A Killer Crop

by Sheila Connolly

  “I’m glad he’s here. Are you?”

  “Of course I am.” Elizabeth took a seat at the table. “Were you really worried about us? Or about me and Daniel?”

  Meg was too tired to prevaricate. “I guess so. What you did—coming up here to see him, without telling me—seemed so out of character.”

  “And you actually thought that we were having a hot and heavy affair while your father was out at sea?” Elizabeth’s mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m flattered.”

  “I wasn’t sure—and you did admit you were thinking about it. So you and Daddy are really okay?”

  Elizabeth briefly laid her hand over Meg’s. “Yes, we are. We have a solid marriage, if that’s what you’re asking. You know, darling, you don’t put much faith in relationships, do you?”

  “I guess not. They don’t usually work out for me, and I’m not even sure why.”

  “I think it’s a matter of trust,” Elizabeth said slowly. “You have to trust yourself, your own instincts, and then you have to trust the other person as well. Your father and I have that. Oh, I’ll admit I was tempted—I mean, Daniel was still an attractive and interesting man, even after all these years. But I’ll never know if I would really have acted on it if he’d asked. Which he didn’t.”

  “You mean you weren’t driven to a psychotic rage when he rejected your unwanted advances?”

  Elizabeth smiled at Meg’s attempt at humor. “Meg, this is me. I don’t do psychotic, in case you haven’t noticed. And why on earth would I have killed him at an obscure farm stand in the middle of the night? Even the police had trouble making that fit. Although I will admit that I was a wee bit pleased that they think I’m capable of such a thing. One has so few thrills left at this advanced age.” Elizabeth sighed dramatically.

  Meg snorted.

  Elizabeth began again, “Meg, I don’t want to meddle in your love life, but I don’t want to think that your view of your father’s and my relationship has somehow put you off finding one of your own. As I keep telling you, we have a good marriage. I know it’s hard for you to see us as people rather than parents.”

  “Maybe I didn’t look closely enough. Did you say anything to Daddy about Seth?”

  “No. I thought it was your business, and you can tell him in your own time. Although he’s bound to notice that there’s someone else coming and going in your backyard.”

  “Maybe we can all have dinner together tomorrow? If you’ll cook, that is.”

  “Deal.” Elizabeth stood up. “Well, we should both get some sleep. Good night, dear.”

  Meg was left alone at the table, too tired to move, while Lolly purred contentedly on her lap. Had she really misjudged her parents’ relationship so badly? She had always sensed a certain level of reserve between them. They had seldom argued, and when they had, it had been tense and controlled—no throwing of plates or physical blows. But how had that shaped her own concept of a “good” relationship? And how did Seth fit? She had no idea, and this was not the time to try to make sense of it. Bed called.

  In the morning she awoke to the sound of male voices outside on the lawn. She recognized her father’s—and Seth’s? Well, now the decision of how to introduce them had been taken out of her hands. What would her father think of Seth? Or about Seth and his darling daughter as a couple? Was she really worried about his opinion, one way or another? In any event, she had better get herself moving and face . . . whatever.

  Ten minutes later she entered the kitchen to find her mother once again dishing up a hearty breakfast, which Bree was already enjoying.

  “Hey, slowpoke,” Bree greeted Meg. “You’re late.”

  “It was a late night.” She glanced at her mother at the stove. “I heard Daddy outside.”

  Her mother looked up briefly from the eggs she was scrambling and smiled. “Yes, he wanted to go out and survey the domain. And he ran into Seth.”

  “So I heard,” Meg said.

  “Last I heard, Seth was giving him a tour of the barn and his business quarters,” Bree said, mopping up eggs with a piece of toast. “Eat up—we’ve got apples waiting.”

  “What are you harvesting now?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Today, mostly Cortlands, Empires, and McIntoshes,” Bree responded promptly. “They’re our biggest crop, and the easiest to sell. The Gravensteins are done—they have a real short season. Later in the month we’ll be seeing some of the heirlooms—Northern Spy, Esopus Spitzenberg. But the season goes on well into October, even November. The Baldwins come in late, and the Spencers and Rome Beauty.”

