A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  “No, you’re right—I need to get back to work. Bree, this is my father, Phillip Corey. Daddy, this is my orchard manager, Briona Stewart.”

  Bree held out a hand, and Phillip rose and shook it. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear. You have a big job here. I hope you’re up to it.”

  Before Bree could take offense, Meg said, “Yes, Daddy, she is—she may be young, but she’s smart. Bree, don’t be insulted—my father’s just an old coot, and a sexist one.” She elbowed her father in the ribs, and he laughed.

  “Ah, you know me well, my dear. No offense intended, Bree. I’m sure between the two of you, you have that orchard well in hand. Elizabeth, I’ll go call the detective now and see when he’s available. Meg, I’ll see you later. Bree, nice to meet you.” Phillip was pulling his cell phone out of his pocket even as he spoke, heading for the door to the dining room.

  “You go, dear,” Elizabeth told Meg. “I’ll call Gran’s, if that’s all right with you. Unless you’d rather eat here?”

  “Go right ahead, Mother. And please be polite to Detective Marcus, and don’t let Daddy go all lawyerish on him.”

  “I think I can manage that. Now, shoo!”

  Meg followed an impatient Bree out the door. As they headed up the hill, Bree said, “So, what’s his excuse for disappearing?”

  “He said his buddy’s boat died on them, and they spent a chunk of time partying on a desert island, conveniently out of cell phone range. They were having too much fun to call home.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I think so. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Kinda convenient, isn’t it? Maybe he and his buddies had something going on, on that fancy boat of theirs. And if they did, I’ll betcha his fishing pals would swear they were together the whole time and doing nothing more than fishing.”

  “Bree, you are a grade-A cynic. Why can’t you accept it was a simple fishing trip with the guys?”

  Bree threw up her hands. “Okay, okay. Look, it’ll be a good thing if they get things squared away with that detective.”

  “I agree, no question. But, Bree, I haven’t seen my father since last year sometime, so I’m going to want to spend a little time with him. I know we’ve got apples to pick, but cut me some slack, okay?”

  “Sorry, Meg. I wasn’t thinking about it like that.And I don’t usually have to take relatives into account, you know? Look, I know you work hard, and I’m sorry if I sounded like a jerk. But you’re paying me to see that these apples get picked.”

  “And you’re doing a great job, under difficult circumstances. Don’t worry—I take this seriously, too. Just give me a little time to get this murder mess sorted out.”

  “You think that’s going to happen anytime soon?”

  “I certainly hope so. How about this: you can have all my daylight hours, but I reserve the time after dark to spend with my parents?”

  They’d reached the top of the hill. “That sounds fine. But now you need to get back to work. You’ve still got another four, five hours of light.”

  By dinnertime, Meg stumbled down the hill as the sun was setting. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a good meal, but she figured she ought to stop by and warn Seth that her father had finally appeared. There was a light on in the room Seth was using as an office, so she bypassed her back door and climbed the wooden stairs inside the former carpenter’s shop. Seth was at work at his chaotic desk, with Max stationed at his feet as if he’d always been there. “Hey, there.”

  He looked up from the column of figures he was adding. “Hi, Meg. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Max came over to sniff her shoes.

  “In case you saw the other car in the driveway earlier, I wanted to let you know that my father has arrived.”

  “Ah.” Seth swiveled in his chair to look at her and leaned back. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Looks like it. He and my mother were headed off to talk to Detective Marcus this afternoon, and I think we’re going to Gran’s again for dinner. Look, I want him to meet you, but . . .”

  “You need some time alone with him, with them, before you throw me at him? Not a problem.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Again. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

  “Let me know what the plans are, and I’ll see.”

  Meg felt awkward, leaving things on that note. “Did Art say anything else to you?”

  Seth shook his head. “Haven’t talked to him since this morning. But you know, if—and that’s still a big if—the break-ins at Weston’s place and your place were by the same person, that person is probably looking for something in particular.”

