A Gala Event (5 page)

“Okay. Back in a sec.” Meg retrieved her jacket and went out the door. It was a typical late fall day: the maples around the green had lost their colorful leaves, some of which were skittering around the grass. The general store across the green was doing a good business. Gran's parking lot was full with the lunch crowd. She turned and walked across the street and past the colonial house to the rambling shed
behind, which ran parallel to the house. To her eye it looked as though it had started life as a barn, a century or more before, but had kind of grown in fits and starts with later additions. There was no car in the open end. Meg stepped into the low building and let her eyes adjust to the half-darkness, then spied some definitely modern shelves stacked with paper goods in plastic bins along the front side.

She was making her way toward the shelves when she happened to look down and see the blood.

Meg froze, listening. No sound of movement, other than the wind whistling through the cracks between the old boards. The sensible thing to do, Meg told herself, would be to pull her phone from her pocket and call Art and let him check this out. And risk looking like an idiot if it turned out to be nothing more than a stray cat? Surely Art or his men had examined this building last night. It was adjacent to the Historical Society. They would have seen the blood trail. Wouldn't they?

The trail led in a straight line toward the far end of the building, where a motley array of boxes and barrels were stacked. Meg wondered briefly what collections items could withstand the extremes of hot and cold in this drafty building, but that was not her problem. She took a tentative step forward: still no sound. And another, and another. And after a few more, she could see around the stacked boxes. And
she could see the bloody man on the floor, his back propped up against one of the boxes.

She froze again. Dead or alive? His eyes were closed, and his skin looked kind of grayish, or so she thought in the dim light. He matched Gail's description: older, thin, graying, nondescript clothes. And blood, now dark and stiff on his thin jacket. She thought his chest was rising and falling slightly, but no way was she going to get any closer to find out. She pulled out her phone.

And nearly jumped out of her shoes when the man said, “Don't.” And after a pause, “Please?”

Okay, not dead—yet. But too close for comfort. “You need help,” Meg said, surprised that her voice wasn't quavering.

He tried to pull himself up straighter, and grimaced at the effort. “Maybe. But no cops.”

“Get real, pal. Who'm I supposed to call? And I don't have a Band-Aid big enough to deal with that.” Meg waved vaguely at his bloody arm. “Besides, the chief of police is a good guy, and a friend. You can talk to him.”

The man slumped back against the boxes, and his eyes fell shut. But before Meg could make the call to Art, Gail came hurrying in. “Meg, did you find them? You've been gone awhile,” she said nervously. But when she neared Meg, she stopped. “Oh my God, that's him. That's the man. Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” Meg said. “I was about to call Art.”

Gail was now staring at the man with a peculiar fascination. She took a step closer. “No, it can't be.” She turned to Meg with an odd expression. “I think I recognize him,” she said in a whisper.

“What?” Meg said, her eyes not leaving the unmoving man. “You didn't last night. Who do you think he is?”

“Last night I was in a panic. But now . . .” She shook her
head. “I don't understand. It looks like he's unconscious—better make that call now. I'll explain when Art gets here.”

Meg wasn't about to argue. She hit her speed dial for Art's personal number.

“What?” he barked when he answered. “Oh, sorry, Meg. My wife told me I had to help clean up the yard, but whacking through brambles is not fun. What do you want?”

“You can stop whacking. We've found your man.”

“What? You've got to be kidding. Where are you?”

“In the shed next door to the Historical Society. Gail's with me.”

Art let loose a creative string of curses. “But we looked there last night. There was no blood trail.”

“There is now,” Meg informed him. “And the man that goes with it. He's passed out and he looks pretty rocky, so I think you should hurry.”

“I'll call an ambulance. Be there in ten.” Art ended the call.

“He's on his way,” Meg told Gail. “You look pretty calm.”

“Ha! Well, for a start I'm relieved he's not dead, and I hope he stays that way. But now I'm trying to put some pieces together, and it doesn't make sense.”

“You know him from Granford?” Meg asked.

