Seeds of Deception (7 page)

“I did not know that. So there's an element of genealogy, too. But I doubt that either of us has any ancestors here.”

“Not likely.”

For several long moments they stood silently in front of the largest monument, which Meg guessed was not the one that had originally graced Jefferson's burial place. “He really loved this place, didn't he?” she said softly.

“He did, I'd say,” Seth replied as quietly. “It was his home, in the best sense of the word.”

Meg moved closer. “I'm glad we came.”

Seth put his arm around her. “So am I.”

Reluctantly they tore themselves away and walked slowly back to where they had parked. As they approached the car, Seth asked, “No souvenirs?”

“I'd rather wait and get a tree later—then I'll think of this place every time I see it.”

“I like that idea.” Seth started the car and pointed it down the hill.

Partway down there was another historic marker in front of a modest nineteenth-century building. “What's that?” Meg asked.

Seth slowed to read the sign. “It's the former estate of James Monroe.”

“I didn't know he had one. Not much of a place, is it? For a former president, I mean.”

“The contrast with what we've just seen is rather
striking, I must say. And Monroe was also governor of Virginia, secretary of state under President Madison, and president for two terms.”

“And you know all this why?” Meg demanded.

“I like history.” Then he grinned. “I cheated and looked at a guidebook.”

“Well, I for one feel sorry for Monroe, having Jefferson looking down on him in his humble home.”

“I'm sure he'd appreciate your sentiment, although I always thought he sounded like a rather cranky man. I think he once sued the government for reimbursement for his presidential expenses. Motel now?”

“Fine. I'm sure there are other things worth seeing in this area, like the University of Virginia, but I don't feel compelled to investigate. I am enjoying
not
feeling obligated to play the diligent tourist.”

This time Seth had selected a conveniently close, modest motel. “Sorry it's not up to last night's standard,” he said.

“Hey, it's clean, relatively quiet, and has all the necessities, like a bed and running water. It's fine,” Meg assured him. “And it makes last night all the more memorable. Is it time for dinner yet?”

“Didn't you just eat?” Seth demanded.

“It's been at least two hours. I'm just thinking ahead. There seems to be a restaurant here.”

Seth sighed melodramatically. “All right. Let's get checked in, and then we can eat.”

Check-in took little time, since on a Tuesday in December there were few tourists. As Meg had assumed, the room was clean and functional, and the fixtures worked. Maybe it wasn't up to her parents' standards, but she had no complaints.

They took their time over dinner, starting with a
leisurely glass of wine. They were halfway through a pleasant if not noteworthy meal when Meg's cell phone rang in the depths of her purse. She'd forgotten to turn it off, and it took her a few moments to retrieve it. She was surprised to see her mother's number on the screen. “Hi, Mother. We were going to call you in the morning. What's up?”

“Sorry to disturb you again so soon, Meg, but I need to talk to you about your visit. It might be better if you didn't come right now.”

Her mother's voice sounded curiously uncertain, and Meg's senses went on high alert. “Is something wrong? You're sick? Daddy's sick?” She glanced at Seth.

“We're fine, dear, but there's been a little trouble at the house.”

Meg's imagination leapt to worst-case scenarios: it had burned down, it had been burgled and/or ransacked, there had been a tornado (in Montclair, New Jersey? In December?). “What is it?”

“Well, the repair shop couldn't get the parts they needed soon enough to suit your father, so yesterday your father rented a car and we drove home. We'll deal with our car later.”

This rambling and evasive story was very unlike her mother, and Meg was becoming increasingly concerned. “And? The house was in ruins when you got home?”

“No, it was fine. Well, more or less. So we parked the car in the driveway and went inside, and got a bite to eat, and went to bed.”

Elizabeth was still waffling about something, Meg thought. “Mother, will you please get to the point? What did you call to tell me?” Meg looked at Seth across the table and shrugged in frustration.

“Well, you know the Hagens across the street? This
morning they saw the unfamiliar car parked in our driveway and they were concerned, since they knew we had been away for your wedding, so they called the police to check the house. When the police arrived they were being cautious, so they checked the outside before they tried the door. And they found something.”

“What?” Meg had to work hard not to scream into the phone.

“A body. In the backyard.”

That brought Meg to a screeching halt. “What?” she all but whispered. Now Seth was looking at her with real concern. She swallowed. “This was last night? What have you been doing since then?”

“Well, of course we had to go to the police station and make a statement about where we were.”

“Wait—why? You're respectable citizens, and a simple call to the hotel in Amherst would establish that you've been there all along, right? And Daddy's a lawyer, for God's sake.”

“Well, yes, but there was a little trouble with an arrest of the police chief's son a while back that involved your father, so the chief wasn't in a very generous mood. But the police let us come home this morning.”

“Who was the . . . body? Someone you knew?”

“Actually, yes. He's the handyman we hire to do small jobs around the property—you know, mow the lawn, or shovel snow, or watch out for ice dams. I don't recall if you've met him, but we've been using him for years. Enrique Rodriguez, that's—that was—his name. When we knew we'd be away for a bit, we asked him to stop by once a day to make sure that everything was all right. Take in the mail, that kind of thing.”

“How long . . .” No. Meg stopped herself. She wasn't
about to interrogate her mother over the phone—she'd already had a hard day. “We'll be there by lunchtime tomorrow—it's only about six hours.” She looked at Seth for confirmation, and he nodded.

“Meg, darling”—her mother started to protest—“you don't need . . .”

