A Killer Crop (26 page)

“But why look at my place? I never met the man, and as far as I know, he’d never been in my house.”

“Maybe he gave something to your mom, and she brought it back?”

“I think she would have mentioned it by now.” Unless it was something intensely personal—but why would a thief know about it, in that case? Or what if it was a piece of jewelry, and Patricia thought she had some claim to it? She could have faked the break-in at her own house, just to hide her tracks. “I’ll ask Mother at lunch. That is, if you’ll let me take time for lunch?”

“Start picking. We’ve got a long way to go.” Bree marched off to check on the other pickers.

As she began to fill her bag, Meg mulled things over. If the two events were related, then as Bree had pointed out, it had to be somebody looking for something connected to Daniel Weston. But why would anyone have searched at
her
house?

Meg unloaded her bag into the crate a few rows over and returned to her tree. Daniel had been a scholar, and had planned to unveil his discovery at an academic event—one with high visibility. His specialty was Emily Dickinson. Therefore, his discovery was most likely something related to Emily Dickinson.

Dickinson’s Farm Stand. Was it coincidence that everything kept coming back to Dickinsons and Emily? Maybe. There were plenty of Dickinsons around the area, past and present. Rachel’s husband was a Dickinson. Meg had seen any number of Dickinsons when she had looked at Granford census records. Maybe they were related, maybe not, but the more she dug, the more she found that everybody was related to everybody else in the area.

But what would have brought Daniel to the farm stand? He could have met the person at his home, or at a neutral public place in Amherst. Was he, or the person he was meeting, looking for a quiet place where no one would see them? Why would Daniel have gone along with it, if someone else had asked him? Obviously he
should
have said no. Or had he chosen the spot himself for some reason?

Meg continued picking on autopilot, her mind churning. She felt obscurely relieved: as Elizabeth had told Detective Marcus, it was highly unlikely that her mother would have known about Dickinson’s Farm Stand, and Daniel would have had no reason to take her there. According to Elizabeth, they’d already parted ways by then. The hotel could probably confirm when she had returned—didn’t they all have keycard access these days? When had Daniel set up this mystery rendezvous? Were there phone records? Cell phone, home phone, office phone? Or face-to-face?

Meg had made an effort to avoid thinking about her mother and Daniel. There was no way she could see her mother as someone’s . . . what? Paramour? Lover? Mistress? None of the terms fit, no matter what the relationship. Meg really wanted to believe it was all as innocent as Elizabeth had said. Daniel had heard that Meg lived in the area, and had contacted his old grad school buddies to see if Meg was their daughter. When he’d reached Elizabeth rather than Phillip, he’d issued a casual invitation to come visit, and she, at loose ends with her husband out of town, had said, why not? And that was that. All open and aboveboard, just as Elizabeth had said. They’d had a nice visit, but found they had little in common anymore, and had gone their own ways. Maybe Elizabeth had had different expectations, but nothing had come of them.

But no matter what, Daniel was dead, and the police said he had been murdered. That was one fact that wouldn’t go away. And the police weren’t likely to let it. A respected professor, killed in a charming college town during new student week? A town that depended on parents sending their little darlings to school there, assuming they’d be safe? No, Detective Marcus was going to keep after this until he came to some resolution, and unfortunately Elizabeth was still in his sights.

Twist, drop, unload; repeat. Meg filled the next couple of hours with picking, until her back hurt and her hands were sore. The sun rose higher in the sky. When Bree passed by, making her supervisory rounds, Meg asked, “Can I stop for lunch, boss? Please?”

Bree surveyed Meg’s row of trees. “Looks pretty good. But don’t make it a long one—we’ve got to take advantage of this good weather while we can.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Meg slipped out of her apple bag and straightened up with a sigh of relief. “I’ll be back at one.” She crossed the orchard and started down the hill toward the house, then realized there was a car in the driveway—one she recognized. Her father’s.

