One Bad Apple (30 page)

“Maybe the detective, but the police chief doesn’t,” Frances replied. “I don’t. Hey, give folks a chance—they don’t even know you. I don’t think they’ve all jumped to the conclusion that you’re a murderer.”

“But someone out there is. Damn it, Frances, who killed Chandler? Maybe he exploited people, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

“He sure was one busy boy around here, wasn’t he? I get the feeling I wasn’t the only one. You two didn’t, uh, reconnect?”

“No, we did not!”

“What about his pretty little, um, colleague?”

Meg stared. “You knew they were involved? I didn’t even know.”

Frances laughed. “They tried to keep it professional in public, but you could tell, if you were looking. Am I wrong?”

“No, you got it right. Although a friend in Boston told me that Chandler and Cinda were over, too, about a month ago.”

“Oh-ho!” Frances said. “The plot thickens! That must have been sticky for both of ’em.”

“No doubt. Especially if he was tomcatting his way through the local female population, and Cinda knew about it. Even if it was for business, it must have stung.”

Frances was watching her with a gleam in her eye. “Sure.” Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “Damn, I almost forgot! There’s someone else who has a stake here: Nancy Chapin.”

“What? Seth’s ex-wife?”

Frances nodded. “You know about her?”

“A little. But how is she involved? Did she know Chandler?”

“She owns a piece of land next to Seth’s—bought it right after they got married. Near as I can tell, when they first got married she thought the plumbing business was going to expand and become something bigger and better. Besides, it was cheap when she bought it. I think her parents put up the money, right after the wedding. Not a big piece, but prime footage along the highway. So of course she would have known Chandler.”

“Ah.” Meg sat back in her chair and tried to process that information. Her mind was working slowly. “But that gives her a reason for wanting the deal to succeed, but not a reason for killing Chandler. Just the opposite, in fact.” There went one more nice theory. Maybe Nancy could have been the woman with Chandler that night, but she made a lousy murder suspect: no motive. Unless maybe Chandler made a pass at her, too. Since she didn’t know Nancy, it was hard to say how she would have reacted. Or maybe he had, and she had told Seth, and Seth had felt compelled to defend her honor … No, this was getting far too convoluted. Still, it would be nice to know if Nancy was the mystery woman. Or if the detective even knew about her.

It was all too much. Her thinking was muddled. “Well, thanks for the information, Frances. And for the vote of confidence. I seem to keep alienating people around here.”

“No, you don’t. This is New England, remember? Bunch of stiff-necked Yankees, and they don’t take kindly to strangers. But if you tough it out, you’ll be fine. This murder stuff will all blow over.”

“Amen to that.”

“Look, Meg, I’m glad we had this little chat. We’re good people here in Granford—except for one bad apple, I guess, whoever it is—and if you want to stick around, I think you’d like it. And we’d be happy to have you. Just let me know what you decide about the house, okay?”

“I guess I’ll have to see what happens at the meeting before I make up my mind. But thanks, Frances, I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

She watched from her doorstep as Frances pulled out. The air outside smelled of wet earth, and maybe a hint of spring, even though it had barely turned into February. Meg suddenly felt restless. She wanted to get out of the house. She certainly didn’t want to be here when somebody else dropped by, which happened with alarming frequency.

Maybe it was time to pay her respects to the sisters who had gotten her into this mess, and to all the Warrens who had come before them. Even if she had no previous interest in the whole genealogy thing, the oldest Granford graveyard lay no more than a mile or two away, and she would have plenty of time to say hello to all the past Warrens before whatever warmth the February sun provided faded. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her coat and her keys and headed for her car.

She drove slowly toward town, turned at the stoplight on the highway, but then quickly made a left onto a local road, which her map told her led to the old cemetery. She knew roughly where it was, but she took a few wrong turns through residential neighborhoods before she spotted it. She pulled off the road and parked under a low-hanging pine tree, avoiding muddy patches. Out of the car, she surveyed the scene: on one side of the road, the cemetery spread over several acres, with the oldest stones close to the road where she stood. On the opposite side of the street was a row of generic ranch houses that looked as though they dated from the 1950s. There were few people around— probably all inside, watching TV and staying warm. Meg turned to the cemetery and found a gate through the chain-link fence.

