One Bad Apple (31 page)

“So it seems,” Meg said glumly.

Nancy ignored him and said to Meg, “Anyway, as I told the police, I left him at the bar around eight and went straight home. I was online for a couple of hours after that. I suppose, if it came down to it, someone could trace what sites I looked at. But I don’t think anyone is going to bother. I left town the next morning.”

Did she believe Nancy? Unfortunately, yes. Meg felt vaguely depressed. The police now knew who the mystery woman was, and she’d have to take Nancy off her suspect list. Not that she had ever ranked very high, but Meg was running out of candidates.

Stephen fidgeted in his seat. “Hey, Nancy, we better get going and let the lady eat in peace. Good to see you, Meg.”

Stephen stood up, and Nancy followed suit more slowly. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but at that moment the guy behind the counter announced that Meg’s order was ready. Meg stood up to retrieve it, and Nancy followed a few hesitant steps behind as Stephen waited by the door, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Meg …” Nancy began. “Seth, he … Oh, never mind. Nice to meet you.” Nancy turned and fled toward Stephen, then followed him out the door, leaving Meg staring after her in confusion.

What had that been about?
Meg collected her pizza, paid for it, then went back to the table, looking out through the misted windows, thinking hard. Frances and Rachel thought Nancy was still hung up on Seth. Nancy had been with Chandler on the fatal night. Stephen and Nancy knew each other and had kept in touch. The last was the only new piece for the puzzle, and it didn’t fit. Neither did any of the others.

The pizza was mediocre.
Granford can use some new restaurants
, Meg reflected as she chewed the rubbery cheese.
Wonder if it’ll get them.

Monday. The scheduled date for the Special Town Meeting. Meg had done her homework, had reviewed the rules, and had figured out her right to speak: as long as she addressed her comments to the moderator, rather than any individual, she’d be fine. Theoretically. The reality might be something else. She drove to the high school, which she had never seen, with some trepidation.

Even though she had arrived early, the parking lot was nearly full, and the only spot Meg could find was at the far end. That didn’t surprise her, though, given what she knew about opinions in the town—every voter had a right to attend and to have their say, and nobody was going to miss this piece of local theater. Once inside, Meg queued up behind a line of people and waited until her name was checked off the voter list, then followed the herd to the school’s gymnasium. Local police flanked the doorway, and more were stationed inside. Were they expecting trouble?

Meg had heard that meetings like this one were generally held in the school’s auditorium, which had room for perhaps four hundred people. The shift to the larger gymnasium signaled higher expectations. Tables were set up at one end, and behind them, a large projection screen had been jerry-rigged, awkwardly dangling from the rafters above. Meg made her way down one of the aisles, choosing a seat not far from a microphone, feeling peculiarly isolated. Everyone else seemed to have come with friends, and there was much calling back and forth and joking among groups. Was she the only stranger here? She looked around for a familiar face and spotted Frances sitting on the bleachers on the other side of the room. Frances waved and gave her a thumbs-up but stayed where she was.

Meg searched the voluble crowd for any more familiar faces. She spotted Gail across the room and nodded to her. Gail waved, then plunged back into conversation with the person sitting next to her. Christopher had already told her he wasn’t planning to come, and she understood why. Who would want to witness the official eradication of a large part of his life? She didn’t see Rachel either, but Rachel didn’t live in Granford anymore, and she wasn’t as invested in the future of what had been her family’s land as her brother Seth was.

The seats filled rapidly, both the bleachers and the folding chairs set up on the polished wood floor, the crowd swelling to several hundred people, by Meg’s rough count. The din grew, bouncing off the cinder block walls. People kept pouring in, until they were lined up two deep along the back wall. The person Meg assumed was the moderator stepped to the microphone at the podium and made a garbled announcement about keeping the aisles clear for fire safety reasons, and people shuffled to redistribute themselves. As the clock clicked past the designated seven o’clock starting time, Meg saw the selectmen gathered in a clump behind the tables at the front. And then Cinda walked in, flanked by a pair of younger colleagues—assistants already? Cinda pointed them toward the projector already set up, and they scurried toward it.

Meg scanned the name tags set up on the tables at the front: selectmen on one side, members of the town’s finance committee on the other. The town manager merited his own small table between the two. The moderator’s podium with its own microphone stood front and center. Meg found Seth’s nameplate among the selectmen, but there was no sign of him. There were two microphones set up in the aisles for the use of the attendees.

Having dispatched her minions, Cinda looked around at the crowd, then approached the selectmen. Meg watched her in action: what she did wasn’t exactly flirting, but she made a point of laying a hand on the arm of one and looking up at him from under her artfully enhanced lashes. Meg noted that she didn’t speak to the two women members, no doubt saving her ammunition for where it would do the most good.

Seth finally came in, looking distracted. Meg didn’t know whether she wanted to try to catch his eye, or if she’d rather duck down in her seat and hide. In the end, she did nothing, watching. If he saw her, he could make the first move.

Out of the corner of her eye, Meg was surprised to see Stephen Chapin also slide in through one of the side doors—she wouldn’t have pegged him as particularly civic minded, although of course he did have something at stake here. He found himself a space along the wall near the door and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. His eyes were on the group at the front, and he looked … smug?

The moderator called the meeting to order. “Welcome to the Granford Special Town Meeting. I hope this one will go a little more smoothly than the last few.” There was a smattering of laughter from the audience. The moderator scanned the audience. “I think we have a quorum.” Another laugh rippled through the crowd. “We will begin by reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.”