  “What wonderful names they have!”

  “Mother, what are you and Daddy doing today?” Meg asked.

  Elizabeth brought her coffee mug to the table and sat down. “I thought I’d show your father around the area.”

  “Watch out for the leaf-peepers,” Bree volunteered. “They get so busy looking at pretty trees, they forget to watch the road.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Elizabeth said.

  Bree drained her coffee mug. “Okay, Meg, enough lollygagging—time to get to work.”

  “All right, all right. Just let me get a cup of coffee in me. You go ahead. I should say good morning to Daddy, and then I’ll join you.”

  “And check out what he and Seth have been talking about?” Bree smirked. “Just don’t take too long. Bye, Mrs. C.” She stood up, deposited her dishes in the sink, grabbed a jacket from the hook near the back door, and went out.

  Meg stood up more slowly. “Duty calls. So we’re having dinner here tonight?”

  “That’s the plan,” Elizabeth said. “Shall I invite Seth?”

  Meg hesitated a moment. “Why not? And I’ll do it now. Have a nice day sightseeing.”

  She grabbed her own jacket before heading out the door and found her father and Seth standing in the middle of the driveway together; Seth was pointing at the rambling outbuildings that lay behind the house. Her father noticed Meg first.

  “Ah, there you are, darling. Seth has been giving me the nickel tour. Quite a history this place has.”

  “It does, and I’m still learning about it. I can show you the inside of the house later, and the barn, if you’re really interested. I hear you and Mother are playing tourist today?”

  “That’s what I’m told. I’m sorry you can’t join us.”

  “Me, too, but Bree won’t let me.”

  “A real tough one, that young woman.”

  “That’s what I pay her for,” Meg said. She turned to Seth. “Seth, would you like to come to dinner tonight? Mother said she would cook.”

  He glanced briefly at her, trying to assess her intention. “I’d be delighted. When?”

  “Seven? Well, I’m going up to the orchard. Have a good day, Daddy.” Meg kissed her father on the cheek, briefly contemplated then rejected doing the same to Seth, then headed up the hill. As soon as her back was turned, the two men resumed their discussion of the buildings, and Meg smiled to herself.

  23

  Meg was so focused on the task in front of her that she didn’t notice dark clouds rolling in from the west. Bree stopped her as she unloaded yet another bag of apples into the bin.

  “I think we’ll have to scrub this afternoon—looks like it’s gonna rain,” Bree said.

  “Does that matter to the apples?” Meg said.

  “No, but it does to the pickers, and we can’t risk any more accidents. Weather station says it should be over by tonight, so tomorrow will be okay.”

  Meg stretched and rotated her back. “Does that mean I get to take the afternoon off?”

  “Looks like it. Your mom and dad doing all right?”

  “Fine, as far as I can tell. But what do I know?”

  Bree cocked her head. “You sound pissed off. Is there a problem?”

  “No, I guess it’s just that after all these years, I really don’t know what makes them tick as a couple.”

  “Ha! Nobody ever knows what makes couples muddle along. I think you
r folks are kind of sweet together.”

  “Sweet? That’s not a word I’d pick,” Meg replied.

  “They give each other space. That’s a good thing. But they’re tight when it matters. What’s your problem? You comparing them to you and Seth?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just cranky, I guess. I’m tired all the time, and I think my mother—and now my father—want to stick around until Daniel’s murder is cleared up. Whenever that is.”

  “Hey, she’s doing a lot of the cooking and cleaning and stuff, which helps. Go get yourself some lunch.”

  “Where will you be?”

  Bree flashed a brief smile. “Thought I’d go see if Michael has a couple of hours to spare. He’s pretty busy during harvest season, too, promoting organic crops.”

  “Well, you two children have fun.”

