Once again Art walked ahead of them, his eyes on the ground, looking up at the house at intervals, until he was satisfied at the angle. “Okay, this looks about right. I’d assume he wasn’t standing right here at the edge, even in the dark.”
“Unless he was trying to hit the car,” Meg grumbled.
“I told you, look for the most likely solution first. He thought he was shooting at a fox, we’re guessing. Could’ve been a dog, I suppose—I’ll check when I get back to the office to see if anyone around here has reported one missing, but it could have just run for home. But if the guy was shooting in this direction, he would have been back among the trees, maybe twenty or thirty feet. Someplace with a clear line of sight. Stay behind me.”
They followed Art carefully through the trees until he stopped, his eyes roaming over the ground at his feet. “He could’ve taken the casings with him. Meg, you sure you heard only the one shot?”
“I’d say ninety percent sure. Once I heard it, I listened for another but it never happened. And as I told you, Seth didn’t hear anything.”
“Kind of odd, that he’d fire only once. If it was a fox he was firing at. I mean, even if that fox took off at a dead run, you’d think this guy would get off another couple of shots. If he was determined to get the critter, enough to come out at night, I’d expect him to follow through. Unless he was really scared of getting caught. Doesn’t make sense.” Art straightened up, stretching his back. “So, not much here to confirm our guy was standing here, but at least we have the bullet. If there’s ever anything to compare it to.”
“Is it rare?” Meg asked.
“Nope. It’s pretty common. A twenty-two-caliber cartridge fits a lot of weapons. Doesn’t cost much, and it’s relatively quiet. Used a lot for small-game hunting. Not the best thing for long-range shots—it tends to drop down after about a hundred and fifty feet, so it’s hard to be accurate from a distance. Which is about how far away your driveway is. So, please don’t ask me to test every twenty-two rifle in Granford. I’d bet we’d find triple digits of the things.”
Meg was feeling depressed. “So, what have we learned? Anything?”
“Given the distance and trajectory, I’d be inclined to say this was not accidental. Somebody fired at your car, but didn’t intend to do a lot of damage. More like he was sending a message.”
“What message? I don’t see the point.”
“Don’t bite my head off, Meg. It could be that he isn’t terribly familiar with hunting weapons, and he was only trying to convince you—and by proxy, me—that hunting does take place right around here, which lends some credibility to the idea that Jenn was shot by accident. He doesn’t know that we know it wasn’t. Maybe he thought we were village idiots and would simply assume it was an accident and close the case on Jenn. He might not have counted on us calling in the big guns—sorry, bad pun—to look at the evidence, which didn’t show what he wanted.”
“So, you’re guessing that this was a guy who knows something about guns but wasn’t used to hunting?” Seth asked.
“It’s possible. Look, you two, I’m sorry I can’t prove much of anything for you. I’m sorry your car is damaged. I’m sorry somebody dumped a body on your land. I’m sorry Marcus is such a prick and won’t listen to any information that doesn’t fit what he’s looking for. You want more?”
Meg finally smiled. “No, I think that will do. Look, if we’ve seen all there is to see here, you want to go in and get something to warm you up?”
“Please!” Art said. “I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”
As they trudged up the slope toward the house, Art commented, “You know, there are very few hunting fatalities in this country. Like, less than a hundred total, and some of those are due to hunters who manage to shoot themselves. I wonder if our shooter knew that piece of trivia when he dumped Jenn?”
“Art, I’m happy to concede that this killer isn’t the brightest bulb, but so far he’s gotten away with it,” Seth said.
“I’m not finished yet,” Art told him.
Once back inside the house, Meg asked, “At the risk of sounding trite, you want coffee? Or I could make something exotic.”
“Coffee works for me,” Art said, “as long as it’s hot.”
“I can guarantee that much. Won’t take long.”
Once they were settled around the table, with steaming mugs, Meg asked, “So Marcus is still stonewalling?”
“If that means taking orders from the drug unit and only the drug unit, and seething, and not sharing any crumbs he may have collected with me, then yes. His feelings are hurt. His ego is bruised. Pick your own terms—he’s not a happy camper. For all practical purposes we’re on our own here.”
“Wait—there is something I meant to tell you, but I got distracted. You know that Justin Campbell came by the house here, claiming to be looking for his missing girlfriend. I played dumb and sent him on his way. You’d told me earlier that a guy—presumably Justin—was looking for a missing girlfriend.”
“Yeah, so? Old news. What’s new?”
“Well, I was talking to Larry yesterday, after you’d gone, and he asked who was the guy who had dropped by here. I told him and then I asked him why he wanted to know, and Larry told me that Justin had been hanging out at the house up the hill—Larry recognized him. But this was before we found Jenn’s body, and more than once. You might want to talk to the guys up the hill again and see if you can figure out who knows Justin.”
