“The autopsy was inconclusive,” Seth said.
“And why do you know that, or care?” Jonas demanded.
Seth met Jonas’s look squarely. “Because it happened in my town. Because Meg was the one who found him, and we’ve had some experience with murders around here lately.” He glanced briefly at her. “I would have been content to let the staties handle it, until this beetle thing came up. Now I’m wondering if there’s something more going on.” Before Jonas could protest, Seth held up a hand. “I know, there’s no obvious connection. But I’m bothered by the way this is playing out. Look, as I understand it, generally these insects can be traced to some initial point of origin, most often shipping containers. In the case of our town park, someone could have brought them in with firewood. That might be the case for picnics at your woodlot, but not here at the sawmill, right?”
“No, or at least not in theory. I don’t allow fires here, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t sneak in and build them anyway. But why would they need to bring in wood? There’s plenty of dead stuff lying around there.”
Meg had been watching the volley silently. Seth was doing his best to be impartial. But he hadn’t yet mentioned that maybe the beetles had been deliberately introduced, which would tip the discussion a different direction. What would be gained by infesting Jonas’s land? Particularly if Jonas wanted to sell it and he seemed to have a willing buyer in the wings? She could already see more than one possibility. One, Jonas didn’t really want to sell and was contaminating the land to give himself an out. Two, somebody else held a grudge against Jonas and was trying to hurt his business, or if they already knew he was in financial straits, make sure it closed. Three, some buyer had his eye on the land and was trying to drive down the price. The last would work if the buyer wasn’t a logging company but someone else entirely—like that developer Jonas had mentioned. Was that the same developer that had approached Seth recently about land in the center of Granford?
“Jonas, who else knows you’re thinking of selling?” Meg said suddenly.
He looked at her as though he had forgotten she was there. “I’ve mentioned it to a few family members, but I haven’t done anything official yet. As I said, the sawmill has been in the family for four generations, and the land longer than that. It’s something of a local institution. I don’t want to sell, but I’m not sure there’s any alternative.”
“How much would the value drop if you lost all the maples, and maybe some other trees, too?”
“I don’t know, specifically. Maybe twenty percent? From what I’ve heard, no one can use the trees that are cut down for anything other than wood chips. What a waste.”
They all sat silently for a few moments. Meg could think of nothing more to say, and she didn’t want to give anything away by asking the wrong question. Since Seth hadn’t chosen to share the deliberate infestation information, she wasn’t about to either. Besides, she was still trying to think through what it might mean.
Jonas stood up abruptly. “Hey, guys, I appreciate your coming by and telling me about this, even if I don’t want to hear it. Can you keep the fact that I’m thinking about selling quiet for now? What you’ve said may mean I have to rethink some things.”
Seth stood up as well. “Of course. Look, Jonas, I’ll be really sorry to lose the sawmill. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but you’ve always done good work, and people recognize that. I wish there were more of them who were willing to pay what that’s worth. Let me know if there’s anything I can do—personally or on behalf of the town.”
“I will, and I appreciate the compliments. Meg, someday I’d like to meet you without something awful hanging over us.”
“I know what you mean, Jonas. I’d like that, too.”
They made their farewells, and Meg and Seth trekked back to the parking lot. He was still curiously silent.
“Problem?” Meg said.
“What? Oh, nothing new, I guess. I hate to see the sawmill close. That’s another piece of Granford history lost. And another business. Maybe I picked the wrong time to get into the restoration business, but I figured people would stay where they were and try to preserve their homes. Which is true, until they see the price tag. Donald may be a pain to work with, but he’s really committed to saving what he’s got, and I value that. That, and the fact that he’s willing to foot the bill.”
Meg wondered if she should play Pollyanna and tell him that everything would turn out fine. Maybe it would—someday. Just not in the foreseeable future. She was putting off replacing her roof, much as it needed it, but when the time came, would she go with the option that most resembled the original, or would she be forced to opt for the cheapest? So far she’d managed to avoid decisions like this by not deciding at all, which was the coward’s way out.
Before getting into her car Meg asked, “Do you think Jonas is telling us all he knows?”
“I think so. He’s always been a straight shooter with me. I want to think that he wouldn’t lie to me. I’ve been wrong before, but I’d rather trust people than not. I can tell that Jonas loves his work, and his prices are fair. I’ll bet it really hurts him to have to shut down the sawmill. He doesn’t deserve the problems, like David Clapp’s death or this beetle thing on top of that.”
“Seth, so far nobody can explain why Clapp is dead. Jonas doesn’t think he was involved with the beetle problem, but he claims they were friends, so maybe he doesn’t want to believe it. Maybe the logging company David was working for was using him to pressure Jonas to sell. Or the developer was. Or it could still have been an unfortunate coincidence. Speaking of coincidences, what’s the name of the developer who’s approached the town?”
“I forget. Nobody local, because I’d remember that. You’re wondering if it’s the same developer that Jonas has been talking to?”
