A Gala Event (16 page)

“You didn't answer the question,” Meg said, returning her grin.

Bree got a faraway look in her eye. “Rebuild the chicken coop.”

“What?” Meg replied, startled.

“You heard about these new tiny houses?” When Meg shook her head, Bree explained. “They're really tiny—maybe five hundred square feet, but you've got everything you need, mostly built in. Look, I don't want a place that requires a lot of fuss. I don't have a lot of things, and I don't want any more than I have. So I don't need a lot of space. Is this making sense to you?”

“I think so. Think Seth knows about this?”

“He probably knows more about the chicken coop.”

“Okay, then let me think about it. And please don't ask Seth just yet. If he gets into it, it'll distract him from everything else that he's supposed to be doing.”

“So what else is new? It probably couldn't happen before spring anyway, but he could think about it over the winter. So it's status quo for now? Plus one bathroom?”

“Two. One off the master bedroom—and why isn't it mistress bedroom?—and a powder room down here.”

“What a luxury!”

“Oh, and Lydia will be coming by for supper, and then we're going to go over Aaron's mysterious documents.”

“You need me for that?”

“Only if you're fascinated by accounting ledgers.”

“I'll pass. But I can help with dinner.”

“You need me in the orchard?”

“Nope. Everything's under control. Enjoy the moment—how often can we say that?”

Meg checked the time: too early to call Gail, whose children would still be at home. She decided to leaf through the bathroom catalogs Seth had left for her, to try to visualize what she wanted. Quickly she realized that she had never given much thought to bathrooms. All right, there would be a shower for the new one upstairs, since a bathtub wouldn't fit in the reclaimed space. Did she want a prefab one? Fiberglass? Corian? Would she rather have a tiled one? What about overhead lights in the shower stall? She giggled at that: who couldn't find their own body parts in a space that measured three feet by three feet? Or tell whether they'd scrubbed a particular patch? On to sinks: Freestanding? With cabinet? How big a cabinet? Would this be the only storage? Where would the towels live? Plastic, tile, or stone? What would be easiest to keep clean? Least slippery?

This is ridiculous. Now Meg understood why she'd never given it any thought. She searched her memory and couldn't
come up with a single example of a bathroom she'd walked into and said “wow.” Any bathroom should be warm and well lit; safe; easy to keep clean; and as roomy as possible given the available space. Period. She could recall a few, mainly when she had traveled, where it was impossible to sit on the loo without her knees hitting the wall, and she was by no means a large person. A test run might be useful, although the plumbing running through the walls kind of dictated the layout. But apart from that, she hoped that Seth had an opinion about the decor, because she certainly didn't.

Once she'd finished ranting to herself about bathroom planning, it was late enough to call Gail.

“Hey, Meg,” Gail answered cheerily. “Just sent the kids off to school. Anything new? Where's Aaron now?”

“Fixing the alpaca fence, over the hill, at least for a few days. Art says he's retrieved all the police files, or will have by the end of the day. I don't suppose you want to join us to go through them?”

“I wish I could,” Gail said, with true regret, “but I've got a ton of stuff to do at home, and I'm not sure my family recognizes me anymore. You'll have to give me a quick summary tomorrow.”

“That I can do. Lydia and I want to go over those three mystery boxes of Eastman files. Are you comfortable releasing them to us so we could bring them here, or would you rather we worked at the Historical Society building in town?”

“Just the three boxes of financial documents? I think I can trust you with them. Not the earlier boxes, though, because there may be some good historical stuff in there. You want to come by and pick them up later?”

“You give me a time and I'll be there.”

“Before three, when the kids get home. Or, wait—I've
got some errands to run. Why don't I just bring them by on my way home? Will you be around?”

“Sure. We're pretty much done with apple-picking. Give me a call when you're on your way.”

“Will do. Bye for now!”