“Yes, but not personally. And it was a long time ago. Please, can we just wait for Art?”

Meg and Gail leaned against the shelves, keeping an eye on the man on the floor. He didn't move, didn't open an eye. At least Meg didn't see any fresh blood—was that a good sign? But there had been a lot yesterday. He probably hadn't had anything to eat or drink since last night, so he must be dehydrated, and weak from blood loss. As she studied him, she realized that he didn't exactly look homeless, or at least, not like the homeless men she had seen in Boston. His clothes were
not new, but they were reasonably clean. There were no holes in his shoes. He was wearing a cheap watch. He might or might not have a wallet, but no way was she going to check his pockets; she was going to maintain a safe distance. Her responsibility stopped here: she had found him, she had reported it to the right people, and she was going to make sure he wouldn't disappear again, which at the moment looked highly unlikely.

Art pulled up outside the shed, without sirens, and Meg was glad to see Seth's car behind his—Art must have called him. Art stalked into the shed and came alongside Meg and Gail. “Where is he?”

Meg pointed. “He was conscious when I found him, barely. He hasn't spoken since I called you. Where's the ambulance?”

“On its way.” He walked closer to the man and studied him. The man still didn't move.

Seth came up behind Meg. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. Just another ordinary day in Granford, yup.” Meg realized she sounded too sarcastic, and softened her comments by adding, “I'm glad he's not dead.”

“Art, Seth, I think I know who he is,” Gail said tentatively.

Art turned to her. “You told me last night you didn't recognize him.”

“Last night I didn't—it was dark, and he surprised me, and I was scared, uh, spitless. But now that I see him by daylight . . . I think it's Aaron Eastman.”

Art stared at her for a long moment. “That's before your time,” he said finally.

“There's a clipping on the wall inside the Historical Society.”

“I thought he was in prison. Maybe his sentence was up,” Art said, almost to himself. “What the hell is he doing here? And what was he doing at your place last night?”

“Hey,” Meg interrupted, “will somebody explain to me what you're talking about? Who's Aaron Eastman?”

Before anyone could explain, the sound of an ambulance siren interrupted them. Art went out to talk to the EMTs who emerged from the vehicle then bustled in and set about their business. They had the man who was or was not Aaron Eastman hooked up to an IV and loaded onto a gurney and into the ambulance in less than two minutes, and then they pulled away, scattering gravel behind them.

“I'd better follow to the hospital,” Art said without ceremony, and hurried to his car.

That left Meg, Seth, and Gail staring at each other. “Now will someone please explain?” Meg asked plaintively.

“I need food,” Gail announced, “and Gran's looks crowded. Let's see if we can find a place where we can sit down, and I'll tell you what I know. Seth, I'll bet you can add something, too.”

“How about sandwiches?” Meg suggested. “We can pick some up at the pizza place and take them back to our house. I'd really like to know what you think is going on. Since I found the man.”

“Good idea,” Seth said. “Meg, you take Gail over to the house. I'll pick up sandwiches on the way.”

“And chips. And cookies. Lots. We need it,” Gail said, with something approaching a smile.

They settled into their respective cars, but before Meg could leave, Gail said abruptly, “Wait! I need to get something.” She was out of the car before Meg could ask any questions, and she ran quickly over to the front door of the Historical Society and unlocked it. She was inside only a minute, and emerged carrying a picture in a frame. She got back into the car and said, “Okay, all set. Don't worry—I'll explain when we all sit down together.”

Meg had to bite her tongue to keep from asking questions, but Gail had a point: better to tell the story once, when they were together. At least Gail seemed to have rallied. Her reaction last night seemed out of character for the person Meg knew, but she had to admit that being startled in an empty building by a shabby figure looming out of the dark could unsettle anyone. She probably would have done the same thing. The fact that Gail had felt safe in the building, and had even left the door unlocked, said something about Granford, or at least how people saw Granford, as a safe, peaceful place. Not a place where escaped convicts lurked in the dark. If that's what he was—Gail's identification was not confirmed.

