One Bad Apple (24 page)

True to his word, Seth cleared the end of her driveway nearest the road in three or four quick passes with the plow, then chugged off down the road. It was sweet of him to have taken care of it for her, but she was in no hurry to go anywhere. In Boston she had seldom used her car, and she had never spent much time learning to drive in snow. It was not a skill she’d thought she needed, and she was usually content to wait until the snow had melted. Unless, she added to herself, it took weeks to melt. Ah well, one day at a time.

The cell phone rang, and when she picked up the phone she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Meg,” Cinda’s voice gushed in her ear. “I’m so glad I caught you. I can really use your help. Could you meet me here in Northampton for, say, lunch?”

How clueless was Cinda? Meg wondered. But she relented: Cinda was a city girl, just as she had been. “Uh, Cinda, have you looked out your window this morning?”

“What?” Meg heard a sound of clattering curtain rings. “Oh, how pretty—it snowed. But the road is perfectly clear.”

Meg sighed. Maybe in Northampton, the bustling county seat, the roads were clear, but in idyllic rural Granford they most definitely were not. “Sorry, Cinda, I’m out in the country, and I have no idea if or when the roads here will be plowed. Why don’t we do this tomorrow? Things should be pretty well cleared up by then.”

Meg could almost hear the pout in her voice, but Cinda rallied. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think. Of course it can wait. But,” she added with calculated self-deprecation, “I’m just so worried about the special meeting coming up, and I want to make sure I have all my bases covered. I’d really appreciate your help here, Meg.”

Cinda was quick on her feet, Meg reflected. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. Is there anything in particular you want me to think about?” Given the state of the roads, Meg didn’t think she’d be traveling around trying to talk to people today.

“Well, you’re in place, so to speak. I’m still playing catch-up, after Chandler … If you could give me a sense of who the players in town are, who’s really going to make the decisions. You know what I mean.”

Meg did. But she also knew that she hadn’t been around long enough to have forged the kind of connections that Cinda could use. If she really wanted to help Cinda succeed, she would have to ask … someone like Seth. As in fact she had. Was that what underlay Cinda’s question? Had Cinda made assumptions about Meg’s relationship with Seth and assumed she would go to him first? The detective had made that same leap of logic. Or was Cinda just testing her? “Yes, I do. I’ll see what I can find out. Lunch tomorrow, then? I’ll meet you at the hotel around noon.”

“Wonderful. Thank you so much, Meg. I’m really looking forward to working with you.” Cinda hung up. Meg stared at the phone, confused. Now she was working with Cinda? Not likely. But if Cinda had been close to Chandler, she might have a better idea about who killed him. If Cinda wanted to use her, she could just as well use Cinda. She gave a fleeting thought to Cinda as murderer, and almost laughed out loud. Cinda, of the designer suits and French manicures? Cinda, who might weigh 110 pounds soaking wet? And why would Cinda want to kill her meal ticket? Chandler had brought her onto the project; Chandler had been her mentor. Among other things.

And yet now Cinda headed the project. For a newbie at Puritan Bank, she’d ascended the ranks extraordinarily fast, an ascent Chandler had no doubt facilitated. But murder? Not Cinda. No way.

Okay, Meg, admit it: you don’t like Cinda.
That was a nobrainer. Cinda was smart, attractive, young, and aggressive. Meg was … smart. Cinda was Chandler’s type, and Meg had always known that she wasn’t. Was this about jealousy? She hoped not, but she had to consider it. Cinda had snared Chandler’s attention and affections, even while Chandler was still involved with her. Had Cinda known about her then? Had it made any difference? Somehow Meg doubted it. Cinda knew what she wanted, and knew what to do to get it. Meg would’ve been a minor inconvenience at best.

But although she might not be a brilliant blonde, Meg had a brain and connections of her own, and she was not going to let Cinda take advantage of her.

Meg wandered into the parlor, blazingly bright from the light bouncing off the snow—which highlighted the patchy job she had done scraping the walls. Maybe she was overreacting to Cinda’s request for help. Maybe it was completely innocent, and Meg was seeing duplicity where there was none. Her primary concern was not to make Cinda’s life easier but to determine what would be most advantageous to her when she sold this property.

When? Or if?

Meg, what are you thinking?
She crossed the room to the window overlooking the fields, snow sculpted by the wind into improbable billows.
You came here to fix up the house for sale and to figure out your next career move. You’ve got a business degree and a good track record; your last supervisor would give you a glowing recommendation. You’re unencumbered and can go anywhere you want. But where is that?

She had no idea. She had been here a month, and she had maybe another three months to make up her mind, apply for jobs, plan a life. Maybe she owed herself some downtime. Maybe she had been too focused on her career, and a break would do her good. Meg laid her hand on the window frame, rubbing the time-worn wood.
I want to know who built this house, over two hundred years ago; I want to put a name to the man who planed this wood. I could find out who lived here, men and women.
Frances had said that a dash of history might enhance the sales appeal of the place.

As if conjured up by Meg’s thoughts, Frances’s car surged into the driveway, undeterred by snow. Meg went to greet her at the door.

“Hi, Frances. What brings you out in this mess?”

Frances looked a bit disheveled, and she held something behindher back. “This? This is nothing. Wait until we get some
real
snow. But I was shoveling my walk this morning and it hit me that you might not be prepared, so I brought you this.” With a flourish she pulled out a shiny new snow shovel with a big red bow.

Meg laughed. “You’re right! Seth already figured I would need help with the driveway, but then he got a call and left.”

“I wondered how you got that done so fast. Well, I won’t keep you …”

“You don’t have to run off, do you, Frances? You have time for coffee or something?”