  “Will do.” Bree turned away to say something to Raynard on the other side of the row, and Meg made her way down the hill.

  The house was blissfully quiet when she entered. Even Lolly was asleep, a puddle of fur on the ratty living room rug. How long had it been since she’d had a moment all to herself, in her own house? This farming stuff was hard work, and even once she had more experience under her belt, some parts of it—like picking—were not going to get easier. Maybe by next year she’d have the money to hire more pickers. If there was going to be a next year. That decision rested on how well she did with her crop this year, and that calculation was still a few months off. If she couldn’t clear enough money . . . No, there was no point in getting ahead of herself.

  What now? Food, then maybe a bath while there was hot water. Meg wondered idly whether her profits, if there were any, would finally allow her to add at least a half bath somewhere in the house. Seth would no doubt give her a good price, but there would still be costs involved. There always were.

  Meg had managed to throw together a sandwich when she heard a knocking at the front door. Who? Her mother had a key, and most people she knew came around to the back door. Was it Detective Marcus again? Somebody who hoped to convert her to a new and improved religion? Somebody selling something? Meg debated ignoring whoever was trying to sabotage her alone time, but decades of politeness drummed into her by her mother won out, and she went to open the door.

  It was Susan Keeley, looking both better and worse than the last time Meg had seen her, only two days earlier. Her hair was a few days more unwashed, and she might have been wearing the same clothes, but at the same time she was far more animated than she had been. “Hey, sorry to bother you, but I think I have an idea about what Daniel was so excited about. Can I come in?”

  This was unexpected news. “Sure. Do you want something to eat?”

  Susan waved a dismissive hand. “No, no. Is your mother here?”

  “Not right now, but if it starts raining, she should be back shortly. Why?”

  “Because I think you can both help me.” Susan walked past Meg toward the dining room. “Let me tell you what I’m thinking.”

  Meg had followed her and gestured toward the table. “Have a seat. Mind if I finish my lunch? You sure you don’t want coffee or something?”

  “I’m fine. You go ahead.”

  Meg retrieved her sandwich and now-cold coffee from the kitchen and returned to the table. Across from her, Susan was almost quivering with excitement. “So, tell me,” Meg prompted.

  Susan took a deep breath. “Okay, so you know we were wondering if Daniel might have been onto something new, something big?”

  “Yes?” Meg said around a mouthful of sandwich.

  “So I started thinking, what would be important? Obviously it had to be about Emily. And it had to be something that nobody’s found before, something really new.”

  Meg swallowed. “But hasn’t that ground been pretty well covered?”

  “Sure, at least the stuff anybody knows about, in collections. But what if this wasn’t in a collection, and wasn’t published?”

  “And you think Daniel found something like that?”

  Susan nodded. “I do, or at least he thought it existed. I’ve been thinking back over the kinds of hints he kept dropping, and I don’t think it was simply a new take on her sexuality or her clinical depression or her love of strawberries. I think it’s almost got to be something original.”

  “Okay, but what would it be? You’ve been through the major collections of Emily materials?” Great—now she was on a first-name basis with the poet, too.

  “Of course. At Amherst, and there’s another library in town here that has a decent collection, but there’s lots more—at Harvard, Yale, Brown, the Boston Public Library, the New York Public Library, lots of other smaller collections. I’ve been studying her for years, you know, and I’ve seen pretty much every surviving piece of paper she ever laid a hand on. Daniel and my other advisors were a big help, pointing me where to go and getting me access to the original documents. You don’t just walk in and ask to see special collections in a lot of places.”

  “So you think that whatever Daniel was working on, it wasn’t in anyplace obvious like the collections you’ve mentioned?”

  “Right.” Susan nodded again.

  “But where is it? It’s clearly not at his home or his office.”

  “I think if Daniel already had it, we would have found it by now. It seems more likely to me that maybe he knew where it was, but he hadn’t laid hands on it yet. But he was pretty sure he’d be able to, and maybe he wanted to spring it on the audience at the symposium. That’d really get attention.”

