A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

She and her mother had always had a distant relationship, and Meg had never really understood why. She knew her parents loved her; she had never been neglected or ignored, and her parents had made sure she’d had every opportunity she could wish for. Meg had attended dance classes, art lessons, horseback riding, martial arts classes, and more. She had tried out more than one instrument in the school orchestra, and then in the marching band—and her parents had been in the audience every time she performed. They had taken family vacations, even to Europe. She had had their attention and their affection.

  So why the distance? Why did she and her mother dance around each other like polite strangers most of the time? Meg didn’t want a best friend, but she did want some true connection. Meg allowed herself a small spurt of resentment: she had always done what they asked, always been who her parents wanted her to be—performed well in school, had a nice group of appropriate friends. She had never gotten into trouble, never done drugs, never even stayed out past her curfew, for God’s sake! So why was her mother so formal with her? And why, Meg asked herself, had she never tried to break through, now that she was an adult?

  “Hey, Meg, watch it—you don’t have to rip the apples off the tree!” Bree’s voice interrupted her internal debate.

  “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. How’re we doing overall?”

  “The Gravensteins are about done, and Raynard and I think we should wait a couple of days for the Paulareds. So we’re good.”

  “Does that mean maybe I could take a few hours off?”

  “To visit with your mother? Sure, no problem. Maybe I’m overstepping here, but that’s one uptight lady.”

  “She is that,” Meg admitted. “There’s something going on, but she won’t tell me what. I keep trying to explain that Detective Marcus is going to ask the same questions. ‘How did you know Daniel Weston? What was your relationship with him?’ But she just brushes me off.”

  Bree looked up at Meg, perched on her low ladder. “You think there was something going on?”

  Meg shook her head. “I don’t even want to go there. But the more she stonewalls Marcus, the worse it will be.”

  “So does Marcus think . . . ?” Bree asked.

  “That it was murder? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. But the fact that a respected professor turned up dead in a remote farmers’ market just doesn’t seem right, and I’m willing to bet that we’ll be hearing from Marcus again. Does Michael have any news contacts in Amherst?”

  Bree snorted. “There is no news in Amherst. Haven’t you noticed? There are hardly any newspapers anymore. But I’ll ask, in case he knows somebody who knows somebody, or something. How about asking Seth?”

  “I keep forgetting he went to the college there, although it’s been a while.”

  “He’s Seth. He probably has seventeen friends on the staff there.”

  “True. But I hate to ask him for anything else—he does so much already.”

  “You got that right. But he seems to like to help, and people talk to him. Marcus hasn’t gotten back to your mother?”

  “Not that I know of, but she’s over at Rachel’s now. And he has her cell phone number, so he’ll get in touch with her directly if he needs to.”

  “What about Art Preston?”

  “I don’t think our local chief of police will be in the loop on this one, since Weston died in Amherst, not Granford.” Or had he? Meg didn’t recall Marcus saying specifically where Weston had actually died. “Maybe I should touch base with Art, just in case. He couldn’t know any less than I do.”

  “Finish this tree, and you can call it a day,” Bree said.

  Half an hour later Meg deposited the rest of her day’s assignment of apples in the large bin nearby and went down the hill to the house. Inside it was pleasantly cool, after a day spent in the sun—September nights did help, even if the days remained hot and sunny. She picked up the phone and dialed the number for the police station, identified herself, and asked for Chief Preston.

  “Oh, hi, Meg,” the person on the desk replied. “He just walked out of here with Seth Chapin. You want me to buzz him?”

  “No, don’t bother. I’ve got Seth’s cell number. Thanks.”

  She tried Seth, who answered quickly. “Art and I were thinking of heading over to your place—we figured you’d want hear what little he knows about this Amherst murder. Are you back at the house?” he said.

  “Yes, but give me time to grab a shower before you show up, please!”

  “No problem. We’ll pick up something to drink along the way.”

  When he hung up, Meg dashed for the shower.

