A Killer Crop (21 page)

“Thank you,” Meg said. “Bree, are we going to have any break in what’s ripening?”

“Can’t say. We test daily, you know, for sugar content. So no promises. But I might be able to let you off for a couple of hours—if you work really hard.” Bree grinned.

“Oh, thank you, thank you! I’ll do my very best!” Meg retorted, tongue in cheek.

“I’ll hold you to that. Well, I’m going upstairs. Meg, don’t stay up too late—you’ve got a busy day ahead. Night, Elizabeth.”

When Bree had gone, Meg turned to Elizabeth. “Are you going to call Marcus?”

“In the morning. Do you think I should tell him about looking at Daniel’s papers?”

Meg sighed. “It’s probably better to tell him too much than too little. At least if you mention them, you might get some idea whether they’ve already looked at them or whether they haven’t bothered. That should tell us something.”

“It might. You know, I’m not avoiding the detective, Meg. I don’t have anything to hide. How odd to be a murder suspect—that’s something I never expected. But then, you’d know about that.” She paused. “Were you frightened? That they wouldn’t get it right, or that they’d make a case against you, just to clear the books?”

Meg sat back in her chair. It had been a difficult time, for more than one reason. Had she ever believed she would be arrested? “No,” she said finally. “I was kind of incredulous at first, like you. But I guess I do still believe in the integrity of the system, and I hoped they’d get it right in the end. Which they did, even if it took a little nudging from me. And I had friends, which helped.”

“Like Rachel?” her mother asked.

“Yes, like Rachel. And others around here.” Time to mention Seth? No: it was late, she was tired.
Tomorrow
, she promised herself. “I think I’ll follow Bree. Are you coming up?”

“I think I’ll stay down here and read for a while, if you don’t mind. Or maybe do some more research on your computer?”

“Good idea. Don’t stay up too late—it’s easy to get sucked into following a trail when you’re doing that kind of research, and the next thing you know, it’s hours later.”

“Noted. But all the people I’m looking for have been dead for quite a while, so I’m sure they’ll wait. Good night, dear.”

“Good night.”

“You’re going to meet this grad student?” Meg asked her mother at the breakfast table. Her muscles still ached from yesterday’s efforts, but she knew that Bree wasn’t about to let her off the hook today.

“Yes. Patricia called on my cell phone after you went to bed, and said she’d talked to Susan, and we’re all set. I said I’d meet Susan on campus tomorrow afternoon—apparently she has classes or something today. Patricia will give her the key to Daniel’s office. You’ll be picking apples all day?”

“Yes, she will,” Bree said firmly before Meg could respond. “And I’ve got some deliveries to make.”

“No, Bree! You’re supposed to be taking it easy with that arm,” Meg protested.

Bree held up her cast, now rather grimy. “Hey, it feels fine. And somebody usually feels sorry for me when they see this thing, and offers to help. No problem.” She stood up. “You about ready?”

“You go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Bree went out the back door with a spring in her step, leaving Meg again wondering just how she did it. Youth helped, combined with Bree’s desire to prove herself up to this job. Meg, on the other hand, felt as though she had been pummeled with baseball bats. She still had a long way to go before she could match the work of even the oldest picker.

“It’s hard work, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said.

“It is. I have trouble imagining how farm families did it, back before mechanization. And it never ended—cows to be milked, pigs to be slopped, fields to plow or harvest. The longer I do this, the more I respect them.”

Meg swallowed the last of her coffee just as she heard a firm knocking at the front door. She peered out the kitchen window to see Detective Marcus’s car. “It’s Detective Marcus. I take it you still haven’t called him?”

“Good heavens, Meg, it’s barely eight o’clock. I thought I’d wait until nine, at least.”

“Well, he’s here now.” She made her way through the dining room and parlor to let him in. “Good morning, Detective. Looking for my mother?”

“She’s been ignoring my calls—again. Is she taking this investigation seriously?”

“Calls? She’s only mentioned one to me. Well, come on back, she’s in the kitchen.” Meg led him to the back of the house. “Coffee?”

Detective Marcus stood awkwardly for a moment, then took a chair. Meg set a mug of coffee in front of him. “Thank you,” he said formally. “Mrs. Corey, I thought we’d talked about returning my calls?”

Elizabeth looked contrite. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you, but I meant to today. Is there something new?”

“Have you heard from your husband recently?”

“Phillip? No, but he should be back home this week sometime.”

“Do you normally communicate this infrequently?”

“Detective, what possible interest could you have in how often my husband and I communicate?”

He didn’t back down. “It’s relevant to the investigation. So far I have only your word about your relationship and your involvement with Daniel Weston. I’d like to hear his side.”

“And Phillip won’t be able to help you, other than to corroborate our past friendship,” Elizabeth responded tartly. She stood up abruptly and stalked to the kitchen sink, where she turned to face Marcus. “This is ridiculous! I came here to visit an old friend. The last time I saw him he was perfectly fine. I don’t know this area, or at least I didn’t until Meg started showing me around, so why would I have lured him to an unfamiliar place—after dark, I might add—and killed him? Why would I have wanted Daniel dead at all? It makes no sense. And say I lured him out there. How would I have overpowered him?” Elizabeth spread out her hands. “Look at me—I weigh half of what Daniel did.”

Marcus glanced at Meg, then looked at Elizabeth. “Weston was killed by a single well-placed blow. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of strength,” Marcus said stubbornly. “Maybe he made, uh, advances and you had to fight him off.”

“Detective!” Elizabeth’s expression wavered between amusement and dismay. “If he’d wanted to make advances, as you put it, he could have done it in the comfort of my hotel. Why choose a deserted farm stand in the middle of nowhere? It’s not exactly an ideal place for hanky-panky, you know, especially at our age.”