“Yes, I am. That might make a difference,” Meg shot back promptly. “And another thing. We’ve always assumed David Clapp was working on his own. What if there was somebody else there with him, friend or foe? Whoever else was there could have taken away evidence.”
“If there was any evidence,” Seth said dubiously. “But what?”
“A weapon. Traps. Poison. A stash of illicit drugs that he was hiding?”
“You are kidding, right? I have trouble seeing drug dealers wandering around the woods. I won’t say we don’t have any drugs in Granford, but most of the hard-core stuff takes place somewhere else.”
“Exactly my point. Who would be looking here? And it would be easy enough to put a GPS tracker on the drugs, to make it easy for anyone to find,” Meg pushed, glad to see she managed to at least wangle a smile out of him.
“You know, Meg, this is getting absurd. I can’t see Jonas as a criminal, or even as turning a blind eye to any criminal activity. And I can’t see anyone trying to do him harm either. Which leaves us no further ahead than we were.”
“Based on what little I’ve seen of Jonas, I agree with you. So what now?”
“I’ll swing by my place and pick up Max—he’s been cooped up all day. Then I’ll bring him over to your place. Bed. Sleep. Start all over in the morning.”
Meg smiled. “Works for me. See you there.”
20
Meg was jerked from sleep the next morning by the muted buzzing of Seth’s cell phone. Even without opening her eyes she could tell it was already growing light, so there was no hope for going back to sleep. She listened with half an ear to Seth talking quietly.
“Yes, I know . . . Don’t worry about it . . . I’ll be over at eight . . . All right, seven thirty . . . yes.” He shut off the phone with an exasperated sigh.
“Donald?” Meg asked.
“Who else would call at dawn worrying about the profile of his shelf moldings?”
“No one I know, thank goodness,” Meg said, sitting up.
“You don’t have to get up.”
“I do. I need to get out there before it gets too hot. Has anybody forecast any rain? Ever?”
“It might snow first,” Seth said, pulling on his jeans.
“Why is Donald worried about moldings?”
“Actually, it’s kind of interesting. The car crash took out one of the interior closets, and I had to re-create a couple of shelves. Some survived, but they’d been in place since the house was built, and they’d been painted a couple of dozen times. It was only after I stripped off all that old paint that we realized there was a decorative edge to them. Now Donald wants to make new ones that match exactly.”
“Is there some point where this passes from authenticity into obsession?”
“I think Donald’s hovering on the brink. I’m going to go take Max out and start the coffee.”
“Bless you. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.” After Seth left, Meg lay back down for a while, relishing what little cool air there was so early in the day. She hated listening to the mechanical drone of the elderly air conditioner at night, and it cost a lot to run it, so she’d turned it off and opened some windows. Meg had never labored so hard, so steadily, in her life, nor had she ever expected to. Her former city banking job hadn’t involved any tough manual labor. She felt strong now, but she was perpetually exhausted. And as if the work wasn’t enough, there was the death of the logger David Clapp and now this peculiar insect infestation to worry about. She wanted rain, with an almost physical longing, but at the same time, rain would only complicate Seth’s construction projects.
It was truly curious that Christopher had said that the bugs might have been planted in the plots they knew of, and there could even be more affected sites. Still, the “why” was missing. Terrorism by insect? She’d never heard of such a thing. Then it struck her: hadn’t Christopher or Gabe told her that the insects were hard to rear? You didn’t just go to a supermarket, or even online, and order up a batch, because they were on something like a watch list with the government. Therefore they could come only from approved and regulated vendors—such as government agencies or government-sponsored labs. So if they weren’t there naturally, where had Granford’s beetles come from? And if they were so carefully regulated, would there be any way to find out who had bought or requested them? Could someone have stolen them from the UMass lab? How long would they last, outside of their carefully managed environment? How many would they need to seed the forests? Would David Clapp have had the expertise or the contacts to get hold of them? She’d have to ask Christopher. Energized at last, Meg swung out of bed and pulled on her work clothes.
Downstairs, Bree and Seth were sharing the table, eating breakfast. Meg poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Same again today, Bree?”
“Yup. I’ll test the soil for water content, but I don’t expect any changes. We’re going to be watering every day until it rains.”
“That’s about what I figured. Seth, I had some thoughts about the bug infestation, but let me follow up on them before I tell you about it, okay?”
“Fine, as long as I don’t have to do anything about it—I’m jammed today. There’s a whole stack of paperwork at town hall that I haven’t even had a chance to look at.”
“You guys find out anything useful yesterday?” Bree asked.
“I don’t know,” Meg said. “Not much fits together at the moment, but it’s early days yet. Seth, is there anything more to be learned from the Granford town park? Like, why would someone want to damage it? And would that be the same motive for trashing Jonas’s land?”
“Let me think about it.” He drained his cup. “I’m out of here, before Donald calls me again and wants me to learn how to hand-forge nails.”
“Can’t he learn how to do some of this stuff himself?” Bree asked.
“He’d probably lose a finger or two along the way. But on the bright side, he pays on time. See you later, Meg?”
“Dinner?”
“Sounds good. Bye, Bree.” Seth was whistling as he went out the back door.
