One Bad Apple Read online

  Gail gave her a grudging smile. “Oh, sorry. You’re Meg, uh, Corey, isn’t it? You came to the meeting last week. Yes, we are— open, that is. We! That’s a joke. The place is, and I’m it. The staff, I mean. Sorry. So, welcome. Gail Selden, director, curator, archivist, and apparently, housekeeper, at your service. Sorry I snapped at you. What can I do for you today?”

  “I was hoping to find out some more about my house, the Warren place?”

  Gail’s smile broadened. “Oh, right! You’re the one with the body.” Meg nodded. “Oh goody! Now I can get the straight scoop. Come on in. Oh, watch where you put your feet. And your hands. Heck, just keep your eyes open. I don’t know how much our liability insurance covers.”

  Meg stepped into the building, then stopped dead. There were two rooms in front of her: a vestibule perhaps ten feet deep stretched across the front of the building, and beyond that, through a pair of tall doors, Meg could see a single large room. Both were crammed to the rafters with stuff. Gail was right to warn her, and Meg took a moment to reconnoiter. The place looked like no historical institution she had ever seen. The lowest layer of stuff appeared to be mid-Victorian furniture, based on the dusty plush and peeling veneer. But then there were books and papers and framed prints, and a couple of headless mannequins wearing tattered Civil War uniforms, and some large flags hanging haphazardly on the walls. But that was not the oddest part: distributed throughout was a collection of stuffed animals—not toys, but birds, foxes, what looked to be a bobcat. There was nowhere Meg could turn without meeting the beady glass eyes of … something. She took a tentative step forward and nearly tripped over a shellacked armadillo on a pedestal.

  “Wow,” Meg said. Not much heat, either. Despite the chill, the room smelled like the inside of an old sock. One that had been kept in a trunk for a century or so.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Gail grinned cheerfully. “So, what are you looking for?”

  Meg tore her eyes away from a compulsive inventory of the contents to answer the question. “Well, I thought if I’m going to be putting the house on the market, buyers might like to know about its local history. I guess I’m interested in the people who built the place and who lived in it over the years.”

  “Beats discussing murder with them, doesn’t it? Is it true that the guy was stuffed in your septic tank?”

  Meg flinched. “Unfortunately, yes. And, no, I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did do it. I really can’t tell you much.”

  “But you knew him?” Gail eyed her shrewdly.

  Word certainly gets around, Meg thought again. “Yes, I did, back in Boston. But I didn’t know he had business here.”

  “My condolences, if any are due. You don’t look too broken up about it. Anyway, why don’t you come in and sit down, and I can tell you what information I’ve got and where else you can look.”

  “Great.” Meg followed her guide into the big room, and they wove a path toward the far end, where an ancient rolltop desk spewed papers. There were two chairs in front of it, miraculously clear. Meg fell into one, grateful that she had avoided destroying any vital pieces of Granford history along the way. A stuffed skunk at eye level glared at her.

  Gail took the other chair. “All right. Before we get started— you’re family, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re related to the Warrens.”

  “So my mother tells me. Not exactly directly.”

  “You know, the house has been in the same family since it was built, and it’s a shame to let it go to strangers now, after some two hundred and fifty years. Anyway, I know the house—built by Stephen Warren in the 1760s, before he marched off to war with his two sons, Stephen Junior and Eleazer. Stephen got to keep the house, and Eleazer built one next door, to the east.”

  “That’s interesting. I knew it looked similar, but I didn’t know it was the same family that built it.”

  “Sure. And have you seen the Chapin house? The original one, I mean?”

  Meg shook her head. “Same family again?”

  “Yup. A Warren girl—Stephen’s daughter, if I recall— married into the Chapin family way back. That house is only about thirty years newer than yours, and I’ll bet her dad put up the money. And they kept the name in the family—hence, Stephen Chapin.”

  Meg laughed. “And you keep all this straight in your head? Are you related to any of these families?”

