Nipped in the Bud

by Sheila Connolly

  Meg turned in the opposite direction. There was Seth’s house, now more or less a dormitory, or maybe a boardinghouse. There was only one car parked next to it, which Meg recognized as Larry’s; the others must be at work or classes. Beyond that, farther north, was Lydia’s house. Those two houses were the only neighbors she could see in that direction, although Meg knew it wasn’t far to a more settled road that led toward Granford. Looking back down the hill, Meg studied the band of trees where Jenn had been found dead. In the bright sunlight the cover looked sparse—anyone walking through there, especially someone carrying a body, would have been very obvious if anyone had chosen to look in that direction. She tried to remember if she’d ever looked at it by dusk or night and came up blank. A flashlight would be obvious, of course, but she had trouble picturing anyone moving a body while holding a flashlight.

  She still came back to the idea that someone had to know the immediate geography to choose to dump a body there. It couldn’t have been accidental. But was it spur of the moment? Even she could come up with a number of other local sites that would have been better suited—there were plenty of patches of woods and brush around Granford, and there was even a convenient river a bit farther away. Had the killer been forced to hurry? Why? Had Jenn found something damning that demanded that she be silenced quickly, with only sketchy planning? Had she sent anything to Justin, if they were in fact collaborating somehow? Or to her editor? Who else might know what she’d found?

  Had she kept a computer or a tablet with her, to record her findings, or had she judged that to be too dangerous, if somebody found it? Or maybe someone had found it and taken it away or destroyed it. Had this woman ever gone undercover before, or had she been so eager that she had ignored her own safety just to get the story? The make-or-break story that would bring her fame and glory and maybe a permanent niche at the paper—if anything at newspapers was permanent anymore. Now it was all live streaming and podcasts and such. The thought brought her to a stop. She’d had the brainstorm to look for the mystery guy asking questions in town by going to the paper’s website—but she hadn’t looked up Jenn online. It was unlikely she’d posted important details, but there might be something in social media or even on Google that would give a clue about how Jenn operated, what interested her, and how she communicated. Meg couldn’t access anything with a password, but she could certainly look at public records, past history and such.

  With a last glance at the landscape spread out below her, Meg turned and loped down the hill. Time to go online. Not such an old-fashioned farmer now, are you, Meg.

  • • •

  Two hours later it was getting dark outside, and Meg had a half-inch stack of printouts next to her computer. And she couldn’t stomach looking at one more article on the screen. How much information was too much? She’d gathered a lot of basic facts: Jenn had been about Meg’s age, as she had guessed. She wasn’t married, and she lived in Boston. References in the paper’s archives showed she’d been writing feature articles for them for about five years, and had been a contributor to earlier articles. Justin appeared to have contributed to a couple of those.

  The earlier articles had most likely been assigned, and they were a hodgepodge of restaurant reviews, coverage of suburban events like parades and significant funerals, and the occasional short piece about topics of general public interest. Nothing unexpected popped up. Over the years Jenn had drifted toward harder-edged stories and the occasional editorial. She’d put together a nice solid career for herself. Why had she decided to commit to a bigger subject? Had she hit some sort of ceiling, or was there a personal reason? Maybe Justin would know, if anyone ever tracked him down.

  Had Art in fact talked to Marcus about Justin? Would Marcus take their information seriously? He’d made it clear, time after time, that he resented the interference of outside amateurs, no matter how often they had contributed significant clues. Now he had his internal turf wars to fight, and this time it was made more complicated by departmental infighting. But if they did turn up something important, like Justin’s presence in Granford, Marcus shouldn’t be blindsided by something he needed to know, coming from one of them. They had to get along with him for the foreseeable future.

  The sun was pretty much gone when Meg looked at her watch. Crap, it was past five, and she’d promised dinner to two men who’d been working outside in the cold all day. They’d be hungry. What could she throw together quickly that would fill them up? Spaghetti, she decided. With some kind of sauce, based on whatever was handy. And a bottle or two of red wine—although she couldn’t remember seeing Larry drink anything alcoholic, he did seem to favor the idea of a cider operation using her apples. But not hard cider, she assumed—that came with all sorts of regulations.

  The phone rang as she was filling her largest pot with water to boil the pasta. “Hey, Art, what’s up?”

  “Not enough,” he said glumly. “I told our favorite detective about the guy who’d been asking about Jenn, and that we’d identified him. He more or less patted me on the head and hung up. So much for our good deed of the day.”

  “You did the right thing, Art. And at least you tried—he can’t fault you for that. We can talk more tomorrow—I’ve got some new ideas.”

  “Great. Just what I need. Tomorrow, then, Meg.”

  Meg hung up, then put the pot on the stove to bring the water to a boil. What did she have to work with?

  It was nearly full dark when Seth and Larry returned. “Max was helping us out there,” Seth said, “so he’s had his exercise for now. I think he might appreciate his dinner about now, though.”

