One Bad Apple (25 page)

She retrieved her laptop, plugged in the phone line, and booted up. No wireless access here; dial-up was slow, but it was better than nothing.

Three hours later her head was spinning. She had begun by reviewing the Boston financial articles announcing Puritan Bank’s new initiative to invest in community development; Chandler’s picture had appeared consistently. Chandler photographed well and he knew it. Buried somewhere among the articles had been a mention that Granford was among the communities selected. No surprise there.

From there Meg had segued to local news coverage, starting with the major papers in the western part of the state. The articles were cautiously optimistic, highlighting the decades-long decline in manufacturing and other industry in the region— although there was a hint of scepticism about the intrusion of a Boston bank. Sour grapes, perhaps? But it didn’t surprise Meg. Start-up projects required deep pockets, and the local banks might not have had the resources.

Then Meg had turned to the comments in local papers and blogs. It had taken a while for the citizens of Granford to recognize what was going on, but when they had, there had ensued a firestorm of articles. And these were only the ones online; Meg guessed there would be plenty more that hadn’t been posted on the Internet. But the individual responses were widely varied, from one pole to the other. Some people wanted things to stay the same forever; others applauded growth—probably foreseeing lower property taxes.

Meg sat back in her chair and stretched, rubbing her eyes. Reading between the lines in this case made an interesting exercise: the public statements made in Boston had been careful and discreet, but as the story trickled down to the local level, voices were louder and less polished. But sincere, undeniably. Meg could sympathize with that. Bankers made decisions based on numbers, but the residents of Granford were going to have to live with the reality of the project in their front yard. They had every right to be concerned, and vocal about their opinions.

What had she learned that Cinda and her legions of junior associates couldn’t have dug up? Not a lot. In the local papers and a few blogs, several names cropped up regularly; Seth’s name was conspicuously absent, but Meg guessed that he had made a point of staying out of the fray because of his elected position. It couldn’t have been easy for him, caught in the middle— landowner and public official. When it came down to it, would he speak for himself or for the town?

So what could she tell Cinda? She must know that there were ruffled feathers in town, but which ones should she worry about smoothing? And where did Meg’s own loyalties lie—with the bank or with the town?

She stood up to get her blood moving. Whatever her personal feelings, she owed it to the town to evaluate the facts objectively and to make a reasoned and informed recommendation to Cinda. She had no reason to believe that Cinda would even listen to her, but at least she would have done her duty, and anything she learned would be useful for her own ends.

By the next day, the weather had turned again. The snow from the quick storm was melting rapidly, and when Meg set out, she found the roads no more than wet and the heaps of plowed snow alongside dwindling fast. She arrived in Northampton shortly before noon and made her way over to the old hotel, whose squat profile dominated a block of downtown. Meg had never been inside and had to admit she was curious. The lobby was much as she had expected: high-ceilinged, with acres of polished wood and pseudo-oriental carpeting, massive bouquets of fresh flowers on marble-topped tables. She knew from its reputation that the place was expensive, and was not in the least surprised that Chandler had opted to stay there. He had liked his creature comforts. She was a little more surprised that his underling Cinda had been allowed to stay in such an upscale place—unless she had shared a room with Chandler?

Meg pushed that unappealing image out of her head and approached the reception desk.

“Cinda Patterson?” she said to the dapper young man.

“Your name, ma’am?” he responded promptly.

Ma’am? How old did she look to this stripling? “Meg Corey. She’s expecting me.”

“Just a moment, please.” He turned away, picked up a phone, and after a few moments murmured something. When he hung up, he turned back to Meg with a bright smile. “Just go right up, ma’am. Room 302.”

“Thank you,” Meg answered, repressing an urge to add “sonny.”

The farther Meg penetrated into the innards of the hotel, the more she felt as though she had walked into a time warp. She had to admit that retaining the slightly faded splendors of the venerable old hotel was preferable to ripping everything out and replacing it with shiny granite and track lighting, but there was a peculiar ageless quality to the place, as though it had been preserved in amber. As she headed down the silent, damask-clad hall on her way to Cinda’s room, she made mental notes about the wallpaper and the wainscoting.

She rapped on the door to 302, and Cinda opened the door quickly. “Hi, Meg, right on time. I’m sorry, I’m running a little late. I got caught up in a conference call—you know how that goes.” Cinda laughed prettily.

“I do.” Meg discreetly studied the room. Not a suite, but more than comfortable. And very neat. Clearly Cinda kept everything hung in her closet or put away in a drawer. Nothing was out of place. “This is a lovely hotel. How long have you been here?”

“The last couple of weeks. Chandler thought it was a good idea to be available on short notice, rather than trying to go back and forth to Boston. Especially with the uncertainties of the weather this time of year.”

Meg was impressed and vaguely annoyed. After two weeks, her room was still this tidy? Much like Chandler, as she recalled: he had always filed his cuff links by material, then by color. And he had never omitted putting them away, even in the heat of passion … He and Cinda must have made a good pair. She swallowed a sigh. She had to admit it was nice to be somewhere clean and orderly after her month living in renovation chaos.

Cinda was stacking the already neat piles of documents and slipping them into her briefcase. Meg prowled around the room, checking out the view. On a table near the window there was an old clothbound book, looking curiously out of place in the elegant room. Meg picked it up and opened it: Easton’s
History of Granford
. Hadn’t she had a copy of that? She turned to the fly-leaf, and went still.

