A Killer Crop Read online

  “So they inherited by default, having outlived everyone else. Remind me to call Ruth Ferry, and maybe you two can get together. I think you’d enjoy her.”

  “She can’t be young herself.”

  “No, but she’s still sharp as a tack. Rachel introduced us.”

  Elizabeth sat back in her chair. “Hardy Yankees. Which means we are, too, you know. I’m sure they’d all be proud.”

  Meg pulled a chair up to the table. “Why don’t you start by explaining how we’re connected to the people who lived in this house?”

  “All right. So, I started with Lula and Nettie and worked backward ...” Elizabeth began. And continued.

  Half an hour later Meg was getting itchy to head up to the orchard, and her mother showed no signs of slowing. “I had no idea! So how was it you ended up with this house?”

  “If I’ve got it right, Lula and Nettie were my first cousins three times removed. Or to put it another way, my great-grandmother was their first cousin. But I guess a lot of the relatives kind of drifted away and lost touch, particularly in the later twentieth century.”

  “How on earth did you know about them, and this place?”

  “My grandmother used to visit here when she was a child, and she’d tell me stories. Come to think of it, she probably mentioned the orchard—I just never put two and two together. The visit you remember was in the 1980s, but I’d seen them a couple of times before that. They were amazing women, in their own limited way. They lived more or less the way they always had. Visiting them was like entering a different world.”

  “Did Daddy ever meet them?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No, he wasn’t interested, and he was busy.”

  “So they remembered that you’d been nice to them, and they left you the house.”

  “I don’t know if there were any other relatives left, or at least, none that they knew about.”

  “Why didn’t you come up here when you inherited?” Meg had wondered about this more than once, as she wrestled with decades of tenant neglect.

  “I meant to, but somehow I never found the time—out of sight, out of mind. The rental income went into its own account, and I drew on it occasionally, but it wasn’t as though I needed it, or not often—as I recall, a chunk of it went toward your college tuition. But I feel badly that I never even came to the funeral—by the time they’d found the will and contacted me, the sisters were long in the ground. I suppose I should pay my respects in the cemetery here. Have you?”

  “I have, actually. I’ll show you, maybe tomorrow. There are plenty of Warrens in that cemetery, and it’s not far from here.”

  “I’m sure. What a narrow life it must have been. Or am I being judgmental? It was a farming community, and our ancestors were no better than anyone else here.”

  “Still is, Mother. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a farmer.”

  “So you are.” Elizabeth looked at her daughter fondly. “Who would have imagined?”

  “Not me, that’s for sure. So, have you got all this information input into something simple?”

  “Not yet. Mostly I’ve been scribbling things down—and erasing a lot of it. But to tell you the truth, I’ve enjoyed it. And it’s certainly interesting to be doing this on the spot where it all took place.”

  “Great. Look, I’ve really got to go now, but it sounds as though you’ve got plenty to keep you busy. I’ll be up the hill, and I’ll probably eat lunch up there. I’m not sure when we’ll be done for the day—we’re at the mercy of the apples. If you need me, you can come get me.”

  “Meg!” Bree’s voice came from the kitchen. “Get your butt in gear! Time’s wasting!”

  “Gotta run!” Meg went back to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, then followed Bree out.

  They were swept up in the flow of the harvest activities, and the next time Meg had a chance to breathe, it was well past lunchtime. She hadn’t even noticed there was an unfamiliar car in her driveway. How long had it been there? “Bree, looks like we’ve got company again.”

  “You want to go check it out? I think we’re good here,” Bree said after scanning the activity around her.

  “Yes, thanks. I’ll see you later. Good work today!”

  Hard work, at least, Meg acknowledged as she felt every muscle on her way down the hill. She debated briefly about ducking in the back door and showering off the dust and leaves before confronting whoever was waiting, but she didn’t want to leave her mother alone with the mysterious caller.

  As she came in the front door, she called out, “Mother?”

  “In here, dear,” came her mother’s voice from the front parlor.