Meg thought Detective Marcus swallowed a smile. “Don’t you have any other suspects, Detective?” she said gently.

He sighed. “We’re working on it. I’m sorry—I’m just frustrated. Weston’s been dead a week now. From all I’ve heard, the man was a saint. Everybody loved and admired him. Ergo, he shouldn’t be dead.”

“Did Kenneth Henderson contact you?”

“The professor? Yeah. He’s coming in later this morning to talk to us. How do you know about him?”

“We saw him at the memorial service, and then we happened to run into him at the Harvest Festival on Saturday. He’s staying at Rachel Dickinson’s place, and we all had tea together yesterday. He said—”

Marcus held up one hand. “Don’t tell me anything. I want to hear it from him.” He swallowed more coffee and turned back to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Corey, when you ignore my calls, it makes me wonder if you have something to hide. Maybe you don’t, but I’d prefer that you cooperate with this investigation.”

“I apologize, Detective,” Elizabeth replied. “You’re right. And of course I want to see this cleared up as soon as possible. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Marcus shook his head. “Just tell the truth. You’ve told us about your history with the victim, and why you were here. I still want to hear your husband’s side of it. And I can’t involve civilians in an open investigation—whatever your daughter here may tell you. I’d appreciate it if you’d steer clear of the whole thing and let us do our job.” He spoke to Elizabeth, but his eye shifted briefly to Meg.

“Don’t look at me, Detective,” Meg said. “I have enough to do getting my crop harvested and delivered.”

He managed a small smile. “Can you keep an eye on your mother?”

Meg avoided her mother’s eyes. “I’ve sicced her on putting together the family genealogy. Since there are a lot of generations of ancestors around here, that should keep her busy.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look convinced. “Just try to keep out of it, will you?” He stood up.

Elizabeth hadn’t budged from her place by the sink. “I promise I’ll let you know when I talk to Phillip, Detective.”

“Thank you. And tell him to call me. Thanks for the coffee, Meg. See me out?”

Meg led him back to the front door. “You don’t really think she had anything to do with this, do you?” she asked in a low voice.

His shoulders sagged. “Not really. It’s not personal, Meg. It’s a homicide—I have to check out everything.”

“I know. Good luck.” Meg watched him climb into his car and drive off before she returned to the kitchen, where Elizabeth was washing up the breakfast dishes.

“You didn’t mention he had called more than once. Are you really trying to tick him off?” Meg demanded.

Elizabeth didn’t look up. “I resent being accused of murder.”

“He’s not accusing you of anything—he’s investigating. He’s a good cop, and we’ll all be better off if you cooperate.”

Elizabeth turned off the water and faced Meg. “I realize that. And perhaps I have misjudged him, which was stupid of me. But I notice you didn’t say anything about looking at Daniel’s papers. Were you afraid he’d tell me not to?”

Meg smiled reluctantly. “I guess so. I thought I’d let Kenneth mention them. Besides, either Marcus will tell him they’ve already looked through them, or by the time Marcus does follow up, you’ll have seen them.”

“Ah, Meg, I didn’t know you had such a devious streak in you. Where could that have come from?”

Meg ignored the question. “If I don’t get up the hill, Bree will have my hide. Good luck with Daniel’s papers. You’ll be back for dinner?”

“If I haven’t been arrested,” her mother replied.

 

 

Meg came back down the hill for lunch; she wanted a few minutes to sit and do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Didn’t she deserve a break?

And it was only September. Would things get easier or harder as the season went on? At least the crop looked good. There had been no significant pests or blights or scabs, or whatever else they were called. Not that she had had anything to do with that, other than hiring the right people to oversee the trees. But maybe the harvest gods, or goddesses, were smiling on her.

Her lunch options boiled down to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of cider. She’d bought a jug at Dickinson’s, which reminded her once again: what had Daniel Weston been doing there?

Her peaceful lunch was interrupted by the sound of her goats bleating in unison, combined with the barking of a dog. Dog? Meg hurried to the kitchen door. Yes, there was a dog, a youngish golden retriever, or so she guessed, who appeared fascinated by Dorcas and Isabel. The goats were holding their ground on the other side of the fence, but looked wary.

“Sorry about that.” Seth emerged from the barn, leash in hand. “He kind of got away from me.”

“He’s yours?”

“As of yesterday.”

“I didn’t know you were looking for a dog.” Seth had once told her he’d had a dog years earlier, but he hadn’t given her the impression that he was in any hurry to replace him.

“I wasn’t, but someone had to give him up for financial reasons, so Andrea thought of me.”

“Andrea?”

Seth caught up with the dog and clipped the leash to his collar. “Yes, Andrea Bedortha—the vet?”

“I know who Andrea is, Seth—I just saw her Saturday,” Meg reminded him. “She knew you wanted a dog?”

“I’d mentioned it.”

Meg remembered that the two of them had looked pretty chummy at the Harvest Festival. “How’s she settling in at the new office?”

“Great. I’ve been helping her with some of the plumbing—she wanted another sink in the back.”

Of course. Helpful Seth, always doing another good deed.
Meg, stop it!
she chastised herself. Seth had every right to help Andrea out in setting up her new office. He’d known her for years—longer than he’d known Meg. He’d cajoled Andrea into taking on a solo practice in Granford, and since he was so involved with Granford Grange, he’d want the tenants to be happy and successful. So why was Meg upset?

She swallowed her irrational pique. “What’s his name?”

“Max. Andrea says he’s about six months old. And not very well trained, as you can tell.” Max was pulling hard at the leash, far more interested in the goats than in the humans. The goats stood sentinel, watching curiously. Meg felt a pang: she hadn’t had much time to talk to them lately. Could goats get lonely? Or bored? At least they had each other.