A Gala Event (4 page)

“There's bound to be something in the news,” Gail protested. “If Art doesn't find him tonight, they'll have to put out a bulletin, won't they?”

“Probably. But I don't think Art's in any hurry to call the press. Let's just take it one step at a time.”

Meg pulled into Gail's driveway. Before she got out of the car, Gail laid a hand on her arm. “Thanks, Meg. I'm glad you were there.”

“We'll talk tomorrow.” Meg climbed out of the car and handed the keys back to Gail. She stood watching until Gail had let herself into the house, then turned and walked over to where Art was waiting in his car. Once she was settled, she asked, “Anything new?”

“Nope. So you just happened to walk into this scene?”

“Yes, Art, I did. Find the guy, will you? I know Gail doesn't want you to find him dead, and neither do I.”

“I'll do my best, Meg.”

Gail reappeared at the door, with a large brown paper bag. Art went to the door to take it from her, said something to her, then came back to the car to drive Meg back to the green.

Meg finally made it home close to seven. “You're late,” Bree said. “I cooked.”

Meg didn't want to discourage her orchard manager and housemate when she had made one of her rare efforts to cook. “Sorry. I meant to call, but things got a little complicated.” She hung up her jacket and dropped heavily into a chair at the kitchen table.

Seth walked in through the outside door, took one look at her and said, “What's wrong?”

Bree turned around from the stove, startled by Seth's question. “What? What're you talking about?” She gave Meg a harder look. “Okay, what's going on?”

Am I really so easy to read?
Meg wondered. “I went to Gran's this afternoon to talk with Nicky about plans for the wedding—I'll fill you in later, Seth. After we were done there, I noticed the lights were on at the Historical Society, and I thought Gail might be there, so I went over to say hi.
When I got there, she was there, but she was covered with blood, and it looked to me like she was in shock.”

Seth sat down next to Meg and took her hand. “Is she all right?”

Meg nodded. “The weird thing is, it wasn't her blood. She said a man came in, and when he approached her and got too close, she grabbed the first thing she put her hand on, which happened to be a wickedly sharp antique chopper, and slashed at him. It looks like she connected, based on the blood all over her. She had to have hit something important, with that much spatter.”

“Is the guy dead?” Bree asked.

“We don't know—he left the way he came. We called Art, of course, and he and some of his men were looking for him, but it was already getting dark.”

“I'm so sorry, Meg,” Seth said, and she gave him a grateful smile. “Did you see the man?”

She shook her head. “No. I must have come out of Gran's just after he left, because I didn't see anyone at all on the green.”

“Did Gail know the man?” Seth asked.

“She said she didn't recognize him. Older than we are, with some gray in his hair. I wondered if he was just looking for a warm place, although since the lights were on and the door was unlocked, he must have known there was someone in the building. Gail didn't say he was armed or threatened her, but he sure scared her.”

“Did Art have anything to say?” Seth asked.

“Not right then. He got Gail's story, and then we took her home so she could change before her family arrived. You haven't heard anything about a homeless guy around town, have you, Seth?”

“No, but I don't know everything that goes on. Especially since I've been so busy lately. Art would know more.”

“He hasn't called?” Meg looked at Bree.

“Not while I've been here,” she said.

“I don't know if that's good news or bad,” Meg said. “I assume Art will call either way. Since I'm involved.”

“Again,” Bree said. Seth sent her a warning look, and she shot back, “What? It's true.”

“She's right, you know,” Meg told him.

Meg's cell phone rang, and when she pulled it from her pocket, she recognized Art's number. She glanced at Seth before answering it. “Speak of the devil.” She pushed the button to connect. “Hey, Art. Any news?”

“Nope. We didn't find the guy. We lost the blood trail in the grass, and it was getting too dark to see it anyway. It's possible that either he drove away, or somebody picked him up, or he's still hiding out.”

Meg noted that he didn't mention a final alternative: the man had bled out somewhere. Art surprised her by going on. “Jeez, I hate the idea of some kids stumbling over a body.”

Seth gestured toward the phone, and Meg handed it to him. “Art, it's Seth. Anything we can do? Mount a wider search?” He listened intently, then ended the call before turning to Meg.

