Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery)

by Sheila Connolly

  “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” Jake said. He looked shell-shocked. “I should have been there. You should have told me.”

  Nobody spoke for a few moments. Then Jeffrey picked up the story. “It was right around then that I arrived. I was out back, getting ready to load the stuff into the trunk of my car, and I heard this scuffling inside the store. I knew nobody was supposed to be there and I thought it might be a robbery or something. I tried the door in the back and it opened, and that’s when I saw Emma inside, and Novaro on the floor.”

  “Jeffrey just came in,” Emma agreed, “and he looked at Novaro, and then he said something like, ‘Did he hurt you?’ and I shook my head no, and then we kind of stared at Novaro and didn’t know what to do. I know, if I’d been thinking straight, we should have called the police right then, but . . .” Emma swallowed. “I mean, my clothes were kind of ripped, and I knew people at school had probably seen me with Novaro, and maybe they’d think I had let things go too far. This is a small town. People talk—even decent people. They’re always going to wonder, did he really do that? Or, did I lead him on and then change my mind?”

  Meg felt a stab of anger. It was hurtful to hear something like that coming from a teenager, that people would blame the woman, or girl in this case. That had been true when she was their age, and things hadn’t really changed, not enough. Meg couldn’t sit still for that. “Emma, I’m sure you didn’t mean to kill Novaro. That was a terrible accident, but don’t ever blame yourself for thinking you’d led him on. He would have raped you if you hadn’t stopped him. And I can understand why you wouldn’t want to try to explain that to your father and the police, and you don’t even have a mother to turn to.”

  Emma looked at her, tears spilling down her face. “Thank you, Ms. Corey. I know that’s what they teach us these days, but it’s different when it happens to you, you know? And Jeffrey was only trying to help me, honest. I’m sorry, Daddy, but she’s right—how could I explain it to you? I know what Jeffrey and I did was wrong, but right then I couldn’t see any other way.”

  “And then I told Emma to go home and try to act like nothing had happened,” Jeffrey resumed, “and I checked to see if there was anything like evidence—you know, blood and stuff—inside the store, and then you know the rest of the story from there.”

  “So it was you who moved him outside? Why?” Art asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “I guess I figured if the body was found outside, the police might think there was somebody or something else involved. I didn’t want anything to point to Emma or her dad.”

  “Kid, you are something else,” Sam finally said in a voice that mingled awe and frustration. “You really thought you could cover this up? Make it go away?”

  “Dad, I just wanted to protect Emma. That’s all. I knew I hadn’t killed Novaro, so I didn’t see how they could pin it on me.”

  Meg sneaked a glance at Jeffrey’s face, and her heart ached for him. Maybe he’d done something wrong by covering up what had really happened, but he was only trying to protect this sweet girl who he obviously cared for. But the trade-off for Emma’s reputation remaining clean was that Jeffrey now had the shadow of an unexplained murder hanging over him.

  Art looked down at the tabletop for a few moments before he spoke. “So let me see if I’ve got this right. Novaro Miller came back to the feed store once everyone except Emma was gone. There was evidence that he’d been drinking. And then he . . . attacked Emma. Emma fought him off, and he fell, hitting his head, and that blow was what ultimately killed him. Arguably, that was self-defense. Jeffrey then happened to show up at the same time, and helped Emma cover it up by moving the body. Have I got that right?” Art looked up at Jeffrey then.

  Jeffrey and Emma returned his gaze. “Yes, sir,” Jeffrey said.

  “Tell me again why you didn’t just tell the police what really happened,” Art said.

  “It was for Emma, sir. Okay, I know nothing happened—I mean, he didn’t really do anything . . .”

  “That’s okay, Jeffrey,” Meg interrupted. “We know what you mean. Go on.”

  “So I figured that I could just keep her out of it,” Jeffrey continued. “I told her to go home and act like nothing had happened.”

