Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  “You’ve had the police here?” I asked.

  “Of course. They were very polite, and very unsuspicious.”

  “The wine in the professor’s room—that was for you?”

  “It was. His way of thanking me for inviting him. He apparently had a delightful time—although he’d failed to snare any of your number for one last fling. He made do with talking to me.”

  “Did you talk about your sister?”

  “No. He hadn’t even recognized my surname, so why should he connect it with her? It was a long time ago. We had a glass of wine, we talked about Renaissance philosophy. He drank more than his share of the bottle. We went outside to look at the stars, and I pushed him over the edge. And that was that.”

  “Did you feel better for having done it?” Cynthia asked.

  “Not really. I didn’t feel much of anything, just empty. And then I walked away and went to bed.”

  We sat in sad silence for several minutes. Gerry looked drained and stared into space; Barbara’s gaze never left him. Cynthia and I exchanged glances. I was at a loss; I really hadn’t planned anything beyond the initial face-to-face meeting. I had no idea what to suggest, much less tell him what to do.

  A wordless exchange went on between Barbara and Gerry, and then Barbara turned to me. “I know this must have been difficult for you, and I appreciate both your candor and your discretion. I’d like to request that you give us a little time to consider our options now. We can offer you a place to stay for the night, but you don’t have to see us again. And perhaps our minds will be clearer in the morning. Will you agree to that?”

  I looked at Cynthia, who shrugged. Up to me, then. If Gerry had planned to bolt, he had had ample opportunity before now. I had to admit that I was ambivalent about the whole situation: there seemed to be no clear right or wrong. Professor Gilbert had deserved to be punished for the pain he had caused so many women. Gerry had taken it into his own hands to punish him, but somehow I didn’t feel compelled to penalize him for it. “Thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer.” Maybe it was strange, to accept the hospitality of a confessed killer. But I doubted that he would murder us in our beds, and I wanted one more night with the spectacular view, even knowing what I did now.

  “It’s the least we can do,” Barbara said. “Forgive me if I don’t offer you a meal, but I can direct you to a nice restaurant in Borgo San Lorenzo.”

  So Cynthia and I ended up staying one last night in Capitignano. The restaurant was fine, if not memorable, and we returned to the villa on the hill before the sun had left the sky—it was, after all, nearing the solstice. We walked up to the church on the hill above the estate and sat on a bench watching the sun set and listening to the flock of sheep below.

  “So, what now?” Cynthia asked.

  “It’s up to me?” I protested. “I’m not good at playing judge. I can’t make up my mind whether to forget about the whole thing, now that we know the truth, or to go straight to the nearest police station and try to explain it—which could take days, given my Italian.”

  “I feel badly for Barbara,” Cynthia said. “She and Gerry built a nice life here, but this one event from the past had blown that to bits. I don’t know what I’d do in her place. Leave him? Stand by him?”

  I shook my head. I had no answers. In the end we walked back down the hill and went to bed early.

  In the morning we went back up to the main building to find Barbara alone there. She looked tired but at peace. “Gerry’s gone to the police, to tell them what happened.”

  He’d taken the choice from me, and I was relieved. “I’m glad—it’s the right thing to do. But I’m sorry you have to go through this, Barbara. It can’t be easy. Look, if there’s any way I can help Gerry, I will. What he did, he did out of love for his sister. And if the others knew—and they don’t at the moment—they would probably be grateful to him.”

  “I know. Thank you for offering, but we’ll just have to wait and see. And, believe it or not, I’m glad you came back. It’s like we’ve finally tied up the last loose ends that have been dangling for decades. We did truly enjoy having you and your classmates here.”

  “And we enjoyed our time here as well. Good-bye, Barbara, and good luck.”

  And we drove away, in our borrowed car, leaving Barbara to grieve.

  “What now?” Cynthia asked.

  “Well, we’ve obviously missed our flights. And we have to arrange to get this car back to Loredana and her family. You have any suggestions?”

  “I do. How about we treat ourselves to a week in Florence?”

  “Perfetto.”

  Acknowledgments

  This is a book I never planned to write.

  A year ago, at a Wellesley College reunion, two classmates proposed a trip to northern Italy, where they both have family and friends. They asked if anyone would be interested, and most of the hands in the room shot up, including mine. They could accommodate forty women (no spouses, partners, significant others or offspring invited), and all we had to do was get ourselves to an airport in Florence or Pisa, and they would take care of everything else. There were so many people who wanted to go that they had to hold a drawing to reduce the number to forty. I was one of the lucky ones.

  In June we all came together in a small hill town north of Florence, and so began a wonderful ten days, rich in sights and food and wine and scenery and museums and out-of-the-way artisanal shops and more food.

  I wasn’t going to write about it. I was going to indulge myself in a pure vacation. I didn’t have to organize anything, and I was going to sit back and enjoy everything. And then a few classmates realized that I wrote mysteries, and somebody decided it would be a lot of fun to write a mystery wrapped around our trip. This book is the result. Please note: no one died on our trip, and the murder victim is a figment of my imagination.

