A Late Frost Page 10

  “I agree. But what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “Douglas’s welfare is now in the hands of Art or Marcus. But, Seth, you haven’t stated the obvious. If Marcus is correct, and Monica was poisoned, and Douglas didn’t do it—which I don’t think is remotely possible, given what I’ve seen of his mental state—then someone else killed her. Who?”

  “I have no idea,” Seth said. “For once we’re on the same playing field as anybody else investigating this death. Monica and Douglas had lived here only a couple of months. They apparently have no history with Granford. So you and I can’t conveniently point to a grudge that dates back to a fourth-great-grandfather. We don’t know these people. We know only what Monica told us, and that might not be true. Douglas can’t tell us much, or maybe he doesn’t want to, for some reason. Maybe they were in witness protection, or fleeing from some evil foreign group. But right now, as far as I can see, there is no way that Monica should be dead. Nobody here knew her, and nobody I know had a motive to kill her. I’m stumped.”

  “So am I. But it’s hard to say ‘not my problem’ and just walk away.”

  “I agree. And since I represent the town of Granford, I have an even stronger reason to be involved and concerned. No offense meant.”

  “I know. We may have ancestors here going back to seventeen-whatever, but in the modern world I’ve been here barely longer than Monica. By the way, Douglas said she never had a career, and her only paid jobs were as a teacher or classroom aide. He also said they met in Ohio, in high school. So—if he’s telling the truth or at least remembers correctly—there’s no big scandal or embezzlement lurking in her past.” Meg paused to take a sip of her tea. “Monica told people that Douglas was retired, but she never said why. Do you think he was offered no choice?”

  “We can’t know right now. It must be hard to introduce yourself to an entire new community and say, oh, you won’t see much of my husband—he has an Incurable Disease that will only get worse with time.”

  “We asked Douglas, why Granford? He said it was Monica’s idea. Since it’s pretty clear it wasn’t because she knew people or had family here, then maybe she wanted a place where nobody knew them, and she could make up whatever story she wanted. Maybe she was embarrassed by what was happening to her husband. Damn, it’s all so sad! So what happens now?”

  “If it’s homicide, then Art won’t be involved, unless Marcus invites him in. Marcus may not even look for a local angle, since the Whitmans were new to Granford. Presumably the lab will figure out what the poison was, how hard it was to obtain, who could get hold of it.”

  “And how they administered it to Monica without poisoning half the town, which could have been tricky if it happened at the fair. From the glimpses I saw of Monica yesterday, she was sampling just about everything. I even sold her apples. That’s a lot of legwork for the police. But she seemed fine the last time I saw her, mid-afternoon. Does that help with the timeline?”

  “Until the lab comes through with results, you don’t know how long it would take for his poison to take effect,” Seth pointed out. “It could still prove to be a simple bacterial thing, from food in the house, if it’s as bad as you said. Although you’d think Douglas would be sick if that was the case.”

  “He did say they both took medication of some sort, but that Monica hadn’t gotten around to finding a new doctor for either of them, according to Doug. So if either of them happened to have a preexisting medical issue, it can’t have been too urgent.”

  “Still, prescriptions do run out, and they aren’t automatically renewed. Maybe she was seeing a doctor without telling Douglas.”

  “But no doctor would prescribe for Douglas without examining him first, would they?” Meg asked. “Of course he might have seen one or more but he simply doesn’t remember it.”

  “I hope not. And it seems unlikely that he could have been seeing one on the sly himself. I don’t think he can drive anymore, and he’s not familiar with the roads around here.”

  “He said he didn’t drive now. So if there was a medication involved in Monica’s illness, it had to have come with them, or Monica must have gotten it since she arrived. Oh, Seth, I don’t want to think that Monica did that to herself. And I can’t see Douglas harming her—he seems to have cared for her. Plus he depends—depended—on her.”

  “Maybe somebody gave it to him and told him it would boost Monica’s energy? Or calm her down?”

  “But who? Nobody knew him. The only place I’ve heard that he went outside of the house was to Gran’s for dinner, and Monica was always with him there.”

  Seth shook his head. “Meg, I don’t have any answers. I’m just throwing ideas out there. Let Marcus do his digging and see what he turns up before you get yourself tied up in knots.”

  “I hate being sensible,” she muttered. “Is there anything else on our to-do list for today? And please don’t tell me housework, because I am so not in the mood.”

  “Go see Mom? Ask Mom to come over and consult on the tiny house?”

  “You really are serious about that?” Meg asked. “The house, I mean?”

  “I like the idea—it’s challenging. A space like that would not be for everyone, but it could be perfect for the right person. And like you, I need the distraction right now. I can make all sorts of plans, but that doesn’t mean I have to build it.”

  “Fine. Let’s go out and pace off your tiny house. Make me visualize it. Tell me how it will work. I need the fresh air.”

  “Done!” Seth stood up and held out a hand to Meg, who took it happily, then leaned into him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Everything. That Monica is dead—she didn’t deserve to die. That she left a helpless husband behind and nobody knows yet what will happen to him. That this whole mess kind of wrecked the WinterFare, which was a good idea and was fun. I know—you’re going to say it’s not my fault. I know it isn’t. I just feel bad. Is that wrong?”

