A Late Frost

by Sheila Connolly

  “Of course not. You talked to Mom much lately?”

  “Nope, although she looks, uh, glowing every time I see her. Christopher?”

  “Seems like it. I don’t pry.”

  “You’re no fun. You okay with that?”

  “Of course I am. I want her to be happy. How’s Noah?”

  “Same as always. He’s great with the kids, though—he really enjoys their company. Maggie’s a bit young for intelligent conversation. I was just asking Meg about the death this weekend. She said you both knew the woman, but not well.”

  “We never had the chance to get to know her well, although she was a bit older than we are. And I don’t know if Mom met her at all. It sounds terrible, but I’m hoping it was simply food poisoning, for everyone’s sake.”

  “That means there’ll be a problem for someone else—most likely one of our friends or colleagues,” Meg pointed out.

  Seth shrugged. “Food poisoning happens, sometimes even when you’re careful.”

  “Didn’t I hear that there were other people with symptoms?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, yes, but they could have purchased food anywhere. It’s not like everyone came down with this thing all at once. Why are you so interested?”

  “Just curious,” Rachel said. “Or maybe I’m just hyperaware of it these days because of Maggie. I’ve seen a lot of poop and spit-up lately, and I’ve learned all over again how to interpret them. I feel lucky that I’m the one feeding her—I know I’d feel terrible if I gave her something I’d bought and it made her sick.”

  “Well, let’s hope that it’s the simplest possible case, and no one else is badly affected.”

  “Amen, brother!” Rachel told Seth.

  Maggie began wriggling and opened her eyes. At the same time, Rachel said, “Oopsies, somebody needs a new diaper. I’d better head home, rather than burden you two with the fun parts.”

  “You can drop in any time, you know,” Meg told her.

  “I know. Besides, I haven’t even met this mysterious new handyman of yours.”

  “Orchard manager. Don’t imagine someone mysterious, dark, and brooding. He’s pretty much a kid from a hard background, but Christopher says he knows what he’s doing with apples, and I need the help right now.”

  “And now Meg is pressuring me to build him a tiny house,” Seth added, “if ‘house’ isn’t too grand a word for it.”

  “I am not!” Meg protested. “Well, maybe a little. But only if you want to do it.”

  “Cool,” Rachel said. “I’ve seen that show. Don’t tell my kids or they’ll start bugging you for a playhouse.”

  “I’ll remember that. Let me see you out.”

  “Thanks. Here, hold Maggie while I put on her winter gear. And my winter gear. And by then it may be spring.” She thrust Maggie, now more or less awake, into Seth’s arms, and the two of them stared at each other. Then Maggie reached out one tiny hand and tried to make a grab for his nose, but missed and her hand landed on his mouth, and Seth made a silly noise into it, and Maggie looked delighted. By then Rachel had her coat on and was ready to start outfitting Maggie. But first she winked at Meg. “Look at them! Aren’t they great together?”

  Meg wanted to glare at Rachel, but she had to admit she was right. Worry about one thing at a time, Meg!

  10

  Seth hadn’t had time to retreat to his office when yet another vehicle pulled into their driveway, and Meg recognized the car as belonging to Art Preston. “I suppose there’s no hope of hiding in the basement and pretending like we’re not here?” Meg asked wistfully.

  Seth quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought you liked Art.”

  “I do. He’s a great guy and a good friend. But since we had a nice chat yesterday, and he’s just back from vacation, I have to assume his presence here means that something is wrong. And it won’t take three guesses to figure out what it is.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. You want to hide while I deal with him?” Seth asked.

  “Of course not. I’ll let him in.”

  Reluctantly Meg went to the door and opened it. “Hi, Art,” she said with little enthusiasm.

  “That’s the best you can do?” Art said, walking through the door and shrugging off his winter coat.

  “You’re the police officer. How would you interpret my not-so-cheerful greeting?” Meg asked.

  “Well, either you two lovebirds are in the middle of a major fight, which I find unlikely, or you’re already pretty sure that this isn’t just a social visit.”

  “Door number two. Come into the kitchen and let us have it. Oh, you want coffee? Or does that constitute a bribe of a law enforcement official?”

  “I will be delighted to have a cup of coffee. Hi, Seth.”

  “Art.” Seth nodded.

  “Wow!” Art said. “Both of you ticked off at me?” He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat.

  Meg slid a mug of coffee in front of him and resumed her seat. “Okay, why are you here? As if we can’t guess?”

  “Monica Whitman died of food poisoning, but she was the only one who ate at the fair and was affected, which looks kind of suspicious. So for now I’m calling it a murder, at least between us.”

  Meg felt stunned. “Wait—didn’t you tell us that there were other cases?”

  Art nodded. “I said there were other cases of stomach troubles, but it turns out they were just kids who ate too much junk food and ran around a lot, with predictable results.”

  “Oh,” Meg replied. “How do you know it’s murder, though? And so fast? I thought all those tests took time.”

  “The doctors at the hospital called this morning. There’s no toxicology done yet, but the pattern looked wrong to them, and so did how fast she went downhill, so they decided to take a harder look before they released . . . her body.”