Art stared at the ceiling. “Let me get this straight. The story we’ve put together so far is that Jenn came to town looking for a big story on drug dealing in the area. She paid a call on the state police to alert them she was hanging around, and probably see if she could get any information from them, but as far as she knew, nobody in Boston, except maybe her boss, knew she was here. And then she turns up dead. Now you’re telling me that this Justin knew, and he was already here before she died, and once she was dead he’s been going around pretending he was her boyfriend and was looking for her. Were they working together, at least before she died? Was he trying to steal her story? Was he actually her boyfriend? A colleague? A collaborator? A competitor? What am I supposed to think?”
“Art, I don’t know,” Meg protested. “You know when Jenn first appeared here and talked to the narcotics unit. Larry might be able to put a date to when Justin first showed up at the house. The only way we’ll know whether they were working together on this story or whether one was undercutting the other is to ask either Justin or the Boston editor.”
“Or maybe the killer.” Art stood up quickly. “Thanks for the coffee, Meg, and for the information. I’ll go to the station and file an official report about the shooting—let me know if you need a copy for insurance purposes. And keep in touch—you seem to be coming up with more clues than I am.”
“Of course, Art. Thanks for letting us tag along.”
Once Art had pulled out of the driveway, Seth said, “Well, that was interesting.”
“What, forensic analysis of crime scenes?”
“That and other things. Interdepartmental conflict, for example. Or criminals who think they’re smart but don’t know some basic facts about hiding the evidence of a crime. And I think I need to know more about my tenants up the hill.”
“Seth,” Meg began slowly, “maybe it’s not a bad idea to try to talk to Jenn’s boss at the paper.”
“You know this person? Why would he talk to you, or us?”
“I think I know someone who may know him. If I say we’re looking into what happened to Jenn, which happens to be true, maybe we can ask some pertinent questions. Besides, I think I could use a trip out of Granford, if only for a day. You up for it?”
“Sure. I don’t have any better ideas, and it’s better than going stir-crazy here.”
“Tomorrow?” Meg asked.
“Works for me.”
Chapter 18
“You don’t want to go now?” Seth asked.
“Seth, I
haven’t worked in Boston for over two years, and I don’t know who still remembers me and can connect me with someone who matters at the paper. This newspaper is pretty high-profile, so I don’t think they’d welcome a walk-in with a question about drugs and murder, without some entrée. Does that make sense?”
“Sure. How long do you think it will take?”
“Give me a couple of hours—I may have to sweet-talk some people.”
“You want me to take care of getting your car window replaced?”
“Aren’t you and Larry working on the tiny house today? I’d hate to take you away from that. But I love it that you asked. Even though you know full well that I can take care of the ‘man stuff’ myself.”
“Of course I know that. I’m just trying to use our time efficiently. I can probably give Larry some things he can finish today and set him up for tomorrow. That is, if I’m coming with you to Boston?”
“I’d like that. It’s been a while since we took a road trip anywhere together. You can think about what you might like to do and see while we’re there, if we have any spare time.”
“I’m on it.” Seth headed for his office, presumably to track down a car repair place that had a window available that would fit her middle-aged car and could be installed quickly. She stayed where she was, trying to reset her brain for Boston—who she knew, where they worked, and what approach was most likely to be successful. Then she started making a list of names.
Lauren Converse was first on her list. They’d worked together at the bank in Boston, but Lauren was the only person she would have called a friend there. They’d stayed in touch, sort of, for the first year or so after Meg had moved to Granford, but she had no idea what was going on in Lauren’s life now. She could be president of the bank, or she could be selling designer handbags on Newbury Street, for all Meg knew. Still, she was a good place to start.
Meg dialed the bank’s number from memory and asked for Lauren. A secretarial voice asked her for her name and then set about connecting her. Lauren picked up and started talking immediately.
“Why, if it isn’t Margaret Corey! I thought you’d died or been eaten by your pigs or something.”
Meg laughed. “I thought you’d be running the biggest bank in Boston by now. By the way, I’m using Chapin now. And it’s goats, not pigs—I don’t think goats eat people—and apples. I’m happy to say I’m surviving as a farmer, although with a minuscule profit. But I’m not calling to brag. I need your help connecting with someone.”
“Gee, I don’t know—what’s in it for me?”
“Apart from an interesting inside story about a murder and my undying gratitude?”
“What, another murder? What is wrong with you people out there? Wasn’t your mother involved in one?”
“Well, yes, but she didn’t do it. And I’m not a suspect in this one, but the body was found in my backyard. Literally. By the way, this is off the record, big time.”
Lauren sighed. “So I can’t talk about this mysterious murder to anyone, right? Who knew that country living could be so exciting? Okay, spill it—what do you need?”
“Do you know anybody who works at the Globe?”
“I might. Do you mean someone who knows the dirt, or someone in power?”
“I’m not really sure who would be more useful. Let me explain. You have time?”
“I’ll make time. Start talking.”
Meg proceeded to outline the events that had led to her call—starting with the body in the woods, and the identification of that body that was being kept secret, and the other people nosing around Granford, and the conflict between departments at the state police, and so on. The next time she looked up, it was already dark outside and she’d been talking for over an hour.
