One Bad Apple (35 page)

“Sorry.”

“Meg, don’t say that. You didn’t do anything. Stephen did, the damn idiot.”

“But you have to hate me. If I’d just kept my mouth shut …”

“No.” His breath was warm against her hair. “If you hadn’t said anything, Stephen would still be guilty. Or you would have ended up in jail. It wouldn’t have fixed anything.” He drew back slightly. “We could sit down, you know. You look like you’re ready to fall over.”

“I guess.” He was right, she was exhausted. Stephen’s invasion had been the last straw, and now she felt boneless, unable to think or to act. She let Seth lead her to the only remaining piece of furniture in the front parlor, a lumpy couch, and she fell onto it, leaning back against the cushions.

“I’m going to make you some tea,” he said as he headed for the kitchen.

Meg watched him go. She should be the one doing that, in her own kitchen, but it was nice to be taken care of. Despite what Seth had said, she still felt horribly guilty.
Guilty about what, Meg? Well, it’s quite a list.
About her long-ago decision to get involved with Chandler, when her heart really wasn’t in it? About the way she had dealt with the split, or avoided dealing with it? About her poorly planned move to Granford? About trying to solve a murder? About hurting a man she cared about?

Whoa. Where had that come from?

Seth appeared in the doorway juggling a mug, a sugar bowl, and a cream pitcher, which he set down quickly on the floor by the couch. “Watch it—that’s hot,” he cautioned as he handed her the mug.

Meg grasped the mug and focused on adding sugar, happy to have an excuse not to speak for a few moments. But she couldn’t stall forever. “Seth, I’m so sorry about this whole mess. I didn’t think it through, I guess. I knew Cinda had to have had help if she killed Chandler, at least to get rid of the body, but I didn’t really look too hard for a candidate. I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe it. I think Stephen’s been looking for trouble for a long time. He doesn’t pull his own weight at work, and he’s got a huge chip on his shoulder—thinks I’ve had every advantage and he’s gotten the short end of the stick. I let him get away with it. And I’ve known about his drinking problem for a while, and so has Art. But it’s never gone past a couple of barroom brawls before this.”

“It sounds as though he just wanted to threaten Chandler, not kill him. Maybe he did the deed, but I can’t imagine that Cinda didn’t encourage him somehow, and now he’s convinced himself he did it for love. I can’t believe she really cares for him, but she’s good at getting what she wants from people. Let’s hope this is the end of it. Although the project is probably going to suffer. Damn!” Meg sat back and drank some more tea, fighting another wave of tears.

“Meg, I know how hard the past couple of months have been for you, what with losing your job, and the house, even before … Chandler’s death. You put yourself in a difficult position, moving here, with nobody to lean on.”

Meg nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Heck, Art said the same thing, more or less. I didn’t plan things very well, did I?”

“I’ve got to say it took guts to stand up in front of a room full of strangers and do what you did.”

“Even if I was wrong?”

“You got some pieces right. Look, a lot of people would have said, ‘It’s not my business,’ and walked away. But that would have been wrong.”

“That’s what I thought,” Meg answered. “I just wanted to buy some time, to find out why Chandler died. I never meant …” She set down the mug and laid her head back against the couch. She was tired to her very bones …

Meg woke with a start to find light pouring into the room. What was she doing sleeping on the parlor couch? She shifted, then amended that thought: what was she doing here on the couch with Seth Chapin? He lay sprawled, half sitting, half reclining, and here she was, with her head on his chest, his arm around her. She lay still, trying to reassemble what had happened the night before. Pieces filtered back slowly: the Town Meeting, the police station, her return, and finding a belligerent Stephen in her home. And Seth’s arrival, and the police, and … that’s right, Seth had stayed on, after the chief had left. And he’d made her a cup of tea. He had every right to be angry at her, since she’d tossed a bomb into his life, but instead he had worried about her. Just like he worried about everyone else—his sister, the people of the town. Didn’t anyone ever worry about Seth?

What would today hold? Obviously they were going to have to sort out the legalities with the police. Meg couldn’t wait to hear Cinda’s version of the story. No doubt she would pretend to be shocked and surprised—and would find a way to weasel out of any responsibility. Meg sat up cautiously, dislodging a crocheted afghan that Seth must have draped around her when she fell asleep. She had no idea where he had found it.

“Seth?” She gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.

Seth’s eyes opened, and she watched him struggle to wake up. What would he remember first—Stephen’s arrest or what had come after? She was rewarded with a smile. It didn’t last, as the rest of yesterday’s events caught up, but she had seen it. Then he, too, sat up quickly, as if unsure of his welcome. She almost laughed.

“It’s okay, Seth. You didn’t take advantage of me. In fact, I think I fell asleep on you. But I’m sure there will be a lot going on today. Can I make you breakfast?”

“Sounds good. Let me wash up.”

“You know where the bathroom is.”

Meg had done a hasty job of brushing her teeth and was sticking a pan of muffins in the oven when she was startled by a knock at the kitchen door. She opened it, and Rachel strode in.

“Do you know where Seth is? Somebody calls and tells me Stephen’s in jail, and then Seth disappears, and his van’s nowhere to be seen. Damn him, everything’s falling apart,” she said without preamble. Her hair was uncombed, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Sit down and have some coffee, Rachel,” Meg said. “Seth’s here. And I know about Stephen, because Art Preston picked him up here last night.”