  “I didn’t want Jeffrey to do it,” Emma said, still fighting tears, “but he convinced me it would be better all around. Maybe I was in shock, but I believed him.”

  “It’s okay, Em,” Jeffrey said softly to her. Then he faced Art again. “I told her I’d report finding the body, and there was no way anyone could prove I had anything to do with it, since it’s not like I’d ever been seen with Novaro. Or, well—I guess I hadn’t realized that Meg had seen the three of us together.”

  “Chief Preston,” Emma interrupted, “I would have gone to the police, really. I mean, I know I didn’t do anything wrong, and it was self-defense. But then I guess it all seemed unreal to me. I wasn’t thinking straight. And I have come forward now. I’m not going to let Jeffrey get in any more trouble because of what I did.”

  Art turned to Jake. “Jake, you didn’t notice anything odd about your daughter’s behavior when she got home that night?”

  Jake shook his head. “God help me, I didn’t. That makes me a lousy parent, doesn’t it? Emma was home right around six, or close enough that I didn’t notice. She didn’t say much, and then I got the call from the police and had to run off to the feed store.”

  “When did you talk to Jeffrey again, Emma?” Art asked.

  “I talked to her Saturday afternoon,” Jeffrey volunteered. “I thought it was weird that nobody had identified the body yet.”

  “But you knew who it was,” Seth said.

  “Yeah, kind of. I mean, I only knew his first name because Emma told me, but I didn’t know where he was working or where he was staying. I didn’t tell the police, because I was afraid someone might put Novaro and Emma together. I mean, he’d been waiting for her right in front of the school, where everybody could see. Somebody must have noticed.”

  “Maybe we didn’t ask the right questions, or the right people,” Art said. “We checked whether he was a student, but I can’t say if the state police showed his picture around the school.”

  “I assume the police also talked with you, Emma?” Seth asked.

  She shook her head. “Just to my dad. The police called him right after seven, when they found the body. Dad asked me if I’d seen or heard anything before I left, and I said no. I lied to him, to his face, and he believed me.” Emma’s tears were back, and she brushed them away impatiently.

  Another thick silence fell. The story hung together, sort of, Meg thought. Novaro had been bored and out of his element. He’d developed a one-sided interest in a girl who’d done nothing more than talk to him and be friendly. After a couple of weeks he’d gotten frustrated and tried to move too fast—and she’d fought him off, with tragic consequences.

  So where did that leave them? Meg wondered. She wanted to believe Emma and Jeffrey, although it was possible that Jeffrey could have been the one who pushed Novaro, or worse, intentionally hit him with something. That would be up to the forensic people to decide. Could this go to trial? If so, who would a jury see on the stand? A couple of teenagers who tried to get away with a crime, or two nice young people in a bad situation? “Art, what happens now?”

  “We talk to the state police,” he said flatly. “Kids, you and your parents, you tell the detectives exactly what you’ve just told me. It’s up to them whether or not they’ll bring charges, and if so, which charges. You have to know you’ve both been guilty of obstruction of justice, at the very least. There is, however, at least one mitigating factor. It appears that Novaro Miller did have a police record back in Jamaica—information his uncle omitted from his visa application—and it involved an assault on a girl.”

  Meg felt a jolt of surprise: Hector had told her that Novaro had some sort of
record back in Jamaica, but he hadn’t said it involved a girl. Would that make a difference to Detective Marcus?

  Jeffrey stood up. “Do we go to Northampton now, sir?”

  “Might as well get it over with. Unless you kids want to lawyer up.”

  Jeffrey glanced at his father. “Can I think about that? And will you go with us, Chief? Maybe you can talk to the detective and see how things look from his angle.”

  Meg wondered what that angle would be. Young love wasn’t likely to sway Detective Marcus’s attitude—he wanted a simple answer. “I’ll be there,” Art said.

