A Killer Crop (18 page)

“Yes. Maybe he recognized the surname and was planning to look you up. I didn’t think it was important, but I was curious . . . I didn’t want to keep sitting around the house ...” Patricia’s composure was crumbling fast.

Elizabeth reached out a hand and laid it on Patricia’s arm. “We understand. I can only imagine how hard it must be to come to terms with your loss. Are his sons still home?”

Patricia rummaged in her pockets until she came up with a tissue. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose. “Sorry. I still have these weepy spells. No, they haven’t lived at home for a few years, so when they’re here, they kind of wander around, looking lost, which only makes things worse.”

Meg was torn: obviously the woman in front of her was grieving, but she wasn’t sure when or if she’d get another chance to talk with her. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but your husband’s death has put my mother in a rather awkward situation.”

“Meg,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I don’t think now is the time to—”

“No, it’s okay,” Patricia interrupted. “You’re talking about why that lumpish detective seems to think Elizabeth might have killed him?”

Meg tried to read her expression and found no malice there. “Exactly. I don’t know what you think, but I certainly don’t believe it. But if Marcus is right, and it wasn’t just a heart attack, that means that someone else killed him. Was there anyone you could think of that might have wanted your husband dead?”

Elizabeth silently poured fresh tea into Patricia’s cup, and Patricia swallowed some before answering. “The detective asked the same thing, and I couldn’t come up with anyone. We were happy together. We had enough money. He loved his work, and was respected in his field. His students loved him. I couldn’t think of anyone I know who would do this.”

“Do you know the farm stand where he died?”

“I’ve been there. After all, we’ve lived here for years, and we both liked to support local produce. But we had no special attachment to it, and I’m sure we’ve patronized all the local stands at one time or another. Are you asking if he had a midnight craving for fresh carrots? Very unlikely—he went out occasionally in the evening for college events, but otherwise he was rather settled in his ways. I told the police all of this.” She stood up abruptly, almost toppling the table with the teapot. “I should go.”

Elizabeth stood as well. “You don’t have to. Or maybe you’d like to get together another day? I’ll be in town for a bit longer.”

Patricia managed a weak smile. “I’ll think about it. And thank you for sharing your memories. Meg, it was nice to meet you.” She all but fled out of the room, then the front door.

Meg followed and watched her leave before turning back to her mother. “What was that all about?”

“Oh, Meg, don’t be insensitive. She’s just lost her husband, whom she obviously cared for, and now she’s been told that he was murdered. She wants to keep the good memories alive a little longer. She’s still trying to process the fact that he’s dead, and she’s not ready to deal with the idea that somebody helped him to die. Poor woman.” Elizabeth turned and began gathering up the tea things.

No sooner had Patricia pulled out of the driveway than Meg’s cell phone rang. She was surprised to see an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

“Is this Meg? It’s Kenneth Henderson. We met yesterday at the festival?”

“Oh, yes, of course. What can I do for you?”

“You said you and your mother might like to get together to talk about Daniel Weston. Would now be a good time? I know it’s short notice, but my plans for the rest of the week are somewhat uncertain.”

“Now?” Meg checked her watch: it was already four. “I think we could be there in twenty minutes or so. Are you still at Rachel’s?”

“I am, and she’s promised to make you a high tea. She thought that might convince you.”

Meg laughed. “She’s right. We’ll be right over.”

Meg went to the kitchen. “Uh, Mother? That was Kenneth Henderson, the professor who knew Daniel. He wants to talk with us, and Rachel will provide tea.”

“Now? But we’ve just finished one tea,” Elizabeth protested.

“I know. But he offered, and I’m not sure how long he’ll be around. Can you handle it?”

“I suppose I can manage another cup. Do you think there’ll be pastries?”

“At Rachel’s? I guarantee it.”

When Meg and Elizabeth arrived at the bed-and-breakfast, Rachel was sitting on the porch in one of the slat-backed rockers, talking with animation to Kenneth, who occupied the adjacent chair. Meg parked, and she and her mother climbed out of the car.

Rachel bounded out of her chair to greet them. “Hi, Meg. Hi, Elizabeth. Glad you could make it on short notice.” Kenneth stood more slowly.

“Hi, Rachel,” Meg said. “It’s so nice of you to do this—you must be as busy as I am. Professor Henderson, it’s good to see you again.”

“Please call me Kenneth. I have enough students who call me professor. Mrs. Corey, I’m glad you could come.”

“Elizabeth, please. And we should thank you for taking time away from your other activities to meet with us.”

Kenneth brushed away her comment. “I’d had enough pomposity for one day, at the symposium. Thank heaven it’s over.”

“I’ll set up the tea,” Rachel said, disappearing into the house. “Give me five.”

Elizabeth smiled at Kenneth. “I thought as an academic you’d be in your element there.”

Kenneth sighed. “I’ve seen far too many such events, and I thought the concept, pitting Whitman against Dickinson, to be rather contrived. There is little new to be said. Although I suppose the visiting parents enjoyed it.” He paused, searching for words. “As I told you, I was shocked to hear about Daniel’s death. You said that you knew him, Elizabeth?”

“Many years ago, yes. I hadn’t seen him for a long time.”

“A tragic thing—a real loss to the academic community.”

Rachel called out from inside the house, “Tea’s ready! Come in and sit down, so you can talk comfortably.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Kenneth said. He opened the screen door. “Ladies?”

Elizabeth and Meg formed a small procession, and Kenneth brought up the rear. Inside, in Rachel’s elegant Victorian dining room, the table was set for four. Meg saw a profusion of goodies, including one clearly antique multi-tiered tray stand laden with finger sandwiches and tiny, bite-size cookies that Meg couldn’t even begin to identify, and her mouth began to water.