It was all Meg could do to stop herself from running down the hill to the house. How long had it been since she’d seen her father? A year? And maybe now she’d finally get some answers about those “good old days” in Cambridge, when her parents had hung out with the late Daniel Weston.

She paused when she reached the back door: she could see her parents in the kitchen, locked in a close embrace. Elizabeth’s head was on Phillip’s chest, and he was holding her tight, his chin resting on her head. There was a tenderness in their stance that brought a lump to Meg’s throat. Did she really question their feelings for each other? There was certainly no distance between them now, literal or figurative.

Phillip finally looked up and saw Meg hesitating at the door, then released Elizabeth and opened his arms to Meg. “Meggy, my love, you’re looking—”

“Like something the cat dragged in, I know. It’s so good to see you!” She let herself be enfolded in the warmth of her father’s embrace. He smelled of all things familiar, but with an overlay of sea and salt and distant places, as if his recent fishing trip had somehow seeped into his pores. Finally she pulled away. “And where the hell have you been?”

“I was just about to explain. I got home after midnight last night, and when I heard the messages on the phone, I hopped in the car this morning and drove straight up. Can you give a poor man something to eat and drink?”

“I made lunch,” Elizabeth said. “Phillip, what would you like to drink?”

“Coffee, if you have it. If I understand several of those phone messages correctly, the local constabulary wants a word with me, so I’d better keep my wits about me.”

As Elizabeth moved around the kitchen, Meg studied her father across the table. His skin had a ruddy glow, his nose was peeling, and strands of his graying fair hair were bleached by the sun—obviously he’d been spending time outside.

Elizabeth laid plates on the table, and then a platter of sandwiches. Phillip inhaled a large chunk of sandwich and half his mug of coffee before speaking. “It was that damn boat of Harold’s. You remember Harold, don’t you, Meg?”

“No.”

Seeing her blank look, Phillip went on, “The boat was amazing—really top-of-the-line, what’s called a motor yacht. Anyway, Harold said he wanted to move it from New Jersey to his winter place in Florida, and he asked me and a couple other buddies to come along for the ride. You know, one of those trips where we drank a lot, and tossed a line in the water now and then to pretend we were fishing. Real man stuff.” Phillip’s eyes twinkled. “Besides, we weren’t exactly roughing it—the boat had three staterooms, DVD players in each room, and even a washer-dryer. Do you know, Elizabeth, I think it was nicer than our first apartment? Problem was, Harold’s a little sloppy about his maintenance schedule, so the motor died on us about halfway there, and of course, he had no idea how to fix it. Luckily we drifted to a nice peaceful island and dropped anchor, but it was days before anybody noticed us—although I’ll admit we didn’t try very hard to capture anyone’s attention, at least for the first day or two. We figured hey, we were on vacation, so none of us worried too much. And at least Harold had done a bang-up job stocking up on provisions.”

“And no phone connections? You didn’t have a radio?”

“Well, we could have radioed if there was an emergency, but we weren’t in any hurry. Of course, none of us was expecting any frantic phone calls from the police or our wives. Not that Harold has one at the moment.” He reached across to Elizabeth and laid a hand over hers. “I would have been here if I’d known—you know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t get to see Daniel.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “It was you he asked for when he called.” They shared a moment of silent communion, and Meg suddenly felt left out.

“Daddy, can you stay for a few days?” she broke in.

“Did you really think I’d turn around and leave so fast? I want to see what you’ve done with this place. And we have to sort out this mess with Daniel’s death. Is there room for me to stay here? We could always go to a hotel.”

“Of course you’re welcome here, if you don’t mind the simple life. And Mother can tell you that I may not have much time to spend with you, since we’re right in the thick of the harvest.”

“You’re working in the orchard yourself?” Her father sounded mildly incredulous.

“I am. My orchard manager, Bree, broke her wrist last week, and that left us shorthanded. I’m picking and making deliveries, since she can’t do any heavy lifting for a while. By the way, Bree lives here, too, and there’s only one bathroom. You might want to reconsider that hotel.”

