Bitter Harvest

by Wendy Tyson

  “I would appreciate that,” Megan said. “You’re right, it can’t hurt.”

  Clay nodded. He lifted Dimples up so that she was eye level and said, “Can we talk about the chair you found on Potter Hill?” He placed Dimples back on the floor and scratched behind her ears. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately—”

  “Stop. This isn’t about stress, or Duvall’s murder last spring, or anything other than facts. I know what I saw. Someone had a chair at the top of the hill and it was situated toward the farm.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “The angle gave a perfect view of the driveway. I know because I sat in it.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk about. I believe you. I just don’t want to add to the stress.” He picked up Heidi, looking into her eyes for signs of wateriness or discharge. Once she’d nestled into his chest, he glanced back at Megan. “You may have a stalker.”

  “I know.” Megan sat heavily on the ground across from Clay. “The fact that whoever it was removed the chair after I discovered it worries me the most.”

  “Because they might have been watching you?”

  “Or they were heading there at the same time and happened to see me.” She thought again of treasure hunters and human greed. “Neither alternative is comforting.”

  Clay stood up and wiped his hands on a terrycloth towel. “I talked to Porter.”

  Megan looked up. “Porter?”

  “I know he seems gruff and difficult, but I think he cares about you. He and I are going to take turns heading up there periodically. To make sure whoever it is doesn’t set up camp somewhere else.” Clay smiled. “It was Porter’s idea.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Clay glanced at her with surprise. “Why not?”

  “You both have enough to do around here. If someone wants to spy on the farm, let them. All they’ll see are dogs, goats, chickens, and a lot of boring farm work.”

  “And you.” He softened his voice. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Of course it does.” Megan glanced at her watch and pulled herself upright. It was getting late. She saw the worry in Clay’s eyes and tempered her position. “Fine, if you think it will help, go up occasionally. But if you see something, bring in King. I don’t want any vigilantism, especially not from Porter.”

  Clay nodded his assent. “It does make me wonder why someone would want to watch Washington Acres.”

  Megan thought about the letter she’d found last spring, now tucked away in a small safe in her room. She thought about Otto Vance and whether her stalker could be related to what happened on that solar farm. The frown on Clay’s face told her he had been contemplating Otto’s death too. Before either of them could say anything to heighten the anxiety further, Megan stood and opened the gate to the goats’ enclosure. She walked out into the cool night air. Gunther had been waiting outside the gate. He wagged his white tail furiously at the sight of Megan. She knelt down to pet him, using his calming presence to quiet the jitters in her mind.

  Clay followed Megan, securing the gate behind him. “I’m going to close up the barn and head home. Will you and Bonnie be okay?”

  Megan smiled at her farm manager. How someone so young—someone who’d had such an unorthodox upbringing—could be so chivalrous was always a mystery to Megan. Clay had Captain America Syndrome. But she was grateful he was in her life.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  Megan nodded and headed back toward the house. She paused in the driveway, outside the porch that led to the kitchen. The harvest moon lit her path, and she looked up, toward the hills beyond the farm. Toward Potter Hill. Was someone up there now, using their vantage point to watch her walk along the yard, enter her house? Maybe they had binoculars. She could almost picture a man sitting in the shadows, a lit cigarette by his side. Faceless, brooding. Megan jutted her chin forward and lifted her head. On impulse, she stuck out her arm. She wanted to follow with her middle finger but something held her back. Instead, she held up her hand, palm side toward Potter Hill. She refused to feel cowed on her own property. If someone was there, she was sending a message: I know you’re watching. And I am not scared.

  Inside, she double locked the door. She wasn’t scared. Not really.

  But she wasn’t stupid either.

  Five

  “It’s clean, Megan.” Clay wiped a lock of dark hair from his eyes. He looked like a slightly more rugged Jake Gyllenhaal—in overalls. “I don’t know what Otto was doing at Jenner’s solar field, but I didn’t see anything out of place.”

