like the way this sounded.

Seth nodded. “It does. Problem is, the idea has galvanized the town and splintered its good citizens into a lot of factions. The younger ones, who’ve moved here recently, are all for having more amenities—they’d love to have a Starbucks around the corner and more stores. But then there are the ecologists, who are worried about environmental impact, and the preservationists, who are worried about the historic properties in the way and the threat to the character of the town. And the landowners, who feel strongly about their property.”

Rachel spoke for the first time. “Seth seems pretty cool about it, but our family has been on that land since it was first settled back in sixteen-whatever. The developers want a chunk along the highway. Which could mean a strip mall in the front yard, and all the lights and trash and noise that come with it.”

Seth turned to her. “Rachel, you’re exaggerating. The selectmen wouldn’t let that happen—we have the right to control what kind of development takes place. But I may have to recuse myself from the debate, since I have a direct interest.” He looked at Meg. “Listen, are you registered to vote?”

It took Meg a moment to grasp the question. “I was in Boston. Not here.”

“You’d better, then. You can’t attend the meeting unless you’re registered, or at least, you can’t cast a vote,” Seth said promptly.

“So I need to attend the meeting?” But registering to vote meant declaring that she actually lived in Granford, and Meg hadn’t been willing to admit that. On the other hand, she did have a personal stake in the outcome, and it made sense to keep an eye on the process.

Seth looked outraged. “Of course you do. It’s democracy in action, in the best sense. And you’re a local property owner.”

“Okay, tell me what I need to do. Will tomorrow be soon enough?”

Rachel started collecting cups. “Seth, time for you to go home. Can’t you see this poor woman is falling asleep?”

Seth stood up quickly. “Sorry, I get kind of carried away about all this. Meg, I’ll swing by around eight, if that’s okay?”

“No problem.” Meg managed to make it to her feet, far more slowly. It had been a very long day.

Rachel was quick to notice. “You have everything you need? Then go to bed. We can chat more in the morning. Seven thirty good for you?”

“Fine.” Meg was happy to have everyone else make her decisions for her. Right now all she could think about was that big bed with the cool white sheets. “See you then.”

Seth led her out into the hallway. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just tired. And I’m sure there’s more to come.”

“Count on it. Well, see you in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Upstairs, Meg changed into her nightgown and then tried to read the book she had set aside. But she gave up the effort after a couple of minutes, turned out the light, and tried to ignore the distant voice in her head:
Chandler’s dead, Chandler’s dead …

Think about something else.
Seth. The plumber with an Amherst degree. Who took finding a corpse in stride. And who had been kind enough to worry about how she felt. That was nice. Rachel was nice, too. Plenty of nice people around here.

She drifted off to a troubled sleep.

Meg awoke with a start at six thirty, even though she had forgotten to set the alarm. It was still winter-dark outside, but she could hear distant clatter somewhere below her in the house. Rachel fixing breakfast, no doubt. She swung her legs out of the bed, walked to the bathroom for a quick shower, then toweled off and pulled on her clothes. She threw the few things she had unpacked back into her bag, and in minutes she was ready to follow the enticing scent of baking down to the kitchen. There she found a scene of controlled chaos: Rachel shifting pans on the stove and in and out of the oven, while serving breakfast to what Meg deduced to be her husband and two children.

“Matthew, eat your muffin. The bus’ll be here in ten minutes. Chloe, do you have your lunch money? Hi, Meg, have a seat— this crew will be out the door in a minute. Oh, right, you haven’t met my husband. This is Noah.”

Rachel’s husband, a gangly man with disorderly dark hair, sprawled in his chair, clearly amused by the hubbub in his kitchen. He extended his hand across the table. “Noah Dickinson. And before you ask, no relation.” He grinned.

“What? Oh, you mean Emily. Nice to meet you, and thanks for taking me in for the night. I’m Meg Corey.”

“I know. You’re the celebrity of the day. The murder was on the local news.”

Meg quailed inwardly. She hadn’t even thought about that. She sat wordlessly and waited while Rachel herded her family out the door. In less than five minutes, a blessed silence fell, and Rachel dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief.

“End of round one! Thank goodness I don’t have any guests at the moment, but the spring season will be starting soon enough. With all these colleges in the area, there are always people looking for a place to stay.” Rachel bounced up again and went to the stove, where she waved a coffeepot in Meg’s direction. Meg nodded in response to the unvoiced question, and Rachel poured two mugs of coffee. “What do you want to eat?”

“Those muffins smell wonderful. That’ll be plenty for me.”

Rachel took a basket, lined it with what looked like an antique linen napkin, then added six large muffins, and brought the basket and the mugs to the table. She went to the refrigerator for butter, retrieved a silver-plated jelly tray and some mismatched antique butter knives, and placed them on the table. Finally she sat down again. “There,” she said triumphantly. “So, talk, before Seth shows up and eats all the muffins. If you don’t mind, that is. I have a tendency to ask a lot of questions, and Seth says I pry.”

Meg took a warm muffin and sliced into it, then slathered it with butter. If she had wanted to speak, she couldn’t have: she was too busy inhaling the homemade apple muffin. Between bites she managed, “These are wonderful!” She took a second muffin and quickly finished half of it before responding to Rachel’s curiosity. “No, I don’t mind, and anyway, I owe you. I don’t know what Seth has told you, but here’s the outline. My mother inherited the house from the last of the Warren family maybe thirty years ago, and held on to it. I came out here to fix it up, and a couple of days ago the septic tank went kerflooey— that’s how I met Seth.”

Rachel smiled at her. “The old Warren house. It’s a great place.”