  She was downstairs wearing clean clothes, her hair damp, when Art and Seth pulled in. Despite the matters that had led to her introduction to the local chief of police, she counted Art Preston more as a friend than as an officer these days. He in turn was willing to trust her with information that lay outside of what was released to the public—if and when he had any. As a small-town police chief, he wasn’t always included in investigations outside of his jurisdiction, and he and Detective Marcus were not friendly.

  “Hey, Meg,” he called out when he saw her at the back door. “We didn’t know what you had, so we brought beer, wine, and a gallon of iced tea.”

  “Right now I’m parched, so I’ll go with the tea. Are you off-duty, Art?”

  “I am. I’ve got to get home by six or the wife’ll skin me alive, but I knew you’d be calling me sooner or later about this Weston death, so I figured I’d beat you to it. And here we are.”

  “Thank you. I just called your office and they said you’d left with Seth. Sit—I’ll get some glasses.”

  The two men settled themselves in the Adirondack chairs that overlooked the Great Meadow, and Meg ducked inside for some glasses. When she returned, she began, “So, what can you tell me?”

  Art sighed. “Unfortunately, not much. Here’s what I’ve got.” He pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Weston, Daniel. Age sixty-two. Full professor in the English department at Amherst College. Tenured. Lives in Amherst, on the fringes of town. Married, second wife—they’ve been together about ten years now. A couple of grown sons from his first marriage, living in different places around the country. Well liked by his colleagues, happy with his wife. Financially secure, or as secure as you get these days. No known evil habits, vices, scandals—doesn’t mess with students of either gender, or anyone else, as far as anybody knows.”

  “He sounds like a sterling character,” Meg commented. “Our friend Detective Marcus told me he died of a heart attack, but in a rather unlikely location. Has Marcus shared anything with you, Art?”

  “He hasn’t, and last I heard the medical examiner hadn’t issued any information.”

  “How long does an autopsy take?” Meg asked.

  “It’s probably done, but that doesn’t mean they broadcast the results. Anyway, I can tell you that Weston was found in the cider house adjacent to Dickinson’s Farm Stand, maybe five miles from here. It’s just over the ridge north of Granford. You’ve probably been by it without paying any attention.”

  “On the contrary, I know it pretty well—they sell my apples. Nice old-timey place, right? The cider house is that little building off to the right?”

  Art leaned back in his seat and studied the ceiling. “That’s the one. The stand stays open late, until about eight, to catch the tourists these days. But Weston apparently paid a visit to the farm stand sometime after that.”

  “Alone?” Meg asked.

  “Hard to say. His car was sitting in the lot there. Weston was found on the floor of the cider room. Just crumpled up like he’d fallen.”

  Meg and Seth exchanged bewildered glances. “Why there?”

  Art shook his head. “Don’t know. Not much to work with, is it? Maybe he was just driving by and needed to take a leak—sorry—and that was the first place he passed.”

  “Was it locked?”

  “Are you asking, did he have to break in?
No. What’s to steal?”

  “So no physical assault. Poison?”

  Seth laughed. “Somebody lured the professor to an empty cider house in order to inject him with an undetectable poison? Kind of far-fetched, don’t you think?”

  “Humor me—I’m desperate.” Meg smiled at him. “Does the place have a ghost? Maybe he was scared to death.”

  “Don’t mention that idea to Detective Marcus.”

  “Not likely.” Meg went on, “Did he have a cell phone? Oh, that’s right—that’s how they found Mother. So he could have called for help if he thought he was having a heart attack, but didn’t. Was he robbed?”

  “His wallet was in his pocket, along with his car keys,” Art replied.

  “This is ridiculous!” Meg stood up and began pacing. “There’s no reason for Daniel Weston to have been there, and no way to find out why he was. Or whether my mother was with him.” Meg turned to Seth. “Seth, you went to Amherst College. Did you ever run into Professor Weston?”

  “I’ve been trying to remember—I’d have to check, but I may have taken a class with him. If I did, he doesn’t stand out in my memory. Probably just as well. I could do without Marcus asking me about him.”