  “Had King placed crime tape in the area?” Last year when Duvall was killed in the barn, King had left crime tape up for days. Knowing how he was treating the scene of Otto’s death would give them some inkling about what he’d found. Or what he suspected.

  They were loading pumpkins into the truck to sell outside the café. Megan was standing in the truck bed and Clay was swinging the pumpkins from a pile on the ground into the back, where Megan was trying to sort them into some semblance of order.

  He handed her two small ones and shook his head. “Not that I could see. Whatever happened there yesterday, there was no evidence of it today.”

  “Hmm. Did Clover mention anything?” Clover Hand was not only Megan’s café/store manager, but the mostly on-again girlfriend of Police Chief Bobby King—and Clay’s sister.

  Clay stroked his chin with one slender hand. “She didn’t mention Otto when I spoke with her last night.” Clay pulled an especially large pumpkin from the dwindling pile and tossed it effortlessly onto the truck. “I’ve got this one.” He jumped onto the truck and pulled the large fruit toward the side of the bed. That done, he said, “I did witness something odd though.”

  “Oh? What was that?” Megan leaned against the truck in need of a break. The sun had just come flaming over the horizon, and a hush had fallen across the farm. It was only seven thirty in the morning, and the air was brisk and cool, an icy undercurrent a harbinger of the freezing months to come. She took a swig of water from the bottle resting on the edge of the truck and waited.

  “That Ophelia woman? The woman running Oktoberfest? I saw her with Glen Sauer.”

  “That’s not really news.” Megan told Clay about her phone call with Ophelia and about Sauer’s appointment as the farm sponsor for the late October celebration.

  “I guess that explains it.” Clay paused. “I wonder why they’re bending the rules for him.”

  “Because he convinced them to? Because he has by far the largest farm in the area?”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Clay placed the last of the pumpkins in the truck bed. Megan jumped out and they pulled the gate up, securing it into place.

  Megan said, “Something’s still bothering you?”

  “Just the way they were talking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Clay’s brow creased, as it always did when he was thinking. Behind him, the old barn loomed, its stately form a reminder that all was not always as it seemed in Winsome. “Glen wore an angry scowl and Ophelia seemed to be doing her best to appease him. She’s a looker, and he can be…well, he tends to leer. Made me uncomfortable, I guess.”

  “I haven’t met her in person. Do you think they were fighting?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure why the town hired her. I mean, I get that the Oktoberfest celebration is a big deal. The town is spending a lot to have the week-long event come off without a hitch. But did we really need a PR specialist to run the show?”

  “The committee must have thought so.” Megan was not enchanted with committees, especially ones that were self-appointed and self-important, as many of Winsome’s seemed to be. “The funny thing is, this was Otto’s baby—yet he didn’t seem that involved in the whole affair.”

  “I sensed some tens
ion about that,” Clay said. “Resentment that his brewery was chosen as the beer sponsor. A little too cozy.” Clay was retying his work boots. He stopped to look up at Megan. “Do you think what happened to Otto could be related? People get funny when it comes to this stuff. Maybe a fight that went awry?”

  Megan thought again about the argument at the café amongst the Breakfast Club members. Ted Kuhl’s anger over not being chosen as the beer sponsor, the obvious disagreement between the men about how the business lotteries were being handled. “I have thought of that, but I don’t want to believe Otto’s death has anything to do with Oktoberfest. I know people can be petty, but to allow something so silly to end like that…” Megan shook her head. “A terrible thought.”

  “Well, we may never know.” Boots retied, Clay picked up the handles of a wheelbarrow and started back toward the barn. “Want to take some of the garlic to the café with us? Alvaro could use some, and I think we’re almost out of it on the shelves.”

  “Sure.” They’d had a strong garlic harvest the past summer, and scores of braids of Music, Chesnok Red, and other varieties hung from the depths of the barn, enough to last for months. “Have you talked to Ophelia yourself?”

  Clay swung around, toward Megan. “No. Why?”

