Nipped in the Bud

by Sheila Connolly

  She could hear sounds of voices out back, but no sawing or pounding sounds yet. There was no need to rush, and she did believe in the old adage “measure twice and cut once.” She helped herself to coffee, made some whole-wheat toast, and sat down at the table to figure out what she was supposed to be doing. She hoped there would be time for a walk-through of the orchard with Larry soon. She knew it was still early in the season, but they needed to prune the trees before they started budding. But she also knew that each year there were some trees that would have to be replaced. It hurt her to condemn a tree, but if they were too old or unhealthy to bear fruit any longer, they had to go. She was running a business, not a safe haven for old trees. Was there anyone around Granford who made furniture or household items like bowls? Would they like some seasoned applewood? Worst case, she could save the cut trees to use for firewood next winter.

  She was startled to hear knocking at the front door. When she reached it and opened it, she found a twentyish young man standing there, looking uncertain. “Is this where Seth Chapin lives?” he asked.

  “Yes. Do you need to speak to him?”

  “No, thanks. I’m one of the guys who lives up the hill in his house, and I’m just delivering the rent checks.”

  “Oh, right. Listen, are you in a hurry? Or would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee? Seth’s out back at the moment.”

  “Yeah, sure, I guess. I don’t have a class until ten. If it’s no trouble.” He carefully wiped his feet on the mat before stepping into the house.

  Meg led him toward the kitchen. “Are you a student?”

  “Yeah, at UMass.”

  “Please, sit down. What’s your major?” Meg asked, finding a clean mug and filling it.

  “Uh, English literature, but the old stuff, like Beowulf.”

  Meg refilled her own mug and sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry—I didn’t even ask your name. I guess I’m not quite awake yet.”

  “Mike Wilson. I know you’re Mrs. Chapin—I see you outside now and then. Cool goats.”

  “Call me Meg, please. I didn’t plan to have goats, but I had to rescue them, and then I sort of kept them. They’re interesting. So, you’re, what, second or third year?”

  “Yeah, third. It’s great that your husband is letting us rent the house. If you show up around here at the wrong time of year it’s hard to find a place to rent. I was in a dorm my first year, and I don’t want to try that again.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Well, me, and Larry—he works for you, right?—and two others. We didn’t know each other before we all moved in, and we pretty much go our own way.”

  “How’s that working out?” Meg asked.

  Mike shrugged. “Okay, I guess. We each buy our own food, but nobody seems to want to clean up the place. But we’re working on it. I mean, somebody’s got to do it.”

  Meg shuddered to imagine the condition the place would be in after a couple of months of clueless single guys living there. “Are you all in school?”

  “No. There’s me, and Tom. Ed’s got a job, and then there’s Larry, who works here. Easy commute for him.” Mike smiled, almost bashfully.

  “Well, I’m glad it’s working out for all of you. This is the first time Seth’s rented the place, but he doesn’t want to be a hands-on landlord. He’d rather you took care of things on your own.”

  “Yeah, he explained that. We’re cool with that. What is it that Larry does here? He doesn’t talk much, not about himself.”

  “He’s my orchard manager. I inherited the house and orchard from my mother, and I’m trying to make it work as a business. But I started out knowing nothing at all about agriculture, so I hire people who have the experience to guide me.”

  “So those apples on the hill are yours?”

  “They are. But this is a small business—just me and Larry, and we bring in pickers from outside for the harvest season. Seth and I added some new trees last year, but it’ll be a while before they bear fruit. Are you from around here?”

  “New York State. I’ve seen plenty of apples, but I never thought about growing them.”

  “It can be hard work, but I like it. It’s rewarding to watch them grow, as long as there aren’t insect attacks or blight or drought. So far we’ve only had one dry spell, and there’s a well up the hill we use to water the trees if we need to. This is only my second year, and I’m still learning.”