  Then Jeffrey turned to Meg and Seth. “Thank you for what you’ve tried to do for me—for both of us. I’m sorry if I misled you, but I was thinking about Emma. But I won’t hide anything anymore.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Art said. “Seth, I’ll call you two later.”

  With that, everyone trooped out of the conference room and split up to go their separate ways.

  * * *

  It was lunchtime by the time Meg and Seth trudged into Meg’s kitchen. Bree was at the table, finishing her own meal. “Where’ve you two been? Don’t forget, you’ve got that thing tomorrow.”

  Shoot—Meg had managed to push the Harvest Festival out of her mind again. Was there a penalty for defaulting on a booth? Would she be long remembered as a no-show? Because at the rate things were going, there was no way she could prepare much of anything between now and morning.

  “I did forget. And I am so not ready, but it can’t be helped.” Meg dropped into a chair. Her mouth twitched. “But for once I can honestly say that this is a matter of life and death. Unfortunately.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We were at the police station. Jeffrey Green confessed to killing Novaro Miller. And then Emma Stebbins, who apparently Jeffrey’s been seeing for a couple of months, confessed that she was the one who killed Novaro, although she didn’t mean to. So we all adjourned to the police station to tell Art, and then Art and Jeffrey and Emma and Sam and Jake took off for Northampton to tell the state police. I don’t envy Detective Marcus, trying to sort this out.”

  “They covered up a crime, didn’t they?” Bree demanded.

  “Yes, they did,” Meg admitted, adding, “but they did finally come forward. I wish I knew what outcome I wanted here. Part of me wants to say that their main crime is being young and stupid, but there is still a dead boy to be considered.”

  “Exactly,” said Bree. “You gonna tell Hector?”

  Meg considered. “I should talk to Raynard, actually. I’m pretty sure the police will get in touch with Hector soon themselves. I don’t know how he’ll take the news, but at least we know what happened now.”

  “Well, good luck with that. I’m going back up the hill.” Bree stood up and headed for the door. “Oh, and I won’t be home tonight—Michael and I are getting together and I think we’re going to a movie later. Don’t wait up.”

  When she was gone, Meg looked at Seth. “You’re quiet.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m still trying to fit all the pieces together. Jeffrey and Emma start hanging out over the summer. Fine. They keep the relationship quiet, so his mother won’t find out. Probably useless, but I can see why they tried. Emma smiles at this Jamaican kid who’s at loose ends, and Novaro takes it the wrong way and tries to rape her. Emma fights back and accidentally kills him. Jeffrey rides in on a white horse and tries to protect Emma. And now these two nice kids are facing who knows how many criminal charges? It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Vastly oversimplified, but I agree with your outline. I feel terrible because I don’t know whether to feel relieved that this is over or guilty because I didn’t pass on what Hector told me about Novaro’s troubles in Jamaica or glad that those same troubles back up Emma’s story. How much leeway do the state police have, do you think?”

  “I’m not going to try to guess. I imagine Emma has a case for self-defense, but they were both party to the cover-up. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  After they’d eaten lunch, Meg made her way slowly up the hill, seeking out the tall form of Raynard among the trees. She spotted him at the end of one row and approached. “Raynard, can I have a minute?”

  “Of course,” he said, as he climbed down the ladder. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, not exactly, but I have some news about Novaro’s death. The police will be speaking to Hector, I’m sure, but I wanted to tell you that a teenage girl has come forward, admitting that she was the one who killed Novaro. It was an accident. She says that he was . . . aggressive with her, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, and that she just shoved him away but he hit his head hard. And then Jeffrey arrived on an errand and helped her to cover it up, to direct attention away from her, because he and the girl have been sort of seeing each other. They’re all over at the state police station in Northampton right now. But I thought you should know.”

  Raynard looked away from Meg. “Tell me, will charges be brought against those young people?”

  “I can’t say. It’s certainly possible. Why, do you have something to add?”