  “That’s about what I figured, but I have no clue what. Or why. Or where it could be, if it exists. Or who wants it. Not a lot to go on, is it?”

  “Let Marcus do his job.” Seth stood up, crossed to Meg, and kissed her briefly. “Go and spend some time with your parents. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Right. And thanks for understanding.”

  Gran’s was comfortably filled again that evening—there were enough diners chatting that Meg didn’t feel they had to watch what they said, for fear of a neighbor overhearing. Not that there was much to say that could be construed as private.

  “I was impressed with the detective,” Phillip was saying as he enjoyed Nicky’s rich butternut squash soup. “All business. Well informed—but clearly frustrated by his lack of progress. It’s been, what, ten days now since Daniel died? I take it you know this detective, Meg?”

  “Mmmm.” Meg suppressed a shudder. Despite their recent truce, those had been less than happy circumstances. “But I agree. Generally he’s fair, and he works hard. What did you tell him?”

  “I apologized for not returning his calls and told him why. We talked about how I knew Daniel, and when I’d seen him last. It had been decades, hasn’t it, Elizabeth?” He turned to his wife.

  She nodded. “Since before he married Patricia. You never met her, did you, Phillip?”

  “Not that I can recall. Poor Daniel—I never would have foreseen something like this.”

  “Are you saying he’s not the kind of person you would expect to find murdered?” Meg asked.

  “I suppose that’s part of it. When we knew him, he was a very happy person—loved what he was working on, loved spending time with his friends. Definitely not the kind of person who would inspire someone to kill him.”

  “Do you think he changed much?”

  “Elizabeth?” Phillip turned to her. “You spent some time with him. What was your assessment?”

  “Looking back now, I’d have to say he was perhaps a bit more driven than in the past. After all, he was reaching the end of his career—which by all accounts was successful—but Patricia seemed to think he was hoping for one last hurrah before he retired. Maybe he was onto something, or thought he was. What isn’t clear is whether he found what he was looking for. Which may be the same thing the burglar is looking for.”

  “And yet no one knows what it was. Curious.”

  “But was it worth killing for?” Meg interrupted. “Although I have to say I’m constantly surprised by what drives people to extremes—things that may seem trivial or irrelevant to others. Everyone keeps telling us that he was a nice guy, people liked him, he was successful at his job, happy in his marriage. So why is he dead?”

  “A fair question, my dear. At the risk of sounding like an attorney, perhaps we should ask: who benefits from his death?”

  Elizabeth said slowly, “From what little Patricia has said, she doesn’t, or not in any significant way—she gets the house and whatever insurance there was, but no million-dollar policies. Apparently his children are well established. The department at the college doesn’t benefit, because they’ve got a hole to fill in the faculty right at the beginning of the school term. A professional colleague maybe? Someone who didn’t want to see Daniel succeed where they had failed? Some of them were coming to Amherst for this symposium. Including on
e of his rivals, Kenneth Henderson, who says they were on friendly terms, which both Patricia and Susan, Daniel’s graduate student, say was not true.”

  “Still, the timing is suggestive,” Phillip replied. “And this mysterious ‘find’ of his—would it have monetary value? Or was it simply a matter of prestige?”

  “It’s hard to say, since we don’t know what it is,” Meg replied. “Tell me, Dad, was he the type to play jokes? I mean, was he just building up this thing when maybe it didn’t even exist?”

  “Do you know, I have some questions about that,” Elizabeth said. “He never mentioned it to me, although I don’t know why he would have. Of course, he hadn’t seen me in years, so we talked about ourselves and our families.”

  “Changing tacks, your mother mentioned that you had a break-in last night,” Phillip parried. “And so did the Westons, the night before. Let’s work with the assumption that they’re related. Say someone was looking for something in your house.”

  “But what? Nothing was taken.”

  “Whoever it was didn’t expect to find Max there,” Elizabeth added, warming to the subject.