“So, let me get this straight,” Lauren said when Meg paused for breath. “The dead woman was a journalist working on a big story for the paper, but flying under the radar. She ended up dead, shot in the back, and those who know about things like that say it was murder. But they can’t talk about it because the drug squad is still working their end of the case, tracking down who’s who and what’s what with the local drug trade that Jenn was looking into. And you’re smack in the middle of it, both in location and because you take it personally and think the law enforcement people don’t because they’re more interested in a big score.”
“That more or less covers it. And then somebody blew out my car window, while the car was in the driveway, which makes it even more personal. We think that was to make us believe that Lauren’s death really was a hunting accident. They could have shot one of us if they really wanted to.”
“Jeez, Meg, you make Boston sound positively safe compared to your little town. What the heck do you want from anyone at the paper?”
“Well, there’s this other guy sniffing around town here but we aren’t sure why. He might be picking up the pieces of the story where Jenn left off. Or he might have killed her to get her story. Or he might be part of the drug trade and wants to protect his turf. The only thing we know for sure is that he works at the paper where Jenn did—we checked their website and his picture’s there. But when I talked to him, he kind of made up a story about the woman being his girlfriend and a waitress. I don’t trust him, but the cops are too busy to check him out, even if they can find him.”
“I get the picture. You need to talk to someone from the Globe who may or may not know what this Jenn person was doing out there, but who can give you the inside scoop on this Justin character. Basically, whether he’s a good guy or a bad guy. So I don’t think you need to talk to a senior editor—you don’t happen to know who set up this investigation, do you?”
“How could I? I never met Jenn, and the only local person we know she talked to is our local homicide detective, who isn’t exactly our friend.”
“Oh, right. And it’s possible that she originated it and took it to her bosses, rather than the other way around. Anyway, you need someone who’s kind of mid-level, who knows what’s coming down the pike. Are you in town now?”
“No, but we can be there any time tomorrow, if you can set something up.”
“I’ll get to work on it ASAP. Oh, by the way, how’s married life treating you, apart from all the murders you keep tripping over?”
“It’s good. We’re both kind of between working seasons, but things will get busy in a month or two. Good scheduling for a murder investigation.”
“It is indeed. So let me get off the phone and start working on my contacts. I’ll get back to you about when and where we can meet tomorrow. And, Meg?”
“Yes?”
“Please be careful. I don’t have a lot of good friends, and I can’t afford to lose one.”
“Got it. See you tomorrow, I hope!”
They hung up at the same time. Meg felt oddly happy: Lauren still considered her a friend, although Meg hadn’t done much on her end to sustain that friendship. Funny how little she seemed to miss city living, apart from a few people like Lauren. Of course, the apple business kept her busy for most of the year. She didn’t have time to miss fine restaurants or movies or plays, because she fell into bed, exhausted, almost every night. It was harder to make excuses for why she hadn’t thought of heading to Boston this month, when both she and Seth had time to spare, but her head was definitely into farming, not city lights. In any event, it would be good to see Lauren, and she hoped Seth wouldn’t be bored silly by their girl talk. At least he was as involved in this murder investigation as she was, and he would have different questions to ask, if they could find anyone who knew anything.
He returned victorious about half an hour later. “It’s done!” he crowed.
“You are amazing. And so are your friends—unless you charmed a total stranger into doing your bidding with my poor window?”
“You’re a newbie in Granford. You have to have lived here most of your life to have this kind of pull.”
“Then I’ll let you handle that. But I did my part. I talked to
my banking friend Lauren, and she’s going to ferret out someone at the Globe who knows what we need to know about Jenn and Justin. She’ll call back when we have something set up.”
“Aren’t we efficient?” Seth said, smiling.
“That we are. I haven’t seen Larry, though. Did you get a chance to talk with him?”
“I called him. He’s working on the framing. I know, you can’t hear him from here, but he’s out there pounding away. He’s really gotten into this little project. Maybe it’s because it could be the first place of his own that he’s ever had.”
“Could be. Anyway, I should put together some questions for whoever Lauren finds who will talk to us. What do we need to know?”
Seth dropped into the chair opposite her. “Was Jenn’s project common knowledge, and if so, among what group? Was it her idea or her boss’s? Had she reported back to anyone or submitted a draft or notes? Then there’s Justin. Were they working together? Did they have any kind of relationship? Was he jealous of her? Was he ambitious? Has anybody at the paper heard from him, or did he take vacation time? Did he ask Jenn if he could work with her, or did she recruit him to help, or was there no contact at all?”
Meg was scribbling fast. “Slow down! These are all great questions—clearly you’ve been thinking about all this.”
“I can multitask—pound nails and think at the same time.”
“I do not doubt it for a minute. Are we taking your car or mine tomorrow?”
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“I know where the Globe building is because I worked near it, but we might be meeting our informant away from the office, so I’m not going to guess. Do we have to be back here at any particular time, or maybe I mean, do you have anything you need to do here on Saturday morning?”
“Nothing on the schedule. You thinking we should stay overnight?”
“It’s worth considering. Anyway, otherwise I guess we’re good to go. Maybe I should think about dinner?”
Nipped in the Bud Page 13