  Mike seemed to be getting twitchy. Was he having trouble talking to an “old” person? Was that what she was now? Meg wondered. A middle-aged farmer? She sighed involuntarily. “Well, I’ll let you go. It’s been nice talking with you, Mike—it’s good to know who your neighbors are. Just give me the rent checks and I’ll make sure Seth gets them. And let one of us know if there are any problems up at the house.”

  Mike bounced to his feet, looking relieved, and handed her a slightly crumpled envelope. “Sure will. Thanks a lot. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Did you drive over? You can walk through the orchard to your place if you want to take a shortcut.”

  “Yeah, I drove. I’m heading for campus from here.”

  “I’ll let you out the front then.”

  Once he was gone, Meg went back to the kitchen, feeling restless. Like Seth, she really wanted to be doing something useful. But she couldn’t exactly help Seth and Larry build anything, and she needed Larry’s input if she wanted to look at the orchard and figure out what to do next. Did she need any tools? Or was she supposed to sharpen the tools she had? Her mother certainly hadn’t prepared her for farm life.

  Her choice was taken from her when she looked out the back door to see Art arriving. She put the kettle on to boil for more coffee before she let him in.

  “Good morning, Art! At least I hope it’s good, or relatively good. No new bodies?”

  “No, just the one. And before you ask, no, we haven’t released the woman’s name, but I can’t say how long it will be a secret.”

  “Why do you say that? Oh, you want some coffee?”

  “Always. I say that because there’s a guy who showed up at the police station in town yesterday and asked where he could find Jenn. He described her pretty well, so he probably did know her. I’m wondering how he knew to come here to Granford to look for the woman.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I waffled. He seemed to know that a body had been found, but I said we had not confirmed the dead woman’s identity.”

  “And he accepted that?”

  “He didn’t argue.”

  “Has he talked to Marcus?” Meg poured him a cup of coffee—was this already the second pot of the day?—and warmed it up in the microwave before sliding it toward him.

  “I can’t say, and Marcus doesn’t usually volunteer any information to me. I suggested the guy talk to him, in Northampton, but I don’t know if he did. I bet Marcus is going to be pissed off if he does—he’ll either have to lie or turn the guy over to the narcotics unit.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Sounds like turf wars to me. Marcus handles homicide, but narcotics has grabbed the lead on this. The two units don’t seem to play nicely with each other.”

  “They’ve got different agendas, I assume. Does this new guy seem to know anything?”

  “He said his name was Justin Campbell and he kept his questions pretty vanilla. Like, ‘Have you seen my girlfriend? She said she was coming to Granford for’—you can fill in whatever lame reason you like—‘but I haven’t heard from her for days and I’m getting worried. She said she was visiting friends out this way, but she’s not answering her phone.’”

  “You’re not buying his story?”

  “Not really. People—especially the ones younger than I am—seem to communicate compulsively on their cell phones these days, like every few minutes. If his story is for real, there are probably multiple reasons why she wouldn’t stay in touch with him, and not answering her phone might be her way of cutting him off
. Maybe she dumped him. Maybe he’s a stalker. I’m happy to help, but I don’t hand out information all that freely.”

  “So he said she told him she’d be in this area,” Meg mused, almost to herself. “Do you think he knows what she was doing here?”

  “Hard to say. But the fact that he’s here at all bothers me. Maybe he’s legit, but she’s dead and that’s a pretty big red flag. Before you ask, he did not ask the obvious questions about the body of a woman that was found here. Like, did she match his description of his missing girlfriend.”

  “Is he the only person who’s come looking for someone?”

  “As far as I know, but hey, I’m one of those old fogies and I’m law enforcement. There are some people who would go out of their way to avoid talking to me. And if there’s anything off about why she’s here, they’d be even less likely to ask me to help find her. Unless somebody wants to make it known that she’s dead.”