  Gail shrugged. “One way or another. It’s a small town.”

  “Then you can probably tell me if there are any Warrens still around?”

  “The house next door to you passed out of the family long ago. Sad to say, the last of the Warrens were those old biddies, Lula and Nettie, and they hung on about forever. Into their nineties, I think. And then a series of renters.” Gail made a sour face.

  “I keep feeling I have to apologize for that,” Meg said quickly, “even though I didn’t have anything to do with it. My mother inherited the house, and she couldn’t be bothered to sell it, so it was easiest just to rent it out.”

  “No doubt. You wouldn’t know if anyone cleared out the attics, would you?”

  “I can’t say, because I haven’t been up there, but given what I’ve seen so far it wouldn’t surprise me to find that they’re full of old stuff.” Suddenly Meg made the connection and grinned at Gail. “I promise you and the society first crack at whatever I uncover up there.”

  “You’re an angel! You have no idea how much local history ends up in the trash. So, what else are you interested in?”

  “You tell me. There must be deeds and wills and such in Northampton—that’s the county seat, right?” Gail nodded. “So I should check out the documents there. But I guess I wanted something more human. You know—what living was like around here in the eighteenth century, what people did. Were the Warrens farmers?”

  “Early on. Crops, orchards, some grazing land. But the problem was the swamp on the east side. Oh, sorry—we’re supposed to call it the ‘Great Meadow.’You may have mosquito problems, come summer. You might think about putting in some bat boxes on your barn. Bats do a good job of keeping the mosquitos down. So, anyway, the farming wasn’t great because a lot of the property was wet at least part of the time, and there sure as heck wasn’t a lot of industry around here, even in the nineteenth century. That all happened over in Ware, Springfield, Chicopee, but it never made it this far. There were a couple of generations of carpenters at your place—they even had a small sawmill at the back. Oh, hey, wait a minute!” Gail bounded up, crossed the room, and started rummaging through a pile of things stacked against the far wall. “Got it. Come over here a minute.”

  Meg joined her and looked down on a large slab of wood. “What is it?”

  “Guess.”

  Meg studied it for a moment. She was looking at a single plank, not a joined piece. Not something one would see very often these days—the trees that could supply that kind of width were long gone. Then she noticed that there were lines and figures inscribed on it, but they made no sense to her. “I give up.”

  Gail grinned. “It’s a measuring board for sizing coffins. It came out of your barn. The renters were going to throw it out when they wanted to get a car into the barn, but somebody noticed it and brought it here. I hope you don’t want it back.”

  “Heavens, no. But I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, carpenters made a steady living building coffins, so one of the Warrens—I’m guessing Eli the younger—decided to set himself up a template. Cool, huh?”

  “It is,” Meg agreed.

  “Have you found anything else interesting around the place?” Gail’s eyes gleamed with the lust of a true collector.

  “I really haven’t had time to look. Odds and ends keep popping up. You know, a piece of broken china here, an old coin there. I really should check out the barn, see if there’s anything lurking there, but I’ve had other things to do. None of the Warrens left a convenient Bible or a batch of diaries?�
��

  “Nope. Least, not that I’ve seen. But never say never! There’s a lot of stuff here that’s never been inventoried.”

  “So I suppose some of the alterations to the building were the work of Eli,” Meg said slowly. “Seth said something about that—a couple of things didn’t seem right for the 1760s. And of course, the barn is newer than the house.”

  “Yeah—probably mid-nineteenth century. Eli kept busy. Still, it’s a great place. Listen, a lot of the paper files for the society are living in my attic these days. I’d be happy to take a look, see if anything pops up about the Warrens. Problem is, it’s not exactly catalogued or anything.”

  “That would be great. Thank you. Oh, and is there anything you can tell me about the orchard?”

  “That’s right—Warren’s Grove. That used to be a major intersection, way back, so the orchard was the first thing a lot of folks saw when they came to town. It’s amazing that it’s still going—although of course it’s not the same trees.”