  Meg pulled down her wrinkled shirt and followed the sound, to find her mother seated in the front parlor across from . . . Patricia Weston? “Hi. Patricia, isn’t it? What brings you our way?” Meg took in the teacups and teapot on the scarred end table between the chairs—it looked like the two women had been settled there for a while.

  “Meg, darling, please sit down and have a cup of tea. I was telling Patricia how you’ve taken over the orchard in the last few months.”

  “I admire you,” Patricia addressed Meg. “I can’t imagine taking on a project like that, with no experience.”

  “It has been interesting,” Meg replied, accepting the cup of tea her mother held out to her. “And unexpected. But I’m enjoying it. As long as the weather holds for another month or two, I should have a good crop this year, due more to luck than to anything I’ve done.”

  Meg took a sip of her tea, wondering again why Patricia was here. She noted that Mrs. Weston hadn’t answered her question. How much did Patricia know about her late husband’s history with Elizabeth?

  Patricia apparently possessed the ability to read minds, for she said, “I’m not here to beat up your mother over her relationship with Daniel, you know. That happened long before we met, and I think I can say Daniel and I had a decent marriage. I thought I’d ask Elizabeth what he was like as a young man, before I knew him. I wish I had known him then—from what your mother has told me, it sounds as though he was a lot more relaxed. Or do I mean ‘laid-back’?”

  “Had he been tense lately?” Meg asked.

  Patricia shrugged. “Not tense exactly. And he hadn’t changed much recently. But I hate to say it, I think he was feeling his age, past sixty, though his doctor told him he was perfectly healthy. Not that he was thinking of retirement. Heavens, I wouldn’t have known what to do with him if he was underfoot all the time. But I think he wanted to make sure he’d made his mark in his field, that he’d left something that would be remembered. And he felt that time was running out.”

  Elizabeth was staring over Meg’s shoulder, lost in her own memories. “Funny, but he was one of the least ambitious men I knew, back in the day. He didn’t care about awards, or prestige, or even about making a lot of money. But he did love what he was studying.”

  “That never changed.” Patricia and Elizabeth exchanged a complicit glance. “He was a good teacher, and the students loved him. He could really reach them. Maybe Emily Dickinson’s poetry appeals to a generation of young people raised on short tweets.”

  “Was that his specialty?” Meg asked.

  “Technically, it was American poetry, specifically nineteenth century. But it seemed a waste not to study Emily when you live in Amherst. Can you believe it? The ‘other woman’ in our lives was a dead poet. How do you compete with that?” Patricia’s eyes glinted with sudden tears. She shut them for a moment, regaining control. “I can’t believe he’s gone. You never met him, did you?”

  “Me?” Meg replied, surprised. “Not that I recall. I’ve spent time on the UMass campus, taking some ag classes, but I don’t think I’ve set foot on the Amherst College side.”

  “He would have enjoyed meeting you, I’m sure. In fact, that was one reason I came over today.” Patricia reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper, which she offered to Meg. “I found that in the desk in his office.�
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  Meg took it and read it. It was a clipping from a local newspaper with a brief report on the death of a local organic activist; attached to it was a piece of a paper with Meg’s name and address. “Is this his handwriting?” Meg asked.

  “Yes. Maybe he recognized the surname and was planning to look you up. I didn’t think it was important, but I was curious . . . I didn’t want to keep sitting around the house ...” Patricia’s composure was crumbling fast.

  Elizabeth reached out a hand and laid it on Patricia’s arm. “We understand. I can only imagine how hard it must be to come to terms with your loss. Are his sons still home?”

  Patricia rummaged in her pockets until she came up with a tissue. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose. “Sorry. I still have these weepy spells. No, they haven’t lived at home for a few years, so when they’re here, they kind of wander around, looking lost, which only makes things worse.”

  Meg was torn: obviously the woman in front of her was grieving, but she wasn’t sure when or if she’d get another chance to talk with her. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but your husband’s death has put my mother in a rather awkward situation.”