  “Great,” Meg said. “You’re way ahead of me. I got sucked into an internet search and lost track of time, but I’m making spaghetti with lots of sauce, and I found a loaf of Italian bread in the freezer, and I’m hoping I hid a cake in there somewhere so we can have dessert. Larry, you staying?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “Fine with me. Seth said you still have some planning to do. How’s it coming?”

  “Pretty good,” Larry said. “If we get decent weather we could have it livable by next week. At least, that’s what Seth says.”

  “He’s usually right,” Meg told him.

  “Larry’s a good student, and he works hard. You like what you see, Larry? Because if you want to change anything, now’s the time to tell me.”

  Half an hour later they were settled around the kitchen table. Meg dished out mounds of cooked spaghetti and passed the sauce and cheese, while Seth filled wineglasses. “You want any, Larry?”

  Larry shook his head. “I don’t drink. My dad did enough for the whole family.”

  Meg’s ears pricked up: that was one of the first personal remarks she’d heard Larry make. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

  Larry avoided looking at Meg directly, choosing to poke at his spaghetti. “Nope. It was just me.”

  “So you and your father managed your farm, just the two of you?” Seth asked.

  “Yeah.” Larry did not elaborate. “Until he got rid of the place and moved into town. Didn’t last much longer after that.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, Larry. I just wondered where you learned about apples. You clearly know what you’re doing.”

  “If I was out in the orchard I couldn’t hear my folks fighting.”

  There seemed to be little to say to that, so Meg shifted the subject. “So it must be quite a change for you, to live with a bunch of other guys.”

  “Kind of. We’re still working things out. They’re okay, I guess.”

  “But you’d rather have a place of your own, right?” Seth said. “That’s why you’re helping with the tiny house.”

  “Well, yeah. I guess I’m kind of private. I don’t mind being alone.”

  “Well, whenever we get the house finished, we can talk about finding a replacement for you in my house,” Seth told him.

  Larry looked at Seth obliquely. “You might want t
o check out the next guy a bit more.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of the guys don’t get along real well. I mean, take me—I’m quiet, and I don’t exactly have a lot of buddies dropping by. But the other guys, there are guys and girls dropping in all the time, round the clock. And they can be loud.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Larry,” Seth said. “I don’t have a whole lot of experience finding tenants, matching up compatible people. And maybe I should set some ground rules—like no wild parties, if you like your music loud wear headphones, pick up after yourself. And be considerate to your housemates. Does that about cover it?”

  “I guess,” Larry said.

  If there was something more Larry wanted to add, Meg thought, he wasn’t ready to put it into words. This was a new situation for all of them, and they could wait to see how things worked out.

  “Dessert, anybody? I managed to find some brownies buried in the freezer.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Seth said.

  Chapter 14

  Meg was washing the dishes, Seth drying, when Meg said, “That conversation tonight was kind of disturbing.”

  “I think I know what you mean, but in case I’m being stupid, you mind telling me why?”

  “I feel sorry for Larry. He doesn’t talk much about himself or his past, but from the crumbs he’s dropped I don’t think he had a particularly happy life before he left home. And he still has trouble connecting with other people. Don’t be offended, but I wonder if sharing the house with three other guys is the best thing for him.”

  “I know,” Seth said. “Maybe I didn’t think the whole idea through well enough. But theoretically, isn’t it better for him to be around other people and learn to get along than to maintain his isolation?”

  “In theory, I guess so. But it depends on the individual. I’m not suggesting you do anything about it, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be glad when the tiny house is finished and he can move into it. I think he’d move into it if it was no more than a tent at this point. Nobody’s fault—I’m just observing, without a lot of information. But here’s a suggestion: next time you look for tenants, say next fall, why not try all girls?”

  “I’ll think about it. I think there’s one last glass in the wine bottle—want to split it?”

  “Sure.” When Seth had emptied the bottle into their glasses, Meg said, “I’m not sure what we do about the murder situation—it keeps getting more muddled. I guess that’s what happens when the big mean outside world intrudes in our sleepy little village.”

  “You mean the drug problem.”

  “Yes. I don’t think either of us is naïve, but it kind of crept up on us. Or me, at least. Our problem is, Marcus is in a difficult position, and the drug unit people don’t know us and have no reason to trust us. I’m not saying I distrust them, but we’re working on a different scale. For us it’s more personal, and in more ways than one.”

  “Maybe it’s the wine, but I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  “I don’t really know. We know where Jenn came from and why she was here, because she told the state police, but it’s hard to figure out where she fit here in Granford, and she might not have given the police the details of her plans. Did she know people here? How did she connect with the people she was looking for? Was she staying somewhere here, or just dropping by when she needed something? She must have thought she was safe because no one knew her, but clearly she was wrong, because somebody tracked her down here. Unless you choose to think that this was a completely random event. But as we keep saying, the murderer must have some local ties. And that kind of scares me. I don’t like being scared in my own home. And I don’t want to turn this place into a fortress, and I don’t see Max as an attack dog.”

  “Killer goats, maybe?” Seth said, smiling. “They’re probably smarter than Max.”

  “Maybe you’re trying to make me feel better, but I still don’t like it.”