  “As I understand it, it may not survive much longer, if this development project goes through.” Meg decided to take the bull by the horns. “Look, I know you must be dying to know about … the body and all. You might as well ask. But I’ll trade: I want to know more about what’s going on around here. And you must have an opinion about Granford Grange. What’s that going to do to the town?”

  Gail hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “That’s more than a two-sentence answer.”

  “Have you got the time to talk about it now?”

  “I’ll have to turn away the crowds waiting outside.” Gail stood up. “I’ll be happy to tell you what I know. But first, let’s find a warmer place to sit.”

  14

  Gail headed to a different corner of the room, where Meg noticed a large heating grate embedded in the floor. She shoved a pile of books and rolled documents off a pair of chairs and sat. Meg followed suit.

  “Better. Much better.” For a moment she studied Meg. “Okay, let’s start with the body. You’ve got to know the murder is the biggest news to hit town in years. I had to check—the last murder here was in 1869. So take the murder and combine it with the development ballyhoo, and everybody in town has had something to say.”

  “I’ll bet,” Meg said. “But why do you know that? I mean, why do you know so much? It’s not like your little museum is the throbbing heart of town. No offense intended.”

  “None taken. No, this is only part-time for me, and a labor of love at that—no pay. The rest of the time I work in the local insurance office, up that way.” Gail pointed toward the north end of the green. “I also belong to a couple of church groups. And, hey, it’s a small town. People talk. I hear things. So, come on— give me the whole story. Maybe I can make sure that everyone gets it right.”

  “You know who Chandler Hale was, of course?” Gail nodded, and Meg went on. “I knew him in Boston. Well, I knew him pretty well, I guess—we dated for a while. But that was over long before I moved here. I was so busy trying to figure out what I needed to do with the house that I didn’t even know about the Granford Grange project, and I certainly didn’t know he was part of it.”

  “What, you just plunked yourself down here in Granford with no clue about what the town was like or what was going on?” Gail apparently found this hard to understand. Meg wasn’t sure she did herself.

  “More or less. But I figured I’d be in and out fast.”

  “Dreamer!” Gail grinned.

  Meg grinned back. “Tell me about it. Anyway, Chandler Hale showed up at my place looking for the tenants, because nobody was answering his letters. My mother and I worked out the ownership between us, but I guess the paperwork hasn’t gotten filed yet. Chandler was surprised to find me there. We had dinner in Amherst that night, and that was the last time I saw him until we found him in the septic tank Wednesday morning.”

  “Huh. Why the septic tank?”

  “My plumbing had been acting up—pure senility, I gather— so I was getting a new one installed.”

  “Oh, yes, the Chapins have been taking care of that, right?”

  “Of course—you know them. So they got the tank into the ground and hooked up, and they were going to fill in the hole the next morning. But before they could, someone stuffed Chandler in.”

  Gail sat back in her chair. “So somebody offed Chandler and hid him in a convenient hole, hoping no one would notice. Might even have worked, since with just you using the plumbing, there wouldn’t be a lot passing through the system. But you didn’t see anything or anybody?”

  “Nobody’s quite sure when Chandler went in, but it was probably while I was at the historical society meeting. It’s still not clear exactly when he died. The detective is looking for people who saw him on Tuesday. Anyway, no, I didn’t hear a thing. But there weren’t that many people who knew about the hole.”

  “That does narrow things down a bit,” Gail said thoughtfully.

  Meg went on. “My question is, did someone kill Chandler for personal reasons or to derail the development project? Maybe you can help me there. Who around here didn’t want to see this thing go forward?”

  Gail sat back and tapped her chin before answering. “Let’s take a step back. What do you see when you look at Granford?”

  “A nice, small New England town. Pretty. Quiet. Peaceful. A sense of history.”

