A Gala Event (9 page)

“You want to see those?” Gail asked, clearly surprised. “Because I'd have to do some digging to figure out where they might be.”

“Thanks, but it's not just that. One thing I do remember. A couple of weeks before the fire, Gramma called me in and said she had a couple more boxes that should go to the Historical Society. She'd labeled them ‘Family Papers.' I didn't think much about it at the time. I just took them and handed them over. It was only afterward I realized that we'd done a pretty good job of sorting out all the family papers from her old house, so what the heck was in the new boxes?”

“And you think that could have anything to do with . . . what happened?” Gail asked, incredulous.

“I know it's a long shot. But I remember thinking then that it was kind of odd. It could be nothing at all, or she could have slipped a few gears and put in all her old magazines, for all I know. But I'd like to see those boxes. If that's possible.”

Gail said, “You've arrived at an odd time. We just built a new storage area under the old building, which will give us room to assemble all the collections that people have been giving to the Historical Society since we first opened. The problem is, they've been scattered all over town, wherever someone had room to keep them. And our early record-keeping left a lot to be desired. Bottom line is, I'm not sure where a lot of the stuff ended up—I'm still trying to track down some of it. Worst case, someone could have forgotten what it was and thrown it out. I'll look for your grandmother's stuff—it sounds like there's more than those last few
boxes, although there's no guarantee that any of it was kept together—but I won't promise I can find it.”

Aaron gave her a slight smile. “I'd really appreciate that, especially after I half scared you to death.”

“And I nearly killed you with a vegetable chopper—which, by the way, is part of one of those wandering collections. So there's a kind of logic to it all.”

Aaron stood up, albeit a bit unsteadily, his fatigue showing. “I should get out of your hair. You've been very kind.”

Meg shot a glance at Seth. “Where are you going, Aaron?”

Aaron gave another shrug. “Not your problem.”

Meg refused to believe that. “Aaron, you're welcome to stay here and sleep on our couch, like Seth offered.” Seth gave her an odd look.

Aaron hesitated before answering. “That's more than kind, and I'm happy to accept. But what I really want is to take a shower.”

It was Seth who replied. “No problem.” So he'd cooled off. Meg rewarded him with a smile.

“Look at the time!” Gail exclaimed. “I've got to get home. Aaron, I'll start looking for your stuff as soon as I can. But tomorrow's Sunday, and I really need to spend some quality time with my family, after this week.”

“No rush, Gail,” Aaron told her. “It's already been twenty-five years. A couple more days won't matter.”

“Great. Meg, Seth, thanks for including me. Aaron, I'll be seeing you again, I hope. Night, all!” She rushed out the back door, and Meg heard her car start up.

“Let me go find some blankets and stuff,” Meg said. “We don't use the front parlor much, so it's chilly.”

“I've slept in worse.”

Meg and Seth spent a few minutes sorting out bedclothes
and pillows and such, and then Seth walked Max, and Meg made sure Lolly had food. Meg directed Aaron to the shower, and she could swear that his eyes lit up at the sight of it . . . with a door that closed.

“What do you think you're doing, Meg?” Seth asked, once he heard the water running.

“The man needs help. We can help. It's that simple. Do you believe his story?”

Seth didn't answer right away. Finally he said, “God help me, I think I do. But you're the one complaining about how many things you have to do. How did you manage to add looking into an old case of arson?”

“Don't ask me; these things just keep happening. If we're lucky, Gail will find the files and there won't be anything important in them, and Aaron will go . . . wherever.”
And if we're not lucky?
Meg refused to consider that. “Can we go to bed now?”

Meg woke up with the sun and lay in bed worrying. Seth was right: why did she feel compelled to help some guy she didn't know, who hadn't been part of Granford for a quarter century, and who wasn't exactly popular with the few townspeople who remembered him? Even usually affable Seth had been wary of him.

But Meg believed Aaron.
Stupid, Meg—now you're going on gut instinct?
She couldn't see what he hoped to gain, other than peace of mind. Legally he was in the clear, since he'd served out his sentence. It seemed credible—barely—that the drugs had so addled his brain that he really didn't know what had happened that night. He was prepared to acknowledge his guilt, but he wanted to fill in the blanks. That she could understand.

Which left her with a couple of questions. One, why should she take this on? She had no obligation to him. Two, how on earth was she supposed to look into a crime that had taken
place so long ago? The former police chief had retired long since, and Meg wasn't even sure he was still alive. Would Art be willing to share whatever records he had? There would have been an arson investigation, but would that be included in that report? The Eastman house had been far enough outside of town that there were no near neighbors, and apparently no witnesses had come forward. Were trial transcripts available to random citizens like her? Could Art request them? Was that public defender still practicing? And why did she care?