She pulled into her driveway, and waved at Bree up the hill as she climbed out of the car. Bree waved back but didn't approach, so Meg assumed everything was going fine. At least she and Seth would have time to hear whatever Gail had to say. “Come on in,” Meg said, as she opened the kitchen door—which was unlocked. She'd adopted Granford ways, it seemed.

Gail followed her inside, still clutching her picture frame.

“Sit down, Gail. You want something to drink?”

“Coffee, if it's easy. Not that I need to be any more wired than I am already. God, I can't believe it. Aaron Eastman . . .”

“Are you doing this to drive me crazy?” Meg demanded, as she started making her second pot of coffee of the day. “Are you playing the mean kid who won't share secrets?”

“Heck, Meg, it's not a secret. Anyone who grew up in Granford knows the story—if they remember it. But I don't have a lot of time—I promised the kids I'd be home in a couple of hours—so I only want to say this once. Well, to you guys, at least. I'll probably have to run through it all again with Art.”

“Well, we don't know how long he'll be tied up, so you and Seth can give me the short version over lunch. And here's Seth,” Meg said, watching him pull into the driveway and
emerge with a few grease-stained paper bags. Seeing them, Meg realized she was hungry—apparently finding bodies had that effect on her. She waited until Seth had come in and dumped the bags on the kitchen table, then said, “Okay, grab your sandwiches and tell me about this Aaron Eastman.”

After they'd all settled themselves with sandwiches and chips, and Meg had made and distributed coffee, Gail slid the framed item across the table to her. “Read this—it might save time. Just don't get mayo on it, please! It's the property of the Historical Society.”

“I'll try not to,” Meg said, wiping her hands on a napkin. She picked up the frame and looked at what it held: a reproduction of a newspaper clipping dating from 1990, with the headline “Tragic Fire Destroys Historic Granford Home.” Meg quickly scanned the details. Stately Colonial home of Eastman family . . . three dead . . . fire burned quickly . . . no chance of escape.

She looked up at Gail. “So this was Aaron Eastman's home? His family?”

Gail nodded. “Yes. His parents and his grandmother died in the fire. The place was completely in flames before the fire trucks even got there.”

“Where was the house?” Meg asked.

“On the west side of town, toward the river,” Seth answered promptly.

“So where does Aaron fit into the story?”

Seth answered first. “Aaron was found unconscious on the lawn outside the building, but from drugs, not the fire. The Eastmans were the proverbial pillars of the community. They had two older kids, in college and prep school, but Aaron was the bad seed of the family. He'd been kicked out of the prep school that his brother still attended and was going to the local high school. He'd been arrested for possession of small
amounts of pot, but his parents got him off—they had clout with the police chief before Art. The fire looked suspicious—the place went up awfully fast—but our fire department was mostly volunteers then, and they didn't have an arson investigator. They got one in from Worcester, I think, or maybe Boston, kind of after the fact.”

“So Aaron was arrested for arson? And the deaths of three people?” Meg asked. “On what evidence?”

“Enough to convict him,” Seth said. “People around here knew and liked the Eastmans, but nobody trusted Aaron—he was a loose cannon, even at seventeen. Maybe he was the scapegoat, but the public wanted somebody to pay. Not Granford's proudest moment, I'll admit.”

Meg sat back and thought for a moment. “Why do both of you know so many of the details? This happened when you were a kid, Seth.”

“It was a major fire, which made it a big deal back then. I remember riding my bike over there while the rubble was still smoking. Maybe I hoped to catch a glimpse of a couple of charred corpses, although of course they were long gone by then. It still ranks as the biggest—and deadliest—fire in Granford. It became part of the local mythology. Beautiful house, too—wish I could have seen the inside of it, not that I would have appreciated it then.”

“All the kids were older than you, right?” Meg asked.

“They were. I didn't know them. Aaron went to jail, his brother finished school and went to college, and I think his sister dropped out of college and got married. None of them ever came back here—until now.”