One Bad Apple (36 page)

“I’ve called a lawyer for him—old college buddy of mine,” Seth added quickly.

“That’s a good thing, Seth,” Art answered. “I think Stephen would say just about anything to make sure that Cinda stays out of it.”

“And you don’t believe him?” Meg asked.

Art shrugged. “Not for me to say. I probably shouldn’t have said this much, and the detective’ll have my head, but I thought you should know where we’re at. Hell of a situation, isn’t it?”

Cinda arrived promptly, but when she walked into the room, Meg thought that something had changed. She was still dressed in a power suit, but was it a bit wrinkled? Her hair was still sleek, but maybe a few strands had escaped her attention? And there was definitely a patch of skin on her chin that she had missed with her foundation.
Yes
, Meg thought,
Cinda is starting to fray around the edges.

Cinda seemed surprised to find Meg and Seth in the room. “Why, Art, I thought you just wanted to talk with me?” She didn’t greet Meg or Seth, acknowledging them only with a cool glance.

“Ms. Patterson.” Art nodded her toward a chair. “We’re waiting for the detective to arrive, so we might as well hold off on discussing anything until he gets here. We took Stephen Chapin into custody last night.”

Cinda sat. “Really? Why?” she said cautiously.

“He killed Chandler Hale, or so he says.”

To Meg’s amusement, Cinda managed to look shocked. “That’s terrible. Did he say what happened?”

“Ms. Patterson, it would be inappropriate of me to discuss any details at this time. Let’s wait for Detective Marcus.”

A charged silence fell. Meg and Seth exchanged glances, and Seth gave a small shrug. Meg had nothing to say. Maybe Art wanted to use the silence to make Cinda nervous. Or maybe he was just being careful.

Cinda kept checking her watch as they waited. Finally Meg couldn’t stand it. “Do you have an appointment, Cinda?”

Meg’s question appeared to startle her. “What? Oh, no. I just wish we could get this over with.”

“Have you talked with your higher-ups at the bank yet?” Meg thought a question not related to the murder should be safe.

She was surprised by Cinda’s reaction: she seemed to wilt. “I spoke with the division vice president before I left Northampton.” She bit her lower lip, destroying her carefully applied lip gloss.

“And?” Meg prompted.

“He thinks that perhaps we should step back and reevaluate our options, due to the series of unfortunate incidents here in Granford.” She sounded as though she was quoting.

So the bank was running scared, Meg thought, and might even withdraw from the whole Granford project. Not that she would blame them—there was too much negative publicity surrounding it now, and there were plenty of other small towns in this part of the state in need of economic stimulation. But what would happen to Cinda? Did Meg really care?

She looked up to see Detective Marcus striding into the room. He paused in the doorway, inventorying the people there. Art rose to greet him. “Marcus,” he said.

The detective nodded. “Preston. You’ve got Chapin in custody?”

“I do. Picked him up last night, but he was three sheets to the wind at the time.”

“Read him his rights?”

“I didn’t arrest him—left that for you.”

“He say anything?”

“He said plenty.”

Meg, watching Cinda’s face, noted that she had turned even paler behind her blotchy foundation.

“Then let’s get this over with.”

“Sure thing. I’ll go get him.” Art left the room. The detective turned and for the first time acknowledged that there were other people there. “Chapin, Ms. Corey, Ms. Patterson.”

Cinda summoned up a smile. “Detective Marcus, I can’t tell you how awful I feel about all this.”

“And why would that be, ma’am?”

Cinda faltered. “Why, that Stephen killed Chandler, of course.”

Meg could almost feel sorry for her. Clearly Cinda wasn’t sure how much the detective knew or had been told, and she knew she was treading on thin ice.

Art reappeared with Stephen in tow. Stephen definitely looked the worse for wear this morning, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes rumpled. But his face brightened when he saw Cinda.

“Lucy! I told them the whole story. I told them it was me that did it, and you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Mr. Chapin,” Cinda said, in an icy voice, “what else would you tell them? It’s the truth. I had nothing to do with Chandler Hale’s murder. Why would anyone think that?”