  Raynard spoke slowly. “I have told you, and I believe the police already know, that Novaro was in some trouble before he came here. It involved a young girl who was, shall we say, less willing than Novaro. So I can believe this girl’s story. Hector’s family tried so hard to help Novaro turn his life around, but he was not interested, I suppose. Thank you for telling me, Meg. At least you have given us an answer.”

  “I was trying to help, Raynard,” Meg said. But, she wondered, as she donned her picking bag and set to work, why didn’t she feel better about it?

  27

  Meg dragged herself back down the hill at the end of the day, feeling exhausted both physically and emotionally. It was funny how sometimes she welcomed picking because it left her mind free to roam; today she’d wanted nothing more than to not think at all, and the rhythmic repetition of picking had become soothing and mindless. Or it would have been, had she been able to tear her thoughts away from whatever was happening at the state police offices at Northampton.

  Meg had always believed in following the rule of law, but since becoming involved in more than one crime after arriving in Granford, she was more aware of the gray areas these days. Not that it was ever right to take the law into your own hands. But was it always right to punish someone when a crime was committed—or overlooked—with only good intentions? Who could make those decisions? Still, the bottom line here and now was that both Emma and Jeffrey had committed crimes, even if they had not set out to do so, and there had to be consequences.

  She was sitting in the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand, staring at nothing, when her phone rang; the caller ID read Police Department. Art? She debated not answering, but that would be cowardly, and she’d rather know what he had to say. “Hello?”

  “It’s Art, Meg.”

  “I thought it might be. What happened?”

  “I think the outcome was as good a one as we could have hoped for. Marcus says they’re not going to charge Emma with murder, because she was acting in her own defense, and no one’s going to look at her and think she used undue force. Jeffrey is most likely going to get slapped with a fine, and he’ll get probation—with a misdemeanor on his record. But at least it’s not a felony, and no jail time.”

  “Wow, that is lucky for them. How did Marcus react to all this?”

  “Let us say that collegiality was maintained between our respective departments,” Art said evenly. “Pass the news on to Seth, will you? I’ll see you both at the Harvest Festival tomorrow.”

  “Will do, Art. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Thank you, Meg. You made some pretty critical connections along the way.”

  All in a day’s work, Meg thought, after they’d hung up. In reality, the cliché was
true: she’d been helping neighbors, and as it happened the crime had splashed over into the Jamaican community, which was part of her work scene. Plenty of connections there.

  Seth came in half an hour later, by which time Meg was wrestling with dinner. Boil water: check. Open jar of . . . something or other. Check. Boil spaghetti and drain. Add B to A and call it dinner. “Any word from Art?” Seth asked, as he helped himself to a beer.

  “Yes, not long ago. I think the bottom line is that the kids are getting off lightly—no trials, no jail time. Not scot-free, but fair. I managed to talk to Raynard as he was leaving, and I asked him to spread the word among the pickers that the police had settled things. How are you doing?”

  “Tired. Sometimes wrangling construction projects is a lot easier than dealing with human problems.”

  “I hear you.”

  “You ready for tomorrow?”

  “I have no idea. At this point, what will be, will be.”

  A few minutes later, there was a knocking at the back door. Again? Was there anything left to be solved? She opened it to find Jeffrey Green and his father Sam.

  “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I thought we ought to thank you for all your help,” Sam said.

  “You’re welcome,” Meg said. “Although it would have been easier all around if your son here had just told the truth from the beginning,” she added, more tartly than she’d anticipated.

  “I know that, Meg, and I’m really sorry,” Jeffrey said, and he looked like he meant it. “But I’d only wanted to help Emma, when she was so upset.”

  Meg raised a hand. “Don’t worry, I understand. I think I was young once, although it’s getting harder and harder to remember it. And I’m pretty sure teenagers don’t think too clearly. Hey, have you two eaten?”

  “Not yet,” Sam said quickly, “but we really aren’t desperate enough to show up and beg for food again.”