  “Art, I don’t envy you—this seems to be getting more and more complicated. But whatever his intentions, I’d guess this guy, whoever he is, doesn’t know how small rural towns work. He’s a stranger and he can’t exactly hide it. Does that suggest that he’s a city guy?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Does it matter? We know where she came from. But the general public doesn’t. And while his questions hint that he knows something, I can’t prove it.”

  “I don’t know—I’m just tossing out ideas. Art, why are you here? Is there something you want me to do?”

  “I guess I just need somebody to talk with, bounce ideas off of. Marcus won’t talk to me, or the drug unit told him he can’t, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or not say because I don’t know who knows what. I can’t exactly ask this stranger—who’s doing nothing wrong—what he’s doing in my town. Sounds like a bad TV Western, doesn’t it? You see any way to get him talking without scaring him off?”

  “Run over his foot in your police car? Sorry, kidding. Have you done any searches on his name?”

  “Not yet. Why do you want to know?”

  “Because maybe you could find him online, if you know his name.”

  Art sighed. “I still have trouble thinking of the internet first. I must be getting old.”

  “Hold on!” Meg stood up quickly. “I’ve got an idea. Follow me.”

  Meg went to her computer, still on the dining room table, and turned it on. Once it was warmed up, she searched on “Boston Globe Staff” and clicked on a link. Then she turned the screen to face Art. “These are pictures of the Globe staff. See anyone you recognize?”

  Art fished a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, then peered at the screen. “There’s Jenn, although her hair is different in the picture. And . . . damn, that’s him!” Art pointed to one small picture among the page of journalists: Justin Campbell. “So there is a connection and he’s here looking for Jenn, maybe because they were working on the same story? I mean, did this Jenn person tell him where she was going, but without any detail? She worked for him? He looks kind of young, so maybe he worked for her? Or maybe they had a personal relationship?” he suggested.

  “I think Marcus should know about this.”

  “You’re probably right. If this guy started looking in Granford maybe Jenn told him she’d be here, or near enough. Wonder if he knows she’s dead? Or if he’s made a leap of logic because he knows a body was found here?”

  “If he knew she was here and he knows that a woman died here, he’s probably put two and two together,” Meg pointed out. “He is, after all, a journalist.”

  “So why didn’t he go to the state police and ask? If he was in fact a friend of hers.”

  “Maybe he thought the state police would see through his story, assuming it was false. Sorry, Art, but he may think they’re smarter than you are.”

  “And if he came here first he’d find a crotchety old police chief who didn’t know much but wouldn’t have any reason to disbelieve him—that would be me.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to save the story?” Meg suggested. “I mean, if the state police know who she was and haven’t made that public, he must figure they’ve got a reason not to release that information. Maybe he was working on it with her. Or maybe he wants it for himself. If he’s figured out that the state police are sitting on this, he must assume it’s juicy.”

  “Great,” Art said glumly. “That might even give this guy a reason to kill her. So we’ve got a possible lead on the killer but no way to follow up on it. I should just hand him over to Marcus?”

  “That would be the responsible thing to do. You are, after all, an officer of the law.”

  “So I’m told. I wonder if they’re going to want me to go find him, and then tell him that the state police want to talk to him, and maybe they’ll ask if he knows who might have killed her?”

  Seth came barging in the kitchen door and stopped when he saw Art. “Something going on?”

  “Nah,” Art said. “I just wanted to pick your wife’s brains—they’re better than yours anyway. Larry with you?”

  “I came in for some more coffee. He wanted to keep working. Want to see what we’ve done?”

  “Maybe later. Let me fill you in about what Meg and I have been talking about.”

  After Art had wrapped up his summary, Seth said flatly, “If he’s honestly concerned about her, he’d talk to Marcus, or someone else in homicide. If he comes up with a different story, you and Marcus can compare notes, maybe suggest some other angles.”

  “This guy might still be protecting the story, if he believes there is one. So he could be lying too.”

  “Right—visions of Pulitzers dance in his head. Or he might kill you to shut you and your overactive imagination up.”