  “But that would imply that whoever it was knew I didn’t have a dog,” Meg protested. “And this person gave up pretty easily—I mean, Max wouldn’t hurt a fly, and the burglar could have just shoved him out the door and gone on with his business. He didn’t.”

  “That suggests an amateur,” Phillip said. “The question is, what was this person looking for?”

  “Meg,” Elizabeth said slowly, “the only thing that might have been taken was my genealogy notes. I know that seems silly, but what if there was something in them that the intruder wanted?” She turned to Phillip. “I was spending some time looking at our family history,” Elizabeth said, “and the people who built and who lived in our house. I’ve really only gotten started, but I’ve been enjoying it, more than I expected. I had printed out a lot of bits and pieces, but I hadn’t had time to make any sense of them.”

  “You’ve been known to misplace things, my love,” Phillip replied.

  He and Elizabeth exchanged another fond glance that shut Meg out again briefly. “Wait a minute—didn’t you say you’d found some connection between Emily Dickinson and the Granford Dickinsons?” she asked.

  “Yes, but only very distantly.”

  “But think about it. Everything keeps coming back to the Dickinsons—Emily, Dickinson’s Farm Stand, local Dickinson families. And you said we’re related to Emily?”

  “Yes, but it’s something ridiculous like fifth cousins five times removed, from what I’ve found so far. It’s not anything like a lineal relationship.”

  “Listen to you—you’ve already picked up the jargon,” Meg said. “What about the other Granford Dickinsons? Were they closer relatives?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I can’t say yet. I’m pretty new to all of this, and I’ve just begun to follow the family lines. I’d say no closer than second or third cousins.”

  Phillip cleared his throat and raised his hand to tick off his points. “This is all very interesting, Meg, but where does it get us? One, Daniel Weston, noted Dickinson scholar, was killed. Two, he was murdered at Dickinson’s Farm Stand in the middle of the night. Coincidence? Maybe. Three, some of his fellow scholars were in Amherst for a conference he had organized—which featured Emily Dickinson. Four, he hinted that he had a new discovery to announce, which we might infer relates to Emily Dickinson, his area of specialization. Five, his house was broken into after his death, and the focus was his study. Six, your house was broken into as well and nothing was taken, save perhaps some notes that might or might not have included information on the extended Dickinson family.”

  “I’m so glad we have a lawyer in our midst,” Meg said sarcastically.

  “I’m also a fresh eye,” her father reminded her.

  “That you are. So your theory is that Daniel wanted something related to Emily Dickinson that he was pretty sure existed, and someone thought it, or something leading to it, might be in my house?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what do we do now?” Meg tried to envision explaining all this to Detective Marcus and quickly abandoned the idea. “Are we supposed to start hunting for this whatever-it-is? We don’t even know what we’re looking for. If it ever existed,” she ended dubiously.

  “Apparently Daniel thought, as the mystery burglar may, that there’s a chance it still exists. Let me ask you this: if an Emily Dickinson artifact popped up, what would be its monetary value?”

  “I have no idea. I’d guess we could look at recent auctions on the Internet, or talk to someone at one of the places that holds her collections.”

  “Or it might not have been about the monetary value,” Elizabeth added. “It might have been about the glory of finding something unknown. I really think Daniel would have cared more about that.”

  “Which points toward someone who might want the money, if they could sell whatever it is, or toward his professional colleagues, who would prefer the glory of an important discovery,” Phillip concluded.

  “Exactly,” Meg said.

  22

  “We should examine that assumption,” Phillip said.

  Elizabeth looked at Meg and grimaced. “Phillip, you’re being lawyerly again.”

  “That’s what I do,” he replied mildly. “The wife—Patricia?—would no doubt have been a prime suspect for the police. After your mother, of course.” He winked at Elizabeth, who swatted his arm affectionately. “Detective Marcus told us they’d looked into Daniel’s finances and found nothing unusual, correct?”

  Meg nodded.

