One Bad Apple (33 page)

“Well, Meg, you’ve certainly started something here.”

“I didn’t do it just to make trouble, you know,” she protested. “Chandler was murdered and dumped on my property, so I’m involved. I’m just trying to clear myself. What happens now?”

Art sighed. “Meg, you know I don’t have any jurisdiction over the murder. The state police are handling that.”

“I know that! I’ve talked to them, and they don’t believe me. And if you can’t do anything, why am I here? And Cinda?”

“I just wanted to get you out of that meeting before I had a riot on my hands, and bringing you and Ms. Patterson here seemed to be the easiest solution. Look, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll decide whether it’s worth calling Marcus.” He pulled out a small notepad and opened it. “Why do you think Cinda Patterson was part of Chandler’s murder, in any way, shape, or form?”

Meg inhaled, then let her breath out slowly, buying time. Finally she launched into her recital of the sequence of events, starting with her defunct relationship with Chandler, her flight to Granford, and her interactions with Cinda, and ending with the discovery of the book and the receipt and the conclusions she had drawn from it.

Preston nodded. “Meg, you haven’t told me anything I don’t know. Marcus has kept me filled in on the investigation. He told me about that receipt, and what he found when he followed up on it. But the waiter at the restaurant wasn’t much use, and his description was pretty vague—a woman with dark hair. Could’ve been almost anybody.”

Meg shook her head impatiently. “I know. In fact, I know who the woman at the bar was, and so does the detective now—Seth’s ex, Nancy. But let me finish. When Chandler died, Cinda stepped into his shoes on the project, right? When I met her, I didn’t trust Cinda, so I asked a friend in Boston to ask around a little. I wanted her to find out how Cinda came to take over this project. What she found was that Cinda arrived at the bank and shot straight up the ladder, with Chandler as her mentor. But my friend also said that Cinda and Chandler had been involved in a personal relationship.”

“Like you used to be.” His voice was not unkind.

Meg looked at Art Preston’s face, trying to find any encouragement. “Yes. Look, I’m not stupid. What I’ve told you, you can take in more than one way. My history with Chandler gives me a motive to kill him and to lay the blame on Cinda. But my friend also said that Chandler had broken up with Cinda not long before he died. Which means not only was she jilted by him but she also might have been worried about losing her job, or at least this project—although I’m sure she would have sued him up one side and down the other for sexual harassment if that had happened. So she had stronger motives than I did, overall.”

Chief Preston sighed. “Meg, this is all very interesting, but I haven’t heard anything new, and certainly nothing the state police could act on. You don’t like the woman, but so what? It’s a big jump to accusing her of murder.”

“I’m getting to that. Let me break it down: I saw Chandler on Monday afternoon, and gave him that book. The detective found out that Chandler was in his Boston office the next day, Tuesday, but he came back that evening. He went out again to some bar in Northampton and had drinks with Nancy Chapin. He paid for the drinks by credit card, which tells us that he was still alive at eight fifteen. After that, he walked back to the hotel, to his room. Maybe he picked up the book to read it, but for whatever reason, he stuck in the credit card slip, maybe as a bookmark. So when did Cinda get the book? Did he deliver the book to her? Or did she come to his room? Maybe she had seen him with Nancy and went a little nuts. Or maybe she made one last play for him and he rejected her or threatened her job, and she lost control. All we know for sure is that he died that night and ended up in my septic tank, before I got home at ten.”

Preston didn’t look convinced. “There’s another piece you don’t have. Cinda and Chandler were together in his room at eight thirty, to take a conference call. It lasted until nine or so. They were talking to somebody in their Boston office, and there’s a record of it—Marcus checked it out. Chandler was still alive at nine.”

“And with Cinda! Doesn’t that look suspicious to you?”

“She says she left after the call and went back to her room. And doesn’t that make it even more unlikely that she did the deed? Say she hit him over the head, in a fit of whatever— without leaving any evidence in the room, mind you. What did she do about the body? Can you see her dragging him out of the building and driving him to your backyard? And the timing’s pretty tight. You were home by ten, right? So she had to kill him and get him to your place and hide the body before that, all in an hour. Assuming she even knew the hole was there, and what it was. Would you believe this story if you heard it?”

The combination of fatigue and desperation was catching up with Meg. “I know it sounds silly if you put it like that, but she could have had help. And she did know about the hole—she’d seen it.”

“Say she did have help. You have any candidates in mind?”

Meg felt a stab of despair. This interview was going as badly as she had feared. “No, but from what I’ve seen, she’s pretty good at getting men to do whatever she wants. Somebody out there was an easy target. Look, add up all the pieces. Cinda is smart, ambitious, determined. She wanted Chandler, and she wanted this project. She lost Chandler, but she wasn’t about to lose the rest of it. So she got rid of him.”

Preston stood up. “Meg, I’m sorry, but I think we’re done here. You’ve disrupted a Town Meeting for your own ends, whatever they are. You’ve fed me a line of BS that’s straight out of a bad movie. I think you’re a good person, but maybe you’ve been under a little too much stress lately. Ending a relationship, losing your job, moving to a new place—they’re all hard, and you’ve been hit by all of them in a short time. I’ll see if I can persuade Ms. Patterson not to take legal action against you, and I don’t know if the town can hit you with anything, but I have to say, you haven’t given me a thing that I can do anything about. I’m sorry, really I am.”

Why had she expected anything else? And he was right: given a choice, why should he believe her? “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I can understand how it looks to you. Am I free to leave?”

“Sure. I don’t even have jurisdiction on this, you know.”

“I know. But, can I ask one last thing? Try to make sure Detective Marcus keeps looking, will you?”

