A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  “Detective, what possible interest could you have in how often my husband and I communicate?”

  He didn’t back down. “It’s relevant to the investigation. So far I have only your word about your relationship and your involvement with Daniel Weston. I’d like to hear his side.”

  “And Phillip won’t be able to help you, other than to corroborate our past friendship,” Elizabeth responded tartly. She stood up abruptly and stalked to the kitchen sink, where she turned to face Marcus. “This is ridiculous! I came here to visit an old friend. The last time I saw him he was perfectly fine. I don’t know this area, or at least I didn’t until Meg started showing me around, so why would I have lured him to an unfamiliar place—after dark, I might add—and killed him? Why would I have wanted Daniel dead at all? It makes no sense. And say I lured him out there. How would I have overpowered him?” Elizabeth spread out her hands. “Look at me—I weigh half of what Daniel did.”

  Marcus glanced at Meg, then looked at Elizabeth. “Weston was killed by a single well-placed blow. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of strength,” Marcus said stubbornly. “Maybe he made, uh, advances and you had to fight him off.”

  “Detective!” Elizabeth’s expression wavered between amusement and dismay. “If he’d wanted to make advances, as you put it, he could have done it in the comfort of my hotel. Why choose a deserted farm stand in the middle of nowhere? It’s not exactly an ideal place for hanky-panky, you know, especially at our age.”

  Meg thought Detective Marcus swallowed a smile. “Don’t you have any other suspects, Detective?” she said gently.

  He sighed. “We’re working on it. I’m sorry—I’m just frustrated. Weston’s been dead a week now. From all I’ve heard, the man was a saint. Everybody loved and admired him. Ergo, he shouldn’t be dead.”

  “Did Kenneth Henderson contact you?”

  “The professor? Yeah. He’s coming in later this morning to talk to us. How do you know about him?”

  “We saw him at the memorial service, and then we happened to run into him at the Harvest Festival on Saturday. He’s staying at Rachel Dickinson’s place, and we all had tea together yesterday. He said—”

  Marcus held up one hand. “Don’t tell me anything. I want to hear it from him.” He swallowed more coffee and turned back to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Corey, when you ignore my calls, it makes me wonder if you have something to hide. Maybe you don’t, but I’d prefer that you cooperate with this investigation.”

  “I apologize, Detective,” Elizabeth replied. “You’re right. And of course I want to see this cleared up as soon as possible. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Just tell the truth. You’ve told us about your history with the victim, and why you were here. I still want to hear your husband’s side of it. And I can’t involve civilians in an open investigation—whatever your daughter here may tell you. I’d appreciate it if you’d steer clear of the whole thing and let us do our job.” He spoke to Elizabeth, but his eye shifted briefly to Meg.

  “Don’t look at me, Detective,” Meg said. “I have enough to do getting my crop harvested and delivered.”

  He managed a small smile. “Can you keep an eye on your mother?”

  Meg avoided her mother’s eyes. “I’ve sicced her on putting together the family genealogy. Since there are a lot of generations of ancestors around here, that should keep her busy.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t look convinced. “Just try to keep out of it, will you?” He stood up.

  Elizabeth hadn’t budged from her place by the sink. “I promise I’ll let you know when I talk to Phillip, Detective.”

  “Thank you. And tell him to call me. Thanks for the coffee, Meg. See me out?”

  Meg led him back to the front door. “You don’t really think she had anything to do with this, do you?” she asked in a low voice.

  His shoulders sagged. “Not really. It’s not personal, Meg. It’s a homicide—I have to check out everything.”

  “I know. Good luck.” Meg watched him climb into his car and drive off before she returned to the kitchen, where Elizabeth was washing up the breakfast dishes.

  “You didn’t mention he had called more than once. Are you really trying to tick him off?” Meg demanded.

  Elizabeth didn’t look up. “I resent being accused of murder.”

  “He’s not accusing you of anything—he’s investigating. He’s a good cop, and we’ll all be better off if you cooperate.”