Frances wavered a moment. “If it’s no bother.”

“Of course not. Come on in.” Meg stepped back to let Frances in. Frances stomped her feet on the grubby mat in front of the door, and once inside, she slipped her boots off. “Gotta remember, Meg, these old floors don’t have polyurethane on them, so you’ve got to watch out for water stains.”

One more thing she hadn’t thought of. When would she ever get a handle on this house? “I didn’t know that. I’ve almost always lived in the city, and in a rental. Seems I have a lot to learn about owning a home. Come on back to the kitchen.”

Frances padded behind her in brightly patterned socks. “Hey, you’ve made some real progress here,” she said as they passed through the parlor and the dining room.

“I hope so! Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Sit down, please. Coffee okay?”

“Sure.” Frances sat.

Meg set two mugs on the table. “Do you know, I was just thinking about talking to you. I went to the historical society meeting last week.”
The night that Chandler died
, she added to herself.

“I was sorry I had to miss that meeting. Christopher always has something interesting to say.”

Frances attended historical society meetings? And knew Christopher? “Are you a member?”

“Sure. It’s good to know the history of a place if you’re trying to sell houses here, you know? And they need all the help they can get. Membership’s cheap.”

“And Christopher goes often?”

“Now and then. What, you know him?”

“He’s been working in the orchard for years, he tells me. He introduced himself one day. He really loves the orchard. I’m worried about what will happen to his research if the development deal goes through.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem.”

Frances leaned back in the kitchen chair and contemplated Meg. “Ah, Meg, Meg, Meg … what have you gotten yourself into?”

“I keep asking myself that,” Meg said, with some asperity. “But what do you mean? Is there something I need to know?”

“Hey, you’re smart. Bet you’ve figured out a lot of things. Like Chandler and me.”

“I guessed. So he, uh …”

“Sweet-talked me into his bed? Yup. Honey, don’t look at me like that. I know I’m no prize, and I never thought it was true love.”

Meg said cautiously, “Chandler could be very charming when he wanted to.”

“And he was great in bed. Oh, never mind. I knew what I was getting into. But then he turned around and shut me out.”

Meg was getting confused. “What do you mean? He dumped you?”

Frances shook her head. “I expected that. What I didn’t see coming was that he was going to suck me dry about all the property in town—who owned what, who would be likely to sell. He was a smooth one, all right. And I’m no dummy. I figured, sure, I’d tell him what he wanted to know, but I figured he’d give me a piece of the deal. I mean, that is how I make my living around here. But, nooooo. After I feed him all the good info, he leaves me high and dry, cuts his own deals—him and his high-price banker buddies.”

That certainly sounded like the Chandler Meg knew: always looking at the bottom line, at getting the best possible deal on the properties he wanted, not toward maintaining good relations within the community. That would give Frances a good motive for murder—dumped and betrayed, in more ways than one— Meg reflected.

As if reading her thoughts, Frances burst into laughter. “Now you’re wondering if I murdered him, and if you’re sitting here with a crazy killer, right? Relax, sweetie. Sure, I killed him—in my fantasies. The way I would have done it, I would have stuffed him in that tank alive and kicking and let him sit and whine in shit until he froze or drowned or whatever. Serve him right. But I didn’t do the deed, much as I might have wanted to. I’d be happy to send a thank-you card to whoever did.”

Lost in processing what Frances had said, and trying to visualize them together, Meg was startled when Frances drained her coffee and stood up. “Well, I’d better run. I’ve got more shoveling to do. Keep up the good work, Meg. I know it’s slow, but it’ll be worth it in the end, you’ll see.”

Meg escorted her to the door and watched as Frances pulled on her boots. “I hope so. Thanks for the shovel, Frances. Now I just need to figure out how it works.”

Frances laughed. “City girl, huh? You’ll learn. But better clear the front path before it freezes, or you’ll be slipping and sliding all winter. I’ll be in touch!”

Meg watched as Frances waded through the snow in front. She was right: Seth had cleared the front end of the driveway, but the front walk was still covered. As Frances pulled away, Meg hunted down her coat and gloves and boots and prepared to do battle with the snow. She had forgotten how heavy snow could be. Bend, lift, toss; repeat. Her shoulder muscles started complaining almost immediately. By the time she was halfway to the driveway, her back muscles had chimed in. She had thought she was in pretty good shape, after all her renovation efforts, but apparently shoveling snow used a whole different group of muscles. Still, Frances had said she had shoveled out her own place, so Meg should be able to handle it, right?

She reached the driveway and leaned on her shovel, panting. How often was it going to snow in Granford? She had a new-found respect for Frances: she was stronger than she looked. Strong enough to handle a body? That thought came out of nowhere.
Meg, you’re getting paranoid
. Did Frances have a motive? Maybe. But if Frances had spent a morning shoveling and then come bounding over to her house bearing a snow shovel, then Meg had to believe she had the physical strength to do the deed.

In the meantime, she had better clear off her car so that didn’t freeze into a block of ice. She’d hate to miss her rendezvous with Cinda tomorrow. And if she was going to be out anyway, she could check back with Gail and see if she had located anything relevant. Or go to the library. Or talk with the town clerk about local records. Tomorrow, when the roads were clear, after her lunch with Cinda.

Once she had finished shoveling, she went back inside, grateful for the relative warmth. What next? If she was going to meet with Cinda, she had to do her homework. Surely there would have been news reports about the development project in the Boston financial pages. Maybe she didn’t want to drive anywhere today, but she could easily do an online search. And familiarize herself with the terms and legalities for eminent domain. And look up the details of Town Meeting procedures. That was more than enough to keep her busy—and if it wasn’t, there was always more wallpaper to scrape.