It was barely nine o'clock, and Meg didn't know what to do. Feed the goats? Or she could stroll over to where Aaron was supposed to be working on the fence and see how he was doing, but she didn't want to talk to him again until she had more information, afraid of either getting his hopes up or disappointing him. She could clean out the basement. Or the attic. Or both. But those ideas didn't appeal to her. What was it Bree had said about tiny houses? She could investigate those on the Web, and decide if it made sense to talk to Seth about the idea. It was creative, she had to admit, and it would solve a couple of problems. Bree didn't seem to mind the idea of living in a chicken house. But when would Seth find the time to convert it? Would he entertain the idea of letting someone else do the work, or (gasp) buying a ready-made kit?

She became so engrossed in her searches that the next time she checked, it was time for lunch. She found sandwich fixings in the refrigerator, and poked around looking for inspiration for supper. One plus about cooler weather: she could go back to cooking stews and thick soups, which, along with some hearty bread, made a perfectly good meal. Finally enthusiastic, she collected ingredients and started assembling them.

Gail called shortly after two, and appeared in her driveway a few minutes later. Meg went out to greet her and to help carry the boxes. “Let's put them in the dining room,” Meg instructed her. “We rarely use that. Funny, isn't it, that we give so much space to a room that doesn't get used, while we crowd into the kitchen to eat?”

“Hey, it's cozier that way, and think of the heat you save,” Gail said cheerfully. “Plus you get a nice big work surface. I'll get the last box and you'll be all set.” Gail went back out to the car and returned bearing the third banker's box. “So that's it,” she said, panting. “Hope you have fun with them. I'm afraid the contents wouldn't make any sense to me. I don't have a head for numbers—just history, apparently.”

“You have time for a cup of tea?” Meg asked.

Gail looked at her watch. “I have approximately seventeen minutes. Boil fast.”

Meg had a steaming cup in front of her in three minutes. Gail applauded her speed.

When Meg sat down with her own tea, she said, “Gail, there's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

Gail dunked her tea bag one last time, then looked at Meg. “What's that?”

“Would you consider being my matron of honor?”

Gail looked blank for a moment, and then her expression turned to glee. “For the wedding? Of course I would! Wait—don't you have any old friends who claim first rights? Colleagues? Former roommates?”

“Gail, you
are
a friend. And you've been part of my life here in Granford since I arrived.”

Gail's eyes filled. “Oh, Meg, I'd be happy to. Remind me when and where?”

“Friday, December fourth—the week after Thanksgiving, in the evening. At Gran's. And that is just about all I know. But of course your husband and kids are welcome.” Meg made a mental note to tell Nicky to provide some kid-friendly food.

“And here I thought people planned for years. You're talking weeks?”

“I know. I'm behind the curve. But I can't get my head
around some big fancy—and expensive—event. We just want friends and family around us, and good food and drink, and everybody happy.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Good. This is anything but formal. And it's not a sit-down meal—I envision people grazing on lots of interesting stuff.”

“Well, if Nicky's cooking, it's going to be good. Thank you.” She took a swig of her tea, then glanced at her watch again. “Who's the best man?”

“We hope Art Preston, but I don't think Seth's asked him yet.”

“Good, good. Is there more to the wedding party? Your folks, Lydia, Christopher?”

“Gail, there isn't really a wedding party. We just need someone to stand up for each of us, and to sign the right documents.”

“You mean I don't get to throw you a shower?”

“That's really sweet of you, Gail, but I don't think it's necessary. I'm trying to keep this low-key and simple.”

Gail sighed dramatically. “Well, if that's what you want. Is there anything else that I can help with?”

“I've got a whole list of things we haven't done yet, but I'm not sure what you can do about them.”

“License, rings, and someone to officiate—they're important. I'm sure half the guests will take pictures. Good food and drink, but not too much. It'll be great. Just let me know if you need help.” She stood up. “Gotta run. Call me tomorrow and tell me if you've found anything interesting in the boxes.”

“Of course.” When Meg stood up to see her out, Gail grabbed her in a quick hug, then turned and hurried to her car. Meg waved as she pulled away.

Well
, she thought,
it's turning out to be a pretty good day
.
She'd finally managed to broach the question to Bree about where she wanted to live, and discovered a solution she hadn't even considered. She'd asked Gail to be her attendant. They might have an answer to at least some part of Aaron Eastman's mystery by the evening. Maybe she should give Christopher a call and see if everything was on track for his special license? Or was she bound to encounter bad news somewhere along the way? Well, sooner was better than later: if she found out now that there was a glitch, there was still time to fix it. Who else could perform marriages in Massachusetts?
No, one step at a time. Call Christopher.