“He's alerted the area hospitals to be on the lookout for a wounded man, but he said Gail wasn't even sure what part of him she hit. You told me it bled a lot, and that much blood loss isn't good. If the hospitals don't turn up anything, Art says we may have to look more widely in the morning, when it's light. The guy can't have gone far, not in his shape.”

“And of course you'll be there,” Meg said.

Seth looked at her oddly. “Yes, I will. I know this town pretty well, including the best places to hide, because I grew up exploring them. Why? Did we have something planned for tomorrow?”

“Sorry, I'm in a lousy mood. No, we have no specific plans—just the buckets of usual ones. Plus wedding stuff.”

“Did things go well with Nicky?” Seth asked.

“I think so. How many people do you think will come?”

“Everyone we asked?” Seth offered. “Seriously, are we okay for space?”

“So far, but a lot of people haven't responded. We were figuring a percentage wouldn't come, weren't we?”

“That place used to be a house, right?” Bree said. “Not many houses were planned to hold a hundred-plus people.”

“True.” Seth turned to her. “What do you suggest? Lottery? Time slots—some people come at four, others at five? You have a better idea?”

“Hey, I manage trees, not people. I'll think about it,” Bree said. “Right now I've got to finish making dinner. You two need to keep your strength up for all this . . . wedding stuff.”

“We could shift it all to summer and have a big tent,” Meg said glumly.

“You know you don't mean that,” Seth told her. “You wanted December. And I don't want to wait another six or eight months.”

“I don't, either,” Meg said softly.

“Cut the mushy stuff, you two—we're about ready to eat,” Bree said from in front of the stove.

They ate quickly, talking about noncontroversial topics that didn't involve blood or violence—or weddings. When they had finished, Bree pushed her chair away from the table. “I cooked, so you clean up. I'm going upstairs. By the way, Michael and I have plans for tomorrow night, if you want some private whoopie time.”

Meg managed to hold in a laugh until Bree had left. “Whoopie time?”

“Well, she got her message across, didn't she?”

“I guess. Problem is, either one or both of us is, er, are usually too tired for anything like whoopie.”

“Maybe that's why she gave us twenty-four hours' notice.”

“Could be. We still haven't talked to her about where she'll be living. You think she wants to live with Michael? Because I've gotten very mixed signals from her about that.”

“One step at a time, lady. You've got a handle on the food end, even if we don't know how much or how many.”

“I was going to talk to Gail about . . . you know.”

“And I haven't talked to Art, either. Now we have a great opportunity. ‘Hey, guys, if you can spare a minute from identifying that body there, would you two consider being in the wedding party?'”

“I don't want to laugh,” Meg said. “Gail was upset, understandably. And I don't want her to feel guilty about someone else's death, even if she acted reasonably and in her own defense.”

Seth's mood sobered. “I know. She doesn't deserve that. Keep your fingers crossed that the guy walked or rode away, and got whatever help he needed. Anyway, I'll take care of the dishes.”

“I'll sit here and admire your efforts,” Meg replied. “If I lie down now, I'll just go to sleep. No more stray alpacas?”

“Not that anyone has reported. I don't know how good they are at hiding. Lulu seemed pretty domesticated.”

Meg thought for a moment. “Seth, why would anyone just walk into the Historical Society? The way that guy did? Normally it would have been closed. He must have seen the lights inside.”

“I don't know. Probably not because he's fascinated by history. What other reasons would there be?”

Meg started counting on her fingers. “One we've already mentioned—a warm and quiet place, maybe just for the night.
Two, looking for cash, but Gail said they don't keep much there. Although he wouldn't have known that. But then, looking at the building, would anybody assume there's a nice drawer full of money? Three, looking to steal something. Although Gail also said that there's not much of particular financial value in the collections. Sentimental reasons? The guy had always coveted an 1870 vertical apple peeler? But how would he know there was one there?”

“Is there?”

“I don't know. Gail said she was interrupted during unpacking a collection of antique cooking implements. That's what the weapon she used was. Wicked-looking thing, I have to say. Does any one of those reasons make sense to you?”

“No. Or they all make equal sense. You know, a lot of homeless guys have psychological problems, like bipolar disorder. Maybe this man is one of those, and in that case, whatever he was thinking might not make sense to any of us, only to him. So motive won't necessarily help us to identify him.”

Meg stood up. “My brain is turning to mush. I'm going upstairs. You coming?”