“Yes, I do. You want me to stand by and just call now and then to see how the murder investigation of someone you knew is going? Wait, the man was murdered, wasn't he? He didn't have a stroke or a heart attack in your back-yard, did he?”

“No, dear.” Her mother sighed. “It was the traditional blunt force object, in this case a loose brick from the patio.”

“And he didn't happen to fall and hit his head?”

“Not possible, according to the medical examiner.”

“Are you all right, Mother? And Daddy?”

“We're . . . coping. Your father is angry, both that this happened and that the police treated him shabbily, or so he believes. I'm just . . . tired.”

“Then I'll let you go now. See you tomorrow in time for lunch.” Meg cut off the call before her mother could protest. No matter what Elizabeth said, Meg was pretty sure that she wouldn't have called unless she was looking for some support from Meg. Who also happened to have experience in murder investigations, although not in New Jersey.

She jammed her phone back in her bag and looked up to see Seth watching her. “What's the story?”

“Handyman-slash-caretaker found dead in the backyard from a blow to the head with a brick. Neighbor saw the rental car at the house and got worried, so called the cops. The local cops are not inclined to look kindly on my father
due to some conflict over the police chief's son.” And no doubt her father had only made things worse when he was dragged to the police station and kept there far too long. He'd have been tired after driving half the day, and already ticked off about the car troubles. “You heard what I told Mother. Are you okay with going up there tomorrow?”

“Of course I am. This is family.”

“Thank you. So at least we can finish eating, and use that hotel room.” Although Meg wasn't sure how much sleep she'd be able to get. Was this some kind of weird karma following her around? “I didn't want to make you drive all that way at night, and I doubt there's anything we could do tonight, anyway. I'm sorry.”

“For what?” Seth asked. “You didn't arrange this murder just to mess up our honeymoon, did you?”

“No, of course not. But we do seem to keep stumbling over bodies.”

An hour later she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what her mother had told her. The man—who she could not remember meeting—had been doing his rounds, making sure the place was locked up. Someone had come up—behind him?—and whacked him with a brick, and he'd died. Had the blow killed him? Wait, when had he been killed? Earlier in the week? Then the exposure could have killed him once he was unconscious? How long had he lain there behind the house? It was unlikely anyone could have seen him from the street or from either side—her father believed in privacy, which he achieved through high privet hedges rather than fences. It could have been one night, or it could have been days. Wait—how had he gotten there? Probably a truck, if he was doing odd jobs.
Wouldn't the snoopy neighbor have noticed his truck parked there overnight? If it wasn't there, where was it?

Her mother hadn't said that the house had been broken into, or that anything was missing. The garage? Her mother's car? What kind of problem had her father had with the police chief that could cause so much hostility? Was that recent, or an old grudge? Anyway, her father should have a more than ample alibi, what with hotel and meal receipts, gas receipts, car rental agreement, and the like. Assuming he didn't have a fit and refuse to submit any of his corroborating evidence, operating under some misguided principle that his word should be enough. Unfortunately she could see him doing that, and Meg wasn't sure her mother could talk him out of it.

“Meg,” Seth whispered in her ear, “get some sleep. You can't do anything right now, and if you don't sleep you'll be useless tomorrow. We'll sort things out when we get there.”

Meg rolled over so she was facing him, and he put his arms around her. “Why does this keep happening? Am I cursed? Is it contagious?”

“I will pretend to consider that suggestion seriously, if it makes you happy. What kind of law does your father practice?”

“Criminal, but mostly white-collar, corporate stuff. Which is why I wonder how the police chief butted heads with him.”

“You can ask that tomorrow. What else?”

“Was the intent robbery? Did the poor man interrupt the robber on the way in or the way out? Mother didn't say anything about a theft, but she wasn't exactly herself.”

“You can ask that tomorrow,” Seth repeated, in hypnotically low tones.

“They have a good alarm system in that house, and I'm sure they left it on, even with the guy keeping an eye on things.”

“Tell me what the house is like,” Seth said soothingly.

“Nice. Fieldstone colonial, built in the 1920s. Too big for them, of course, but it makes a statement. I mean, seriously, the front hall has to be fifteen or twenty feet across. Who needs a hall like that?”

“We don't. Much of a lot?”

“No, well under an acre. Nice neighborhood, mostly older people who've been there a while. Train to New York for the commuters . . .” And Meg faded into sleep.

Seth was already showered and dressed when Meg woke up the next morning. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Seven.”

Meg sat bolt upright in bed. “Shoot, it's six hours to Montclair. We should be on the road by now.”

“Don't worry. I doubt anything is happening fast. Take a shower. I'll go get some food and you can eat in the car. All right?”

“Yes. Good. Thank you.” She bounded out of bed, planted a kiss on him, and ducked into the bathroom.

By the time Meg had showered and dressed, and thrown what little she had unpacked back into her bag, Seth was waiting for her with large coffees in Styrofoam cups and an assortment of muffins. Meg thanked the stars once again that she had been lucky enough to find a man who knew exactly what to do in a crisis, and then did it quickly and well, without fuss.

They settled themselves in the car and lodged the coffee cups into stable cup holders. “Which way do we go?” Seth asked.

“North,” Meg said. “Seriously, go back and find Interstate 95, take that to the New Jersey Turnpike, get onto the Garden State Parkway when you come to it, then get off on Exit 151—Watchung Avenue—and I can take it from there.”

“Remind me once we get to the area, will you? So, six hours. That should be about enough time to fill me in on your entire childhood history, and how your parents could have found a body in their backyard.”