A Killer Crop by Sheila Connolly

hill to the house. Inside it was pleasantly cool, after a day spent in the sun—September nights did help, even if the days remained hot and sunny. She picked up the phone and dialed the number for the police station, identified herself, and asked for Chief Preston.
    “Oh, hi, Meg,” the person on the desk replied. “He just walked out of here with Seth Chapin. You want me to buzz him?”
    “No, don’t bother. I’ve got Seth’s cell number. Thanks.”
    She tried Seth, who answered quickly. “Art and I were thinking of heading over to your place—we figured you’d want hear what little he knows about this Amherst murder. Are you back at the house?” he said.
    “Yes, but give me time to grab a shower before you show up, please!”
    “No problem. We’ll pick up something to drink along the way.”
    When he hung up, Meg dashed for the shower.
     
     
    She was downstairs wearing clean clothes, her hair damp, when Art and Seth pulled in. Despite the matters that had led to her introduction to the local chief of police, she counted Art Preston more as a friend than as an officer these days. He in turn was willing to trust her with information that lay outside of what was released to the public—if and when he had any. As a small-town police chief, he wasn’t always included in investigations outside of his jurisdiction, and he and Detective Marcus were not friendly.
    “Hey, Meg,” he called out when he saw her at the back door. “We didn’t know what you had, so we brought beer, wine, and a gallon of iced tea.”
    “Right now I’m parched, so I’ll go with the tea. Are you off-duty, Art?”
    “I am. I’ve got to get home by six or the wife’ll skin me alive, but I knew you’d be calling me sooner or later about this Weston death, so I figured I’d beat you to it. And here we are.”
    “Thank you. I just called your office and they said you’d left with Seth. Sit—I’ll get some glasses.”
    The two men settled themselves in the Adirondack chairs that overlooked the Great Meadow, and Meg ducked inside for some glasses. When she returned, she began, “So, what can you tell me?”
    Art sighed. “Unfortunately, not much. Here’s what I’ve got.” He pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Weston, Daniel. Age sixty-two. Full professor in the English department at Amherst College. Tenured. Lives in Amherst, on the fringes of town. Married, second wife—they’ve been together about ten years now. A couple of grown sons from his first marriage, living in different places around the country. Well liked by his colleagues, happy with his wife. Financially secure, or as secure as you get these days. No known evil habits, vices, scandals—doesn’t mess with students of either gender, or anyone else, as far as anybody knows.”
    “He sounds like a sterling character,” Meg commented. “Our friend Detective Marcus told me he died of a heart attack, but in a rather unlikely location. Has Marcus shared anything with you, Art?”
    “He hasn’t, and last I heard the medical examiner hadn’t issued any information.”
    “How long does an autopsy take?” Meg asked.
    “It’s probably done, but that doesn’t mean they broadcast the results. Anyway, I can tell you that Weston was found in the cider house adjacent to Dickinson’s Farm Stand, maybe five miles from here. It’s just over the ridge north of Granford. You’ve probably been by it without paying any attention.”
    “On the contrary, I know it pretty well—they sell my apples. Nice old-timey place, right? The cider house is that little building off to the right?”
    Art leaned back in his seat and studied the ceiling. “That’s the one. The stand stays open late, until about eight, to catch the tourists these days. But Weston apparently paid a visit to the farm stand sometime after that.”
    “Alone?” Meg asked.
    “Hard to say. His car was sitting in the lot there. Weston was found on the floor of the cider room. Just