A Killer Crop (30 page)

Elizabeth stopped what she was doing and turned to Meg, leaning against the counter. “We tried. It never happened. And we were happy with you, with the way things were. Maybe that was selfish of us, but we rationalized that we could give you more—more things, more attention—as an only child. I can see that it might have been lonely for you. But does that affect how you feel about having children?”

“To be honest, I’ve never felt a burning need to have kids, or even one kid. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, to feel like that.”

“Don’t you like children?”

“I do, but as people, not as generic things. Look, if the circumstances were right, I’d certainly consider it, but right now I don’t feel deprived by not having children.”

Elizabeth turned back to rubbing herbs and butter on the chicken. “Seth doesn’t have children, does he?” she said.

“No. He was married once before, but no kids.” Although Meg had to admit she had thought Seth would make an admirable father.

As if echoing her thoughts, her mother said, “I think he’d be a great father.”

Phillip’s car pulled into the driveway, and a minute later he bustled in the back door. “Success! Your local selection leaves something to be desired, but I think we should find something we all like here. Do I smell ginger cake?” He put down the clinking bags and gave Elizabeth an enthusiastic kiss.

“You do,” Elizabeth replied, “and I’m all buttery from the chicken, so watch out for your sweater. Do you want to join us here, or do you want to go find something manly to do?”

“I
can
chop a mean vegetable. But actually, I’d love to see some more of the house, if you don’t need Meg.”

“I’ll let Mother wrestle with the naked chicken. I’d love to show you the house, Dad. I have no clue what’s in the attic, but you should enjoy the basement—you can still see some of the original logs, and there’s a well under the kitchen here.”

“Basement it is. Lead on, my dear.”

Meg dutifully led the way down the narrow stairs from the dining room to the basement. Parts of the floor had received a thin and patchy layer of concrete over the years, but there were still areas of bare dirt. The center was occupied by a massive brick structure, and Phillip made a beeline for it. “What on earth . . . ?”

“That was built to support the original fireplaces, which were in the middle of the house. I’ve been told that the space in the center was used as a smokehouse, but that may be fanciful—I’d say it’s more likely that when the fireplaces upstairs were rearranged in the nineteenth century, somebody thought this would make good storage. I don’t know—I’ve been so busy I haven’t done as much as I could to learn about the history of the place.”

Phillip wandered to another corner. “And this would be the well you mentioned? I thought it would be bricked over.”

Meg followed him. “No, it’s still open, and there’s still water in it. I guess if I ever had to fend off a siege, I’d be all set. If you look up, you can see the patch in the subflooring above it there—once upon a time they could probably lower a bucket and pull water right up into the kitchen. Very forward-thinking.”

“Indeed.” Phillip turned then to look at her. “What a wonderful house this is—so much history!” He paused briefly. “Are you happy here, Meg?”

Where did that come from? “I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“I know it’s been a hard year for you, with a lot of changes. I want you to know that I’m proud of you, and so is your mother. You could have walked away from all this, but you chose to stick it out, to try something new. I respect that.”

Meg felt a surprising prick of tears. “I kind of fell into it, and things kept happening . . . But I guess I am enjoying it, even though it’s hard work. I like the town, and the people. Living here seems more ‘real’ than living in Boston did.” Meg hesitated, but if they were being honest, here in the dim and damp basement . . . “Daddy, were you really okay about Daniel, about Mother coming up on her own to see him?”

A pained expression passed quickly over Phillip’s face and vanished. “I wish I had been here. We were all good friends once. Long ago. I’m sorry that Daniel’s dead.”

He didn’t exactly answer my question
, Meg thought. But she suspected that it was the best she was going to get.

“So what’s going on with you and this Seth Chapin?” her father asked.

Meg could feel herself blushing. “I don’t know. Something. But I’m not rushing into anything.”

“That’s fine. I just didn’t want to put my foot in my mouth at dinner. He seems like a nice fellow.” Phillip checked his watch by the dim light from the small cellar window. “What about the rest of the house? I’d like to squeeze in a nap before dinner.”

Relieved by the sudden diversion, Meg said, “Sure. Let’s go upstairs.”

She led him up to the second floor, where they spent a happy few minutes talking about woodworking and the drawbacks of multipaned sash windows, but the tour didn’t take long. They ended up in front of the guest room. At the door Phillip stopped and turned to Meg. “I mean what I said. You’ve become a fine young woman, and I’m very proud of you. Wake me up at six thirty, will you?”

He slipped into the bedroom and closed the door, leaving Meg gaping. She had probably engaged in more intimate conversations with her parents in the past few days than in the decade that preceded it. Were they getting old? Or had she really changed?

 

 

Seth arrived promptly at seven, armed with another bottle of wine and a potted chrysanthemum, and Meg met him at the back door.

“Right on time,” she said. “Trying to impress?”

“I’m always on time, in case you haven’t noticed. How is everything? I saw that the pickers quit early.”

“Yes, Bree said we shouldn’t work in the rain and dismissed us. And then Susan Keeley, Daniel Weston’s grad student, came by and gave Mother and me a research project—we’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

Seth followed Meg into the kitchen, where Elizabeth was setting the chicken on a platter. “Hello, Seth—nice to see you. Phillip, would you prefer to carve in the kitchen or the dining room?” she called out.

Phillip came into the kitchen, his damp hair still bearing the tracks of the comb. “In here—then you don’t have to watch me make a fool of myself. I never can find the joints on a bird and I end up mangling the poor beast. Seth, good to see you again!”

“You, too, sir.”