  “You have any suggestions about what to do next?”

  “No, I don’t. Art’s already sharing what he knows with us. I guess we try to keep the lines of communication open with Marcus and hope the professionals can sort things out. That’s not our job, right?”

  “Agreed,” Seth said. “We about done down here?”

  “If you’ll take Max for one more walk, I’ll put the goats to bed. Then I’ll top off everybody’s food bowls, and then we’ll be done. Pretty close to farmers’ hours.”

  “Deal.” Seth collected Max’s leash from where it hung next to the back door—he always made a point of bringing it on walks, since Max sometimes couldn’t distinguish between friend and foe. The distinctive jingle of it brought Max to his feet, and he bounded out the door ahead of Seth.

  Meg followed more slowly. February was such a dreary month, not quite winter but not really spring either. She had to wonder how many farmers went stir-crazy, cooped up in their homes waiting for the farming year to begin again. Maybe there were murder statistics about February deaths. Or maybe there was a jump in the birth rate in November each year.

  The goats didn’t seem very interested in her approach—Seth must have fed them well earlier. Meg leaned on the fence and contemplated them. She knew she didn’t want cows, but the goats had sort of happened. They were pretty low-maintenance, and relatively smart, but she had no plans for them. She looked past them, beyond the fencing on the far side, and saw a brief flash of red in the dusk. The fox she had seen earlier? Was it taking up residence on her land, or just scouting good locations? If she was raising chickens she might worry, but she didn’t think the goats would mind, and Max was far larger than any fox. Lolly was an indoor cat, so she wasn’t at risk.

  The fox emerged from the underbrush and stood still a moment, sniffing the air. Meg could have sworn it looked at her, but maybe that was just fanciful. When it disappeared back into the woods, Meg told the goats, “Okay, ladies, time to go inside.” They seemed to nod intelligently, and then she guided them into their pen in the barn. “Sleep well.” Goat Dorcas gave her a skeptical look before settling into her straw bed.

  • • •

  The next morning Seth and Larry were already out pounding on the tiny house framing when someone came to the front door and knocked. It had been a busy week so far, Meg reflected: people just seemed to keep showing up. Should she be worrying about letting strangers in? She hadn’t since she’d arrived, but then, she hadn’t had a murder on her property before. Luckily Max had roused himself to follow her to the door. A criminal wouldn’t know that he was a very friendly creature and totally useless as a guard dog.

  The caller this time proved to be a thirtyish young man, neatly dressed in the standard uniform of jeans, ankle-high boots, and a couple of layers of shirts under an insulated jacket. Clean-shaven, neatly cut hair. He certainly didn’t look dangerous, but who did?

  But she recognized him from his photo on the newspaper website: Justin Campbell. What did he want from her?

  “Can I help you?” Meg asked.

  “I hope so. My name is Justin Campbell. I’m from Boston, and I’ve been trying to track down my girlfriend, Jenn Chambers. She told me she was coming to this area, but she didn’t say where or for how long, and I haven’t heard from her in a couple of weeks. I’m worried about her. Do you know her, or have you seen her?”

  So this was in fact the mysterious boyfriend Art had mentioned—Justin had just confirmed it. Could she, should she trust him? There were questions she was itching to ask him, but she didn’t want to mess up the ongoing investigation by giving away too much. But there stood Justin, shivering just a bit, looking appropriately anxious and concerned. She could manage the discussion, couldn’t she?

  “You want to come in? You look like you’re freezing.”

  “That’d be great. I didn’t realize how cold it could be in this part of the state—in Boston I spend more time inside than outside.”

  “I’m not sure if I can tell you anything, but I’m happy to help if I can.”
And I’m pretty sure talking to you will help me, Meg added to herself. “Come on in. The kitchen’s the warmest place to sit.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Meg led him to the kitchen and tried to put her thoughts in order while she made yet more coffee. Maybe she should just get a programmable coffee maker, with a large capacity—it would certainly save her time.

  “This is a great house!” Justin said. “How old is it?”

  “It was built around 1760, I think. That’s before the town was incorporated. Not a lot has been changed since then.”

  “You live here alone?”

  A distant alarm bell rang in her head. Why did he want to know? “With my husband. He’s out back, working. He specializes in restoring old buildings, and he works out of his office in the barn back there.” There, she’d fended off the nosy question. She hoped that Justin didn’t leap to the conclusion that she’d just created an imaginary husband.

  “Must be nice. Lots of old houses around here.”

  “Yes, there are. The one next door and a couple up the hill were all built by the same family, quite a while ago. So, what’s going on with your girlfriend? Jenn, did you say? And why are you looking here?” Meg brought two mugs of hot coffee to the table and sat down across from Justin.

  He avoided her look. “I feel really stupid, you know? I mean, Jenn and I have been together a year or two now, but we had this huge fight a couple of weeks ago and she walked out of our place. She said there was something she had to do out this way, but she didn’t give any details. I can’t say that I blame her—I know I can be kind of a jerk. But I didn’t expect her to stay out of touch this long.”