For a time she wandered aimlessly, getting a feel for the place. The sinking sun blazed on the west-facing old stones. The grass beneath her feet was brown and muddy, and her footsteps made no sound. She noted a number of familiar names, including a few Chapins, but she wanted Warrens. At last she found a row of them, parallel to the road, and she hunkered down to study the stones. She could see several generations, side by side. The earliest was Stephen, who had built her house, according to Gail. He had died in 1796, and Meg noted the verse at the bottom of the stone: “Death is a Debt / To Nature due. / I paid my Debt / And so must you.” Cheerful sentiment.

Then Deborah Warren, wife of Eli Warren, died 1823. Eli had died later, and his name had been added below hers on the stone in 1843. Meg reached out to push away the dead grass at the base so she could read the final inscription. She ran her finger carefully over the deeply etched letters.

Meg’s knees were stiffening, and the wind had picked up, teasing the edges of her coat. She stood up: time to check in on the rest of the Warrens. She spied Eli Junior, the carpenter, next in line, and his wife, Speedwell, had her own stone next to his. And then Eugene and Olive—offspring of Eli and Speedwell? Quickly Meg moved down the wavering line of stones, and finally located Lula and Nettie, tucked next to their parents—the maiden ladies who had held on for so long, who had somehow managed to maintain the nineteenth century in their home while the twentieth century passed them by. Here they all were, side by side, only a mile or two from where they had begun.

What was she doing here, freezing her toes? What did she hope to find? Nettie and Lula were dead, and their line had died with them.

Or had it? After all, here she was. They had touched her life, even though they could not have foreseen it. Which meant that their memory lived on, in her, and even among other people in the town where they had been born and died. Maybe there was something to be said for the old New England tradition of keeping your dead nearby, where you couldn’t forget them. Would anyone remember her when she was gone?

Not if she didn’t stay long enough in one place—that much was clear. Maybe this wasn’t the place, but it was time to think about where she really wanted to be. But first she needed to know how Chandler had died, and lay him to rest. Then she could figure out her own life.

She found a dry spot scattered with pine needles, sat down cross-legged, and wrapped her coat more snugly around her, her back against a tree, staring at the late Warrens. She was going to think this through or freeze to death trying. The thought made her smile: at least she’d be in the right place.
Okay, all you dead citizens of Granford, help me out here.
Who killed Chandler? Who had wanted Chandler dead, and who was capable of doing it?
Let’s start with the old standbys: motive, means, opportunities.
She believed Cinda was involved in Chandler’s murder, but she still couldn’t figure out how. Cinda clearly had motive: control of the project, professional advancement, and a dash of revenge thrown in. But not means. Cinda could not have hauled Chandler’s body to Granford and stuffed him in the septic tank.

Who else was on the short list? Frances, whom Chandler had toyed with and then dismissed? Motive, yes, but would she have had the opportunity? Christopher, who had devoted decades of his life to the orchard, only to see its existence—and his position at the university—threatened? No, Christopher had an alibi: he had been at the historical society meeting with her, until nearly ten. Although maybe Frances had brained Chandler and then called Christopher to help her dispose of the body later? But that would have been late at night, and Meg was sure she would have heard the killer and/or accomplice barging around her driveway with a body at that hour.

What about Gail, who might have succumbed to Chandler’s wiles and then lied about turning him away? She might’ve overheard Meg telling Christopher about the new septic tank. Gail had been at the meeting early but had ducked out after a phone call. If there had been a family crisis, surely someone could give her an alibi.

The unknown brown-haired woman at the bar with Chandler? Had the detective even looked for her, much less found her yet?

And then there was Seth, who might love his land more than the town, whatever he said. Mister Good Guy, looking out for everyone’s best interests, even at his own expense. Maybe he’d gotten tired of putting them first; maybe he’d just snapped. He had the physical strength to do the deed, and he certainly knew about the septic tank. The problem was, Meg couldn’t visualize Seth killing anyone. What’s more, she didn’t want to. There had to be some nice guys left in the world.

