Bitter Harvest (30 page)

“You haven’t noticed anything suspicious since I left?”

“Nope. I might have seen a fox over on the other side of the meadow, but that’s been the high point so far. No calls, either.”

“I’m going to be here the rest of the day, so you go have a nice lunch. But be back before dark, okay?”

“Can I tell Michael what’s going on?”

Meg considered briefly. “I guess. It’s unlikely that even if he did talk about it around Amherst, our perpetrator would get wind of it. Unless, of course, it’s Michael who’s behind all this. He wants to put you out of a job so he can spend more time with you?”

“Ha! We see plenty of each other now, and we’re fine with it. But you just keep thinking. Heck, according to that logic, maybe Seth wants you to move out of this house and into his.”

“Nope, not happening. My, aren’t we independent?”

“Sure are. See you later!” Bree pulled on her coat, grabbed her bag, and went out to her car. As she closed the kitchen door behind her, Meg was both amused and saddened to see Bree walk all the way around the car, just as Meg had earlier, to make sure everything was all right. Apparently it was, because Bree got in, started the car, and pulled away, waving as she passed the back door.

Leaving Meg alone in the house. Should she feel worried? She was surprised to find that she wasn’t. Seth had been right: if someone truly wanted to do her harm, they could, quite easily. They hadn’t, at least so far. Yes, the events were intensifying—and that gunshot was unsettling. But it hadn’t hit anyone, and Meg chose to think that was because it hadn’t been aimed at anyone. In any case, as she had told Seth, she didn’t want to live in fear, looking over her shoulder all the time, especially when she didn’t even know what—or who—she was looking for. So she was going to do something about it, and that felt good.

Meg looked at the pile of mail where she had left it on the kitchen table, tempted by Mercy’s envelope. No, she would eat first and then settle down with it. Anticipation was a good condiment.

After a hasty lunch—she could only wait so long, after all—Meg cleaned up, then took Mercy’s envelope into the dining room. The temperature was comfortable, so the furnace and thermostat were working as they should, which was good news. She opened the tear-strip on the envelope and pulled out a stack of photocopies, at least a half-inch thick. Mercy had also printed out a long note, attached to the top of the stack.

Her curiosity piqued, Meg turned to the copies. She skimmed through the whole stack quickly, then went back and started reading the particular sections that Mercy had marked. The transcriber had obviously had some trouble deciphering the original handwritten document, but the basic story was clear enough. The writer of the diary had been a child when the events she described had happened, and it was possible that her memory was cloudy—or exaggerated. Still, it must have been a juicy scandal in its day, one that was passed down in whispers over the years, becoming a warped piece of local mythology.

What the author of the diary had written was that Unity Cox, née Warren, had been driven mad by the deaths of her younger children in quick succession (except, of course, future sampler-maker Violet), and when the fourth and last Lampson child died, Unity had killed her husband and then herself. According to the diary, the public story was that Unity had blamed her second husband for breeding sickly children, since Violet, her only child by her first husband, was clearly healthy. Meg paged back: earlier references in the diary made mention of the children’s illnesses and deaths, in matter-of-fact language. But it hadn’t been disease that killed the parents, but violence. Murder, then suicide. Had Unity left a note?

Mercy’s bounty didn’t end there. She had enclosed copies of some church records, and a single-line item from 1796 recorded the recommendation that the orphaned Violet Cox be sent to a distant relative, in order to escape the taint of her mother’s acts. Yet another page turned out to be a copy of a Pittsford selectmen’s report, where a corresponding entry allocated money to send Violet to live with an uncle in Massachusetts. That had to be Eli Warren. That explained why Violet hadn’t stayed in Vermont: she would have been forever branded by the scandal of her mother’s last deeds. Instead, she had been shipped back to Granford, where Eli had taken her in and seen to it that she received a decent education. So the sampler had been made when the awful events were relatively recent—Violet’s last act of remembrance, perhaps, before she had moved on with her life. How much had she known—or seen?

Meg sat back in her chair, stunned. Poor Violet. Violet had to have watched her half siblings die, one after another. It was a wonder that she’d had the courage to have children of her own, after what she had experienced.

And yet, these were modern times, and Meg could easily see other interpretations. Perhaps the explanation of the town fathers had been a polite fiction. Had Unity abused her own children? Maybe it hadn’t had a name back then, but had she suffered from such a thing as Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy? Unity had wanted the attention and sympathy of the community upon the deaths of her children? And had Unity killed her husband, and then herself out of remorse? Or maybe Jacob Lampson had been the one responsible for killing his children, and Unity had finally gotten fed up and killed him, and then inflicted her own punishment upon herself, leaving poor Violet to fend for herself? Or had Violet had a hand in their deaths? Surely Violet couldn’t have killed her own mother?

Meg sat back and closed her eyes. Well, she had asked for it. Any of these scenarios made it more understandable that the many other Warrens in Pittsford had washed their hands of Violet. But there was no explanation that did not carry a heavy freight of pain and anguish all around. At worst, Violet had been a murderer; at best, she had had to witness all the deaths, wondering if either her own mother or the only father she had ever known was behind them.

Could Meg trust what amounted to centuries-old gossip? Not necessarily, but the cold facts remained: six people had died in Pittsford, and Violet had been exiled to Granford.