  Elizabeth turned off the water and faced Meg. “I realize that. And perhaps I have misjudged him, which was stupid of me. But I notice you didn’t say anything about looking at Daniel’s papers. Were you afraid he’d tell me not to?”

  Meg smiled reluctantly. “I guess so. I thought I’d let Kenneth mention them. Besides, either Marcus will tell him they’ve already looked through them, or by the time Marcus does follow up, you’ll have seen them.”

  “Ah, Meg, I didn’t know you had such a devious streak in you. Where could that have come from?”

  Meg ignored the question. “If I don’t get up the hill, Bree will have my hide. Good luck with Daniel’s papers. You’ll be back for dinner?”

  “If I haven’t been arrested,” her mother replied.

  Meg came back down the hill for lunch; she wanted a few minutes to sit and do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Didn’t she deserve a break?

  And it was only September. Would things get easier or harder as the season went on? At least the crop looked good. There had been no significant pests or blights or scabs, or whatever else they were called. Not that she had had anything to do with that, other than hiring the right people to oversee the trees. But maybe the harvest gods, or goddesses, were smiling on her.

  Her lunch options boiled down to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of cider. She’d bought a jug at Dickinson’s, which reminded her once again: what had Daniel Weston been doing there?

  Her peaceful lunch was interrupted by the sound of her goats bleating in unison, combined with the barking of a dog. Dog? Meg hurried to the kitchen door. Yes, there was a dog, a youngish golden retriever, or so she guessed, who appeared fascinated by Dorcas and Isabel. The goats were holding their ground on the other side of the fence, but looked wary.

  “Sorry about that.” Seth emerged from the barn, leash in hand. “He kind of got away from me.”

  “He’s yours?”

  “As of yesterday.”

  “I didn’t know you were looking for a dog.” Seth had once told her he’d had a dog years earlier, but he hadn’t given her the impression that he was in any hurry to replace him.

  “I wasn’t, but someone had to give him up for financial reasons, so Andrea thought of me.”

  “Andrea?”

  Seth caught up with the dog and clipped the leash to his collar. “Yes, Andrea Bedortha—the vet?”

  “I know who Andrea is, Seth—I just saw her Saturday,” Meg reminded him. “She knew you wanted a dog?”

  “I’d mentioned it.”

  Meg remembered that the two of them had looked pretty chummy at the Harvest Festival. “How’s she settling in at the new office?”

  “Great. I’ve been helping her with some of the plumbing—she wanted another sink in the back.”

  Of course. Helpful Seth, always doing another good deed. Meg, stop it! she chastised herself. Seth had every right to help Andrea out in setting up her new office. He’d known her for years—longer than he’d known Meg. He’d cajoled Andrea into taking on a solo practice in Granford, and since he was so involved with Granford Grange, he’d want the tenants to be happy and successful. So why was Meg upset?

  She swallowed her irrational pique. “What’s his name?”

  “Max. Andrea says he’s about six months old. And not very well trained, as you can tell.” Max was pulling hard at the leash, far more interested in the goats than in the humans. The goats stood sentinel, watching curiously. Meg felt a pang: she hadn’t had much time to t
alk to them lately. Could goats get lonely? Or bored? At least they had each other.

  “Have you eaten? Not that I have much to offer. My mother’s off searching Daniel Weston’s office. Come on in and I’ll tell you about it. Marcus was here this morning—again.”

  “Can I bring Max inside?”

  “Does he like cats?”

  “Oh, right—Lolly. I don’t know. We haven’t met any cats since I picked him up.”

  “How about you tie him up outside here? We can leave the door open so you can keep an eye on him.”

  “Will do.”

  Seth joined her in the kitchen after a few minutes. Max whined plaintively, but Seth ignored him. “What’s up?” He took a seat at the table.

  “Sorry I can’t offer you much—Mother’s been doing the shopping lately, but I think we’ve eaten everything. PBJ okay?”

  “Fine. How’re you two doing?”

  “Not bad. I think being a murder suspect has shaken her a bit. And she’s trying not to interfere in the investigation.”