Meg’s mind spun off, shuffling the cast of characters: Chandler seducing Rachel, bringing down the wrath of her husband or brothers? Seth had defended Rachel before, hadn’t he? Or some local developer or vendor who thought he was not getting due consideration for the job? Or any combination of these? Maybe this was like that old Agatha Christie story where it turned out that
everyone
had done it. By the time Meg had worked through the ever more absurd litany, she actually felt better.

She also realized she was shivering. The sun had fallen below the horizon and it was cold; Meg didn’t want to go back to her empty house and put together a pathetic meal for one. A hot, greasy pizza sounded appealing. There weren’t a lot of other choices for dining in Granford. Meg went back to her car and headed for the highway.

She stopped at the first pizza place she came to, pulled into the parking lot, and hurried into the relative warmth of the interior. The windows were steamed up, and she didn’t see Stephen Chapin until she was standing in line to order. For once he looked almost cheerful, and after she had placed her order, he waved her over with a grin. Meg hesitated about joining him: she didn’t like him much, but it would be rude to ignore him. She wove her way through the tables, and it was only when she neared him that she realized he already had a companion.

“Hey, hi, Meg. Pull up a chair. This is Nancy … Chapin. Nancy, this is Meg Corey.” He looked at Meg with a wicked gleam in his eye, pleased with his own little surprise. Was he trying to make mischief?

Meg sat. “Hi, Nancy. You’re Seth’s ex, right?” She rather enjoyed deflating Stephen’s little bubble. If he’d hoped to catch her off guard, he’d failed.

Nancy managed a tight smile. “Oh, right—Stephen said you’re at the Warren place. Too bad about the orchard. It used to be pretty in the spring.”

“The deal’s not settled yet,” Meg replied. “What brings you this way?”

“Stephen and I get together now and then.” She flinched as Stephen grinned, scooted his chair closer to her, and nudged her with his elbow.

Meg wondered what their relationship really was, but she didn’t feel any need to explore further. Maybe Nancy was using Stephen to keep tabs on Seth, and on the Granford land deal. She studied Nancy: nicely dressed, trim, and with sleek dark hair. On an impulse, she said, “You must have known Chandler Hale.”

Nancy nodded, her surprise clear. “Yes, I did. He approached me about selling my property. He wanted to get all his ducks in a row before this went to a vote in Granford.”

“By any chance, did you see him the night he died?”

Stephen stiffened but said nothing, watching with wary eyes. Nancy looked down at the napkin she was shredding. “How do you know that?”

“Lucky guess. Have you told the police?”

“I did today. I would have sooner, but I was attending a business conference and didn’t hear the news right away.”

“What were you and Chandler talking about that night?”

Nancy looked up at her. “Why is that any of your business?”

Stephen bristled. “Jesus, Meg, you’re way out of line! Nancy’s right. What’s it to you?”

Meg wondered why Stephen was defending Nancy. “Stephen, I’m suspected of killing Chandler, and I don’t particularly like it. Nancy, I’m sorry if I’m being rude, but this
is
a murder investigation, you know.”

Nancy glanced briefly at Stephen, then finally shrugged. “I’m not hiding anything. Yes, I wanted this Granford Grange project to go forward, and I wanted to unload that useless piece of land I own. Whatever possessed me … But Chandler was the one who got in touch with
me
and asked me to meet him for drinks in Northampton. Turns out he just wanted to know if I still had any pull with Seth, or if I knew what he was thinking. I told him no on both counts. I don’t see Seth at all these days.”

“Was that all?” Meg said carefully, avoiding looking at Stephen.

“Was that… ?” To Meg’s surprise, Nancy blushed. “He hinted that …” She stopped.

Meg didn’t press her. “I get it. I knew Chandler.”

“So I’ve heard,” Nancy said.

Stephen had watched this exchange with confusion. “Chandler was a jerk, all right. But just because he’s dead doesn’t mean that the project won’t happen. Right, ladies?”