One Bad Apple (18 page)

“I realize that, Meg. But you have an advantage that I don’t: you own property here, property that’s directly involved in the project. You can ask questions. And the townspeople will be willing to talk to you, because you share their concerns. And …” Cinda hesitated slightly. “I gather you have Seth Chapin’s ear?”

Is that what this is really about?
Meg wondered.
How would Cinda have heard anything like that?
“Seth is my plumber and my neighbor,” she said neutrally. “I’ve known him less than a week.”

“But he brought you to the meeting last night, which sends a message to the people in town. Look, Meg, all I’m asking is that you keep me up-to-date about what the buzz in town is. And maybe give me a little counsel on the financial advantages to the town. I know you have far more experience on that side than I do. Just help me strengthen my presentation, you know? I need to make my case as strong as I can. After all, I have to stand up in front of the Town Meeting and sell it.”

It was a good act, Meg had to admit. An appeal to sisterhood, a little professional flattery, a touching humility. Cinda knew exactly what she was doing. Chandler had taught his protégée well. Meg’s first impulse was to tell her to pack it in and go away. She had been offended when Chandler had suggested it, and she was no less offended now by Cinda’s approach.

But … maybe it was not a good idea to dismiss Cinda as she had Chandler. Maybe she should do a little strategizing of her own. If she kept the lines of communication open with Cinda, at least she could learn something about the project and what was going on behind the scenes—a fair exchange of information. And she would have yet another reason to look carefully at the financial impact on the town—something she should do anyway, for her own purposes—and something she could report to Seth. The idea of this secret exchange pleased her.

She forced a smile. “Cinda, I’m flattered that you came to me, and I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

Cinda beamed at her. “Oh, Meg, thank you! I can’t tell you how important your help will be to me. I really, really appreciate it.” Her mission apparently accomplished, she stood up. “I won’t take up any more of your time now—I have to get back to Boston and pick up a few things, since it looks like I’ll be here for a while. But I’m so glad I can count on you.”

“Of course.” Meg stood up also. “Just let me know what you need, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Cinda was already moving toward the door. “I’ll be in touch just as soon as I get back! And I love your house. It’s a real treasure.” As she uttered this last statement, she turned the knob to open the front door. It stuck. She pulled harder, and it gave suddenly with a jerk that sent her stumbling backward. “Damn,” she said, under her breath. It appeared she had broken a carefully manicured nail. On the doorstep she turned once again and gave Meg a bright smile. “I’ll talk to you next week, Meg. And I can’t thank you enough. Bye!”

Meg watched as Cinda tiptoed her way along Meg’s flagstone path. City heels were not intended for rough stone, and her exit was less than graceful. When she reached the car, she looked back and waved, and then pulled out too fast. Meg shut the door and sighed.

What did Cinda really want? Meg didn’t doubt Cinda’s professional abilities—Chandler would not have tolerated merely average performance, no matter how decorative the package. Maybe Cinda was just covering all the bases, collecting whatever scraps of information she could. Meg didn’t kid herself that she had anything more than scraps to offer. Unless it was access to Seth that Cinda wanted. Was Seth the linchpin of this deal? Did his decision, to sell or to fight, carry that much weight in the community? As she had told Cinda, she had known him only a few days. There was no way she could gauge the impact of his opinions. Maybe Cinda wanted to keep an eye on him, and Meg was her best hope.

But where had Cinda gotten that idea?

The next morning, as she tidied up the few dishes in the kitchen, Meg was not pleased to see the state detective’s car pull into her drive. With a sigh, she dried her hands and went to open the front door.

“Detective Marcus,” she said as she stepped aside to let him in. “I didn’t know county law enforcement worked on weekends—or made house calls. Is there something new about Chandler’s death?”

He surveyed the room before he answered. “Ms. Corey, this case is high priority. I was in the neighborhood checking on a few things. I wanted to give you a copy of your statement, see if you wanted to make any changes. Let’s sit down.”

“Certainly.” Meg led the way to the dining room and gestured toward a chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Stop it, Meg—this isn’t a social occasion, it’s a murder investigation.

“Let’s just get down to business.” He stood, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for her to sit, so she sat, and he followed suit. He pushed a large manila envelope across the table toward her. Her statement?

The detective pulled a small pad from his shirt pocket and opened it with deliberation, leafing through the pages until he found the one he wanted, then located a pen. Meg wondered if he was always this slow or if this was just a tactic to rattle her. Unfortunately it was working, which annoyed her because she had done nothing wrong, had nothing to hide. Finally he launched into his questions.

“When your relationship with Chandler Hale ended, were there any hard feelings?”

Meg stared at him. He really wanted to go over this same trampled ground? “No, it was relatively amicable.”

“Had you seen him since you moved here?”

“No. I told you that the last time we spoke. He just showed up at my door last Monday.”

“Maybe you two picked up where you left off?” The detective watched her.

“No.” Meg fought rising anger.

“You had dinner,” the detective said flatly.

“Yes, we did.”

“What did you discuss at dinner?”

“Detective, I’ve already told you all this,” Meg said tartly.

“Just answer the question.”

What was he driving at? “We talked about what we’d been doing, and the development project, mainly. He asked me for my help with the project, since I was now a resident and a landowner in Granford. I told him I wasn’t interested.”

“How did he take that?”

“He wasn’t pleased. I think he assumed I’d be happy to help him, but I disliked the way he approached the whole thing. And he implied that he could see to it that I got a good deal when I sold my land, if I went along with him. I was uncomfortable with the ethics of that. Look, Detective, I’ve told you all this before.”

