Nipped in the Bud Read online

  “I know what you mean. But what can we do about it?” Seth asked.

  “Take a vacation in Alaska? Or find someplace where there isn’t even a remote chance that somebody will want to give us another revelation that we won’t know what to do with. Who was it that said that living in the country meant a simpler life?”

  “Maybe it was a century ago. Not so much now. ‘The world is too much with us.’ That’s Wordsworth, by the way.”

  “He died a long time ago. A lot of people died early back then. Are things better now?”

  “Medically, I think so. As for the rest, who knows?”

  Meg went still for a moment. “Was that a gunshot?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Seth said, “but it could be. It’s still hunting season for some things.”

  “How did I manage to live here this long and not know anything about it?”

  “I assume that you didn’t hunt when you were younger.”

  “I did not, nor did my father. Or mother, for that matter—I shouldn’t be sexist. I’d bet women are more accurate shots than a lot of men.”

  “I won’t argue with you.”

  “How about you?”

  “I was never interested in shooting living creatures. Although I can see the argument for thinning out animals if they’ve overpopulated an area. For example, you might have to worry about deer eating your apples, or even the bark from the trees, under the right conditions. Would that convince you to eliminate some of them?”

  “Oh, great—something else to worry about. Maybe, since I assume the deer don’t benefit from overcrowding any more than I would. Do people hunt deer around here? For pleasure, I mean?”

  “It’s permitted, but under very strict regulations, and only for a short time each year, with specific kinds of weapons.”

  “So overpopulation in this immediate area is not an issue?”

  “Not for us, not here. Certainly not everywhere.”

  “So if what I heard was a gunshot, was somebody hunting legally? Illegally?”

  “It depends. You’d have to do a bit of research if you really wanted to go out and kill something. Legally, that is. I won’t say that everyone who hunts is following the laws.”

  “I’ll pass, thank you. Well, maybe where rats are concerned . . .” Meg said dubiously.

  “You haven’t seen any, have you?”

  “Not here, thank goodness. Seth, do you think I’m cut out to be a farmer?”

  “You’re serious?” Seth asked, startled by her abrupt change of subject. When Meg nodded, Seth went on, “You’re not afraid of hard work—physical work, I mean. You’re good with numbers, so you can handle the financial side of the business, which is something that farmers have to do these days. You know enough to ask for help when you need it, and you listen to advice. I guess it comes down to whether you like farming, or specifically, growing apples.”

  “I do, at least for now, in part because I like learning new things. Whether I’ll feel the same way after five or ten years of it I can’t say. But I don’t have a plan for any other career.”

  “I’m sure you could find some sort of job at one of the colleges around here. You have the skills—finance, fund-raising, that kind of thing.”

  “I suppose. But that sounds kind of boring right now.”

  “And spraying for bugs and watering acres of trees isn’t?”

  “Not yet. You ready to go upstairs?”

  “Without doing the dishes?” Seth asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “They won’t go anywhere. I’ve got better ideas.”

  “Mrs. Chapin, you have a wicked mind.”

  • • •

  The next morning Meg was downstairs before Seth and decided to take Max out for his first walk of the day. It was overcast, but she didn’t remember any forecast for snow. She had mixed feelings about snow these days: too much made it difficult to get around or even get chores done, but too little meant having to water the orchard at critical times, which meant more work. Gone were the days when she could look out at a snowy landscape and simply think “pretty!”

  Max went bounding around the backyard, but she knew he wouldn’t stray far—he hadn’t had his breakfast yet. Meg decided to go let the goats out, and make sure they had enough feed. It was an expensive indulgence to keep them and feed them, but she found them entertaining, and she didn’t have the heart to get rid of them. Not yet, at least. Even though they ignored her as she opened the barn door and let them trot out into their fenced field. Affectionate they were not.

  She shut the barn door behind them and checked the levels of feed—they could wait a little longer. Outside again, she walked along the fence line and leaned on the top rail to watch them for a few minutes, and to enjoy the crisp early morning air. Then she turned to go back to the house, but stopped in her tracks: her car was parked in the driveway, but one of the passenger side windows was a spider web of cracks, with an inch-wide hole in the center. She uttered a curse that should have made the goats blush.

  And then she remembered the gunshot that she might or might not have heard the night before. Could that have caused the damage?

  Meg took a quick look around. As near as she could tell, the shot most likely had come from the same clump of woods where Jenn’s body was found. But what had the shooter been aiming at?

  She headed for the back door, fuming. Seth was still sitting at the table, making a list. He looked up when she came in and was quick to read her expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s what looks to me like a bullet hole in my car window, on the side toward the woods. At least, that’s my guess. Either that or an elf with a very small hammer.” She threw herself into her chair. “It had to be that gunshot I heard last night.”

  “Only one, right?” Seth asked. “I mean, it’s not like somebody stood next to your car and let loose.”

  Meg shook her head. “Just the one, I think. What do we do now?”