  “I thought they’d agreed it was accidental food poisoning? Not that I’m cheering for that idea, given that it might implicate someone at the WinterFare,” Meg said. But then she realized that if Monica had been deliberately poisoned, someone had to be implicated.

  “I know. Anyway, when she first got sick, she presented with the classic symptoms of gastroenteritis. Well, more like stomach flu, which is not quite the same thing. Anyway, you know the symptoms—watery diarrhea, vomiting, dehydration, and so on. Gastroenteritis is more serious, since it’s usually due to bacteria or a virus, and it can be spread from person to person.”

  “And why do we need to know this?” Seth asked.

  “As I said, at the start—last night after the fair was over—it looked like ordinary gastroenteritis, a serious case, and that’s what they treated her for. It was bad enough then that they decided to keep her overnight rather than send her home. But then things went south really fast—too fast for a simple virus. So the doctors took a different approach and realized that her kidneys were shutting down big-time after less than twenty-four hours. That’s not the normal pattern for gastroenteritis.”

  “So what do they think the problem is? Was?” Meg asked.

  “She was given some substance that killed her.”

  “Poisoned? Why? Who? How?” Meg said.

  “All good questions, Meg, and we don’t have any answers yet. The lab people are running tests, but if you watch any of those detective shows on TV, you know they don’t test for everything. They’ve got a basic set of things they look for, and if they don’t find those, then they go on to another list of less likely candidates. But it’s kind of one list at a time. You don’t see a person dying like this and automatically assume the person was poisoned by the venom of a snake that lives only on the top of Mount Everest. They look for things that are easily available to ordinary people first.”

  “That makes sense,” Seth said. “And that’s where things stand right now? The people in white coats are looking for the
simple answers first, and if that doesn’t pan out, they’ll look for complicated answers?”

  “That’s about the size of it. Let me say now: this is not yet an official investigation. I’m the only one who’s brought up the M-word. It may be that when the wonks figure out the substance she took, they’ll find a big bottle of it sitting on Monica’s kitchen table.”

  “And if they don’t?” Meg asked.

  “Then we take it to the next level. And then, as you know, it’s out of my hands—I have to turn it over to Marcus.”

  “Oh, joy,” Meg said bitterly. She’d had some difficult confrontations with Detective William Marcus of the state police, the agency that investigated homicides in the area. She had hoped that they were on track toward more amicable relations, but another suspicious death in her backyard was not going to help.

  “So what do you do now, Art?” Seth asked.

  “I’m kinda caught in the middle. It’s not officially a crime—yet—so I can’t investigate officially. But when and if it becomes a crime, I’m not sure if I’ll have a chance to help with the investigation. Can we just go over between us who provided food or drink or anything that the woman might have put in her mouth at the WinterFare?”

  “Sure,” Seth said quickly. “I keep forgetting that you weren’t around for the planning process. Nicky and Brian were the main food providers, and they said they’d done really well at the fair. Which might suggest that their food was fine, because a lot of people ate it and didn’t have a problem.”

  “Just those kids we talked about, Meg,” Art said, “and they bounced back fast. Of course we’ll have to check them out, talk to the parents and see what they ate. Who else, Meg?”

  “The fruit and vegetable vendors. For apples, that’s me, Ginny Morris—who runs the organic farm on the other side of town—and a whole bunch of other people who sold some apples along with a variety of winter vegetables.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to find out what ‘organic’ actually means. You don’t qualify with your orchard, right?”

  “Right. Too many regulations. I’m not against it in principle, but I haven’t been ready to do all the paperwork. Apparently Ginny’s got that done.”

  “But you don’t use chemicals or any additives to your trees?” Art asked.

  “Only widely used and approved natural agents. You know, biological things that eat other things. No chemical sprays or anything like that.”

  “Okay. But don’t be surprised if whoever ends up investigating this asks those questions and possibly even tests whatever apples you have,” Art told her.

  “That’s okay with me—I have nothing to hide. Although I’m not sure if I have any samples left of all the apples I was selling yesterday.”

  Art turned to Seth. “You don’t have any toxic furniture finishes and the like that might have seeped into the apples?”

  “Of course not. And I keep anything potentially toxic, like mineral spirits or turpentine, in a separate part of the building anyway. Meg, what about the craft vendors—didn’t some of them sell jams and jellies?”

  “I think they did. Did they have to apply for a license?”

  Seth looked troubled. “We’ve never worried about individuals selling to other individuals, or we’d never have a bake sale in town again. It’s not the same if it’s a commercial operation or a bulk distributor. But people have been selling jelly at the Harvest Festival for years and nobody’s had a problem.”

  Art didn’t look too happy. Had he hoped for a quick and simple answer? “Seth, you’ll have a list of who was selling what, right?” When Seth nodded, Art added, “Make sure you have it available, if somebody asks for it. And make sure all the town’s official paperwork is in order.”

  “Of course,” Seth said.

  Seth didn’t look happy, either. It appeared to Meg that both men were anticipating trouble. Great. But there couldn’t be anything harmful in the food that was sold—could there? People knew children would be eating it, among others. “Guys, do you think this was just a general thing, or did somebody have a beef with Monica?”

