Nipped in the Bud Page 2

  Or else that someone had killed deliberately and disappeared under cover of darkness.

  That was a chilling thought. Why there, why now? There were enough homes nearby that people would hear a shot, just as she had. That would at least narrow down the time the shooter was there. Had anyone seen someone exiting the woods? Getting into a car? Or maybe she was getting ahead of herself and it had been a suicide—although a rifle was not the easiest weapon to use for that. A handgun would have been a better choice. But again, why here? There were certainly more heavily wooded areas around, where a body might lie undetected for a long time.

  She’d reached the house and let herself in—locking the door carefully behind her. After hanging up her down-filled coat, she filled the electric kettle so she could make coffee and scooped up her cat, Lolly, from her favorite perch on top of the refrigerator, and Meg tucked the furry bundle under her chin for a brief cuddle, until Lolly finally protested. Then she set about making the coffee, and wondered whether there were any cookies left. Which made her laugh: she was expecting a report on a death, suspicious or merely sad, and here she was thinking about hospitality. What does one serve at a police interrogation?

  It could be a long wait. She knew the size and capabilities of the Granford Police Department, and she counted the Granford police chief Art Preston as a friend, after working together (along with Seth) on several unusual occurrences in Granford. At this time of night, in the dark, it would take Art a while to gather his staff for at least a preliminary assessment of the situation, and if there were anything suspicious about it, he’d probably be compelled to call in the state police from their headquarters in nearby Northampton. Which would make the immediate investigation even longer.

  But she wasn’t going to think about crawling into bed and trying to sleep, not while her husband was out in the cold with a dead body and members of more than one police force. She would sit in her warm kitchen like a faithful wife, keeping the coffee hot.

  It was nearly midnight when she heard Seth’s footsteps on the back steps. She could tell he was exhausted even without seeing him. When she opened the door, Max came bounding in; if he’d been a small child he would have been talking a mile a minute about what he’d seen (and smelled). He was probably the only one who’d had a good time tonight. Even as he twined around her legs, Meg reached out to Seth. “Come here.” He did, without speaking, and held her for a few long moments.

  “Was it awful?” she asked softly.

  “It would have been worse if it had been a friend,” he said.

  “Still no ID for the body?”

  “No.”

  Meg pulled away so she could look at Seth’s face. “You said the victim was a woman?”

  Seth nodded. “From what I could see she looked like she was in her thirties, maybe forty tops.”

  “Was it suicide?”

  “Not unless she figured out how to fire a rifle into her back.”

  “That could be difficult,” Meg agreed. “And I wouldn’t choose to try it in a dark wood.”

  “Meg, I hope you never decide to try it, in a dark wood or anywhere else.”

  “I won’t. I promise,” she told him. Seth still looked haggard, although the color was coming back to his face. “Why don’t you save all the details for tomorrow and go upstairs now?”

  “As long as you come with me. Oh, we’d better set an wake-up alarm—Art Preston said he’d come by to get an official statement first thing, which will probably be early. And now that it’s started to snow, that becomes more important, since I think I was the last person to see the scene before the snow started.”

  “Right now you look exhausted. Maybe Art and his men will know more by morning. Am I invited to sit in when you give Art your statement?”

  “I hope so. Anyone who knows you will assume you would anyway.”

  • • •

  Morning arrived too quickly—a dim gray morning. Seth was still sleeping, so Meg slid out of bed and tiptoed quietly to the bathroom. She peered out the window quickly: it had snowed only a little more during the night, but even two or three inches would mess up any forensic evidence at the death site. She smiled grimly at herself in the mirror—when had she started using terms like forensic? Since she’d been watching old reruns of crime shows, fighting to stay awake past nine o’clock in the evening. Farming was hard work, and she couldn’t begin to count how many shows she had begun to watch then fallen asleep halfway through. As a result, she knew more about collecting evidence than about interpreting it.

  As she brushed her teeth she thought about what little she knew. She and Seth had heard the single shot just as it was getting dark, when they were out walking. Seth had identified it as a rifle shot, and she believed him. Max had reacted strongly and run off in the direction of the sound, with Seth following, so he’d seen—or smelled—something. Seth had told her the night before that he hadn’t seen or heard anyone in the woods, apart from the body. A woman, about her own age or slightly older. Not local, or Seth would probably have recognized her, since he’d grown up in Granford. What could have led her to that particular place? Or more likely, who? Seth had said there was no sign of a struggle: the woman had died from a single, well-placed rifle wound. She had fallen face-first and died. Or, for all Meg knew, she had died the moment the bullet entered her, or on the way down. Did it matter? She had died. More precisely, she had been murdered.

  The shooter hadn’t lingered to see if he’d done the job, but neither had he gone crashing off through the underbrush in a panic—Seth would have heard him. So, no panic, just cold efficiency. But he had to have known someone would have heard the shot, and could easily have come out to investigate. Maybe. She wouldn’t do it, but maybe a guy would. Seth had. Had the killer known that Seth was approaching?