  “Just something you said earlier. About why she’s here in Winsome.”

  “The committee hired her PR firm to help with Oktoberfest.” He tilted his head. “What’s there to know?”

  “Why Ophelia? How did they find her? How much is she charging? Just seems sort of extravagant for such a small town.”

  Clay smiled. “You forget, Megan, we’re still on the East Coast, in the northeast corridor. Lots of money around here—and I’m sure the committee has set its sights on bringing some of that money to the good people of Winsome.”

  Including Sauer farm, Megan thought.

  “Perhaps it is that simple.”

  “But as for why Ophelia specifically, got me.” Clay had reached the barn entrance and was maneuvering the wheelbarrow through the wide doors and into the building. “Ask Merry Chance. If anyone would know Ophelia’s qualifications, it’s the town busybody.”

  Megan found herself too busy over the next day to seek out Merry, but on late Friday afternoon of that same week, the town’s nursery owner and expert on all things Winsome stopped by the farm looking for eggs.

  “The store is out of them,” Merry said, eyeing Megan over the top of her fuchsia readers. Her tone let Megan know that running out of eggs was a grave sin. “Perhaps you have more here?”

  “I’ll have Brian bring you some. How many do you need?”

  “Two dozen. I’m making my famous quiche for a church fundraiser this weekend.”

  Megan texted Porter, asking him to fetch two dozen eggs from the cooler. Merry was standing on the front porch. She peered around Megan, straining for a glimpse into the kitchen. “Is Bonnie home?”

  “She is. Would you like to come in?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to bother you, Megan. But it would be nice to get off my feet for a spell.”

  “It’s no bother. My grandmother is making herself dinner. I’m sure she’d enjoy the company.” Megan choked the words out. Bibi didn’t care for Merry Chance any more than she liked hemorrhoids or arthritic knuckles.

  “Oh, good. Then I’ll just wait inside for those eggs.” Merry clutched her light blue purse tight to her light blue sweater-clad bosom. “You look nice. What’s the occasion?”

  Megan glanced down at her brown skirt, brown boots, and the vintage ruby-and-brown print blouse she’d picked up in SoHo. Not particularly dressy. Considering she spent seventy-five percent of her time in blue jeans, she supposed this outfit looked like an upgrade to the rest of Winsome. “As a matter of fact, I’m having dinner out this evening.”

  Merry smirked. “With a certain Scottish veterinarian?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Merry touched Megan’s arm lightly on her way inside. “It’s not good to be alone all of the time.” A shadow fell across her face. “Trust me.”

  Inside, Bibi was at the stove, heating a pot of water. When she caught sight of Merry, she shot a furtive questioning glance at Megan, her lips pressed into a frown.

  “Merry’s here for eggs,” Megan said quickly.

  “And maybe a cup of tea,” Merry chimed in. “If you don’t mind a little company, Bonnie.”

  Bibi didn’t answer immediately. Megan knew Bibi wouldn’t outright lie and say she didn’t mind, nor would she hurt Merry’s feelings. Instead, Bibi filled a kettle with water and placed it on the gas stove, letting time take away the need for a response. Then she reached into an overhead cabinet and pulled the tea box down.

  Bibi said, “Earl Grey, green, English Breakfast, or some ridiculous ginger vanilla chai concoction Megan picked up in Chicago?” Bibi’s inflection on the last words said that while she thought ginger vanilla chai tea was ridiculous, she was proud to have a granddaughter well-traveled and sophisticated enough to pick some up.

  “Ooh, I’ll try the chai tea.”

  Bibi’s frown deepened, but she placed a bag in a navy-blue “Winsome Rules” mug—a leftover from the days when Megan’s father owned a Winsome souvenir shop—and swung her head in Megan’s direction. “Would you like some tea too?”

  “None for me, Bibi. I can’t stay long.”

  “Ah, yes.” Bibi smiled. She liked Denver Finn, and she let Megan know it at every turn.