  “Call Art. It’s either an idiot hunter, who should be tracked down, or it’s malicious vandalism. He needs to know.” He stood up to retrieve his phone but then stopped by Meg’s chair. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re asking. And I didn’t touch anything. I’m just mad as hell. And what kind of idiot is out there in the dark shooting at anything? Unless the guy was trying to send a message to me, or us. Which seems absurd.”

  “Come here,” Seth said, and pulling her out of her chair, wrapped his arms around her. Meg realized she was fighting back tears, which made her even angrier. She hadn’t asked for any of this. And she didn’t even want to think what might come next.

  She pulled away reluctantly. “Go. Call Art.”

  “I will.”

  Seth disappeared into the dining room, where he’d left his phone, and Meg decided to do the dishes from the night before—although she wasn’t sure she could do it without smashing a few of them. What was happening? She’d been going along, minding her own business (in both senses of the word), and suddenly there was a body and weapons and drugs and too damn many questions to make sense out of any of it. Somehow she had inadvertently peeled off the pretty skin of Granford and revealed an unexpected darkness beneath. She scrubbed at caked-on food with more energy than necessary.

  Seth came back. “He’s on his way.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That a shot took out your car’s side window, but it probably happened last night. And it had to have come from near where Jenn was found.”

  “And that’s all we know,” Meg finished bitterly, sending water in all directions.

  She was wiping up the mess she had made splashing water around when she saw Art’s car pull into the driveway. He didn’t come directly in, but spent a minute or two studying the damaged window, then surveying the area in all directions. The goats watched him with lukewarm curiosity. Finally he turned and headed toward the door. Seth let him in, and Meg wondered if Seth thought she would bite off
Art’s head if he didn’t intervene.

  “Morning, Meg. Notice I left out the ‘good.’”

  “Hi, Art. I don’t have any right to be mad at you—you’ve been doing your job all along. I wish I could say the same of everyone else involved in this stupid investigation.”

  “Let’s not get into personalities. Just tell me the facts.”

  “Sit down,” Meg said. She decided she was not going to offer him coffee again, not until this whole mess was cleared up. When Art was settled, Meg began, “We were eating dinner here at the table last night when I told Seth I thought I heard a gunshot. He didn’t hear it. It sounded distant, not close to the house. And it had to have come from this side, because it would have been impossible to hear from the other side. There was only the one shot, and I didn’t think anything more about it. This morning I went out to walk Max and let the goats out, and that’s when I saw the window.”

  “What time was that shot last night?” Art asked.

  “Probably between seven thirty and eight. I wasn’t really paying attention to the time.”

  “Full dark?” he asked. Meg nodded.

  “No curtains on the kitchen windows?”

  “No, there’s nobody who can see in. Most of the time, anyway.”

  “Sound like a rifle to you?”

  “Art, I don’t know weapons and I don’t know what they sound like. It didn’t sound like a handgun to me—they just go ‘pop.’ I assumed it was a hunter.” Like she had when Jenn died, or was dumped. “Seth and I were talking about hunting regulations last night, but we didn’t get into details.”

  “I assume he told you that there are a lot of requirements if you’re planning to go out and shoot at things—legally, that is. First of all, you need a state hunting license. Depending on your target, there may be restrictions on what kind of weapon you can use, and when—during what hours. It may surprise you that the deer-hunting season is very short, and requires a special permit. It usually lasts only a week, or maybe a couple of weeks, in the fall. In any case, we’re well past that now. Again, I mean legally. You’re also required to keep a specified distance from settled areas—a hunter can’t shoot a deer in your backyard. And there’s no hunting for anything on Sundays.”

  “Who’s in charge of enforcing all these regulations?” Meg demanded.

  “Me. It hasn’t been a problem. Until now.”

  Meg was beginning to cool down. “So are there any animals with a hunting season that’s open now?”

  “That you’ll find around here? Foxes, mainly. We’re in the middle of that season. You can get the licenses or permits online. And you can use a rifle at night. Between one-half hour after sunset until midnight you can use a twenty-two long rifle to hunt foxes.”

  “I have seen a fox around here a couple of times lately—I don’t know if that was two foxes or the same one twice. Why would anyone want to kill them? Do they do much damage?”

  “If you’re raising chickens or quail or something like that, yes. Baby animals too, but it’s kind of early in the year for that. Or maybe some fool just felt like shooting and killing something, and this was pretty much legal.”

  “Does that mean he’d have a hunting license?” Seth asked.

  Art shrugged. “Maybe. I can check the database, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “Art, let me ask you this: what kind of weapon killed Jenn Chambers?” Meg asked grimly.

  Art hesitated before answering. “It was a twenty-two, fired from close range, and she didn’t die immediately. She was shot somewhere else and dumped here to die, or after she was dead. And you didn’t hear this from me, but I think you have a right to know.”

  “Based on the crime show reruns I’ve seen, that’s a pretty small caliber, isn’t it?” Meg asked.

  “Yes. Can be dangerous up close. Or if it hits a critical place and the victim doesn’t get medical help quickly enough.”

  “What’re you going to do now?” Meg said.

