A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  “As much as anyone’s, I guess. You know, back in those days nobody thought some woman’s correspondence was important. In fact, Emily’s own family threw a lot of hers away after she died. What survives is scattered through a lot of different collections, although there’s a big chunk at the college in Amherst. Anyway, Daniel Weston was the big name around here, and a recommendation from him would mean a lot. Would have, I mean. Guess that’s not going to happen.” Susan slumped back into her chair.

  “Is the job market tough for PhDs these days?” Meg asked.

  “When isn’t it? That’s why knowing the right people matters—they can help. It takes more than a solid dissertation—you need publications, and conference panels, teaching experience. A lot of people give up and don’t finish, and a lot more spin it out as long as they can, since they don’t have anywhere to go. Of course, most people don’t go into English literature in the first place, if they’ve got any sense.”

  “Why did you?”

  Susan smiled ruefully. “I love language. I love seeing another era filtered through a poet’s eyes. And if I may oversimplify, the women poets tend to be more rooted in ordinary life. The men were all busy describing battles and history and grand ideas, but the women talked about a smaller, simpler world. That’s why Emily is so interesting—she deliberately shrank her universe, and then studied it very carefully, trying to capture it, which she did with surprising economy. Do you know her work?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid, but as much as your average person, I guess. Is it true that she never intended to publish her work?”

  “There’s some disagreement about that.”

  “Dinner’s ready,” Elizabeth said, setting a large bowl on the table. “It’s a white chili recipe I’ve been experimenting with—I thought that was a good compromise for this between-seasons period, neither hot nor cold.” She went back to the cupboard and brought out bowls, distributing them around the table.

  Fifteen minutes later, Meg felt much more right with the world. A glass of wine helped. More than one and she might fall asleep with her face in the bowl. She noticed that Susan didn’t drink much either, but she certainly ate with a healthy appetite.

  Meg leaned back and surreptitiously loosened her belt. “So, you two looked at the files in Daniel’s office today?”

  “We did.” Elizabeth glanced at Susan, who nodded for her to continue. “From what we could see, the police had gone through the drawers and shelves, and they took his computer, but not much else that we could identify. So we spent the afternoon sifting and sorting.”

  “Was Daniel good at keeping records?” Meg asked.

  Susan snorted. “Uh, not exactly. I mean, he wasn’t a total slob, and besides, this was his campus office, so he had to keep a couple of chairs free for visitors, and a path clear to get to his desk—it couldn’t be too much of a pit. But most of the important stuff was in his head. I mean, I could walk in and ask him, say, ‘Where’s that article that appeared in the Hampshire Gazette in 1878?’ And he knew exactly what I meant and could put his hand on it like that. He had his own peculiar logic, but it worked for him.”

  “Did he give you much feedback on your work?” Bree tossed out.

  “Quite a bit, actually. I was surprised. He always made time for me, and I could tell he’d read what I’d given him. So I knew he took his role on the committee seriously. Which was great for me. I mean, the man knew everything there was about Emily Dickinson.”

  “So what did you hope to add to the body of knowledge with your thesis? It has to explore something new, right?” Meg asked.

  “Yes,” Susan agreed. “Scholars are always reinterpreting, you know? I mean, we can only understand a work of art through the biases of our own culture and time, and those are always changing. There are lots of new avenues to follow, even with someone as well known and well studied as Emily—her physical problems, or her psychological issues. Was she going blind? Was she depressed, or bipolar, or agoraphobic? I’ve read articles discussing all of these things.”

  Meg was impressed. “Wow. I hadn’t thought about it like that. Will Daniel’s death make things more difficult for you?”

  Susan shrugged. “I’d finished most of the research, and now all I’ve got left is to write the thing. I think he would have been a big help in shaping my arguments. He was great at talking through a lot of things. I’ll miss him.” Tears welled again, and she looked away.

  Meg glanced at her mother. Time to change the subject. “Did Mother tell you what we’re looking for? Did you think Daniel was particularly excited lately?”