  “I don’t think we can guess right now,” Art said. “Of course I’m going to go talk to Douglas Whitman, see if he remembers what Monica ate, or if there are any scraps left around their house. He may not remember much about his meals over the last day or two—some days I have trouble remembering what I ate for breakfast, much less what my wife did.”

  “Do you want me to come along with you, to see Doug?” Meg volunteered.

  Art didn’t answer immediately, thinking it over. “Do you know the man?”

  “No, I’ve never even seen him. And I didn’t spend enough time with Monica to learn much about him, or their history together.”

  Art seemed to come to a decision. “The heck with it. Yes, Meg, I’d appreciate it if you would come with me. If Seth can spare you, that is. This is not yet an official investigation, although that might be no more than an hour or two away. But the man must be hurting, and it would be good to have a woman along. Plus you might see things that I’d miss.”

  “No women on your force, eh, Art?” Seth said, but at least his tone was joking.

  “Only behind a desk.” Art held up his hands. “I know, I know—we’re working on the problem. And I agree—we need to add a couple of women. Remember that when our budget comes up for a vote again, okay?”

  “You know I will. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “I can’t imagine it would be more than a couple of hours, and he lives maybe two miles from here, right? Why? Can’t be apart from your blushing bride for long?”

  “Well, there’s that, but mostly I want to know what time we’ve got available to get anything done before dark.”

  “You have something in mind, Seth?” Meg asked, bewildered. He hadn’t mentioned anything.

  “I’d like to talk to Larry and see if he’s had any further thought about the tiny house idea. But I’d also like to take him over to my house—maybe I’m not being fair to him to assume he wouldn’t want to stay there.”

  “What’re you charging if you’re going to rent the place, Seth?” Art asked.

  “I really haven’t decided. I want to cover my own expenses—utilities and taxes and the like. And it might make sense to have someone in the house just to keep an eye on things. I don’t like having it standing empty, so close to Mom’s house. But I’m not looking to make a lot of money. You have somebody in mind?”

  “I can keep my ears open, if somebody’s looking. You going to sell it or keep it?” Art asked.

  “Why, are you interested? Let’s say I’m not planning to sell it, but I’ll entertain ideas for it.”

  “Got it. Meg, you want to go over to the Whitman house now?”

  “I guess so.” What had she gotten herself into? She was sorry that Monica had died, and so unpleasantly, but in addition she had a personal stake in figuring out what had happened: if her apples were suspected, she needed to clear that up quickly, because her orchard was her livelihood. She knew she hadn’t used anything on them that was toxic, but she didn’t want her orchard practices to be tied up while this death—accidental?—was investigated. Better to find a solution quickly. “Let me grab my coat. Seth, I’ve got my cell if you need me. Are you cooking tonight?”

  “Sure, I’ll take care of it. See you later.”

  Meg pulled on her coat and followed Art out to his car. Once they were settled inside with the heater going full blast, Meg asked, “Is this legal?”

  “Mostly. Look, I know as well as anyone that you’ve got a difficult relationship with Marcus, and I don’t want to make things any worse. But nobody has called this a murder yet, and if it was accidental, and we can figure out how it happened, it’ll make things easier for everyone.”

  “Including me. But I agree. Don’t borrow trouble, right?”

  “Exactly.
Keep it simple.”

  It took less than five minutes to arrive at the house that Monica had lived in. Meg had known of it by the name of the last owners, who hadn’t lived in it for over ten years. She’d always been saddened by its gradual decay as she had driven past it over the past two years. Now it looked greatly improved: the trim had been reattached, and a coat of fresh paint had transformed the house. A decade of weeds had been cleared from the lawn immediately around it. Monica and her husband had done a nice job.

  Art pulled into the driveway, where there was another car parked. “Ready?” he asked her.

  “I suppose. Will you take the lead? This is your case, so to speak.”

  “Sure.” Art waited for Meg to get out of the car, then he walked purposefully toward the front door and pushed the button for the doorbell. Meg, close behind him, heard a “ding-dong” from somewhere inside the house.

  At first nothing happened, and then finally she heard the slow shuffle of feet, and a few moments later the door opened to reveal a man who looked closer to seventy than sixty. His clothes were rumpled and his hair hadn’t been combed recently, nor had he shaved that day. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. Are you Douglas Whitman?”

  “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

  “I’m Arthur Preston, chief of police for Granford. May we come in?”

  The man didn’t move. “I didn’t call for any police.”

  “I know that, Mr. Whitman. This is about your wife.”

  “Monica? She’s not home right now. I’m not sure where she is, but she didn’t make my breakfast.”

  Meg glanced at Art with dismay. Clearly something was not right with Douglas Whitman, but Monica had never mentioned anything about any problems her husband might have. But then, she hadn’t said much at all about her home life, as far as Meg knew. “Would you like me to make you some breakfast? We can wait for your wife inside.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear. That’s very nice of you. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” Douglas took a step back and gestured them into the central hallway of the house. “The kitchen is in the back. I’ll show you.”