They sat. “Kenneth, it was the symposium that brought you to Amherst?” Elizabeth began.

“Yes, initially.”

“Don’t you have classes to teach this time of year?” Meg asked.

“I’m on the faculty at Princeton, but I’m on sabbatical this year. When Daniel invited me to the symposium, I thought it sounded amusing, and I came up a bit early to do some research and to indulge in a little sightseeing. Like Daniel, I specialize in nineteenth-century American poetry, so this little get-together he had planned sounded like a nice diversion. He asked me to participate in a panel discussion, which promised to be spirited.”

“Did you know Daniel well?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes and no. We’d crossed paths at various academic conferences over the years, and we would get together for drinks or a meal, if we were both free. He always had something interesting to say. But I can’t recall that we ever saw each other outside of that setting.”

Rachel picked up the teapot and began filling cups. “Please, help yourselves.”

Meg bit into a dainty sandwich. Watercress? “Yum. Kenneth, how did you find this place?”

“A friend who had stayed here recommended it.” He smiled. “Although I almost passed on it because of the name. After all, I’m the spokesperson for the Whitman side of the debate, and staying at Dickinson’s could be seen as treasonous. And you?”

“A friend introduced us, too, when I first moved up here. Actually, Rachel’s brother. I had a plumbing crisis and needed a place to stay fast, while it was being repaired, and he asked Rachel to fit me in.” Meg was conscious of her mother’s gaze—when was she going to come clean about Seth? “And then I sent my mother here.”

Rachel had finished pouring. “I hope you don’t mind, but we got to talking and I told Kenneth that you were interested in Daniel’s death for personal reasons.”

Elizabeth helped herself to a plate and some sandwiches, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “You might as well say it, Rachel—I came up here to see Daniel, after quite a few years, and now I’m a suspect in his murder. I’d say that’s quite personal.”

“Good heavens!” Kenneth burst out. “I can’t believe anyone could consider you a likely candidate for murderer. In fact, I couldn’t believe it was a murder when Rachel told me. What an unlikely end!”

Meg turned to Rachel. “How did you hear?”

“It was in the local paper. They reported the death one day, and then they had a follow-up article a couple of days later, saying that the police were calling it a homicide. Something about a killer blow? It sounded quite sensational.”

Meg hadn’t seen the Amherst paper. For that matter, she hadn’t had time to look at any newspaper since her mother had arrived. So now everyone knew that Daniel had been murdered. Meg helped herself in turn to some cookies. She wasn’t really hungry, but Rachel’s cookies were always irresistible. “Kenneth, can you imagine why anyone would want Daniel Weston dead?”

“Not at all. He was a respected scholar, an entertaining raconteur. I never heard him say an unkind word about his colleagues—or his competitors. I suppose I fall in the latter camp, but we were always cordial about it.”

“Tell them about the symposium,” Rachel said, checking to see that everyone was well supplied with food. “It was such a shame that he put all that work into it and then didn’t have a chance to be part of it.”

“Perhaps I should begin at the beginning.” Balancing his cup and saucer, Kenneth settled himself in his chair. “Daniel enjoyed some renown as an expert on the works of Emily Dickinson, as you no doubt have heard. He’d published a goodly number of definitive articles in respected journals, and he was in demand as a lecturer. This particular event was something of a popular show rather than a scholarly one, although there were elements of both. Amherst College has a reputation for excellence to maintain, so they wouldn’t mount anything that was completely trivial. But the symposium was also geared to entertain the parents who were bringing their offspring to the college—sort of an intellectual welcome. For that reason, I think the publicity was couched in rather silly terms, as a competition between Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson for the title of Best American Poet. Did any of you attend?” When everyone signaled “no,” he went on. “The centerpiece was a debate between the opposing sides, represented by an interesting collection of scholars.”

“Were you part of this?” Meg asked.

“I was, in fact. As was entirely appropriate, given my standing as one who has studied Whitman in depth. But I wouldn’t have missed it in any case—I came along to see the debate, which promised to be entertaining.”

Elizabeth asked, “Did it live up to your expectations?”

“I think Daniel’s death put something of a damper on the proceedings, at least from the panelists’ point of view. I’m sure the general public was unaware of it. But Daniel’s personality—dare I say charm?—would have taken it to a different level.”

“Did you see him before he died?” Meg asked.

“I did. I told him I’d be in the area for a few days before and after the event, and he suggested we meet for a drink, so we did. More than a week ago—Friday, if I recall. We met, and then I took off to pursue some of my own research at a small library in Maine that owns some of Whitman’s papers, and stayed there for the weekend. I returned here this past week to be greeted by the news of Daniel’s death.”

“How did he seem when you saw him?”

“That’s what’s so interesting, in light of subsequent events, as I told Rachel. He was in good form—distracted, of course, since the school term was just beginning, and he was responsible for this symposium. But there was a curious undercurrent of . . . I’d have to say excitement. He dropped several hints that he was working on something new, that he thought would have a major impact. He was quite coy about it, but when I pressed for details, he said that I’d have to wait for the symposium. I had the general impression that he planned to make some sort of announcement there.”

“Which he never had a chance to do,” Meg said. “Mother, did he say anything to you when you saw him?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, nothing like that. But I’m not a member of the academic community, so he may have thought it wouldn’t interest me. And we had a lot of catching up to do. Tell me, Kenneth, what would constitute an important scholarly announcement? Not his retirement presumably?”

“I doubt that his retirement would be of great interest to the community, except possibly to new PhDs looking for a teaching slot to open up. Nor was he even contemplating leaving academia, as far as I know. He was still at the top of his game intellectually, and I don’t think he planned to retire anytime soon. No, I’d say this was more likely to be something else—something that would send ripples through our little pond.”