  “He’d been really up, you know? I kind of figured he thought he was onto something new, but he didn’t share it with me. I mean, why would he? I’m just a student, and he was the big important scholar. But he was like a kid, and he kept dropping hints.”

  “Weren’t you curious?” Meg prompted.

  “Sure, but I figured I’d find out eventually.”

  “But he hinted to Kenneth Henderson that he had some surprise,” Elizabeth said, almost to herself.

  Susan laughed briefly. “That doesn’t mean much. He and Professor Henderson were always trying to outdo each other—you can see it if you look at the literature. So it was the professor who put you onto this hunt?”

  “Yes, he brought it up.”

  “Maybe Daniel was just yanking Professor Henderson’s chain.”

  “Do you really think so?” Elizabeth said.

  Susan shrugged. “I don’t know. I know they’ve been after each other for years now. I heard at a conference once that Professor Henderson thought that Daniel had taken one of his ideas and rushed it into print, and he wasn’t too happy about that. It’s still ‘publish or perish’ in academia, but Professor Henderson would have looked like a sore loser if he’d made a public stink. So he just swallowed it, but he was real careful about what he said around Daniel after that.”

  “My, this all sounds so competitive,” Elizabeth observed.

  Susan nodded. “It is, pretty much. Even with tenure, professors are vulnerable now. And they know there are plenty of grad students like me who would love to have their jobs, for a lot less pay. I’m sorry Daniel’s dead, but to be honest, it’s mostly for selfish reasons. I really could have used his recommendation when I start job hunting.” Susan turned to Meg and abruptly changed the subject. “Your mother says this house dates to the 1700s. Would you mind showing me the rest of it? I love this time period, you know.”

  Elizabeth stood up. “Meg, why don’t you give her a tour while I clean up? And I’ll dish out dessert.”

  Meg led Susan to the dining room. “From what I’ve learned, the house was built by Stephen Warren in the 1760s, when he first settled in Granford. Not long after that one of his sons built the house next door. The same family lived here continuously until about twenty years ago, which is kind of remarkable.”

  “Great woodwork,” Susan said, eyeing the wainscoting. “It’s all original?”

  “That part is, but the door and window moldings were replaced during a remodeling in the mid-nineteenth century. The grandson of the original builder was a carpenter. They actually had a small sawmill out back, between the two houses. And plenty of available lumber—there are still some old-growth trees out there, across the meadow.”

  “Wow. How’d you learn all this? Your mother said you just moved here this year, right?”

  “Gail Selden at the Granford Historical Society has been helping me do the research, and I’m returning the favor by doing some cataloging for her. They’ve got some wonderful resources for local history, but it’s hard for the public to get at them because they’re not cataloged.”

  “I know what you’re saying—cataloging’s a challenge at any institution, and even if they have the information, sometimes it’s next to useless. Like the file will say, ‘Documents. ’ Could be anything, from a copy of the Declaration of Independence to receipts for hay.”

  “Exactly.” Meg laughed. “I’ll b
et you have a lot more interesting stories than I do, since you must spend a lot more time working with original documents. Now, here in the hallway, I think Eli Warren replaced the stair rail—it’s definitely not from the colonial period ...” Meg continued the tour, and Susan asked some intelligent questions about construction and architectural history, many of which Meg couldn’t answer. Susan seemed interested in every nook and cranny, but Meg drew the line at showing her the basement, particularly after dark.

  They returned to the kitchen to find warm apple cake and coffee waiting. Bree had disappeared, and Elizabeth was wiping off the countertops.

  “Great house!” Susan said. “A real sense of history, and you can feel the hands of the people who lived here. Do you have a time line for them?”

  “Mother’s been looking into that,” Meg said, taking a forkful of cake. “I really haven’t had much time lately, since this is harvest season. I do know they’re all in the local cemetery. I visit them now and then. Is that weird?”