  “Of course not. You’re a good person, and you care. And that’s one of the reasons that I love you. I’d be the last person to tell you to shake it off and get on with your life.”

  “Thank you. So let’s go outside and poke at your tiny plot before we lose the sun.”

  The fresh air did help, Meg realized. She didn’t like emotional confrontations—not that any normal person did—but she wanted to help, to do the right thing, because people had helped her when she had found herself in Granford with no friends and a murder accusation hanging over her. That’s what community was all about—helping each other.

  When they reached what little remained of the former chicken house foundation, Meg asked, “What’s the footprint?”

  “About twenty by twenty-five feet. Five hundred square feet all in.”

  “You aiming to do it on one floor?”

  “That’s easiest, although a sleeping loft is always a possibility.”

  “What rooms do you think you’ll want? Or isn’t there room for more than one? Five hundred square feet sounds so small.”

  “I can work—I’ve seen plans. Bedroom, living slash eating room, kitchen, bath.”

  “You want to dress it up?”

  “What do you mean?” Seth asked.

  “Fancy roof? What kind of windows? A front porch?”

  “Lady, you’re getting way ahead of me. And some of that can be added later, like the porch.”

  “True. Modern materials? I mean, no salvage?”

  “Probably, although I wouldn’t say no if I found something interesting.”

  “You never do—you’ve filled a lot of the barn with your treasures. What kind of heat?”

  “Probably electric. I know, it’s not the most efficient, but it’s the most manageable under the circumstances. A coal-burning stove could work, but it might be a fire hazard.”

&n
bsp; “Does the town put any restrictions on this kind of building?”

  “Things like this are not exactly spelled out in our bylaws, but of course I’d look into it before I started anything. There was a case in Hadley not long ago, so it’s something people are looking at more seriously.”

  Of course you will, Meg thought. And you’d never think of asking for any kind of special consideration just because you’re an assemblyman. But people would be happy to give you an exception because they like you and they know you’d be fair about it. “As of right now we’re just kicking around ideas, right?”

  “Exactly. What do you think?”

  “I think the idea is growing on me. You can go ahead and ask the town planners about approvals anyway. If they say no, then we’ll move on.”

  “You think Larry would like it?”

  “I don’t exactly know him well yet, but I think he’d appreciate having his own space, no matter what size it is. And he’d have a really short commute.”

  Seth laughed. “That’s certainly true. Are you going to charge him rent?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. I gave Bree free housing because I couldn’t pay her as much salary as she deserved, plus it was her first job. I’m paying Larry a little more, because he has more experience, but it’s still not a lot. How would I calculate it? By square footage? By the local rate for one-bedroom apartments?”

  “I have no idea. That’s your business. Building it would be mine. When would you, or he, need this to happen?”

  “I don’t really know where he’s living right now, but I know it’s only temporary. Once the apple season gets under way, he’s going to need to be here on-site. How fast can you build?”

  “A couple of weeks? The foundation’s in place, and framing would be easy. Think he’d be willing to help out with the construction?”

  “I don’t know. We can only ask, but it’s not part of the job description. You getting cold yet?” The sun was approaching the horizon—winter days were short.

  “Maybe. You’re cooking?”

  “I guess so. Remind me to do some shopping soon—we’re running out of things.”

  “And we do like to eat. Tomorrow? I don’t have anything scheduled.”

  “Works for me.”

  13

  Seth got an emergency plumbing call early Monday morning, so Meg went to the supermarket alone. But when she arrived she realized that she’d conveniently forgotten that the market was information central for the town of Granford, and she couldn’t walk ten feet without running into someone she knew, and of course that person wanted to know what Meg knew about Monica Whitman’s death and was itching to share what information he or she had collected, which was often wrong. Meg felt obligated to correct most of the misconceptions, but she didn’t want to say too much in case it got back to Detective Marcus.

  Yes, she’d met Monica’s husband, Douglas. (She omitted the part about his diminished capacity or whatever the term should be.) Yes, she’d heard that Monica’s death had been declared a homicide, but no one was sure—or had said publicly—how she’d died. No, she didn’t know if anyone had been arrested. Yes, she thought there would be a number of possible suspects, and yes, she might be among them since she’d sold food to people, including to Monica. No, she had no idea what was going to happen next, and Detective Marcus hadn’t shared any information with her. (Why would anyone in Granford assume he would, after their interactions in the past?) She thought it was likely that anyone who had sold or consumed food at the WinterFare would be contacted by the state police. Unfortunately that number included at least half the population of Granford, and who knew how many people from adjoining towns. No, she didn’t think terrorists were behind it. (She had to work hard not to smile at that question, although the person who asked was a querulous old woman who might well believe it was possible.) And that was all she knew—or all she felt free to say.