Because it was the right thing to do. It was an act of charity, of paying it forward. Sure, she was busy, but this could affect the rest of Aaron's life, and her problems with menus and invitations seemed kind of trivial in comparison. So she'd ask Art what information was available and what he could share. And maybe Gail would find those wandering boxes, which might or might not provide information about some aspect of this. Odd, what the human mind retained—or didn't: Aaron couldn't remember the death of his parents, but he clearly remembered helping his grandmother pack up storage boxes.

Seth stirred beside her. “Think Aaron's still here?” he mumbled into the pillow.

“I haven't checked. What're the odds?”

“On the one hand, he must be exhausted, so he could still be asleep. On the other hand, maybe he realized what a wild-goose chase this is and lit out. On the third hand, maybe he's telling the truth and he believes we can help him, which would mean he'll be waiting for us downstairs.”

“Unless you've got a fourth hand coming, I'm going to get up and worry about breakfast. I should get downstairs before Bree walks into the kitchen and discovers a stranger there.”

“Good point. I'll go start coffee and walk Max.” Seth swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Did we have any other plans for today, before all this came up?” Meg asked.

“Not really. We should go see Rachel. Maybe Mom will want to come along.”

How sweet of Seth to want to check in on his sister, Rachel
, Meg thought. Rachel had already had two kids, but the one she was expecting now was, well, kind of unexpected.

Seth went on, “Rachel's getting pretty close to her due date, and we might not get another chance. Once the baby comes, it'll be a while before she can focus on a coherent conversation longer than two or three sentences.”

Meg smiled. “And you know this why, Seth Chapin?”

“I've seen her with the first two, remember? Having a baby does something weird to your hormones. See you downstairs!”

Meg stretched like a cat, but when she heard two male voices downstairs, she decided she should get moving and join them. She dressed quickly and went down the front stairs. In the parlor, the blankets Aaron had used were neatly folded, the pillow laid on top. When she reached the kitchen, she was confronted by a sight of unexpected domesticity: Aaron sat at the table, a coffee mug in front of him, Lolly the cat settled on his lap, and Max sprawled on the floor at his feet, his gaze alternating between the stranger at the table and the pan of bacon Seth was frying.

“Good morning!” Meg said, helping herself to coffee. “Looks like you've made some friends here.”

“I like animals. Mom would never let us have any; she said she had allergies. My theory is she didn't want any animals messing with the antique furniture.”

“Well, as you've probably noticed, what furniture we have has seen better days, so those two can't do much harm. Did we tell you that my orchard manager lives upstairs, too?
So if you see a young woman at the door, that's probably her. She was at her boyfriend's last night.”

“Got it. So she doesn't know about me yet. Your police chief didn't make a big deal about what happened in town?”

“At the Historical Society, you mean? No, and he doesn't jump to conclusions. But some people may have seen the ambulance.”

“Food,” Seth said, setting plates of bacon and eggs on the table, then another plate with a stack of toast.

“This looks great,” Aaron said, and dug in eagerly. Meg avoided staring, but in reviewing what he'd said, how he'd acted, since he arrived, she thought that whoever had taught him manners as a child had done a good job, and apparently prison hadn't erased it all. He was well-spoken, too. How had he survived prison? Where had he been? Not that knowing the name would tell Meg much—she had zero familiarity with the Massachusetts prison system. Had Aaron been considered violent? She had no idea. He had no visible tattoos or scars, she noted, and then laughed inwardly at herself. Apparently she'd been watching too many sensationalized television shows. Were all prisons rife with gangs and drugs and violence and corruption? She couldn't exactly ask Aaron over the breakfast table.

After the food had disappeared, Aaron leaned back and stretched, dislodging Lolly. “That was great. Thank you. I should be going.”

“At the risk of sounding rude,” Meg said, “where are you going?”

Aaron shrugged. “I'll figure something out.”

“You need to stay in Granford for as long as it takes to find those records, right?”

“Maybe. There may be nothing there, and I don't want to get my hopes up. I just think it's weird that that detail
sticks out in my memory. Of course, if you're doing drugs, your brain isn't always rational.”

“Why do you think that sticks out?” Seth asked, refilling his coffee cup.

Aaron thought for a moment. “Well, like I said, I thought we'd finished with all Gramma's papers, before she moved in with us. And then, I guess I thought she was acting kind of funny when she asked me to take the new stuff to the Historical Society.”

“Funny how?” Meg asked.

“I don't know . . . kind of guilty, maybe? I mean, Gramma was usually pretty direct; she didn't let anybody get away with BS, and she was good at seeing right through me if I tried to lie to her. So even though my brain was kind of foggy, I got the impression that there was something peculiar going on with those particular boxes. But I couldn't tell you why.”

“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.”