Mercy was definitely going to get a contribution for the library fund from Meg. From a genealogy standpoint this kind of intimate personal information was priceless. Meg had to share it with someone, and Gail was the logical person. Meg checked her watch—it was just past two, so her children should still be at school. She picked up her cell phone and dialed quickly. “Gail? It’s Meg. You have a minute?”

“Hi, Meg. Yes, I’ve got . . . twenty-two minutes until the little monsters are dropped off. I’ll bet they’re hoping for another snow day tomorrow. What’s up?”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but Seth and I drove up to Pittsford over the weekend, and talked to the librarian there. She confirmed most of what we had guessed—the Warren brothers and one sister all moved to Pittsford together, and they all married Cox siblings.”

“Oh, that’s cool! But I take it there’s more?”

“Yes. Unity Warren Cox’s husband died, and she remarried a Jacob Lampson. They had the four kids listed on the sampler, and they all died young. Unity and Jacob died shortly after, and Violet was sent to Granford.”

“So what’ve you got that’s new?”

“I’m getting there. I just got another stack of copies from the librarian in Pittsford, and I’ve got a much better idea why Violet was shipped here.”

“And? Sorry to rush your story, but the clock is ticking,” Gail said.

“I know. So, part of the new information was a diary written by a Pittsford woman from the early nineteenth century. She claims that Unity was driven over the edge by all the deaths, and she killed her husband and then herself. The town thought Violet would be better off somewhere else, away from all that scandal—that’s when they sent her back here to Eli. It’s in the town record. What’s worse, there are hints that the children didn’t die naturally.”

“Oh, wow, how sad! Poor Violet, to have lived through all that.”

“I know. And then in a way she relived it by making the sampler. Heck, maybe she’s the one who wadded it up and hid it.”

“Oh, dear. But, Meg, do you have any idea how lucky you are to have this much information? It’s called serendipity. Some genealogists are blessed with it. Congratulations, you seem to have the knack! Look, the kids’ll be home any minute. Maybe we can plan a lunch later this week and you can fill in the details. Talk to you soon!” Gail hung up.

Meg checked her watch—it was already darkening outside, and as she watched, a few flakes of snow began to drift lazily toward the ground. She had better get dressed for skulking tonight. The weather hadn’t stopped their lurker last time, Meg realized, remembering the tracks in the snow under her back window. In any case, Bree would be home soon, and they would have to begin their absurd charade. Meg could only hope it would do some good.

Bree walked into the kitchen at four thirty and announced, “Michael thinks we’re nuts.”

“Why?” Meg asked. She was running late, since Seth’s window repair person had shown up earlier in the afternoon and replaced the window. She hadn’t even thought about dinner yet.

Bree shrugged. “I’m not sure he believes that any of this is real, and if it is, then we’re being stupid to think we can handle it ourselves. What if this guy gets violent?”

Meg sighed. “We’ve been over this before. Do we have to wait until somebody is hurt—or worse—before we can do anything about it? Would it be better if he killed someone? Just so that we’d be really, really sure something was going on?”

“I’m just reporting what Michael said. I didn’t say I agreed with him.”

“I notice he didn’t volunteer to come along and protect you.”

“Michael does not believe in violence,” Bree replied primly—then laughed. “I think he’s a wimp. But, no, he didn’t offer. So what’s next?”

“You want something to eat in the barn? I can pack you a picnic or something.”

“Oh, great—just me and the goats, and a few sandwiches.”

“Don’t forget the apples. Seriously, you should eat something. It’s going to be a long night.”

“Yes, mother,” Bree replied, but she went to the refrigerator and studied the contents, pulling out some containers of leftovers. “When’s Seth coming over?”

“Anytime now. So, you eat, and then we’ll drive over to his place and leave your car, and I’ll sneak you back in my car. Don’t forget to leave the barn door unlocked before we go—we want you to get inside as quickly as possible, just in case someone is actually watching. And dress warmly—it’s cold out there. How’s the snow?”

“Not bad. Those big fluffy flakes aren’t a problem, really.” Bree stuck the leftovers into the microwave and pushed some buttons.

“I got some additional information from Mercy, the librarian I talked to in Pittsford,” Meg said. “She found a diary that explains why Violet ended up here. It’s a sad story—I’ll fill you in when we’ve got more time.”

“Yeah, right, whatever,” Bree replied, clearly not interested, which didn’t surprise Meg. Fifteen minutes later, Bree was ready to go, bouncing with eagerness. She didn’t appear at all intimidated by the idea of spending the night in a cold and drafty barn, waiting for some unknown assailant to show up.

“You sure you’ll be warm enough?” Meg asked for the third time.

“I’m good, really. I’ve been living around here for most of my life, and I haven’t lost any body parts to frostbite, right? So let’s just do this thing. You remember your lines?”

“What, we’re really going to do that?”

“Can’t hurt, can it?” Bree grinned at her, clearly into her role.

Meg stood in the doorway, watching Bree march toward her car, suitably bundled up, laden with food, and, Meg hoped, something to entertain herself with in her backpack. “When will you be back?” she called out, feeling ridiculous.

“Tomorrow morning sometime. Have a nice evening,” Bree replied, more loudly than usual and speaking slowly and clearly.