  “The operative word being ‘trying’?”

  “Well . . . Right now she wants to find out if Daniel left anything in his records that might point to someone in the academic community as his killer.”

  “Marcus hasn’t come up with any suspects?”

  Meg shook her head. “He even admitted he’s frustrated. Daniel had no obvious enemies. It’s ridiculous—if my mother is the best suspect they’ve got, the state police really are grasping at straws.” She set the sandwich on a plate and put it in front of Seth. “Cider?”

  “Sure.”

  She poured a glass for him, then sat down in front of her unfinished sandwich.

  Seth ate half his sandwich and washed it down with cider. “Meg,” he said suddenly, “are you trying to keep me and your mother apart?”

  She was startled by his question, and at a loss for how to answer him. “No, not really. It’s just that she and I haven’t spent much time together in the last few years, and things got kind of sticky when Daniel died, and ...” She trailed off, knowing how lame she sounded.

  Seth was regarding her steadily. “What have you told her about us?”

  What is “us”? They’d never really talked about it. Meg dismissed several flippant answers before ducking the question and saying, “Maybe we should plan a dinner together, just the three of us. I would have before now, except I’ve been so busy.”

  “We could go to the restaurant. That’s nice, neutral ground. And I can show your mother I clean up real nice.”

  “Seth!” Meg was hurt by his sarcasm, but she had to admit he had a point. She took a breath. “I’d be delighted to have you spend some time with my mother. And that’s an excellent idea. I’ll call Nicky right now.” Before she could change her mind, she stood up, went to the phone, and punched the speed-dial number for the restaurant.

  “Hi, Nicky. How’s business?” Meg listened to Nicky burble on: the gist was that everything was great, terrific, and wonderful. “Listen, can you fit in three of us, say, tomorrow night? Me, Seth, and my mother.” Nicky was ecstatic, and the deal was done. Meg hung up and turned back to Seth. “There. Tomorrow. That work for you?”

  “Great. Look, Meg, I don’t want to force anything.” He stood up and moved closer, then laid his hands on her shoulders. “If you don’t want to tell her.”

  Meg leaned against him. “I’m sorry. I’m not being fair, to you or to her. You know I care about you, and I’m making unfair assumptions about what she’s going to think. Which is dumb. You’re a great guy, Seth, and she should see that. And if she doesn’t, that’s her loss.”

  “It’s okay, Meg. I know I am but a humble plumber . . .”

  She swatted his arm, laughing. “Stop that. You’re making me feel ashamed of myself. And you’re so much more than a plumber—although a plumber is a pretty good thing to be these days.”

  “Meg, shut up.” He leaned in to kiss her, only to be interrupted by Max’s barking. “That dog’s probably gotten himself tangled up in the leash. He’s kind of a klutz.”

  “He’s young. Think of him as a clumsy teenager. Are you going to be leaving him here a lot?”

  Seth looked sheepish. “I can’t leave him locked up at my house, can I? He can come with me on some jobs, but at least here he can have a little space. Maybe I should set up a dog run for him out back. And I’m sure he’ll be a good watchdog.”

  “Yeah, right,” Meg replied. One more thing to take care of; one more thing to worry about. And a constant reminder of Andrea, right in her backyard. “I’m sure we’ll manage. Well, Bree will be sending a search party for me if I don’t get back up the hill. See you tomorrow?”

  “Should I pick you up?”

  “Let me get back to you on that.”

  “I’ll call you during the day, then. Thanks for lunch.” Seth went out to release Max from bondage and headed off toward his office at the rear of the property, whistling as he went, with Max at his heels. Meg put the dishes in the sink, locked up, and trudged up the hill once again.

  18

  In the gathering dusk, after another long day of physical labor, Meg stumbled her way down the hill and through the back door. Her mother’s car was in the driveway, along with an unfamiliar car, so Meg was prepared for the sounds of voices when she came in the front door. One was clearly her mother’s, but whose was the other? She wavered in the hallway, debating about ducking upstairs for a much-needed shower or confronting whoever was in her kitchen. In the end curiosity, combined with the good smells once again wafting from that direction, won out.