  “I’ll take a look at your car, get some pictures, so there’ll be an official record. I can go over to that clump of trees and see if anybody left anything behind. But we may never know who fired the shot, and the jerk may be too embarrassed to come forward and confess. Or maybe he doesn’t know he hit the car.”

  “Can I watch you?”

  “Sure. You’ve got a good eye.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Meg said firmly.

  Chapter 17

  The three of them pulled on their jackets and went out into the cold. Art pulled a small notebook out of a pocket. “Now, let me ask some basic questions, and then you can comment. Meg, do you usually leave your car in the driveway?”

  “Yes, unless there’s a blizzard coming. There’s really not room in any of the other outbuildings to keep it there, and then I’d have to dig it out.”

  “So anyone driving by regularly would know it would be there,” Art said, mostly to himself. “The bullet traveled some distance—if it had been closer, the window might have shattered into pieces. The bullet had lost some speed by the time it got this far.”

  “So the woods would have been a likely place for it to have come from?” Seth asked.

  “Seems about right,” Art said. “But I’m no expert. If there had been a fatality, the forensic people would be all over this. When you heard the shot, Meg, were you sitting at the kitchen table?”

  “Yes. Oh, I think I see what you’re getting at. Nobody standing in the woods over there would have been able to see us, or maybe just the tops of our heads. Are you thinking he wasn’t shooting at us?”

  “Go with the simplest explanation first, Meg,” Art said. “Let us assume for now that he was shooting at one or more foxes.”

  “But the house sits a bit above the level of the woods,” Meg protested. “There’s a bog between—it’s low there. Last time I checked, a fox was kind of low to the ground, unless they can climb trees. So to hit the car window, the person would have to have been pointing his weapon upward to some degree. Not near the ground where this hypothetical fox would have been. Unless the fox was sitting on my car.”

  Art smiled at her last comment. “Meg, that’s a marvel of smart and ridiculous scrambled together. But I think you’re right. Missing a fox—or even a deer, for that matter—would not have resulted in a spent bullet hitting your car window. The angle is wrong, although we have to take into account the possibility that the shooter slipped or tripped, and his weapon went off accidentally in the wrong direction.”

  “Are you going to look for the bullet?” Meg demanded.

  “You have been watching your cop shows, Meg. I was just getting to that. Now, the bullet hit the near front window with enough force to penetrate it, but not enough to pass out the other side. Therefore it should be inside your car somewhere. Before you ask, no, you can’t help me look—that would be contaminating evidence, if we decide to call it that. But I don’t think I need to call in an entire crew to look for one bullet in a small car.”

  “Go for it,” Meg said. “We’ll watch.”

  Art was already wearing gloves. Meg didn’t usually lock her car doors in her own driveway, so Art opened the front door where the damage was. It didn’t take him long to find a small bullet lodged in the padding above the driver’s side window. “Got it,” he called out. “Seth, you got any skinny poles? If not, string would do.”

  “You want to check the angle of entry?” Seth asked. “I’ll go get something.”

  He went into the barn, where his office was, and returned a minute or two later with several lengths of what looked like half-inch doweling. “Will this work?” Seth asked.

  “Perfect. Now, if you wouldn’t mind opening the driver’s side window enough to get your hand through, I’ll push this rod through from this end, and we’ll see what direction the shot might have come from. Meg, you want to take pictures?”

  “Sure, fine.”

  “Once you get enough shots of the interior and the exterior of the car, turn slowly toward
the woods where we think the bullet came from. Make sure you turn without lowering the camera until you can see the woods over there.”

  “I get it: keep it level. Art, is this even legal? As part of an investigation, I mean.”

  “What, you think I need to call in CSI? I hate to tell you, but this is barely a crime. Our budget doesn’t include high-tech investigations.”

  “Whatever,” Meg muttered.

  Art pulled out a small camera from a pocket in his jacket and handed it to Meg. She walked to the rear of the car, to a spot from which she could see the full width of the car, from entry point to where the bullet had ended up. She then swiveled to see how much of the woods she could see from that spot. Luckily there were no trees in the way. “Ready,” she called out.

  Art inserted the dowel and fed it through until Seth could grab the end and line it up with the bullet hole. To Meg’s unskilled eye, it looked like the angle was about twenty degrees above level. She took multiple pictures, then she turned slowly toward the patch of woods, keeping the camera as level as possible, and snapped a few more pictures. As far as she could tell, there was nothing that ruled out a man standing among the trees and shooting a rifle directly at her car. Not at a fox.

  “I think I’ve got enough,” Art said. “I’m going to head down to the trees and see if there’s anything like evidence there. You two coming?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Seth said. “Meg?”

  “Of course. I’ve got to keep you two honest.”

  In single file they skirted the still-frozen bog. Meg noted that the peepers should be starting up soon, when the weather warmed up. They made a surprising amount of racket for a short period, but Meg found their sound charming.

  Once they reached the tree line, Art stopped them. He looked up toward the house, with Meg’s car parked on the side. “I’d guess the guy was about twenty feet in from here, based on the angle the bullet went in. Let’s stick to this edge of the bog, in case there are any footprints or some such.”