  It was exhausting. She threw the bare essentials into her shopping cart and raced for the checkout line, then hurried to her car. She and Seth could eat cereal for dinner until the furor died down—they’d survive. But as long as Monica’s death remained unexplained, the curiosity, and then the anxiety, would linger. She checked the time: not even ten. Meg decided to go see if Nicky was in the kitchen at Gran’s, although the restaurant didn’t open until lunchtime. Surely the police had come and gone there, since Nicky and Brian had provided the lion’s share of the food. She drove the few miles and pulled into the near-empty parking lot at the restaurant.

  She knocked at the front door, then knocked again—she could hear people moving around in the kitchen, clanging pots. Finally somebody stomped across the front room and grabbed open the door. It was Brian, looking harried. “We’re not open yet— Oh, hi, Meg. Come on in.”

  “Hi, Brian. Can I hide out here? The market is buzzing and I had to get out of there. How are you and Nicky doing?”

  “About as well as can be expected. The police were here, asking questions and taking samples of the food. You have any idea what they’re thinking?”

  “Not really. I was at Monica’s house when Detective Marcus showed up, and we really got off on the wrong foot.” Again, she added to herself. “I’d cleaned up the kitchen for Douglas, because I’m pretty sure it was a health hazard, and Marcus accused me of tampering with a crime scene. Of course I hadn’t known it was or would be a crime scene—I was only trying to keep Douglas from getting sick. Is Nicky here? I don’t want to repeat all this twice, but I know you’re setting up for lunch and I don’t want to be in the way.”

  “Don’t worry about it—come on back.” Brian led her through the dining room of what had once been an elegant older house, and into the kitchen. Nicky looked up from whatever she was sautéing and said, “Meg! We need to talk. Give me two more minutes on the mirepoix here and we can sit down. Brian, get her some coffee or something stronger.”

  “Coffee’s fine,” Meg said quickly as she followed Brian back to the end of the dining room nearest the kitchen. “How was business yesterday?”

  “The good citizens of Granford did not stay away, I can safely say. We were full, which I took as the best possible vote of confidence in our cooking. In any case, the police won’t find anything here that could be a problem. We run a clean kitchen.”

  “I know you do. But I guess they have to do their job.”

  Nicky came out of the kitchen then, wiping her hands on her stained chef’s apron. “Okay, that much is done. What’s the scoop?”

  Meg sketched out the timeline for the day before, from when she arrived at the Whitman house with Art until they were more or less thrown out by Marcus after he’d accused her of tampering with evidence. Both Brian and Nicky made comforting noises. When she’d wrapped up, Meg asked, “How well do you know Douglas Whitman?”

  “He and Monica ate here a number of times,” Brian said. “He was always quiet, polite. He seemed to enjoy the food. Monica did most of the talking. Why do you ask?”

  “Please don’t spread this around, but I do trust you two to be discreet. When Art and I arrived yesterday, he seemed to think that Monica was out on an errand and would be back any minute. He apparently didn’t know that she was dead, although I know he was told officially. I wondered if there was something wrong with him. I mean, it could have been shock, after hearing his wife had died unexpectedly. But he seemed oddly cheerful, or at least, not upset. I was thinking Alzheimer’s or dementia, however they define the two these days. Did you ever notice anything like that?”

  “I was the one who talked with him, since I handle the front of the house,” Brian said, “but that was mainly to take their orders and ask if they’d enjoyed the meal. As I think back, it was usually Monica who told me what they wanted, and I think she paid the bill, too. I just figured she was the talker of the family, and Douglas sat there and smiled and nodded and let her do it. I’ve seen that be
fore in older couples, and it doesn’t mean one partner is ill.”

  “I’ve probably seen it, too, Brian, and I didn’t think twice,” Meg told him. “Art said he was going to contact some social service agencies to check on Douglas because I don’t think he has any family in the area, or anywhere at all, for that matter. But then Marcus came charging in and more or less ordered us out because it had become a potential crime scene—and he jumped all over me for washing the dishes. I’m worried about how he’ll handle Douglas. If he’ll wonder if Douglas is faking or trying to cover up something. I mean, Douglas is the obvious suspect if Monica was poisoned—although from what I saw at the house, it’s just as likely to be rotting food that was the underlying cause, and it’s hard to say whose fault that was. But I’m not sure Marcus will see Douglas as a sick man who’s just had a major psychological shock and who isn’t in any shape to be questioned in a murder investigation. And I have no idea what will happen to him if he is taken in. Marcus might easily decide Douglas was just being stubborn and obstructive, and who knows how Douglas will react to that?”

  “Douglas is the most logical suspect,” Nicky said carefully. “But as you say, it could have been an accident due to careless food handling. If not Douglas—who you’re saying isn’t capable of planning much of anything—who else could have wanted Monica dead? And how did they do it?”

  “None of this makes sense,” Meg said. “He didn’t know anyone here. Monica might have been a bit, uh, overwhelming to get along with, but people are seldom killed for that. And her heart was in the right place. I’m not sure anyone gains from her death. So what’s the motive?”

  “I have no clue,” Nicky said. “Maybe somebody who wanted to give Granford a bad name? Maybe it didn’t matter who died, as long as the headlines read ‘Unexplained death in Granford.’”