  When we all came together at Wellesley College it was a moment of extraordinary social change, and I wanted to capture something of that era—and also show the impact those changes had on everyone’s lives, even in the present. Some of us were friends back in the day, and some of us barely knew each other, but we all shared a very special four years. This book explores the perspectives of the people who were there.

  First and foremost I have to thank Sandra Ferrari Disner and Sarah Phelps Smith for working so hard to make this whole trip possible, and for showing us parts of Italy that none of us would have found on our own. They persuaded Lynn and Michael Aeschliman of Capitignano in Tuscany, and Loredana and Luigi Grillo of Monterosso in the Cinque Terre, to arrange for spectacular lodgings (including the one in the Buranco vineyard); they found wonderful restaurants, including one in a castle, that could handle us all; they took us into the heart of a mountain of marble in Carrara; and so much more. Sandy and Sally created an unforgettable experience, enhanced because it was shared.

  I won’t mention everyone who was there, save to say that it was a pleasure to get to know all of you better. In case you’re worried, no real individual is depicted, even disguised, in this book, with the exception of one: Mee-Seen Loong, who was the main cheerleader for this book and who captured images every step along the way.

  My years at Wellesley were happy ones, and I hope that I have not maligned the college in any way. The times we all spent there were turbulent, and both innocent and oblivious, and all colleges struggled to adapt to rapid changes. There is no model for the victim in this book, but we all heard stories that may have held some truth. At least no one turns a blind eye anymore.

  So here’s my tribute to the Fabulous Forty women who made the journey together. I hope I’ve done you proud and you enjoy the result!

  If you’d like to see a full range of photos of the locations mentioned in this book, please see the author’s website at www.sheilaconnolly.com.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at

  Golden Malicious,

  the newest book in Sheila Connolly’s

  Orchard Mystery Series!

/>   1

  Meg Corey awoke before 7 a.m. to the sound of Seth Chapin’s cell phone ringing, and she wasn’t happy about it. Even though he grabbed it up and answered after the second ring, she had been hoarding the last few minutes of sleep, and now some impatient idiot had stolen them from her. The day hadn’t even started, and she was already tired. At the rate things were going in the orchard, she would be tired for the next six months.

  Meg could hear the sound of Seth’s voice in the hall, where he’d carried the phone. He sounded startled but not upset, so maybe for once an early-morning call wasn’t bad news. She decided to lie there and wait for his report, and managed to doze off.

  When she opened her eyes again, a fully dressed Seth announced, “Good morning—sorry about that. I made coffee, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Depends,” Meg mumbled into the pillow. “What was so important that whoever it was couldn’t wait until a civilized hour? It’s not even”—she squinted at the digital clock near the bed—“seven o’clock.”

  Seth sat down on the bed next to her. “It looks like a job, and they need someone fast. Last night some idiot took a curve too fast and ran his car head-on into Donald Butterfield’s house. You know—over on the northeast side of town? The driver was a drunken kid. He walked away, but Donald says the house took a big hit.”

  Meg, still a feeling like a newcomer to town after less than two years, did not share native son Seth’s encyclopedic knowledge of all the people and houses of Granford. “Do I know Donald?”

  “Probably not, but I bet you know the house. It’s one of the oldest in town, older even than our two places. Mid-1700s. You must have driven by it, on the way to Amherst.”

  “Mmm,” Meg replied noncommittally. “So what happened?” She accepted that more sleep was out of the question, rolled over, and propped herself up on a couple of pillows. “How bad’s the damage?”

  “Hard to tell without seeing it,” Seth replied cheerfully, “but it’s pretty clear that one whole corner is trashed, and more is probably knocked askew. They built houses strong in those days, but they weren’t counting on a couple of tons of metal hitting one at high speed.”

  “If I remember that road, it’s kind of hard to go very fast. And how do you go off the road and into a house?” Meg said. “But I can tell you’re just drooling to get your hands on the place.” Seth’s renovation business had been picking up as the economy improved, but his heart lay with restoring the surviving Colonial houses in the area, and this damaged house would give him a prime opportunity to show what he could do.

  “Of course. But it gets better. Donald is very proud of the house, because it’s been in his family since it was built. So not only does he want it repaired with historically correct materials, I’d guess he’s going to want me, or whoever, to use period tools, too, so even the tool marks match.”

  “Sounds kind of obsessive, don’t you think?” Meg said.

  “I can understand where he’s coming from. Besides, Donald hinted that the kid who was driving the car comes from a family with money, and they’re willing to pay whatever it takes to keep Donald Butterfield happy—and keep Junior out of court.”

  “Do you have to compete for this, or is the job yours for the taking?”

  “I’m hoping the latter. I know a couple of other guys I can pull in, who have the right skills, especially in woodworking and replicating antique plaster. And it needs to be done not only right but fast, since the place is wide open, except for some tarps. At least we’ve got decent weather for it, and a couple of good months to get the work done. If it had happened in winter, Donald would have had to move out—or would have insisted on staying and frozen to death.”

  “Go!” Meg said, laughing at his enthusiasm. “I give you my blessing.”

  “We didn’t have any plans for today, did we?” Seth asked belatedly.