  Meg hoped fervently that Art had identified the woman and whoever had shot her, and they could close the case quickly. Then she could go back to worrying about earthshaking things like how extensively she should prune her trees. She was grateful that the killer hadn’t shot the poor woman in the orchard itself, because then it would be a crime scene—legally speaking in the near term, but in her mind, forever. Was there such a thing as a blood apple?

  Meg shook her head to clear it. Not enough sleep, and now she had to go make lots of coffee for a bunch of already exhausted police officers. Did she have any coffee cake in the freezer? Why was she obsessing about food again? Was that what a traditional woman was supposed to do in times of crisis like this one? She tried to picture a man in her situation: would he start baking something as soon as he heard there was a body?

  Seth stumbled down the stairs just as Art pulled into the driveway, parked and headed for the kitchen door. Seth detoured around the table to let him in. Meg wondered idly if there were any women on the Granford police force. Maybe a woman would have more insight into what the dead woman was doing out there in the woods, and with whom. Somebody with a weapon, who killed her. Had the dead woman had any suspicion of what was to come?

  “Good morning, Art. Coffee?”

  “Thanks, Meg,” Art said. “Hope it’s strong—I haven’t been home yet.”

  “You need eggs? Bacon? I’m happy to fix you breakfast, if it helps.”

  “Coffee first. Please.”

  Meg busied herself with cooking, while keeping her ears open. There wasn’t much conversation going on, and why should there be? These policemen had been out all night in subfreezing weather and snow, looking for evidence in the dark to figure out who killed the unknown woman in their midst. “Have you called in the state guys yet?”

  “Of course. I think they were waiting for daylight. Or maybe a helicopter, so they wouldn’t get their boots wet. The guy I talked to kept asking, ‘Are you sure it wasn’t suicide?’ Idiot. At least they trusted us to do the basic stuff. In the dark, with snow coming.”

  “You going to want my formal statement now?” Seth asked.

  “Might as well get it since I’m here. Afte
r I’ve inhaled my first cup of coffee.”

  Meg handed him a full mug.

  Before Art could start drinking it, he said, “Hey, Seth—you called me on your cell last night, right?”

  “I did. It’s become a habit, to keep it with me. You never know what you’re going to run into.”

  “Please tell me you got some pictures before the snow started?” Art said plaintively.

  Seth smiled. “Some, after I made sure she was dead. I’ll send them to you. But I warn you, there wasn’t much to see. I did the best I could, but it was dark. The woman was wearing dark clothes and was lying facedown. She had dark hair, not long. I found her in the midst of some scraggly woods with no distinguishing features. I didn’t see a weapon anywhere nearby, but I didn’t go looking for it—I figured someone would be mad if I trampled what little evidence there might be. Though I don’t think there was much. Will the state police send their own forensic people?”

  “Probably. Listen, let’s get this statement over with. You don’t mind if I record it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “May I stay?” Meg asked.

  “As long as you pretend you’re not here. Or maybe we should start with you. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary last night?”

  “Seth and I took a walk after dinner—we were going to look at the orchard, even though it was getting kind of dark. Mostly we just wanted some fresh air, and Max needed to go out anyway.”

  “Did you hear the gunshot?”

  “Actually, we heard a couple of shots earlier in the afternoon, but they sounded farther away. Then a single one later. I asked Seth about them, since I didn’t recall hearing shots around here last year. Oh, and I saw a fox go by, if that matters.”

  “Only if he’s a witness. Does he live around here?”

  “I have no idea,” Meg told Art. “This is the first time I’ve noticed one.”

  “And you didn’t see any other people during your walk?”

  Meg shook her head. “Not a soul.”

  “Okay, that’s all I’ve got for you. Seth, your turn. You told me you heard a shot that sounded pretty close. What did you do?”

  “We had Max with us, and he took off toward the sound, so I followed.”

  “You weren’t worried whoever it was might shoot at you?”

  “It never occurred to me. Actually, I was more worried about Max and whether the shooter would think he was a deer, or some other animal that might attack.”

  “What did Max do?”

  “I think the shooter was gone by the time Max reached the site, although I didn’t hear him leave. Max would most likely have tried to make friends with him.”

  “Yeah, that’s Max.” Art sighed. “Do you know whether Max disturbed the body in any way?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Describe the person you found.”

  “I didn’t touch her. Before you ask, I could tell it was a woman from the start, even though she had heavy winter gear on.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Standard stuff. Heavy Carhartt coat, brown, not new. Jeans. Lace-up boots, also not new. Hat with earflaps, but they weren’t down. Gloves.”

  “So nothing appeared out of place in the woods?”

  “Nope. Not like she came from a party and was wearing heels and a sparkly dress. Tell me, did you find any ID on her? Or a bag?”

  Art shook his head. “No, nothing. Maybe she thought she was out for a stroll, or a romantic tryst, or even some late hunting, but she didn’t have anything on her. Or in her pockets. I’m going to guess that whoever shot her took all that stuff with him.”

  “Or maybe she wasn’t carrying anything. The timing is pretty tight. I didn’t hear him leave, so when could he have cleaned out all her pockets? Or could he have done that before they set out?”