“Perfect timing,” Seth said, as he hung up a dish towel. “Right behind you.”

Once upstairs, though, Meg opted to stay vertical. “Walk me through this bathroom idea?”

“With pleasure. I don't want to lose any space in this bedroom, not that we spend a lot of time in it.”

Meg leaned against him. “Quality time, not quantity. Go on.”

“I'm guessing that there used to be a full room, if small, off this side—the nursery. When whoever it was built the existing bathroom, they used most of that, and left this kind of closet-slash-alcove here. Not that I'm running down closets—older houses seldom have enough for modern needs. We have too many clothes these days.”

“You could take some off. Oops, not right now. So you think you can fit a bathroom in what is now a closet?”

“It's been done. It might be tight, if you actually want a door that opens and closes. But since the wall for the current bathroom is not original to the house, we can knock it down and move it if need be. And I told you, I'll have to replace the pipes in any case, so we don't lose anything by doing that.”

“We will keep one bathtub, won't we?” Meg asked. “Because it's great to soak in after a long day of working in the orchard.”

“Of course. But I thought you might like a real claw-foot model, if I can find an old one in good condition—they're nice and deep.”

“That sounds good. And you said a powder room, too?”

“Yup. Right below the current bathroom—all the plumbing will run through the same wall space. Easy.”

“If you say so. I promise I will stand by and applaud your efforts. How authentic do I have to be when I choose things?”

“Well, I think glass tiles and halogen lights might be pushing it, but I could live with a modern reinterpretation of Victorian.”

“Good, because I like Victorian. With the right kind of tiles? Those hexagons?”

“Whatever you want, as long as it's not pink. I hate pink bathrooms.”

“Deal.” She leaned in to kiss him, and the kiss lasted. “I am a lucky woman.”

“I won't argue with you. Bed?”

“Bed.”

The distant ringing of a phone woke Meg. Her phone? Seth's? The land line? It took her foggy brain a moment to realize that Seth had climbed out of bed to retrieve his cell phone from his pants pocket, and had gone out into the hall to talk.

He was back in under a minute, and sat on the foot of the bed. “Meg?”

“Yeah, I'm awake,” she mumbled into her pillow.

“That was Art. No sign of Gail's intruder, so he's bringing in some more people, including me. I'm going to go meet him at the station. I'll give you a call when we know anything more.”

Meg rolled over reluctantly. “It's Saturday, right? So Art wants to get out there early before every Jane and Joe in town tramples over what evidence there might still be?”

“That's the general idea.”

“Go. Find him. I may try to call Gail, but maybe she won't want to talk with anyone today, except her family. Otherwise I should be around, either in the orchard or muddling through the paperwork. Take care, will you? Even if he didn't attack Gail, we don't know that he isn't armed.”

“Don't worry—I'll have half the police force of Granford to protect me.”

“Don't forget, I know most of them—that's not really reassuring.”

“Bye, Meg,” Seth said impatiently, and leaned over to kiss her once he'd pulled on jeans and a shirt.

Meg shut her eyes after he was gone, and started making and revising her mental lists. She should call Rachel and see how she was doing. She couldn't imagine just sitting around waiting for a baby to happen. Rachel wasn't overdue yet, but she was within the normal range of her due date. And it was her third child: wouldn't it be a quick delivery? Oh, heck, Meg didn't know—her expertise was limited to a few articles she had read online.

Also on the list: call her mother. She'd been putting that off because she still wasn't sure she'd nailed down the details for The Big Event, and she didn't want to have to worry about entertaining her mother and father in the midst of the inevitable last-minute crises. Sometime soon she would have to sit down with Seth and Bree and figure out the housing situation. And she needed to ask him about a time line for his bathroom project. Did he hope to complete it before the wedding? That might be a tight schedule. She'd heard of early American barn raisings; could they hold a bath raising? The image of a bunch of men bumping into each other in a small space, working on different parts of the installation, brought a smile to her face. It would probably not speed anything up.

All right, Meg, start small with little tasks that you can accomplish. Like breakfast, for you and for Max and Lolly.
That she could do, and the thought spurred her to get out of bed.