  “So apparently she didn’t need the money, although she might have wanted more. They also looked for any hint of sexual misconduct from Daniel and found nothing. My, Daniel sounds rather dull, doesn’t he? He must have mellowed since we knew him. What other motive might Patricia have had?”

  “She was mildly jealous of Emily Dickinson,” Elizabeth said. “She told me so, although she might have been joking. She did think that Daniel was obsessed by her. Maybe Patricia got tired of hearing about Emily all the time and killed him, since it was too late to kill Emily.”

  Phillip shook his head. “While I’ll concede that you may have better insight into her state of mind, I don’t see why she would have lured him to the farm stand in the middle of the night.”

  “I agree—it seems a rather odd choice. Could she have done it to confuse the police? To point attention away from her? It’s certainly kept us all guessing,” Meg said. “If I’d been in her shoes, I would have dumped him at Emily’s house, or next to her grave in the cemetery. Although maybe both were too public, in the middle of town—somebody would have noticed her hauling a body around. Still, she seemed honestly upset about his death, and I don’t think she was acting. Does that help or hurt her as a potential suspect?”

  “Hard to say. Let’s trust that the police have done their homework on her. Now, what about his peers?”

  “Kenneth Henderson is the only one we’ve met, but he’s a possibility. We know he was in the area, and we know they had a long-term rivalry. Susan told us that it was more than a friendly competition. But he wouldn’t know about the farm stand, unless Daniel took him there, and why would he?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Now who’s grasping at straws?” Meg chided her father. “What about the break-in at Patricia’s? You’d have to assume that either Kenneth did that, too, or that Patricia staged it to shift suspicion away from herself. And don’t forget all the people who showed up at the memorial service. The police probably looked at them, too—isn’t that standard procedure?”

  “We both remember seeing Kenneth there,” Elizabeth said. “And he seemed very solicitous of Patricia, even though he said he didn’t know her. Maybe they were in on it together?”

  Phillip was clearly enjoying this exchange. “Or let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Kenneth had grown tired of this constant contest with Daniel, so he came up early and
scouted out locations for murder. Maybe he, too, was feeling his advancing years and wanted to commit the perfect crime before he retired.”

  “Phillip!” Elizabeth protested. “That’s absurd.”

  “Dad, don’t even joke about it. That sounds like a bad TV movie. Murder is serious stuff.”

  Phillip looked contrite, and patted her hand. “I’m sorry, Meg. We shouldn’t be taking Daniel’s death as a joke. So, where were we? His colleagues, both at the college and those who had assembled for his vaunted symposium.”

  “We don’t know them. That’s something the police can handle better than we can. I’m not exactly chummy with the state police, but I know they haven’t arrested anybody. There’s just no evidence, or not enough.” Meg sighed. “This hasn’t gotten us very far, has it?”

  Phillip sat back in his chair. “Well, I think we should shelve this fruitless discussion and concentrate on our excellent meal. We’re not going to solve anything sitting here, and it would be a shame to let the food get cold.”

  And talk drifted to other matters. Nicky came out briefly to say hello and dimpled at Phillip’s compliments. They lingered over coffee until Meg realized her eyelids were drifting down.

  Elizabeth noticed. “Phillip, we ought to be getting back. Meg’s had a full day, and she’s going to be picking again tomorrow. Right, dear?”

  “I will. Dad, I’ll see if I can break some time loose to show you around, but Bree’s got me on a tight leash.”

  “I understand, my dear. I’m sure your mother and I will find something to keep us busy.”

  Back at the house Meg played good hostess and let her parents take the first turns in the bathroom. Bree’s light was on, but she didn’t emerge from her room. Meg sat at the kitchen table, waiting, idly stroking Lolly. She was surprised when her mother emerged silently from the dark dining room and leaned against the doorframe. “I thought you’d go straight to bed,” Meg said.

  “In a moment. Your father’s already dead to the world.” Elizabeth smiled. “As usual.”