  “Meg, darling—you look exhausted,” her mother greeted her. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or a drink?”

  “Tea sounds good. Bree should be joining us shortly. I take it you made dinner again?”

  “I did. It’s the least I could do.” Elizabeth handed her a steaming mug.

  “Bless you!” Meg wondered when she would next have a chance to buy food, or clean house, or do laundry, or get her car serviced, or get her hair cut . . . probably December, at the rate things were going. “You must be Susan Keeley?” Meg eyed the rather plain young woman hovering in the corner, a mug of tea clutched in her hands. As Meg gratefully accepted the mug that her mother handed her, she thought she recognized their visitor from Daniel’s memorial service.

  The woman straightened up and put down the mug to hold out her hand. “Yes, hi. Are you Meg? Your mother and I were so busy this afternoon that we lost track of time, and then she said, why didn’t I just come and eat with you here and we could keep talking? I hope you don’t mind?”

  Meg assessed her unexpected guest. Tall, but with lousy posture; pale, as though she lived under a rock; a bit spotty of skin and chewed of nails. Was this what English lit graduate students looked like these days? But Susan’s gaze was unapologetic, as if she was saying, Take me as I am, and I really don’t care. “Not a problem, Susan. I’m glad to meet you.” Meg shook her hand: Susan’s handshake was firm and brief. “I’d love to hear what, if anything, you and my mother have found. But first I’m going to grab a quick shower. I’ll be back in five.” She fled up the stairs.

  Lolly was lying curled in a tight ball on her bed, no doubt avoiding the stranger in the kitchen, and Meg scratched her behind her ears. “Have you been fed, silly animal?” When Lolly tucked her nose under her tail and went back to sleep, Meg guessed the answer was yes. She grabbed some clean clothes and headed for the shower.

  Mere minutes later Meg was back in the kitchen, where she found Bree talking to Susan about details of UMass life. “It was really hard to get any studying done in the dorm,” Bree was saying. “How do you do it? I mean, you have to think about words and ideas—most of what I was working with was facts and figures.”

  Susan nodded. “It’s not always easy. I’ve found some pretty quiet corners in a couple of the libraries, but sometimes I just had to get out of there, you know? Luckily I have a car, so I could go find quiet places here and there.
Summer I could work outdoors—sometimes it was a relief to get away from the Internet and just concentrate on the research and writing.”

  “How much longer do you have before you get your degree, Susan?” Meg sat down at the table after refilling her mug of tea. Elizabeth was bustling between the stove and the microwave, stirring something.

  Susan shrugged. “I should finish by the end of this academic year—next spring. But it’s kind of complicated, now that Daniel’s out of the picture.”

  “You were at his memorial service, weren’t you?” And had appeared very upset, as Meg recalled.

  Susan nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. “That was so hard. I mean, I couldn’t believe he was dead. But wasn’t it great that so many people came out to honor him?”

  “He must have been well respected. How did Daniel Weston become involved in your studies? I mean, he was at the college, and you’re at the university, right?” Meg asked. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that to sound like you weren’t entitled to his attention.”

  “It’s okay, I know what you mean. He was really important in his field, and I’m just a state university student. But it’s not unusual to have an outside committee member, depending on your area of specialization. I felt really lucky to have him on my committee.”

  “You’re working on Emily Dickinson?”

  Susan leaned back in her chair. “She’s my main focus, yes, but I’m looking at her in the context of other nineteenth-century American women poets. You know, whether they published and where, how they were reviewed, if at all— that kind of thing. Sort of a socio-politico-feminist slant. Male poets got a lot more pages, and a lot more attention. I’d love to find out if these women were communicating with each other—you know, sort of like a critique group, or maybe just sharing because they knew they weren’t going to find a bigger audience. People did a whole lot more letter writing in that century. Too bad most of the correspondence was tossed out as unimportant.”

  “I thought a lot of Dickinson’s work had been preserved?”