Dressed and with clean teeth, she made her way downstairs and set water to boiling for coffee, then fed Max, Seth's still-puppyish Golden Retriever, and Lolly, short for Lavinia, her rescue cat. She ground coffee, poured water over it, then took Max out the back door to do his business. While he sniffed around, choosing just the right spot, she scanned the area for any more wandering alpacas. She wondered what Max would make of an alpaca, if he met one, which would probably happen. He'd probably want to make friends, but she wasn't so sure how the alpaca would react. Did they kick? Front legs or hind legs? Luckily none wandered by, so she went back inside, poured herself a cup of coffee, and searched the refrigerator for food options.

Bree stumbled down the back stairs that led to her room over the kitchen. “God, you're up early.”

“Not my idea. Art called Seth—they're calling in more people for the search.”

“So the guy didn't show up at a hospital, or ask anyone for help?” Bree said. “He's either hiding or dead.”

“Art didn't say, but it looks like it to me.”

“I see Seth didn't take Max.” Bree nodded toward the dog, now lying on the floor waiting for breakfast crumbs. “Isn't he a tracker?”

“I think the only person in the world he could find is Seth. Maybe me, if I was wearing a shirt of Seth's. I'm sure there are other dogs in town who are better prepared. Sorry, Max, but it's true,” Meg said. Max wagged his tail at her. “Where are we on orchard stuff?”

“Between five and ten percent of the trees still need to be harvested. That'll run through the next week, and then I
think we'll be done. And you can work on your fancy-pants wedding.”

“Fancy? Ha!” Meg said. “So far what we've got is a bunch of people—number to be determined—hanging out in a local restaurant on a Friday night, presumably eating and drinking something.”

“Hey, you've got a bride and groom. That's all you really need.”

“Yes, but it also takes some legal paperwork, and somebody to perform the ceremony.”

“I thought you asked Christopher.”

“I did, but I have no idea whether he's submitted his paperwork to make it legal.”

“I think you're worrying too much about the whole thing,” Bree said bluntly. “I mean, you've got the guy. You're more or less living together already. What's the big fuss over some pieces of paper?”

Meg struggled to answer that. “It's not so much the paperwork, at least until there are children involved. It's more about celebrating a landmark in our lives, with our community and friends and relatives. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I think making a formal commitment, with witnesses, makes a psychological difference to everyone. Maybe your generation thinks differently.”

“Meg, I'm only ten years younger than you—that's not a generation. But we're coming from different places, I guess—and I'm not talking about countries.”

“I think I know what you mean.” Meg sighed. “My mother's generation was all riled up about feminism and equality. I support those in principle, but I can't see that a whole lot has changed since her day. Women still make less money than men, in the same jobs. And men still get the better-paying, more important jobs.”

“So what's the point of getting married?”

“Commitment, I guess. Believing in something—or someone—and standing up and working for it. Maybe it's not for everybody, but that's our choice. What about you and Michael?”

“Apples and oranges,” Bree said tersely.

Meg was wondering whether this was the time to broach the subject of living arrangements, but then her phone rang: Gail. She answered quickly.

“Gail, are you all right? Have they found him?”

“I'm okay, I think. No, I haven't heard from Art or anyone else.”

“Do you need something? I'd be happy to help out.”

“What I could use is some company. My husband is treating me like I might break if he looks cross-eyed at me, and we still haven't said anything to the kids. He said he'd keep them busy today. Listen, Meg, I hate to ask this, but could you take me to the Historical Society and hang out with me for a bit?”

“You sure you want to go back there? So soon after . . . And it's still got to be a mess . . .” Meg fumbled for words.

“You mean all that blood? Meg, I'm not a fainting violet. Most of it ended up on me, anyway, and on that slicer, and Art took that away. But right now I figure it's like getting thrown from a horse—you've got to get right back on.”

“Gail, have you ever ridden a horse?” Meg asked.

“No, but I subscribe to the theory. Will you come?”

“Of course I will. I'll pick you up and drive you over. And if you chicken out, I'll turn around and take you home. Or to lunch. Up to you.”

“Thanks, Meg. I'll owe you one.”

“See you in fifteen,” Meg replied firmly, and hung up. She turned to Bree. “You heard all that?”

“Yeah. Good for Gail—it takes guts to face your demons.
I guess she must really care about the place. You go ahead—I can handle stuff here. And I told you I'd be out tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know: whoopie. Along with crime solving and wedding planning. My, aren't we busy people?”