  “Not ‘we’ as in you and me. Bree and I have plenty of plans.” As to exactly what those plans were, though, Meg largely deferred to her young orchard manager and housemate Briona Stewart, who knew far more than novice farmer Meg did about running an apple orchard. “Another round of spraying, since the weird weather this year is throwing off a lot of biological schedules, and some pests have arrived early. Plus irrigating, particularly in the new part of the orchard where the baby trees don’t have well-established root systems yet. So the short answer is, a lot of hauling things from place to place, rinse and repeat, at least for the next couple of weeks, if we don’t get any rain.”

  “I should be done in time for dinner. I’ll cook tonight.”

  “You’re working, too. I wish Granford had a decent pizza place. One that delivered.”

  “I’ll put it on the town’s wish list—one of the perks of being selectman for Granford. Not that it means it will happen. Look, I’d better run. I’ll talk to you if plans change. You go back to sleep.”

  As if. The sun was shining and there was work to be done. A lot of work. Well, she’d asked for it when she took over the orchard. And then expanded it. What was she, a masochist? She wasn’t a newbie anymore, and she knew that insects, pests, and water shortages were ordinary parts of raising any crop. She also knew even better that doing anything in the orchard meant doing it herself, alongside Bree, and it was often dirty physical work. So much for the romance of farming. There wouldn’t be any other help until harvest time—and there wouldn’t be a harvest unless she got her butt in gear.

  She dressed and wandered down to the kitchen, where Bree was already sitting at the table reading some sort of farming journal.

  “I saw Seth breeze by—what’s his hurry?” Bree asked, munching on a bagel.

  “Apparently somebody ran a car into a house at the far end of town, and the owner asked him to work on the repairs, so he went over to look at it. He seemed very excited about it.”

  “I can’t believe how badly some idiots drive around here. Was the guy drunk?”

  “I love the way you assume it was a guy, like no woman ever lost control of her car. But yes, Seth said alcohol was involved, plus stupidity and speed. Seth can fill us in later,” Meg said as she helped herself to coffee. “He said he’d cook dinner. So what’s on our list for today?”

  “There’s no rain in the forecast, so we’ll be irrigating again. We’re lucky to have the well up there in the orchard.”

  “I wish I could say it was brilliant planning on my part, but it came with the place. I agree, though, it’s a blessing. Tell me again why we’re doing this by hand?”

  “What, you don’t like following in the footsteps of your ancestors?” Bree grinned at her.

  “Not if it means heavy lifting. Aren’t there easier systems available?”

  “Of course there are. Just install drip irrigation. We’ve got the water supply.”

  “But not the money. At least not right now. Why didn’t we do this last summer?”

  “Because it rained enough last summer that we didn’t have to irrigate. Lucky us.”

  Meg sighed. In a way she was grateful that she’d had it relatively easy in her first year of working with the orchard—not that it had felt that way at the time!—but part of her wished she had known that an irrigation system lay somewhere in her future, so she could budget for it. Ha! There was no budget. They’d been lucky to do better than break even last year, and she’d been hoping things would improve this year, but then she’d laid out money to buy and plant new trees. Which was a good business move but had eaten into her cash. “Do we need any more pesticide?”

  Bree didn’t look up from her magazine. “Not today, but soon. The trees are stressed enough by the lack of water, without having critters gnawing on them.”

  “Global warming?” Meg asked.

  Bree shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not going to worry about something I can’t do anything about. Still, I’d bet our yield will be down this year, for a number of reasons.”

  “Gee, thanks. I love starting the day with such cheery news,” Meg said. Fe
wer apples meant smaller profits, although they wouldn’t need as many pickers. But the pickers were counting on the income from their seasonal employment, so she couldn’t cut back too far there. Ah, well. As Bree had said, it made more sense to worry only about the things they could actually control.

  “Well, you wanted to be a farmer. Welcome to the real world.”

  “I know, I know. Let me finish breakfast and we can get started.”

  The day proceeded much as planned, which meant a lot of hard work. In the absence of a permanently installed irrigation system, Bree and Meg were relying on a tried-and-true manual system: a tank hauled behind their creaky tractor. The tank had spray heads on both sides, to water the trees, but it had to move slowly to provide enough water, not just a surface sprinkling. Worse, the tank’s capacity was limited, which meant that they had to return to the wellhead often and refill the tank. It was a time-consuming process, little changed from nineteenth-century pictures Meg had seen, except that back then the tank was pulled by horses. But at least she had the well; without it, she would have had to depend on municipal water. Another expense she couldn’t afford.

  So here she was, trucking water around her eighteen acres of apple trees. If her mother or her college classmates could see her now! Meg thought to herself. Sweating and filthy. And worried—to her inexperienced eye, there weren’t as many baby apples as there should be, or as there had been the year before. She knew she’d been lucky with her first crop, but it made it hard to accept less this year. Was the weather going to improve anytime soon? Bree didn’t seem optimistic. What constituted an official drought? Was this one? Was it only last winter that she had yearned for sun and warmth? Well, she’d gotten it, and then some. Temperatures hadn’t gone much below eighty for a couple of weeks, even at night.