Of course he wasn't in his office: he still taught at the university, and he also spent time in the new research building on campus that he had helped launch. She left a message at his academic office number, and made a mental note to try again later.

She still had time on her hands. Maybe this would be a good moment to take a hard look at the records for her harvest, since there would be few chances to come before it ended. Of course, she'd asked Bree to do it, since Bree was the official manager, which made it part of her job. She didn't want to undercut Bree, or make it look as though she didn't trust her. Still, Bree had never pretended that she enjoyed the financial side of the orchard business. She took much more pleasure in working with the trees—pruning, fertilizing, spraying (organically and responsibly!) against various pests, and even the nitty-gritty stuff like watering and picking. Bree did not shy away from hard work. So it was only fair that Meg pick up the parts that fit her own skills—like finances.

But she'd already asked Lydia to come over later so they could review the financial documents in the boxes, so she didn't think this was the right time to dig into her own. Might as well focus on making dinner.

Art stopped by just after five, and Meg let him in. “You look like a cat who hasn't eaten in days,” Art said with a smile. “And here I am carrying a can of cat food.”

“All right, I'll be polite. May I offer you some refreshment, sir?” Meg said with exaggerated courtesy.

“No thanks—my wife is ticked off already, so I can't stay long. Seth around?”

“I don't know where he is at the moment. Maybe the two of us should swap tracking devices as wedding gifts—then we'd always know where we were.”

“They could probably build a chip into your rings. Ain't technology great? By the way, Seth finally got around to asking if I'd be his best man.”

“Will you?” Meg asked, with a tinge of anxiety.

“No, I was planning a skiing vacation in the Alps that weekend.” At the sight of Meg's expression, Art burst out laughing. “Of course I will, Meg. Seth and I are joined at the hip, aren't we? And this way I can keep the crime rate at your wedding down.”

“Ha-ha,” Meg said. “Well, I'm glad to hear it, anyway. Gail's going to be my matron of honor. Will your wife be there?”

“Probably. She enjoys a good party, not to mention the food at Gran's.”

“Good. Now have I played nice long enough? Are you going to let me take a look at the files?” Meg wondered whether Aaron was going to show up suddenly; better to keep the files under wraps until she had a better idea what was in them.

“Yes, ma'am.” Art pulled out a heavy envelope from under his arm, and even before he opened it Meg was disappointed: it was no more than two inches thick. Was that all it took to decide the course of a man's life?

“Is that all there is?”

“From Granford and the state fire marshal, yes. The court transcripts are another story, but I'm working on it.”

“Have you read the file?” Meg demanded.

“Yeah,” Art admitted. “Didn't take long.”

“What did you think?” Meg tried to keep her tone neutral.

Art sighed. “There's not much there, Meg. The fire was determined to have been set, so it was not electrical, or a careless cigarette, or a forgotten candle. It started in the basement and spread quickly, because the building was old and drafty and the wood was dry. Your buddy Aaron had himself a little hidey-hole down there where he could carry on his less-than-legal activities out of sight of Mom and Dad. He managed to get himself out of the building, God knows how, but there's no evidence that he tried to help anybody else get out. That didn't go over well with the jury. That and he showed no remorse at the trial. Both probably contributed to his long sentence.”

Meg didn't like what she was hearing. “Where were the parents found?”

“In their beds. Probably overcome by smoke. As was the grandmother.”

“Sad,” Meg said, almost to herself. “So nothing new?”

“Not really. To be honest, I don't think Chief Burchard dug very hard, but I can't see any reason why he should have. I don't know if I would have, in his place. It looks like the proverbial open-and-shut case. I know that's not what you want to hear, Meg.”

“Oh, Art, I don't know what I want,” Meg protested. “A few days ago I'd never heard of Aaron Eastman or the fire in Granford. A jury convicted Aaron, and even he isn't sure whether he did it. Look, I really appreciate your digging up the files, and there's no way I want to throw mud at the Granford police, past or present.”