  Bibi pulled another mug from the cabinet—this one had tiny Christmas ornaments and ornamental lights painted on it and “Jingle some bells in Winsome!” written in red script along the rim—and dropped a chamomile tea bag inside. When the teakettle went off, she poured water into the two cups and placed them on the table.

  Megan heard a sound coming from another room. “Is that your phone, Bibi?”

  Bibi paused, listening. “Yes. It’s probably your father, Megan. Let me grab that. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll get it for you—”

  With a hard glance at Merry, Bibi said, “No, no. You two talk. I’ll only be a minute.” She disappeared into the hall.

  Megan added honey, cream, napkins, and two spoons to the table setting. “Have a seat, Merry.”

  Merry sat heavily in one of the four chairs around the kitchen table. She poured honey into her mug and while she slowly stirred her tea, said, “It’s a shame about Otto.”

  This was the entrée Megan had been waiting for. She was glad Bibi was out of the room. Bibi didn’t need a reminder of what she’d witnessed.

  Casually, Megan said, “It is a shame. Have you heard any more about what happened?”

  Merry took a long sip of tea, eyes wide over the rim of the cup. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I heard it was an accident. He fell and hit his head on one of those solar panels, and, well, you know.” She leaned in, feral interest gleaming in her eyes. “But what was he doing at the solar farm? I wonder if something illicit was happening. I’ve heard he and Lana had been having marital issues.”

  Lana was Otto’s widow. A six-foot-tall former beauty queen, Lana Vance was also the brewery manager and head bartender.

  Megan said, “Otto didn’t seem like the cheating type.” And he didn’t. He’d been part of the café Breakfast Club since its inception, and Megan had never seen him so much as glance at another woman. Not to mention that a solar farm would be an odd place for an extramarital dalliance. But who knew? Stranger things had been known to happen.

  “They never seem like the cheating type.” That shadow again. Megan wondered whether Merry was talking from experience. She’d been a fixture in Winsome for so long that Megan never bothered to question Merry’s history.

  She felt a wave of shame at her own self-centeredness. A wave that crashed abruptly when Merry said, “How about Bonnie? She was t
he first on the scene. She probably knows something.”

  “My grandmother didn’t see anything…only Otto.”

  Another sip of tea, another feigned innocent glance over the rim. “Why was she there?”

  “She was heading to pick up Brian Porter. He had a flat tire. She happened to see Otto.”

  Merry looked disappointed, as Megan knew she would. Mundane altruism wasn’t exciting. “Well, it is strange, Otto at the solar farm. There’s a story there. I’m certain of it.”

  Megan sat down across from Merry. She wanted to shift the conversation away from Otto’s body before Bibi came back, so she said carefully, “There does seems to be a lot of tension in the air in Winsome recently.”

  “Oh, absolutely. It’s Oktoberfest. I’m as excited about it as anyone, but it certainly brings out the worst in people. You should see the committee members. No one can agree on anything. And to think, this was all Otto’s idea.” Merry brightened. “Although he would have liked that it’s bringing attention and money to the area.”

  “Not for everyone,” Bibi said. She came quietly into the kitchen and sank into a chair at the table. “Lottery my ancient derriere. That Ophelia woman seems to be picking and choosing her favorites for the sponsorship positions.”

  Merry, whose nursery had been chosen to sponsor the event—not a particularly big deal as hers was the only flower gig in town—looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  Megan said, “I’m sure Ophelia is just doing her job. It can’t be easy.”

  “Seems pretty easy to me,” Bibi quipped. “Put some names in a hat and draw them out. Presto. Random drawing.”

  Merry’s color deepened. Megan stifled a smile. As usual, Bibi had gone right to the heart of the problem. “Do you know who brought Ophelia in?” Megan asked.

  Looking relieved to be on safer footing, Merry said, “Her firm came recommended to the committee. She’s a PR generalist and event coordinator, but very good at her job. From what I hear.”