“You got that right,” Bree said. “I'll see you when I see you.”

Meg ran upstairs, swapped her jeans for a better pair, and set off to Gail's house. Gail was sitting on her front stoop waiting, and she stood up when Meg arrived. Meg leaned across the front and opened the door for her. “You look a heck of a lot better than you did the last time I saw you,” she said, as Gail settled into her seat and fastened her seat belt.

“It's amazing what a long, hot shower will do for you. I feel bad—I think I overreacted when I saw that guy. I mean, he looked harmless enough. I never even gave him a chance to talk—I just lashed out.”

“Don't beat yourself up. It was late, and dark, and he startled you. You defended yourself.” Meg pulled out of the driveway, then turned the car toward town.

“I wish they'd find him. I hate this not knowing.”

Even if the worst case turns out to be true?
Meg wondered, but didn't say to Gail. “Well, now that Seth has joined the hunt, I'm sure they will,” she said lightly.

“Seth sure does know this town,” Gail commented. “I don't know what Granford would do without him. You aren't going to drag him away to the big city, are you?”

“No way,” Meg said, laughing. “He'd probably wither away and die. Can you imagine him getting up and putting on a suit every morning? Besides, I like it here.”

They arrived at the Historical Society building in five minutes. No crime scene tape across the door, Meg noted. But then, nobody was sure if there was a crime involved. Maybe the poor guy had had a projectile nosebleed, if there was such a thing. “Art says it's okay to go back in?”

“He told me he's collected whatever evidence there was, which wasn't much. And I don't think the guy ever touched anything, so there's no point in taking fingerprints.” Gail took a deep breath. “Let's do this.”

She climbed quickly out of the car, and Meg followed. When Gail reached the door and pulled out her key, Meg saw that her hand was trembling, but in the end Gail managed to get the door open. Inside it was surprisingly warm. “Drat,” Gail said. “Usually I turn the heat down when I leave—no sense in wasting the power. I guess I was a little distracted last night.”

“You might say that,” Meg said. At least Gail could joke about this.

Gail squared her shoulders and marched into the main room, then stopped, her eyes roaming over the site. To Meg's eyes, nothing seemed out of place, or at least, nothing had been moved since the night before. The kitchen exhibit had borne the brunt of the . . . incident, and the well-worn wooden table was covered with blood spatter, as was the cardboard box Gail had been unpacking when she was interrupted. A few blood drops were visible, leading from the kitchen corner to the front door. There was no sign of damage.

“What we need now is some hot soapy water and sponges, I think,” Gail said, her voice a little shaky. “We've got those in the storage closet, and thanks to Seth we now have hot water in the bathroom. Can you get me a bucket and fill it, while I clear away this stuff?”

“Sure, no problem.” Meg found the items Gail had requested, and took the bucket into the small new bathroom to fill it. Despite the space limitations, it was well designed—kudos to Seth. It gave her hope for her own anticipated bathroom. She filled the bucket, added cleaner, found a couple of pairs of rubber gloves, and brought it all out to Gail. Gail
had removed the box of kitchen utensils and the other articles that had been on the table—including, Meg was amused to see, the hypothetical vertical apple peeler she'd mentioned to Seth. Her subconscious mind must have noticed it the day before. For a moment she wondered how it might work, but Gail called her back to the task at hand. “Clean!” She held out a sponge, and Meg took it.

An hour later the room was sparkling, and cleaner than it had been before last night. Meg and Gail stood side by side and admired their work. “Looks good, Gail,” Meg said.

“That it does. I think I'll finish unpacking that box and play around with the kitchen display—that's always popular. Shoot! I think we used up all the paper towels. We've got plenty more, but there isn't room to store them in this building, so we stuck them all in the shed behind the house across the street.”

“That's right—you own that property.”

“We do. It's rented out, to a really nice older couple, and we said they could use one parking space in the shed. But the Historical Society reserved the right to store some of our less-fragile collections at the far end, and at the moment that includes bulk cleaning supplies. Do you mind running out and retrieving a couple of rolls while I sort through this stuff?”

“Sure. I won't startle the residents, will I?”

“I'm not sure they're around this weekend—I didn't see any lights on there last night when I arrived. But they're used to us coming and going.”