“I’ll do what I can, Meg. I don’t want to see someone get away with this any more than you do. Anyway, I guess your car’s still over at the school. I’ll find an officer to take you back there.”

Meg stood up wearily and followed him to the waiting area. Cinda and Seth were seated side by side; Cinda had her hand on Seth’s arm and was leaning close to him, talking earnestly. But when the door opened, she stood quickly. She eyed Meg with icy contempt, then turned to Chief Preston with a practiced smile.

“Are you ready for me now? I do hope we can get this resolved quickly. I have no idea what this woman has been telling you, but I’m more than happy to give you my story.”

“Come right in. Meg, you wait here till I track down Collins for that ride. Seth, you mind hanging around awhile longer?” Meg sank into the chair Cinda had vacated.

Meg stared at the worn pattern on the floor, wondering how long she was going to have to sit here. How long before Seth would speak to her again, if ever. She felt numb. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? She had just stood up in a public meeting and accused someone of murder. And—surprise— nobody believed her. But she’d tried to go through the right channels, and no one had paid attention to her. Maybe she was desperate, but she hadn’t seen any other way to get this out into the open, or to stop the juggernaut that would change the face of the town.

“You want coffee?” Seth’s voice startled her from her thoughts.

“What? Oh, sure. Sugar, please.” She watched him stride off toward a small room near the reception area. Obviously he knew where the coffee was; obviously he’d been here before, and not as a suspect. Obviously he belonged here, and she didn’t. She wondered how long it would take to sell her house so she could leave for good.

“Here.” Seth was back with the coffee. Meg took the cup and stirred it idly with the plastic straw. She had no idea what to say, so she just waited.

“She explained about the book,” Seth said quietly.

“Oh?” Meg found she didn’t really care anymore.

“She says Chandler called her when he got back to the hotel, about eight thirty, and she went to his room so they could take a conference call. Some guy from the bank in Boston, following up on something Chandler had asked for earlier that day. Anyway, there’s a phone record, and the guy remembers talking to both of them. Cinda claims that was when Chandler fobbed that book on her, and then she went back to her room for the night. End of story. So Chandler was still alive at nine.”

“Convenient, isn’t it? Probably some junior number cruncher who had to work late to run the latest numbers for the deal.” It would have saved her a lot of useless worrying if the detective had told her about Cinda’s alibi, and now she’d made a fool of herself publicly. But there was still that hour after the phone call ended. Plenty of time to drive Chandler’s body from Northampton to Granford, if she’d had some help.

“I still don’t like it,” Meg said stubbornly. “She’s hiding something. And she still could have done it, with help. The timing might be tight, but it’s possible. She wants us to believe that she tucked herself in with that book while some unknown killer showed up at Chandler’s door at 9:02 and killed him, and then disposed of the body in a convenient hole several towns away?”

“Maybe.” Seth seemed unconcerned—or maybe he was just humoring her. “But, Meg, there’s no evidence to connect her to his death, no matter what you want to believe.”

He was right, and Meg knew it. She lapsed into silence. After no more than fifteen minutes, the door to the interview room opened, and Chief Preston escorted Cinda out. She was laughing at something he had said, and looked completely at ease. Meg’s heart sank: Cinda had won over yet another male? How did some women manage to have that effect on men? How could men be so willfully oblivious? Meg stood up, as did Seth.

The chief nodded to Meg, with a notable lack of warmth. “You’re both free to go. Oh, Ms. Corey, I believe Collins is out on a call, but if you can wait a bit—”

Seth broke in. “Listen, I can give Meg a ride, if you’re tied up.”

Meg turned to him in surprise, just as Preston said, “Thanks, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem. You ready, Meg?” Seth asked.

“Yes. Just take me back to my car, will you? Then you can go on your merry way.” A wave of exhaustion washed over her.

Seth led the way to the parking lot. They drove in silence back to the school, and Seth pulled up by her car. “Meg, I know you acted with the best of intentions. And this isn’t over yet.”

Meg nodded, more to herself than to Seth. What choice had she, anyway? “Oh, don’t be nice to me. You think I’m crazy, too. Don’t worry, I haven’t got anything more to add.” Meg opened the door and got out. The parking lot was dark and empty, and a cold wind swept across the asphalt. She climbed quickly into her car and watched Seth pull away, then started her engine. She was in no rush to get back to her house, but she had nowhere else to go. At least she had bought some time for the town.

Damn! Cinda was going to get away with it. And so was her shadowy accomplice, whoever that was. Meg was running out of answers.

Time to go home and face the silence.

Meg drove the short distance home on autopilot.
What now, Meg? You’ve managed to alienate just about everyone in Granford, from your few almost friends to total strangers. Worse, now you look like a fool, someone to be pitied.
Time to go back to Plan A: sell the house as fast as possible and get out of town. And find a life somewhere else, because she doubted she would be welcome here.

As she approached the old house, she looked at it dispassionately. In the winter dark, it was still lovely, strong and square. The few lights that she had left on were glowing gold. Meg pulled around to the side near the barn, turned off the engine, and slumped in her seat, unable to move. She was tired. No, worse, she was tired and depressed. She had tried to do the right thing, had talked to the state police, told the truth, but no one had wanted to listen. So she had stood up in public and made her case, but it still looked like no one wanted to believe her. She was the outsider, and the community would close ranks against her. Of course, Cinda was an outsider, too, but she came equipped with charm and with the promise of a venture that would bring money and new life to the town. How could she compete with that?
All right, Meg. You can’t sit here all night.
She smiled wryly at the image of someone coming by and finding her frozen corpse still sitting in the car.