  “So it had to have been somewhere nearby, right? He didn’t have time for an out-of-town trip.” Meg was thinking out loud. The fact that he had invited her mother up for a visit certainly reinforced the idea that Daniel wasn’t about to leave town. “Okay,” she said slowly. “So if it’s not in a university library or a well-known collection, are you thinking it’s in private hands? Or on eBay or in an auction somewhere?”

  “I’m thinking it’s somewhere local, and somebody may not even know they have it. But Daniel knew where to look.”

  Meg sat back and looked at the young woman across the table from her. Obviously she’d convinced herself she was on the trail of something, but Meg still had no idea what or where. “Susan, this is all very interesting, but it’s not a lot to go on.”

  “I’m not done yet. You said you and you mother had been doing some genealogy, right?”

  “Yes, but mostly playing around with the easy stuff, what’s available on the Internet.”

  “And your mother said she’d found some Dickinson connections, right?”

  “Yes, but only remotely. And as you probably know already, there are Dickinsons all over the place around here. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re connected to Emily, any more than everybody’s sort of connected around here. What’s your plan? Call on every Dickinson, past and present, in the county and ask them if they knew Daniel Weston or if they’re sitting on something that belonged to Emily Dickinson?”

  “Meg, I don’t think it’s that complicated,” Susan said, her eyes pleading. “Look, what do you know about Emily?”

  “The stuff most people know, and what I’ve learned on the house tour.”

  “So how did she communicate?”

  “Ah, I see what you’re getting at. She wrote letters. That’s what’s in the collections? Her letters?”

  “Mostly. Remember, if she didn’t go out, the only way she could contact anyone, apart from face-to-face, which she didn’t do after about 1860, was to write letters. And she did. For example, there’s a big stash of correspondence with her future sister-in-law, Susan Gilbert—there are over three hundred surviving letters to her from Emily. She even wrote letters to her nephew who lived next door. But who’s to say that there aren’t other letters squirreled away somewhere? You know how exciting that could be, to find a new batch?”

  “And you think that’s what Daniel thought he had found?”

  “Yes! And it’s somewhere in this general area
. It’s got to be.”

  Susan was stringing together a lot of assumptions, Meg thought. “That’s all very nice, Susan, but what’s it got to do with me?”

  “I thought that since you know something about genealogy, you could put together a family tree for Emily and the other local Dickinsons, figure out who’s connected, and where they were in the 1850s and 1860s.”

  “Whoa!” Meg held up a hand. “For one thing, I’m a novice at genealogy—I have no idea how long that might take, or even where to start. For another, I don’t have the time. I’m running an orchard here.”

  “You’re not out there now,” Susan wheedled. “Look, it’s pouring!”

  She was right, Meg noted when she looked out the window. That should drive her parents home—unless they found a cozy inn to huddle in, in which case who knew when they’d be back.

  Susan went on relentlessly. “You’ve got this afternoon. And your mother can help, right? She was the one who was working on it before. She probably already knows about some of those connections. And there’s Alfred Habegger’s biography that includes a nice family chart for Emily, so you can start with that and kind of work outward. Please?”

  Susan looked like an eager puppy, but Meg could drum up no more than a mild enthusiasm for looking at Emily Dickinson’s family ties—heck, she hadn’t even worked out her own yet. The real question was, would this bring her any closer to understanding Daniel’s murder? “Susan, before I say anything, tell me this: do you think somebody would have been willing to kill Daniel to get hold of whatever it is we’re looking for—either to keep it from him, or to claim it himself? I mean, does this kind of thing really go on in the academic world?”

  Susan’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe. It means a lot to me to be part of that, so of course I don’t want to think so. But if this is what Daniel died for, it would be a shame if he didn’t get any sort of recognition for it, right? I’d like to look, for his sake. Please?”

  That made a certain sense. Meg wondered what her mother would think—and how it would impact her plans for dinner. With Seth. When had her life become so complicated?