  Susan shrugged. “Emily spent her life with a view of the cemetery where she’d be buried. I think it’s kind of nice that you remember your ancestors.”

  “Heck, I’m still just getting to know them.” Meg stifled a yawn. How could she wrap this evening up and send Susan on her way home without being rude? She decided that being direct was the simplest course. “Susan, do you have any idea who would have wanted Daniel Weston dead? Kenneth Henderson? Someone on the faculty?”

  “I’ve met him once or twice, and I can’t see Professor Henderson resorting to actual violence. He might have sniped at Daniel in person or even in print, but they’ve been going on like that for years.”

  “By the way, which side won the Dickinson versus Whitman debate at the symposium?”

  Susan smiled briefly. “Who do you think? We’re talking about Amherst. The deck was stacked from the beginning, even without Daniel. Or maybe as a tribute to him.”

  “Would that be enough to drive Kenneth to murder?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Susan replied. “He must have known what the outcome would be.”

  “What about Daniel’s wife?” Elizabeth said suddenly.

  Susan turned to her. “Patricia? Why? She was better off with him alive than dead. And I doubt she felt strongly enough to kill him.”

  “What do you mean?” Meg said.

  “She’s the second wife. The kids aren’t hers, and they aren’t even around. She liked the lifestyle—you know, faculty wife at prestigious college and all that. They had enough money. He hadn’t let himself go. But she really wasn’t interested in his work.”

  “Did they have personal problems?”

  Susan made a face at Meg. “Like he’d tell me? I only saw them together a couple of times. I wouldn’t say they were close exactly, but they weren’t throwing crockery at each other or anything. I think they lived in sort of parallel tracks. And they were kind of old—what were they going to do at this point? Why bother splitting up?”

  Elizabeth cast an amused glance at Meg; she was, after all, the same age as Daniel and older than Patricia. “I thought she was a few years younger than he was. You didn’t hear any rumors about his involvement with any students, did you?”

  Susan faced Elizabeth. “Heck, no. He was Mister Squeaky-Clean. Are you asking if he hit on me? No. He didn’t try, and I wouldn’t have been interested. I wanted his input on my thesis, period, and that worked fine for both of us.”

  “But he’s dead,” Elizabeth said softly. “And not from natural causes. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, I wish whoever killed him had waited a few months, long enough to review my thesis.” She stood up abruptly. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Daniel was a decent person and a good scholar, and I can’t see why anyone would have wanted to kill him. Anyway, I should let you go to bed. Thanks for dinner. It was nice meeting you both.”

  “Thank you for your help today,” Elizabeth responded. “Even if we didn’t find anything significant, at least we can eliminate one possibility.”

  “What about his house? Are you going to look there?” Susan asked.

  “I’ll talk to Patricia again, but she seemed to think there wasn’t much there. Anyway, let me walk you out.”

  “Good night, Susan,” Meg called out to their retreating backs. She tried to summon up the energy to move out of her chair and failed.

  “Did you find anything useful at Daniel’s office?” Meg asked when her mother returned.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “His office was a mess. We straightened things up as best we could, and Susan was very helpful there, but there were no secret compartments, no files labeled ‘IMPORTANT NEW DISCOVERY.’ ” Elizabeth made air quotes. “No more than what you’d expect.”

  “What now?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know. This may be a wild-goose chase. We’re looking for something we aren’t even sure exists, based on some vague hints from someone who had a history of conflict with Daniel. Maybe Daniel was toying with Kenneth in the first place and there never was anything to announce at the symposium.”

  “But as you said, Daniel’s dead, and there must have been a reason.”

  “That he is. And I’d like to see justice done for him, not to mention have my name cleared. But I’m running out of ideas. Maybe the police are better equipped to handle this.”

  Meg yawned. “I’m fading fast. Maybe in the morning you should do something else, like work on that genealogy for the Warrens. I’ve often found that shifting gears helps clear my head. Unless you had other plans?”