  “Meg,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I don’t think now is the time to—”

  “No, it’s okay,” Patricia interrupted. “You’re talking about why that lumpish detective seems to think Elizabeth might have killed him?”

  Meg tried to read her expression and found no malice there. “Exactly. I don’t know what you think, but I certainly don’t believe it. But if Marcus is right, and it wasn’t just a heart attack, that means that someone else killed him. Was there anyone you could think of that might have wanted your husband dead?”

  Elizabeth silently poured fresh tea into Patricia’s cup, and Patricia swallowed some before answering. “The detective asked the same thing, and I couldn’t come up with anyone. We were happy together. We had enough money. He loved his work, and was respected in his field. His students loved him. I couldn’t think of anyone I know who would do this.”

  “Do you know the farm stand where he died?”

  “I’ve been there. After all, we’ve lived here for years, and we both liked to support local produce. But we had no special attachment to it, and I’m sure we’ve patronized all the local stands at one time or another. Are you asking if he had a midnight craving for fresh carrots? Very unlikely—he went out occasionally in the evening for college events, but otherwise he was rather settled in his ways. I told the police all of this.” She stood up abruptly, almost toppling the table with the teapot. “I should go.”

  Elizabeth stood as well. “You don’t have to. Or maybe you’d like to get together another day? I’ll be in town for a bit longer.”

  Patricia managed a weak smile. “I’ll think about it. And thank you for sharing your memories. Meg, it was nice to meet you.” She all but fled out of the room, then the front door.

  Meg followed and watched her leave before turning back to her mother. “What was that all about?”

  “Oh, Meg, don’t be insensitive. She’s just lost her husband, whom she obviously cared for, and now she’s been told that he was murdered. She wants to keep the good memories alive a little longer. She’s still trying to process the fact that he’s dead, and she’s not ready to deal with the idea that somebody helped him to die. Poor woman.” Elizabeth turned and began gathering up the tea things.

  No sooner had Patricia pulled out of the driveway than Meg’s cell phone rang. She was surprised to see an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

  “Is this Meg? It’s Kenneth Henderson. We met yesterday at the festival?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. What can I do for you?”

  “You said you and your mother might like to get together to talk about Daniel Weston. Would now be a good time? I know it’s short notice, but my plans for the rest of the week are somewhat uncertain.”

  “Now?” Meg checked her watch: it was already four. “I think we could be there in twenty minutes or so. Are you still at Rachel’s?”

  “I am, and she’s promised to make you a high tea. She thought that might convince you.”

  Meg laughed. “She’s right. We’ll be right over.”

  Meg went to the kitchen. “Uh, Mother? That was Kenneth Henderson, the professor who knew Daniel. He wants to talk with us, and Rachel will provide tea.”

  “Now? But we’ve just finished one tea,” Elizabeth protested.

  “I know. But he offered, and I’m not sure how long he’ll be around. Can you handle it?”

  “I suppose I can manage another cup. Do you think there’ll be pastries?”

  “At Rachel’s? I guarantee it.”

  15

  When Meg and Elizabeth arrived at the bed-and-breakfast, Rachel was sitting on the porch in one of the slat-backed rockers, talking with animation to Kenneth, who occupied the adjacent chair. Meg parked, and she and her mother climbed out of the car.

  Rachel bounded out of her chair to greet them. “Hi, Meg. Hi, Elizabeth. Glad you could make it on short notice.” Kenneth stood more slowly.

  “Hi, Rachel,” Meg said. “It’s so nice of you to do this—you must be as busy as I am. Professor Henderson, it’s good to see you again.”

  “Please call me Kenneth. I have enough students who call me professor. Mrs. Corey, I’m glad you could come.”

  “Elizabeth, please. And we should thank you for taking time away from your other activities to meet with us.”

  Kenneth brushed away her comment. “I’d had enough pomposity for one day, at the symposium. Thank heaven it’s over.”