  Gail nodded. “Yes, all of those things. But what business do you see? The pharmacy there, a couple of home offices for a lawyer or two. Even farther out on 202, there’s not much more— some car repair places, a gas station, a couple of fast-food joints. The hard reality is, we have no tax base. Charm don’t pay the bills, and the bills keep going up. Police, fire. Snowplowing in winter. The historical society has a line item in the town budget, and every year it gets smaller. Luckily the town owns the building outright. I don’t get a salary, and we can barely keep the heat on in winter. Forget about a computer for cataloguing, or even funds for patching the roof. So, to answer your question, I think that the commercial strip would be a blessing. It may not be quaint and pretty, but we need it.”

  “But what about the land? I mean, the people whose land will be taken over for the project?”

  “You mean like the Chapins? I’d say there’s a mixed reaction. You know, if you dig into the records, you’ll find that a lot of the property around here has been in the same family for centuries. Like your place. The Warrens lived there from the time the land was first surveyed until—what, thirty years ago? But we don’t farm much around here anymore, so it’s mostly sentiment and inertia that keep the plots together. That and nobody much wants to buy them. So along comes Chandler and his bank offering a nice deal: give us the land, for a fair market price, and we’ll build you an income-producing complex. All you have to give up is a little of your pretty but useless green space, a few scenic views. It’s a win-win situation, right?”

  “Sounds like it. So is there anyone who would want to sabotage the project, and why?”

  “Ah, that’s the question. Maybe it was personal. Maybe somebody really didn’t like Chandler. Shoot—I don’t know. Maybe the state police will figure it out.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “Hard to say—we’ve never had a murder around here to investigate on their watch. But by and large I think they’re decent people, and competent.”

  They both fell silent for a few moments. Meg felt frustrated; Gail hadn’t given her much information that she hadn’t already worked out for herself.

  “So, what’re your plans for the house?” Gail finally asked.

  Meg grimaced. “I think I’ve got to get this murder cleared up before I can do anything about selling the place. Might be hard to do from jail.”

  Gail laughed. “That seems unlikely. There must be other suspects.”

  Meg hesitated before asking, “What about Seth Chapin?”

  “As a suspect? Forget it.”

  “You answered that pretty fast. He does have a personal sta
ke in this deal, doesn’t he? What’s his opinion?”

  “You know, I can’t really say. As a selectman, he’s been conscientious about presenting it to the town, but I know he really cares about the family place. I’d have to guess he’s torn up about it, but I don’t think he’d stand in the way of the project. And, believe me, I can’t see Seth Chapin murdering anybody, certainly not for a couple of acres of land.” She paused. “Or maybe that wasn’t the question you were asking?”

  Meg sputtered. “What do you mean? Was I asking about Seth because …”

  Gail laughed. “Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. You’re single, right? And new in town? He’s single. He lives next door to you. He has a steady job and all his teeth. You want me to believe that the thought has never crossed your mind?”

  “No! Really. I mean, he has been helpful, and he’s been showing me around, and he introduced me to his sister, and …” Meg stopped. Maybe she had been misreading Seth’s behavior. Maybe she had willfully shut her eyes to the possibilities. Maybe she’d been more hurt by Chandler’s rejection than she realized. She had been planning a quick departure from Granford, and she hadn’t been looking for any personal entanglements. But that was something to think about later—after this murder was cleared up. “Is this what small-town living is all about? The whole town is playing matchmaker?”

  Gail laughed at her dismay. “Don’t worry about it. But, in a way, yes. It is a small town, and people tend to look out for each other. Seth’s a popular guy—people like him. So of course they wonder, especially when he’s seen with you around town. Don’t take it personally.”

  Meg pondered the wisdom of her next question before decidingto take the plunge. “So why hasn’t some nice woman snatched him up already?”

  “One did, years ago. Not a local girl, somebody he met in college—she went to Holyoke, I think. Nancy something-or-other. Didn’t last.” Gail looked at her and grinned. “Bet you’re dying to know why.”

  “Just curious,” Meg said primly. “I mean, he seems like a nice guy and all.” And why hadn’t Seth told her anything about this Nancy person?