  “This is why I love working with you guys—you’re so optimistic.” Art stood up stiffly. “Thanks for the coffee, Meg. I guess I’ll see if I can track down Marcus and tell him what little I know. And hope he doesn’t laugh at me.”

  “Good luck, Art.”

  Chapter 13

  “Well, that was odd,” Seth said, draining his coffee.

  “Kind of. When did life around here get so complicated? Used to be if a stranger wanted some information about who lived where or where to find the library, they’d ask someone on the street, or maybe the police station. Then GPS happened, so nobody talks to anybody. Now Art’s got himself tied into a pretzel trying to figure out what to say or not say. And Marcus may not pay any attention to him anyway if he tells him about this Justin guy.”

  “I know,” Seth agreed. “Those two got off on the wrong foot somehow, or maybe it’s just Marcus, because Art’s one of the nicest guys I know, and he’s not stupid. But what’s worse, it sounds like Marcus is butting heads within his own police department.”

  “You mean with the drug unit? I wonder who decides whether to ignore an inconvenient murder in order to pursue a bigger investigation into local drugs, because that’s what it sounds like. The two are quite possibly connected, and Marcus knows that. Do you think the state police are up to the job of sorting all this out?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Oh, one of your tenants stopped by to drop off the rent checks. Mike, he said his name was.”

  “At least he’s on time. I know their names on paper, but I’m not sure I can put faces and names together. I make a lousy landlord, don’t I?”

  “It might be one chore too many for you. Although I understand why you don’t want to leave the house empty, especially in winter, and why you’re not ready to sell it. What’s your mother think?”

  “She leaves it up to me—my name’s on the deed.”

  “Well, this Mike said he’s a student at UMass, and so’s one of the other guys. Then there’s Larry and the fourth guy, who have jobs. From what Mike said, it sounds like they’re all struggling with working out how to keep the place clean. I wonder whether if they pooled their resources they could afford someone to come in and clean, maybe every other week?”

 
Seth seemed interested. “You have any idea what that might cost?”

  “No,” Meg told him, “but I can find out. Split four ways, it can’t be too bad, can it?”

  “Got me. But since I’m the landlord, I can insist that they pay for it—or just raise the rent to cover it. Should I ask Larry to dinner tonight? I’d like to hash over what we’ve done today, so we can get an early start in the morning. Weather permitting.”

  “No problem, except that I have no idea what we’re eating.”

  “You’ll figure it out.” Seth drained his mug and headed out the door again.

  Once again Meg found herself alone, wondering how to entertain herself. She’d already vetoed doing anything that involved paint or solvents inside, because she couldn’t open the windows for ventilation. It was too cold to paint outside, although at the very least the trim could use it. She could sort through the miscellaneous junk in the attic—Seth had added a number of boxes since they’d been married—but the temperature would probably be below freezing up there. There was nothing that needed doing in the basement. She could go up to the orchard and give her dormant trees a pep talk. She could learn to knit. Or she could clean house.

  Wasn’t free time supposed to be more fun than this?

  Maybe she should go to the market and find some food. She could find a recipe for an elaborate dessert that would need half the day to assemble and cook. That would take until dark, at least. It was a plan: go find raw materials, then make food. But first she wanted to get some exercise, and taking a walk up the hill to check out the orchard seemed like a fitting idea.

  She added a few layers of clothes and some sturdy boots, found her bag (when was the last time she had needed it?) and hat and scarf and gloves, and set off up the hill. She was panting only slightly by the time she reached the band of trees that ran along the west side of the orchard. She turned to survey her small empire, tucking her hands under her armpits to keep them warm. Close to the field to the north was the former chicken coop, rapidly morphing into a human living space as Larry and Seth bustled around it. The basic framing was coming together quickly, and she watched for a while as Seth and Larry performed some sort of elaborate dance, handing each other tools and pieces of wood, then stepping back to admire the results. They looked happy.