Stephen’s face fell. He looked to the others for help and found none. Meg could almost see the gears turning in his head: Cinda was not going to acknowledge him. In fact, Cinda was going to put as much distance between them as possible. That had to hurt. Maybe Stephen had inherited some share of the Chapin intelligence, because his expression hardened. When he spoke again, he addressed the detective.

“Fine. Like hell, she had nothing to do with it. She was the one told me what to do with the body.”

The detective swivelled toward Cinda. “Ms. Patterson, I think it might be a good idea if you came with me.”

Cinda sputtered, “Can it wait, Detective? Because I really need to get back to my office in Boston, at least for a short while.”

“No. This is a murder investigation, and I have some questions for you. And you might want to think about some of the answers you gave me the last time we talked.” He nodded toward Art. “Preston, let’s get this sorted out.”

“Hang on a sec,” Seth interrupted. “Stephen, you don’t have to say anything. I’ve called a lawyer, and we’ll meet you over at the county jail. Just keep your mouth shut until then, okay?”

Stephen looked dully at him. “Right. Sure.”

The detective ignored Seth. He stared pointedly at Cinda until she realized he was waiting for her to leave the room first. When she stalked out, he followed, his hand on Stephen’s arm, with Art bringing up the rear.

Meg turned to Seth. “What just happened here?” she asked.

“The district attorney will charge Stephen with the murder of Chandler Hale. It sticks in my mind that concealing evidence is some kind of felony, but I’m not sure what Marcus will want to do about Cinda. It’s going to be pretty much Stephen’s word against hers, unless someone saw them together hauling the body around. I’ll make sure Stephen gets decent representation, for whatever good that will do.”

Meg didn’t know what to say. She was tired of saying, “I’m sorry,” even though she was. Seth did not deserve this kind of trouble. Instead she asked, “What now?”

Seth sat back in his chair. “I want a word with Art when he’s done. Did you want to go home now?”

“No, I’ll wait. I’d like to hear what he has to say. Unless I’m not supposed to hear it?”

Seth shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if you’ll have to testify to anything.” He lapsed into silence.

Fifteen minutes later Art returned, alone. He threw himself into a chair. “Damn, what a mess. Too bad it’s Marcus handling it, but it can’t be helped. Seth, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think Stephen meant to do any real harm.”

Seth shook his head. “I doubt it. He just doesn’t think, especially when he’s been drinking. Did you get any more of the story?”

Art glanced briefly at Meg. “Some. He wasn’t real coherent last night. We already knew that when Chandler went back to the hotel after that trip to the bar, Cinda joined him—purely for business purposes, or so she said. She came out sometime later, and Stephen was waiting the whole time, getting madder and madder. So when Cinda finally left—with that book—he barged in on Chandler. I’m guessing that Stephen pushed him or something, and Chandler hit his head and died—just plain bad luck. And make sure your lawyer friend knows that, Seth. That’s gotta be involuntary manslaughter. But then he hid the body, which goes against him.”

Seth nodded. “With Cinda’s help, don’t forget. I don’t think Stephen can plan more than three minutes ahead.”

Art rotated his neck to work out the kinks. “I’m pretty sure that if the detective checks his phone records, he’ll find a call to Cinda’s room just about then. Although Stephen probably came up with the idea of your septic tank.”

“I wondered about that,” Meg said. “I mean, why did he think that a body wouldn’t clog up my plumbing?”

“Seth, you want to take that one?”

Seth laughed bitterly. “Told you he wasn’t a very good plumber. He knew you were the only one using the system, so the volume would be pretty low. I’ll bet he figured Chandler would rot, once the ground warmed up come spring, and nobody would be the wiser. As usual, he didn’t think it through.”

Meg shivered involuntarily at the image of Chandler rotting away outside her kitchen window. “Art, will Cinda be charged with anything?”

“That’s up to the DA. But I’m guessing he’ll find something. After all, she made him look like a fool, too.”

Then Seth broke in. “Cinda and Stephen must have been seeing each other for a while, if Stephen was willing to go after Chandler for her.”