Rachel remained standing, tense. “Seth’s here?” Her voice was shrill.

Seth chose that moment to appear. “Hey, Rachel. What’re you doing here?”

“Playing catch-up, apparently. What the hell is going on?”

“Sit down. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, damn it! Will you just tell me what happened?”

Meg set a mug of coffee on the table near her, then retreated to lean on the stove as Seth said, “Rachel, I’m not going to talk to you until you sit down.” Seth stared at his sister until she plopped into a chair like a sulky child, then resumed. “Stephen admitted to killing Chandler Hale. At the Town Meeting last night Meg stood up and more or less accused Cinda Patterson of murder, and then the meeting fell apart, and Art took Cinda and Meg back to the station to talk with them. Cinda stonewalled, and Art had nothing to hold her on, so he had to let her go. But when Meg came back here last night, Stephen was waiting for her. Luckily Art and I got here before he did anything stupid. But, Rachel, you’ve got to know, we all heard him confess. He was seeing Cinda, and he confronted Hale, and things went wrong.”

Rachel was staring at her brother with shock. “Stephen and Cinda? And murder? No way. What the hell was he thinking?”

Seth shook his head. “That’s the problem—he wasn’t thinking.I don’t think he meant to kill Hale. It sounds like it might have been an accident. Anyway, Art took him off to the jail to sober up, and I stayed with Meg, because she’s had a hell of a time, and I wanted to be sure she was all right. And that’s all I know. I assume we’ll be talking to Art and Marcus this morning.”

As Seth fell silent, Meg felt a pang. Where did Rachel’s loyalties lie? With Seth or with Stephen? And where would Meg come out in the equation? She held her tongue and stayed put, watching Rachel.

Rachel stared into her coffee. She nodded once. “Damn. He really did it?” She looked at Seth, pain in her eyes.

He nodded. “Looks like it. But I’d be willing to bet he had some help with the aftermath, like getting rid of the body and getting the stories straight. He said he’d been drinking, and he’s not very good at details under the best of circumstances. So I find it hard to believe that he managed to conceal all evidence of Chandler’s death …”

Meg finished the sentence for him. “Without help. Cinda. She’s got the brains to handle it, and she was right there in the hotel. At least we’ve got her for something, like lying to the police or concealing evidence.” Meg felt obscurely cheered by her own reasoning. “I’ll bet he hoped she would thank him for eliminating Chandler.”

“Did Seth and I get the only brains in the family? That idiot,” Rachel burst out. “I’m sorry, Meg. You shouldn’t have gotten dragged into our little drama. I love Stephen, but I’m not surprised. He’s always thought he deserved more than he got, and he was always looking for a shortcut. I just never thought he could do anything like this. Poor Stephen.”

Relief surged through Meg. Rachel didn’t hate her. Maybe she could salvage something from the wreckage. She took her own coffee and sat at the table. “Rachel, I’d give anything if all this hadn’t happened.”

“I know. Just give me time to get used to it, all right? So, Seth, is there anything we need to do? Should I go see Stephen?”

“First things first. Eat breakfast. I’m going to get him a lawyer, and I’m sure they’ll want Meg and me at the station sometime today. Other than that, there’s not much to be done.”

Rachel stood up. “Okay. In the meantime, I’ve got full bookingsfor tonight, so I guess I’d better go take care of business. Call me as soon as you know anything, Seth.” She hugged him briefly, then she was gone, leaving Seth and Meg alone.

Seth spoke first. “She’ll be okay with it. She knows it’s nothing you did.”

“I hope so. I can’t afford to lose any friends right now.”

“Don’t worry, Meg. Rachel’s good people.”

“I know. But I’m worried about the rest of the town. So far they know me as ‘the lady with the body’ or ‘the crazy lady who blew up the Town Meeting’ or maybe ‘the lady who shot down Granford Grange.’ And now it’s going to be ‘the lady who sent Stephen Chapin to jail.’”

“Meg, it’s Stephen’s own fault that he’s in jail. No one will think of you that way, at least, not if you stay around long enough for them to get to know you.”

Meg wondered how to answer that, or if it was even a question. The silence swelled. Finally she said, “The muffins are about done. I’d better see about that breakfast I offered you.”

After breakfast, Seth went home to change clothes, walking back over the hill to his place to clear his head, or so he said. Meg took a fast shower. She was downstairs wandering aimlessly from room to room while she waited, when Seth rapped at the front door.

“Art wants us. Can we take your car? The van’s still at the police station.”

“Sure. I’m ready.” Meg found her purse and coat and joined Seth at the door, pulling it firmly closed behind her. She paused for a moment on the granite stoop.

Seth looked at her. “You up to this?”

“Hey, I’m looking forward to it. I can’t wait to see how Cinda plays this out. Let’s get it over with.”

At the station, Art greeted them. “The detective’s on his way to take custody of Stephen, and Cinda’ll be here any minute.” He led them together to the now-familiar interview room.

Meg smiled at him. “Can I take it I’m no longer a suspect?”

“What? Oh, no, sorry about that.”

“What happens now?” Seth asked.

Art rubbed his hands over his face. His stubble suggested he hadn’t gone home all night. “We should wait for Marcus—save time repeating everything. But I can tell you that Stephen has made a statement. He stuck to what he said to you last night, pretty much: he confronted Chandler, he didn’t mean to kill him, and Cinda didn’t know anything about it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Meg said.