Yes, she had owned a copy. In fact, she had owned
this
copy—she recognized the author’s inscription to Lula and Nettie. And she had loaned it to Chandler last week. What was it doing in Cinda’s room?

“Almost ready. Just give me a minute, will you?” Cinda chirped. “I want to freshen my makeup. I thought we could eat downstairs, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine.” Meg suppressed a small pang of disappointment. There were so many interesting restaurants in Northampton that she hadn’t had a chance to try. But at least Cinda should pick up the tab for this one, since it was a professional consultation of sorts. “No hurry.” Cinda retreated into the bathroom and turned on the water, ending conversation.

Meg stared at the book in her hands, then noticed a slip of paper lodged between the pages inside the book. A bookmark? Meg opened to the page. It was a credit card receipt from some place with a Northampton address.

And it was Chandler’s credit card number. She had seen it often enough in the past, and her mathematical mind had filed away the last four digits. The slip had a date and time stamp. For the night
after
she had had dinner with Chandler, the night he had been killed. And at the time Chandler had been putting charges on his credit card in Northampton, Meg had been watching Christopher talk to the members of the Granford Historical Society. So how could she have killed him?

She inhaled sharply, her mind spinning as she worked through the implications. Chandler had had the book that night and stuck in the receipt when he returned to the hotel. Someone at this place should have seen Chandler, would remember him there.

Then she looked more closely. It appeared to be a bar tab, for multiple drinks. Meg knew that Chandler would not have consumed so many, alone. Therefore, he had had a companion. But who? As far as Meg knew, no one else had come forward to admit having seen Chandler that night. Although, she had to admit, it was unlikely that Detective Marcus would have shared such information with her. The detective said he had talked to Cinda last Friday: what had she told him?

Cinda emerged from the bathroom, looking even crisper than before, which Meg would not have believed possible. “Ready?”

Meg held up the book. “Is this yours?”

Cinda peered across the room as she pulled on her suit jacket. “What … oh, that old thing. Chandler gave it to me—said he thought I might find something useful in it. You know, bone up on the history of Granford, use it to impress the locals. I haven’t had time to look at it. It’s not really my kind of thing, you know.”

Meg wavered. Should she mention it was her book? Cinda would probably be glad to return it to her, since she obviously had no interest in it.

Meg closed it with a snap—with the receipt still inside. “Do you think I could borrow this? Since I’m selling the house, it might be a good idea if I knew more about the history of the town. My Realtor says buyers like that kind of information.”

Cinda waved a careless hand. “Please, take it. I simply don’t have the time to look at it.”

“Thanks.” Meg slipped it into her tote bag. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am. Meg, I’m so glad you’re on board with this. I’m just so excited about this project …” Cinda burbled on as she followed Meg out into the hall, carefully locking the door behind her.

Meg made appropriately noncommittal answers, while in the back of her mind she was puzzling over what to do next. Chandler had had the book, and now Cinda had the book. When did the credit card receipt go in? Cinda didn’t seem concerned about it, but did she know the slip was there?

There was someone else in the elevator when she and Cinda boarded, sparing Meg the need to make further conversation, which gave her more time to gnaw on her problem. She wished there was someone she could consult with. She had a feeling the right thing to do would be to take the book and the slip directly to the detective’s office. After all, she was already in Northampton, wasn’t she? And this was evidence in an open murder investigation, wasn’t it? She certainly hoped so. If someone else had been with Chandler that night, that could let her off the hook. And she was curious to know what story Cinda had given him.

The downstairs restaurant, its tall windows facing the main intersection in Northampton, was bustling, filled with older, prosperous-looking people. Once Meg had looked at the menu, she realized why there were no younger people in the place: no way they could afford it. Nor could she.

Cinda was speaking, and Meg fought to focus on her. “It seems a shame to lose any momentum, just because of a single unfortunate incident.”

So Chandler’s murder was now no more than an unfortunate incident. “If you have a viable project, you shouldn’t have any trouble moving forward,” Meg said, more tartly than she had intended.

Cinda looked startled. “You’re right, of course. And the numbers are sound, believe me.” She went on, stopping only to give her order to the harried waitress. An iced tea, despite the frigid weather—no alcohol for Cinda, who no doubt wanted to keep her head clear for business.

“You’re awfully quiet, Meg,” Cinda said as she ran out of steam. “I was hoping that you could help me shape my presentation to the town.”

“Haven’t you spoken to them before?”

“Yes, but Chandler always took the lead. This is my first presentation as project manager, and I want to be sure to make the right impression. Our bank has put a lot of work into this, and I’d hate to be the one who dropped the ball.”

I’ll bet. Might be a blot on your sterling record.
“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. The project stands on its own merits.”

“Of course. But, Meg, as I’m sure you know, there is such a thing as a herd mentality. And a town meeting like this, it draws a small group of citizens, mostly the ones who feel strongly about the issue, pro
and
con, and they may well react emotionally rather than logically when it comes time to vote. Which can work for us or against us. Do you see what I mean? This vote will be binding, and I want to be sure it goes the right way.”

And how far would you go to assure that?
Meg wondered. “You seem to have an excellent grasp of the process. I admit I had to do some homework to be sure I understood it.”

“As have I, Meg.” Was there a flash of steel in her eye?

“I don’t doubt that. So, what can I tell you?”

“You’ve gotten to know Seth Chapin fairly well, haven’t you?”

Meg’s hackles went up. “What’s your point?”