“A few months, I gather. Not long after she arrived in town.”

It took Meg a moment to do the math. “Wait a minute—you mean Cinda was sleeping with Stephen even before Chandler dropped her? What a …” Words failed her.

“Yeah, you have to admire her planning,” Art said, with a barely suppressed smile.

At least Cinda was off the Granford Grange project—if there even was a project anymore. Whatever penalty Cinda faced, Granford faced a larger one. Meg couldn’t think of anything else to say. She caught Seth’s eye and raised an eyebrow, and he nodded. “I guess we should be going,” he said.

Art stood up. “I’ll let you know if I need anything from you, Seth. And, Meg? What you did at the meeting—that took guts. Maybe you didn’t have all the facts right, but you certainly blew things wide-open. Sorry if we gave you a hard time.” He extended his hand.

Meg stood up, too, and took it. “You were doing your job, Chief. I knew the evidence was shaky, so I can’t blame you.”

As they walked back to the lot, where Seth had left his van the night before, he was quiet. “You okay?” Meg asked.

He jerked out of his reverie. “Sorry. As good as can be expected. Just trying to sort through what jobs I’ve got lined up, what I can handle on my own. I’m going to need to find some help with the business, and fast.”

“Oh. Right.” The business was his livelihood, and his businesspartner was in jail. “I suppose I’d better get back to my to-do list.”
After I take a long nap.

“You’ve got a great house,” Seth said, almost wistfully. “You know, it seems a shame for it to pass out of the family, after all this time.”

“I’m not sure I am family.”

“The sisters left the place to your mother, right? That makes you family. Fact is, most of the people in Granford are related, if you go back far enough. You and I are probably related somehow. Look, Meg …” He fumbled for words. “I don’t know what your plans are, or were, or if they’ve changed. But I don’t want you to judge Granford on what’s happened in the last couple of weeks. If you give it a chance, you might like the place.”

What was he saying? “Seth, with all that’s happened lately, I haven’t made up my mind about anything. And even you don’t know what’s going to happen with the town, now that it looks like the project may be dead. I’m sorry about that.”

“We’ll manage. We’ve survived for over two hundred years, right?”

Back at the house, after pushing the balky front door shut, Meg turned to survey her domain. The house was very quiet, a few dust motes dancing in the light from the windows. Her house. Her history—and now she had added an unexpected and unlikely new chapter. What would Lula and Nettie think about this turn of events?

The to-do list waited, and now she had to add getting her back-door lock replaced. But what was the point? She could pour more time and effort into the house, and increase the selling price by a few thousand dollars. But was it worth it?

“Yes.”

The word echoed in the room, and Meg was surprised to realize she’d said it out loud. It was worth it, not because it made the house an easier sell, but because the house deserved it. It deserved someone who cared about it, and who would care for it. It had suffered neglect and abuse over the past few decades, waiting patiently for someone to recognize its worth. Waiting for her.

Meg sat down with a thump. How had that happened? When? Why?

She recognized now that she had retreated to Granford with her tail between her legs, and Granford had… well, not precisely welcomed her, but had let her be. Living in a small town was different than living in Boston—here everyone knew who you were and knew your history. How would they react, now that she had made a public fool of herself and trashed their economic prospects? Seth seemed to think that they’d forgive her.

And then there was Seth himself. He was no Chandler—thank heavens. Chandler had turned out to be the wrong choice, in so many ways. Maybe Seth wasn’t even interested in a relationship. But he had offered friendship, had made her feel welcome, and then had stood by her when things had looked bad.

But what about her career? Or, if career was too grand a term, what the heck was she going to do to support herself? High school, college, MBA, one job, then another—she had always been focused, directed, determined. And look where that had landed her: no job, no relationships, no fixed home. Maybe it was time to reconsider her strategy.

Maybe what she had thought was a temporary diversion had become something more. Did she want to stay, in the house, in the town? She was surprised to find that she did, in spite of all that had happened. Now all she had to do was figure out how to make that possible.

She had a lot to think about.

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