The crowd struggled unevenly to their feet and mumbled through the Pledge of Allegiance. The moderator resumed. “This meeting is called to order. There is a single article on the warrant for this evening: a vote to approve the development project known as Granford Grange and to empower the board of selectmen to represent the town’s interests in this project. Mr. Chairman, will you read the article?”

The chair of the board of selectmen, whom Meg recognized from the bank meeting as Tom Moody, read the brief text into the record. He then went on. “I’m sure most of you know Cinda Patterson, who recently took over management of the project”— Meg noted that he carefully avoided mentioning why Cinda was now in charge—“and I think we will all agree she’s done an admirable job. She has asked if she could make a final summary presentation to the group tonight, with updated plans and figures, and she will be available to answer any questions you have.”

Seth interrupted at that moment. “Mr. Moderator, point of order, please? I will not be voting on this article, since I have a direct interest in the outcome. I’m here as an observer, although I’ll be happy to respond to any technical questions relating to the project, as they apply to the town’s role.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Chapin. Now, let me refresh your memories about how this meeting will be conducted …” The moderator launched into a recital of the rules, and requested that members of the audience confine their comments to him and refrain from name-calling and other outbursts. His last request met with a round of scattered boos. After staring down the culprits, he gestured to Cinda. “Ms. Patterson, would you like to begin?”

Cinda, who had taken a seat in the front row of chairs, rose quickly. She nodded at the young man running the projector, and an artist’s rendering of a glossy commercial complex sprang up on the suspended screens. Cinda equipped herself with a handheld microphone, smiled at the audience, and launched into her speech.

“Good evening, residents of Granford, and thank you all for coming out on this cold night. It’s my pleasure to have the chance to speak with you tonight, and share Puritan Bank’s vision for this project and what it can do for Granford. Before I begin, I’d like to say that Chandler Hale’s death was tragic, and he will be missed, but I can assure you that his absence in no way impacts the project. The bank is committed to working with your community leaders to make this happen.

“I’d like first to review the project and give you a quick outline of the plans …” Cinda proceeded to expound on square footage, anticipated foot and auto traffic, secondary access, and other related issues. Meg tuned out, concentrating instead on watching rather than listening to Cinda’s performance. She was good, no question. She was well armed with numbers and details, yet managed to avoid boring the townspeople. Her slides were limited in number, professional in execution; her pacing was fluid and unforced. If Meg hadn’t known what Cinda had done, she would have been impressed. She would have been happy to vote to move forward. Everything sounded wonderful. Too bad she was sure that Cinda was involved in a murder.

Ten minutes later Cinda was winding down, without a hair out of place. She had the audience eating out of her hand. Finally she smiled and said, “Thank you for your attention. I’m sure you all have some questions, and I’ll be happy to answer them. Mr. Moderator? Do you have to do something official for that?”

The moderator smiled approvingly. “Yes, Ms. Patterson.” He turned to the audience. “For those of you not familiar with the process, this is the time for discussion. The floor is now open for questions. Please use the microphones set up for that purpose. Identify yourself and where you live. And don’t push—we’ll give you time to ask everything you want.”

A short line had formed at each of the audience microphones, and the moderator called on each speaker in turn, alternating between the sides. One man complained that he wouldn’t be able to get in and out of his driveway if the access roads were located as planned; a woman worried about noise and litter. A half hour passed, then an hour. As Frances had hinted, opinions were evenly divided, and questions ranged from thoughtful to silly. Cinda answered them all with patience and intelligence. When Meg sneaked a look at Stephen, he was smiling.

When there were only a couple of people left in the line on her side, Meg stood up, her heart pounding. Seth saw her for the first time and looked startled. He stared at her as she joined the end of the line, and she returned his look with as much calm as she could muster. His expression gave nothing away.

One person, then another spoke. The man ahead of her wrapped up his statement, reading from a sheaf of three-by-five note cards. Mouth dry, Meg stepped up to the microphone, and the moderator looked at her expectantly.

Meg swallowed, once, twice. “Mr. Moderator, my name is Meg Corey. I’ve just moved to Granford, and I live on County Line Road. I’ve never participated in a meeting like this, but I understand I have the right to comment?”

“Yes, that’s right. Limit your comments to the article under discussion, and address your question to me. Go ahead.”

“I have a question for Ms. Patterson. Mr. Moderator, I understand that Ms. Patterson is the project manager for this building project, representing Puritan Bank? And that she will be responsible for continuing oversight of the financial aspects of the project?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Is that your question?”

“No.” Meg took a deep breath. “I want to know what would happen if Ms. Patterson was unable to continue in that role, especiallyin light of the death of her predecessor, Mr. Hale.” She sneaked a glance at Cinda, who was watching her with barely concealed hostility.

The moderator turned to Cinda. “Ms. Patterson, would you like to respond to that?”

Cinda smiled sweetly. “Of course. Ms. Corey, I’m glad you raised that issue, because I’m sure we are all concerned about Chandler’s death and the continuity of oversight. I worked closely with him on this, and I am fully up to speed on the details. I expect to continue to be an active part of this project, and I can assure you that I will brief the members of Puritan Bank’s commercial development department so that Granford will have the full advantage of the bank’s expertise. Does that answer your question?”

Meg looked her in the eye. “Yes, thank you. I was concerned that the project, and the town, might suffer if you were found to be involved in Chandler Hale’s murder.”