  “Where does that leave the investigation, Art?” Meg asked.

  Art sighed. “The state police are going through the usual routine—talking to his wife, his colleagues, et cetera. The only wild card, unfortunately, is your mother, Meg. I’m sure it’s all quite innocent, but an old, uh, friend shows up out of nowhere, after thirty-something years, and bingo, a day later the guy’s dead? You have to admit it looks kind of odd.”

  “I know, but I refuse to believe that my mother had anything to do with his death. It’s just a strange coincidence. Or maybe Weston knew he had a terminal illness and wanted to tie up loose ends, say good-bye?”

  “Maybe. But we don’t know about anything like that. If that’s true, the ME should find it, or his wife would know. I’ll keep my ear to the ground and see what turns up. Your mother’s going to be around for a few days?”

  “I think so. But she’s not here—she’s staying at Seth’s sister Rachel’s B and B.”

  Art looked troubled. “Did you have a fight or something?”

  “Nothing like that, Art. There’s something going on with Mother, but I don’t know if it has anything to do with Daniel Weston. I’ll see what I can find out, if she’ll talk to me.”

  Art hauled himself out of his chair. “I’d better get home—some back-to-school thing going on tonight. I’ll let you know if I hear anything new. Seth, I’ll see you.”

  Meg watched him go. Seth stood up, then walked around behind her, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, kneading. She bent her head forward, stretched the kinks out of her neck. “God, that feels good.”

  “I guess you’ve figured out by now that apple picking is hard work.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? There was so much I didn’t know when I decided to get into this. But Bree says I can take some time off—something about the next batch of apples not being quite ripe. I’d better go over to Rachel’s tomorrow and see if I can smooth ruffled feathers.” Meg fell silent, enjoying the feel of Seth’s hands—until she realized she was nodding off. “Thanks for bringing Art by. It’s kind of weird, being part of whatever is going on but not in it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Let’s hope it can all be explained and you and your mother can stay out of it. Listen, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “I’d ask you to stay for supper, but I’m bushed. Maybe we could get together tomorrow night?”

  “Works for me. Oh, and are you planning to come to the Harvest Festival on Saturday?”

  “Maybe, if I remembered what it was. Fill me in?”

  “It’s an annual celebration of Granford’s founding, timed to coincide with the harvest. It’s on the town green, and there’s something for everyone—food, rides for the kids, music. It’s fun. It’s on Saturday. And that’s also the official kickoff for Granford Grange.”

  “Oh, right—you did tell me. I’ll see if Bree and Raynard will let me play hooky. I take it you’re involved in the planning?”

  “Of course.” Seth planted a kiss on the back of her neck, and withdrew his hands. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  When he left, Meg still hadn’t found the energy to get out of her chair.

  6

  At breakfast Meg sat at the kitchen table savoring a leisurely cup of coffee. “Bree, are you sure you don’t need me today? I feel guilty just enjoying myself.”

  Bree snorted. “Hey, when I need you, I’ll let you know. Go out and have some fun. See a movie, go to a spa or something. Or maybe you and your mother can smooth things over?”

  Meg sighed. “Easier said than done. Bree, how well do you get along with your parents?”

  “Good, mostly because I don’t see much of them. They’re in Jamaica half the time, and I’m here. But I know what you’re getting at. I understand why my parents did what they did, leaving me here with my auntie, and I’m grateful. If I hadn’t been a resident here, I wouldn’t have gotten the education I did. But my auntie was older than my mother, and she had no kids of her own, so she kept me on a short leash. We get on better now than we did when I was in high school, but there were a few rough patches. Doesn’t sound like that’s your problem with your mother.”

  Meg wondered just how to explain her problem, either to Bree or to herself. It seemed kind of silly to complain that her parents had been too distant with her. She had had everything she ever wanted, except true warmth. Maybe that’s why she was attracted to Seth, because he was so warm and open. And maybe that’s why she didn’t quite trust him, because she didn’t really understand that kind of personality. Had her ex-boyfriend Chandler’s distance been what had attracted her to him? No, Meg, don’t go there. Chandler had been a mistake from the beginning, but that didn’t make it a pattern.