  “I’ll set up the tea,” Rachel said, disappearing into the house. “Give me five.”

  Elizabeth smiled at Kenneth. “I thought as an academic you’d be in your element there.”

  Kenneth sighed. “I’ve seen far too many such events, and I thought the concept, pitting Whitman against Dickinson, to be rather contrived. There is little new to be said. Although I suppose the visiting parents enjoyed it.” He paused, searching for words. “As I told you, I was shocked to hear about Daniel’s death. You said that you knew him, Elizabeth?”

  “Many years ago, yes. I hadn’t seen him for a long time.”

  “A tragic thing—a real loss to the academic community.”

  Rachel called out from inside the house, “Tea’s ready! Come in and sit down, so you can talk comfortably.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Kenneth said. He opened the screen door. “Ladies?”

  Elizabeth and Meg formed a small procession, and Kenneth brought up the rear. Inside, in Rachel’s elegant Victorian dining room, the table was set for four. Meg saw a profusion of goodies, including one clearly antique multi-tiered tray stand laden with finger sandwiches and tiny, bite-size cookies that Meg couldn’t even begin to identify, and her mouth began to water.

  They sat. “Kenneth, it was the symposium that brought you to Amherst?” Elizabeth began.

  “Yes, initially.”

  “Don’t you have classes to teach this time of year?” Meg asked.

  “I’m on the faculty at Princeton, but I’m on sabbatical this year. When Daniel invited me to the symposium, I thought it sounded amusing, and I came up a bit early to do some research and to indulge in a little sightseeing. Like Daniel, I specialize in nineteenth-century American poetry, so this little get-together he had planned sounded like a nice diversion. He asked me to participate in a panel discussion, which promised to be spirited.”

  “Did you know Daniel well?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes and no. We’d crossed paths at various academic conferences over the years, and we would get together for drinks or a meal, if we were both free. He always had something interesting to say. But I can’t recall that we ever saw each other outside of that setting.”

  Rachel picked up the teapot and began filling cups. “Please, help yourselves.”

  Meg bit into a dainty sandwich. Watercress? “Yum. Kenneth, how did you find this place?”

  “
A friend who had stayed here recommended it.” He smiled. “Although I almost passed on it because of the name. After all, I’m the spokesperson for the Whitman side of the debate, and staying at Dickinson’s could be seen as treasonous. And you?”

  “A friend introduced us, too, when I first moved up here. Actually, Rachel’s brother. I had a plumbing crisis and needed a place to stay fast, while it was being repaired, and he asked Rachel to fit me in.” Meg was conscious of her mother’s gaze—when was she going to come clean about Seth? “And then I sent my mother here.”

  Rachel had finished pouring. “I hope you don’t mind, but we got to talking and I told Kenneth that you were interested in Daniel’s death for personal reasons.”

  Elizabeth helped herself to a plate and some sandwiches, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “You might as well say it, Rachel—I came up here to see Daniel, after quite a few years, and now I’m a suspect in his murder. I’d say that’s quite personal.”

  “Good heavens!” Kenneth burst out. “I can’t believe anyone could consider you a likely candidate for murderer. In fact, I couldn’t believe it was a murder when Rachel told me. What an unlikely end!”

  Meg turned to Rachel. “How did you hear?”

  “It was in the local paper. They reported the death one day, and then they had a follow-up article a couple of days later, saying that the police were calling it a homicide. Something about a killer blow? It sounded quite sensational.”

  Meg hadn’t seen the Amherst paper. For that matter, she hadn’t had time to look at any newspaper since her mother had arrived. So now everyone knew that Daniel had been murdered. Meg helped herself in turn to some cookies. She wasn’t really hungry, but Rachel’s cookies were always irresistible. “Kenneth, can you imagine why anyone would want Daniel Weston dead?”

  “Not at all. He was a respected scholar, an entertaining raconteur. I never heard him say an unkind word about his colleagues—or his competitors. I suppose I fall in the latter camp, but we were always cordial about it.”