Phillip smiled. “Darling, I’m here to see you and your mother, not the inside of some anonymous hotel. But if it’s inconvenient for you, just say so and we’ll get out of your way.”

“I’d be happy if you stayed here.” Meg realized she meant it—this was her home, and she wanted her family to be part of it.

“Then that’s settled!” Phillip clapped his hands together as if to close the subject. “Now, we should go talk to that detective person who’s been leaving me messages for days. Right, Elizabeth?”

“Of course—we want to stay on his good side. And I know a lovely restaurant where we can have dinner tonight.” Elizabeth winked at Meg.

“Yo, Meg! You coming back?” Bree called out from outside the kitchen door. She walked into the kitchen, then stopped abruptly when she saw Phillip. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to barge in.”

“No, you’re right—I need to get back to work. Bree, this is my father, Phillip Corey. Daddy, this is my orchard manager, Briona Stewart.”

Bree held out a hand, and Phillip rose and shook it. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear. You have a big job here. I hope you’re up to it.”

Before Bree could take offense, Meg said, “Yes, Daddy, she is—she may be young, but she’s smart. Bree, don’t be insulted—my father’s just an old coot, and a sexist one.” She elbowed her father in the ribs, and he laughed.

“Ah, you know me well, my dear. No offense intended, Bree. I’m sure between the two of you, you have that orchard well in hand. Elizabeth, I’ll go call the detective now and see when he’s available. Meg, I’ll see you later. Bree, nice to meet you.” Phillip was pulling his cell phone out of his pocket even as he spoke, heading for the door to the dining room.

“You go, dear,” Elizabeth told Meg. “I’ll call Gran’s, if that’s all right with you. Unless you’d rather eat here?”

“Go right ahead, Mother. And please be polite to Detective Marcus, and don’t let Daddy go all lawyerish on him.”

“I think I can manage that. Now, shoo!”

Meg followed an impatient Bree out the door. As they headed up the hill, Bree said, “So, what’s his excuse for disappearing?”

“He said his buddy’s boat died on them, and they spent a chunk of time partying on a desert island, conveniently out of cell phone range. They were having too much fun to call home.”

“You believe him?”

“I think so. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Kinda convenient, isn’t it? Maybe he and his buddies had something going on, on that fancy boat of theirs. And if they did, I’ll betcha his fishing pals would swear they were together the whole time and doing nothing more than fishing.”

“Bree, you are a grade-A cynic. Why can’t you accept it was a simple fishing trip with the guys?”

Bree threw up her hands. “Okay, okay. Look, it’ll be a good thing if they get things squared away with that detective.”

“I agree, no question. But, Bree, I haven’t seen my father since last year sometime, so I’m going to want to spend a little time with him. I know we’ve got apples to pick, but cut me some slack, okay?”

“Sorry, Meg. I wasn’t thinking about it like that.And I don’t usually have to take relatives into account, you know? Look, I know you work hard, and I’m sorry if I sounded like a jerk. But you’re paying me to see that these apples get picked.”

“And you’re doing a great job, under difficult circumstances. Don’t worry—I take this seriously, too. Just give me a little time to get this murder mess sorted out.”

“You think that’s going to happen anytime soon?”

“I certainly hope so. How about this: you can have all my daylight hours, but I reserve the time after dark to spend with my parents?”

They’d reached the top of the hill. “That sounds fine. But now you need to get back to work. You’ve still got another four, five hours of light.”

 

 

By dinnertime, Meg stumbled down the hill as the sun was setting. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a good meal, but she figured she ought to stop by and warn Seth that her father had finally appeared. There was a light on in the room Seth was using as an office, so she bypassed her back door and climbed the wooden stairs inside the former carpenter’s shop. Seth was at work at his chaotic desk, with Max stationed at his feet as if he’d always been there. “Hey, there.”