“My, he’s certainly in a better mood,” Bree said, avoiding Meg’s glance.
“Yes, he is. Stop prying or I’ll ask you embarrassing questions about Michael.” She stopped suddenly, then said, “Speaking of Michael . . .”
“No, don’t go there,” Bree said firmly.
“This is business, not personal. He’s still connected to the local Green community, right?”
“Something like that. Mostly the organic people. Why?”
“Say someone was actively seeking to harm local forests, or the people who owned and managed them—would Michael be likely to know about it? Even if it’s just rumors?”
Bree turned her full attention on Meg. “Why are you asking?”
“Christopher said it was possible that the beetles were deliberately planted. Yesterday we were trying to figure out why anyone would do that, and we came up with a list of possibilities, but it’s hard to fit the dead man in. Let’s say someone objected to the Nashes’ use of the land—which they contract out to a company that isn’t local—and wanted to punish them by damaging their trees. I’m not saying that’s likely, but would Michael hear about that kind of hostility?”
“And the logger was just collateral damage? Or are you thinking that logger guy had something to do with this?” Bree asked.
“Either. I’m just filling out my list of possibilities. I don’t like coincidences. David Clapp was found within a few yards of the dead insect, so I’m not willing to rule out a connection.”
“Okay,” Bree said cautiously. “You went and talked to Jonas Nash. You think he’s involved in this?”
“I don’t know him, but Seth trusts him. I’m not sure I can see any motive for him to do this, especially on his own land, but I don’t think I’ll rule him out just yet. Maybe there’s a motive I haven’t figured out yet. Maybe I’m looking for problems where there aren’t any. The poor logger tripped and fell, and the beetles showed up all by themselves, end of story.” Did she believe that?
“So what do you want from Michael?”
“If there’s a remote possibility that this is a misguided protest against something, I’d like to know if Michael knows anything. I don’t want him to betray any confidences among his friends, but this is a federal crime, I think.” And somebody died, but she wasn’t going to mention that.
Bree thought for a moment. “Okay, I guess I see where you’re going with this. How about I ask him over for dinner, or whatever pitiful meal it is we eat in the evening, and you can ask?”
“Perfect. I’m just trying to check things off my list.”
“Then let’s go check a couple of thousand apple trees off that list of yours.”
The day dragged on like all the prior days, as far back as Meg could remember. Logically she knew that this was not a drought of biblical proportions, although she’d heard it was coming close to rivaling the great Dust Bowl of the 1930s, but up close and personal, it was hard to tell the difference. Each day they watered; each day the water disappeared into the dusty earth, and patches of dry grass between the apple trees crackled beneath their feet. Nobody was even willing to guess when it would end. After the day’s round of hauling hoses, she and Bree trudged down the hill, took showers, and retreated for a nap.
Meg was back in the kitchen trying to figure out what to offer Michael, who seemed to have vegetarian leanings, for dinner when Seth’s van pulled in, followed closely by Art Preston’s car—his personal car, not a police cruiser. When she went to the door, Seth greeted her. “Look who I found. His wife has left him high and dry, so I invited him to dinner.”
“Hi, Meg,” Art said. “Hope I’m not intruding. My wife’s still at her sister’s place on Cape Cod. She said I could call her when the temperature went below eighty and she’d think about coming back. We brought supplies!” He held up a plastic bag. “Burgers and hot dogs, and some monster zucchini that people keep dropping off at the station, trying to get rid of them.”
“Oh, and we brought cold beer. Lots.”
“Welcome, weary travelers,” Meg said, laughing. “Com
e on in.”
“I’m going to set up the grill, okay?” Seth said, suiting his actions to his words.
Art came in and deposited the food on the kitchen table. He pulled out a beer and offered it to Meg, who took it and opened it, then he opened one of his own. “Thanks for having me.”
“Good grief, Art, this is about as low-key as hospitality gets. We haven’t seen much of you for a few days. Here, give me the zucchini and I’ll slice them up.”
Art complied. “That’s usually a good thing, isn’t it, when you’re talking to the chief of police?”
“Yes. Although if you’re really itching for something to do, there’s this little problem Seth and I have been gnawing on.”
Art sighed. “I knew it was too good to last. He was hinting around it when we ran into each other. I don’t have to do anything official, do I? Because then I can’t finish this beer.”
“Don’t worry! We’re just kicking around ideas.”
Art grinned at her. “I’ve heard that before,” he said, then drained his bottle.
Michael’s car appeared, and moments later he rapped on the back door. Bree let him in. He seemed nonplussed at seeing the Granford chief of police sitting in the kitchen, but it was hard to be sure, since Michael never said much under any circumstances. “Hi, Michael,” Meg said cheerfully. “You know Art, right? Can I get you a beer?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Michael said, shuffling his feet.
“Hey,” Bree said, nudging his arm, “this is just a friendly dinner—nobody’s gonna get arrested.”
Meg handed Michael a beer, which he took gratefully, looking glad to have something to do with his hands. “Did Bree tell you that I wanted to talk to you?”
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