Detective Marcus ignored her comment. “How did you meet Seth Chapin?”

That was not a question she had been expecting. “I had some plumbing problems, and he was the first plumber I reached.”

“You know about his involvement in the land deal?”

“Not at the time. I do now.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That part of his property is targeted for commercial development, as is part of mine. And that he has mixed feelings about it, since he’s both a selectman and a landowner.”

“You sure there isn’t anything more going on?”

Meg swallowed. What was this man suggesting? “Excuse me?”

“I have to look at all the angles, Ms. Corey. Here’s one scenario: say you and Chapin had something going on, and this Hale guy shows up unexpectedly and takes it the wrong way. After all, we have only your word about how things ended between you. Or maybe Seth didn’t like him putting the moves on you. Some men might not be happy about that. Might do something about it.”

Incredulous, Meg realized that he was serious. “Detective,” she said carefully, “are you suggesting that Seth might have killed Chandler because Seth and I are involved somehow? You’re barking up the wrong tree. I barely know the man.”

“Well, it would have been convenient for Chapin, don’t you think? Get his competition out of the way
and
put the kibosh on a project he doesn’t want anyway, all at once.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe Seth would do something like that.” Even as she said the words, she realized how little she knew about Seth.

“Maybe. Or maybe Hale decided he wanted you back and wouldn’t take no for an answer, and you panicked and fought with him.”

It would be funny that the detective had cast her as the femme fatale, luring—or fending off—not one but two men here in Granford, except that none of it was true. And where was he getting these ideas? Meg considered how best to answer. If she told the simple truth, would he believe her? And how could she prove a negative?

She took a deep breath. “Detective, once again, nothing happened that night between Chandler and me. I hadn’t seen him in months. What’s more, the idea of Chandler Hale resorting to physical violence is laughable. And I’m sure, knowing Chandler, that he had some sort of current relationship in Boston, and it shouldn’t be hard for you to find out. He seldom lacked for female companionship.” To her dismay, she sounded like a Victorian spinster. “We had dinner, he brought me home, and then he left. Period.” Maybe it was time to turn the tables. “I didn’t see him again until he came out of my septic tank, dead. Have you looked at any of the other people around here who might have a reason to want Chandler dead?”

“We’re looking into a lot of things, Ms. Corey.” Detective Marcus wasn’t about to give anything away.

The man was infuriating. But Meg could be stubborn, too. “Have you found anyone who saw him after we had dinner that night?”

“Looks like he was in the Boston office for most of Tuesday—left there about three. Could’ve been back here by six if he drove straight back.”

“What about his assistant, Cinda Patterson?”

The detective sighed. “Ms. Corey, I am under no obligation to report to you on the progress of this investigation, particularly since you are under suspicion. I will tell you that I spoke to Ms. Patterson on Friday morning.”

Meg waited, but the detective didn’t volunteer anything else, including when Cinda had last seen Chandler. “You know I went to the historical society meeting that night. It started a little after seven. I was there early.”

“I know. The meeting ended close to ten. People saw you there.”

So he had checked. “And then I came home and went to bed. Listen, Detective, I understand that Chandler died from blunt force trauma, right?”

“A blow or blows to the head. Where’d you hear that?”

Meg ignored the question; no need to get Seth into any more trouble. “How much strength would that have taken?”

“You mean, would it take a man to do it? A good whack with a rock or a pipe would have done the trick, man or woman.”

“What about putting him into the tank?”

“He weighed, what, maybe 190? A man could do it. A strong woman could do it. Or two people working together. Or somebody in a panic. Lots of possibilities.”

Since the detective seemed willing to share, if grudgingly, Meg pressed on. “Where was he staying?”

He gave her a long look, weighing his response. “Kept a room at the Hotel Northampton. Nothing disturbed there, or if there was, someone cleaned up real well.”

Meg nodded. “Chandler was always very tidy. And he didn’t travel with a lot of fuss. Was his car there?”

“That Mercedes? In the parking garage. Neat as a pin.”

“So where do you think he was killed?”
Please, not in my backyard
, Meg prayed silently.

“Don’t know yet,” he said reluctantly.

They both fell silent.

“Do you have any suspects?” Meg asked finally.
Apart from Seth and me, of course,
she added to herself.

“Can’t say, Ms. Corey.” The detective had shifted back to stonewall mode, but at least Meg had gleaned a few kernels of information.

“Then is there anything else you need?”

He stood up. “No, I think we’re done. For now. Look over the statement—if it’s okay, sign it and send it back to me. And let me know if you remember anything else that might help.” He handed her a business card, then looked around again. “Nice place you’ve got.”

Everyone seemed to like her house—more than they liked her. “Thank you, Detective.” She followed him to the front door.

He headed for his car, and Meg watched him through the storm door as he pulled out of the driveway. He had done everything by the book, asked all the right questions, but Meg was still uneasy. From what he had said, or hinted, it seemed that she and Seth were still the primary suspects, singly or working together. Would he look any further?

This was ridiculous. She had come to bucolic Granford for some peace and quiet, and some therapeutic construction work, and somehow had landed herself in the middle of a murder investigation—the murder of someone she knew, no less, and in which she seemed to be a suspect. It made no sense to her. Who around here had known about her defunct relationship with Chandler? Only Seth, and that was after Chandler was dead. Well, Cinda might have known. Maybe she could corroborate the fact of the breakup? The detective said he had talked to Cinda. He had to, if he was doing his job. Unless he was determined to pin Chandler’s death on Meg or on Seth. But why would he be?