  “I really don’t know what our problem is,” she said at last. “Growing pains, I suppose. I’ve been living my own life for a while, and she’s not up to speed on that, which is my fault as much as hers. And now I find that she’s been . . . well, not hiding things, just failing to mention them. And I definitely think she’s hiding something about Daniel Weston, and I’m almost afraid to find out what.”

  “Like that she killed him? Ha! If that lady wanted someone dead, she’d hire help, she wouldn’t get her hands dirty. She’d probably interview six candidates first, to make sure she was getting the right hit man.”

  “Bree!” Meg was horrified at the snap judgment of her mother, but couldn’t suppress a giggle. Bree was right: Elizabeth was efficient, decisive, and dispassionate. But not a killer, even secondhand. “Okay, I’ll go over to Amherst and talk to her. Maybe we can do a girly lunch and some sightseeing.”

  “Good luck! I’m going to check on our supplies and make a few deliveries. I’ll call if anything comes up.”

  After Bree bustled out, Meg poured another cup of coffee and watched her cat, Lolly, take an intense and thorough bath in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was still too early to head for Amherst, and if she admitted it, she was willing to put off seeing her mother as long as possible, even while admitting that it was the right thing to do. She was interrupted by a knock at the back door: Seth. She stood up to let him in. “Hi,” she said. “You’re up early. You want coffee?”

  “Nope, can’t stay. But I was thinking about Daniel Weston last night, after you asked if I knew him, and I realized why the name rang a bell. Here.” He held out a magazine, folded open to an inside page.

  “What is this?” she asked, taking it from him.

  “The Amherst alumni mag from this past summer. For one thing, that’s a picture of Weston there.”

  Meg studied the black-and-white photo, which showed a tall, distinguished-looking man, his hair a mix of dark and gray and slightly too long. He was standing in front of a group, lecturing—apparently about something that excited him, if his smile
and his expansive gesture, arms flung wide, were any indication. “Good-looking man, isn’t he? Is that what you wanted me to see?”

  “No, read on. The article was about this symposium he was organizing to entertain the parents who’re bringing their kids to school, kind of to ease the separation by providing activities for each over that first weekend, and then bringing them back together now and then, before sending the parents home.”

  “So?”

  “Weston was the keynote speaker and the main coordinator for the event—this year’s is taking place this weekend. It’s kind of a mix of entertainment and serious scholarly stuff—some kind of face-off between the Whitmanites and the Dickinsonophiles about who’s the best nineteenth-century American poet. But my point is, don’t you think it’s odd that he’d pick this week of all weeks to renew contact with your mother? He must have been run off his feet, between the symposium and beginning-of-the-year stuff at the college.”

  Meg looked at the picture again. “Maybe he was really well organized? Still, you’re right. He could have gotten together with Mother over the summer, when things were more peaceful. Why now, I wonder?” Because Daddy was away? Meg wondered, then squashed the thought. “I’ll see if I can find out from her. I mean, it’s possible that he’d been trying to set this up for months, and this was the first time Mother agreed, and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity?”

  “Maybe,” Seth replied. “Ask her. You’re going to see her?”

  “I thought I’d drive over this morning and offer to take her to lunch. If I call first, she might just say no.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s probably as eager to patch things up as you are.”

  Was she? And “patch” seemed to be an appropriate word: slap some goop over the rift and pretend that nothing had happened. “Well, I promise I’ll try to find out. Thanks for the information anyway. I’ll let you know how things turn out.”

  It was nearly ten before Meg headed north to Amherst, after dressing with deliberation. She didn’t want to look too grubby, but neither did she want to seem too dressed up. She wanted to send the message that this was a casual event, no big deal, but at the same time she didn’t want to provoke Elizabeth’s criticism. Whatever she chose, her mother would notice.