  “It hadn’t started snowing yet?”

  “You mean, were there any footprints? No. It had just started when I called you.”

  Meg sat silently, listening to the semiformal conversation. Two friends, sitting in a warm kitchen, discussing death—for the permanent legal record. How odd it was.

  “Art, has anyone been reported missing?” she asked suddenly.

  “Nope, but it’s still early. Could have been a guest. Could have been a hunter from somewhere else, staying at a local motel, or with a friend. Or even planning to drive home whenever she was finished doing . . . whatever she was doing. We may know more by the end of the day. I’d guess the state homicide cops will take a wider view, and they’ve got the resources to do it.”

  “You going to talk to my mother, Art?” Seth asked. “She might have heard or seen something.”

  “On my list, Seth.” Art drained his mug and stood up. “I’d better keep moving or I’ll fall asleep in a chair, or in my car. I’ll get your statement typed up and let you know when you can stop by and sign it. Or heck, maybe you can do that online now—I don’t keep up with all the bells and whistles.”

  “Whatever works for you, Art. Meg and I were kind of enjoying a little downtime, at least until last night, so we aren’t exactly busy.”

  Chapter 3

  “Shoot, I forgot to tell Art to talk with the kids at my house. My former house. Whatever,” Seth said, clearly annoyed at himself.

  “Won’t he think of that himself?” Meg asked.

  “Maybe. But right now he’s exhausted, and I’m not sure if he remembers I’ve rented it out or that anyone is living there.”

  “And you’re wondering if there was someone at home, whether they heard anything?” Meg was struck by a chilling thought. “Or maybe it was one of them? Or a couple of them? And they happened to have a rifle and were fooling around in the woods and it went off?” That raised even more questions in Meg’s mind. “Did you keep a gun at the house?”

  “I’ve never owned a gun, Meg, although I know how to use one. I’d like to think I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave one there, knowing I’d be renting it out. Which of course doesn’t take into account that somebody else in the family might have hidden one in the past and forgotten to tell me. But I can’t imagine that anyone who owned that kind of weapon would leave it sitting around loaded.”

  “Do you know the names of the guys who are renting it, apart from Larry?”

  “Not really. The others signed a basic lease, but I haven’t memorized their names, and I haven’t had any reason to drop in and talk with them. I guess I’ve been kind of relying on Larry to keep an eye on things—you know, make sure that the plumbing and heating work, that kind of thing. But at the same time, I don’t think he’s buddies with the other tenants, and they come and go pretty frequently. They’re students. Maybe I’m just too trusting.”

  “That’s not always a bad thing. And you must remember what it was like to be a college student, and what kind of job you did keeping a place reasonably livable. So, should we call Art and send him over there?”

  “Art’s most likely asleep right now, and he won’t be happy if I wake him up to talk to a bunch of kids. Why don’t you call? Larry’s your employee.”

  “And he’s your tenant!” Meg paused for a moment and realized that they both seemed to be avoiding interrogating anyone, even if it was kindly meant. “I’m sorry. This is dumb. We’ve got only a few basic questions for him, or them.” Meg started ticking them off on her fingers. “One, did he or anyone else hear anything suspicious last evening? Two, are any of the people living or staying at the house women? Not that I have any moral issues with that, but we need to know. Three, does anyone there have a rifle?” She sighed. “I need to talk to Larry anyway, and I don’t think he has much of a social life so he’s probably there now. I’ll call his cell.”

  She punched in his cell number, but it rang and rang and finally went to voice mail. She left a brief message and shut off the app. “Not there,” she told Seth. “You want to walk over and check things out? I’ll come with you. For all I know, they’ve all been massacred and are lying in
pools of blood. I’ve heard it’s hard to get bloodstains out of old wood.”

  “Meg, sometimes you scare me. But we might as well check, and Max needs a walk anyway. Can we eat breakfast first?”

  “I knew I was forgetting something. And remind me when we go that I should let the goats out, since it’s a balmy twenty-five degrees.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  After a quick meal, they bundled up against the cold and went out the back door. Seth made sure he had Max’s leash in one of his pockets. Meg greeted the goats and let them into the small field next to the barn, where they waited expectantly until she brought out more hay for them. “We won’t be gone long, so don’t worry.”

  “Do you always talk to the goats?” Seth asked, smiling.

  “Sure. Shouldn’t I? They always look so intelligent.”

  “Let me know when they start talking back.”

  They trudged up the hill, skirting the orchard. The night’s storm clouds had disappeared and the sky was an intense blue; a cold breeze created small tornadoes of powdery snow that sparkled in the sun. It was exhilarating to be outside, breathing the cold clean air—as long as she didn’t think about the body that had lain in the woods only a few hundred yards away. No sounds came from that direction, apart from a few birdcalls. Had the various police departments finished their investigations already? Or had the state police team decided to sleep in and arrive later? What snow there had been the night before would have obscured any sort of evidence. Now the sun was doing the work of melting it off, although the snow might linger in the shade of the trees.