And the evening rolled on. Sometime halfway through dinner, Meg wondered why she had ever been worried about getting these people together. They were talking with enthusiastic gestures, and Meg felt warm and happy. Probably the wine she had drunk played some role in that, but it was not the only reason. Her father had asked earlier if she was happy; at this moment, she would say yes.

“Meg said Susan had asked you for something?” Seth asked Elizabeth.

“Yes, apparently Susan asked if Meg and I could do some basic research on Dickinson family connections in this area, on the chance that their descendants might have some material that had come down from Emily Dickinson. She thinks it could be related to whatever Daniel was so excited about, and it may have been a factor in his death, so I’m more than willing to help her. We won’t know unless and until we find out what it is, though.”

“Interesting. Well, there’s no shortage of Dickinsons around, even today. Not many in Granford, though.”

“I saw several on the old Granford maps. Have they’ve all died out?” Meg asked.

“Like the Warrens,” Seth agreed. “Maybe you should check the local cemetery.”

“They won’t talk to us,” Meg said, and giggled. “Seth, do you memorize phones books in your spare time?”

“No, but I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve worked with some of the Dickinsons in Amherst. And of course, my sister married into one of the Dickinson branches, though my brother-in-law’s family connection is pretty minor.”

“The closest connection I’ve found between us and the famous Emily is fifth cousin,” Elizabeth said. “That’s not exactly an intimate link either. But I’m nowhere near finished. I do hope Susan isn’t in a hurry, because it’s slow going.”

“I’ll have to leave it to you, Mother, because if the sun is shining tomorrow, I’ll be in the orchard. Dad, does having Mother chained to the computer mess up your plans?”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted. And if this will help solve Daniel’s murder, I want to be a part of it. Would you like me to clear the table and bring in the cake now, Elizabeth?”

“That would be much appreciated, Phillip.” Elizabeth winked at Meg.

The evening wound down happily, and it was after ten when Meg found herself saying good night to Seth outside the back door. The rain had stopped, and Meg could smell earth and damp, and heard the occasional drip from the trees onto the growing pile of leaves that would probably turn into mulch by the time she got around to raking them. She was pleasantly tired and still buzzed from the wine. “That went well.” She leaned against Seth in the dark.

“What did you expect?” He wrapped his arms around her.

“I don’t know. I never brought any boyfriends home to meet the family.”

“You were afraid your parents would eat them alive?”

“Nope, no boyfriends.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Thank you. That’s nice.” Meg reveled in his embrace just a bit longer, then pushed back. “I’d better go back in. Tomorrow’s going to be busy.”

“I’ll let you go.” He kissed her gently. “And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For getting all of us together. Good night, Meg.”

Elizabeth was already at the computer when Meg came down the next morning. She barely looked up when Meg entered the dining room. “I made coffee,” she said, waving vaguely at the kitchen.

“Thanks. Have you seen Bree?”

“No. And I didn’t see her car in the driveway. She must have spent the night at Michael’s.”

“Need any help there?”

“Thanks, but I think I have the hang of it. I want to get done as much as I can before your father comes down.”

“He’s still asleep?”

“Dozing, I’d say. He gets tired more easily than he used to, although he tries to pretend he doesn’t. He’s past sixty, you know.”

Meg had done her best to avoid thinking of her parents as “old,” but the math was inescapable. “What were you going to do today?”

“I’ve gotten rather intrigued by this research, and I’m afraid if I leave it, it will all get muddled in my head. Do you think maybe you could take your father up to the orchard and show him that? Maybe you could persuade him to pick apples or something. I think I’ll have a much better idea of where all these Dickinsons fit by lunchtime.”

“I’ll do my best.” Meg meandered into the kitchen, where Lolly greeted her lazily, meowing for breakfast. She poured coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and then stood by the sink to eat it as she admired the view out the kitchen window. The sun hadn’t yet burned the September mist off the Great Meadow. What was it that Keats had said? Something like “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”? That certainly fit: she was staring at the mist, and the “fruitfulness” was waiting for her up the hill.

As she watched, Bree’s car pulled in and she clambered out. She caught sight of Meg at the window. “Yo, Meg! You ready?”

“Just waiting for my father to come down,” Meg called back. “Will he be in the way if he joins us in the orchard?”

“Can you show him how to pick?” Bree said as she came into the kitchen and helped herself to coffee.

“I think so. I’m sure he’d be careful. My mother wants some free time to work on the family history.”

“She’s really getting into it, huh? Next thing you know she’ll be joining the DAR.”

“Is that such a bad thing? From what I’ve heard, the Daughters of the American Revolution aren’t the blue-blood snobs people think they are. And I gather that most of the patriots were ordinary citizens—farmers mostly. Probably the Warren who built this house fought in the Revolution, because most able-bodied men did then.”

“Hey, you don’t have to lecture me. I’m sure your mom would fit right in.”

“Good morning, ladies,” Phillip boomed as he arrived in the kitchen. “What a marvelous day!”

“Hi, Dad. I was going to ask if you wanted to come up to the orchard with me this morning. I can show you what goes on with the picking.”

“That sounds grand, once I’ve had my caffeine. You’re quite a stern taskmaster, Bree—or should I say taskmistress? It’s so hard to know what’s politically correct these days.”

“Manager will do just fine, Mr. Corey. Gender-neutral, you know.”

“Of course. You’re mother seems quite absorbed, Meg. More genealogy?”

“I warned her it was addictive. There’s always just one more thing to check. But she said she might have some results on the Dickinsons by lunch.”