  “That is a good idea. And I think I’ve got the hang of computer searching now. Maybe there is one thing I can finish while I’m here.”

  Meg stood up and stretched. “From what I understand, genealogy is never finished. Oh, by the way, I made a reservation for dinner at the restaurant in town tomorrow night.”

  “That sounds lovely. You’ll be picking tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be picking until all the apples are picked.” Should she mention that Seth was invited, too? No. Elizabeth could find out tomorrow.

  “Good night, dear. Sleep well.”

  Like she had a choice. Meg was out the minute her head hit the pillow.

  19

  When was this going to get easier? Meg asked herself as she hauled herself out of bed for another day of picking. The sky was overcast and threatened rain, but she suspected that that wouldn’t stop her pickers. They were used to this. Shouldn’t she be by now?

  Downstairs Elizabeth was in the kitchen, as was Lolly, sitting in her favorite perch on top of the refrigerator and washing her face. Elizabeth wordlessly handed Meg a full mug of coffee. Three minutes later, half the mug gone, Meg ventured to speak. “What’re you doing today?”

  Elizabeth sat opposite with her own coffee. “I thought it over and decided I’d call Patricia after all and see if she would let me take a look at Daniel’s home office. I have a better idea what to look for now, but I’m not holding out a lot of hope of finding anything useful. Maybe Susan was right, and Daniel was just toying with his colleagues.”

  “Did he have a sense of humor?”

  “He liked to poke fun, I guess. But as I remember it, he always took his scholarship seriously, and this falls under that heading. Anyway, I doubt that shuffling through those files will take all day, so I thought I’d follow your suggestion and finish roughing out the family tree.” Elizabeth smiled. “We’re both working with trees, so to speak. You said something about dinner reservations tonight?”

  “Yes. I thought you’d like to see the restaurant. And then you won’t have to cook.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  Meg got up and put an English muffin in the toaster.

  Elizabeth made a tsking sound. “You need more nourishment than that—you’re working hard.”

  “Tell me about it,” Meg replied glumly. “Muscles I never knew I had hurt.”

  “Will it be like this every year?”

&nb
sp; Meg sat back in her chair. “Well, this year we’re shorthanded because of Bree’s accident. As for the future, who knows? Things happen. We almost got hit by a hailstorm a month or two ago, which could have severely damaged the crop and reduced its value. Heck, for all I know, the barn could fall down tomorrow.” Although Seth swore it was structurally sound. “Farming isn’t easy, which is probably why not many people do it these days. It’s easier just to let the big corporations take over. Except that won’t work for orchards, because you can’t exactly mass-harvest apples without damaging them—you still need to handpick them and handle them gently. Scientists can breed apples that will stand up to rougher handling, but they taste like cardboard. And that’s why so many orchards get paved over. They’re just too hard to maintain.” Meg shook her head. “Listen to me! I’m lecturing, and I haven’t even had my breakfast.”

  “Why are you farming, then?” Elizabeth asked with what looked like genuine curiosity.

  Meg took a moment before answering. “I suppose because it makes me feel connected—to a place, to our past. You’re looking at the genealogy—do you know how many generations of our ancestors lived and worked right here? I mean, I’m an only child, you’re an only child, and Daddy’s got only the one brother. We don’t have a lot of family, near or far. But here, we have roots. And that’s not all: working with my hands is something I never really considered before, much less tried. I like it, at least some parts of it.” Meg ran her fingers through her hair. “Look, I haven’t made any final decisions about this place. I thought I should get through one apple season and then take stock, think about it. We can still sell the house if it comes to that. Nothing’s final.”

  Elizabeth looked around the kitchen. “You know, I feel different about the house, now that I’ve spent some time in it. I think I know what you’re saying, about having a history with a place. Nothing woo-woo like talking to our ancestral ghosts, but knowing that their hands made this, that they lived out their lives here—it changes things. I’m glad you’re not in any hurry to sell.”