by Wendy Tyson
“There are other things he can do to promote his brews.”
Emily shook her head. “Not like that. Thousands of people in one spot over the course of a week? The name of the brewery slapped on every billboard, every advertisement? Talk about exposure. When the committee chose Otto Vance, my father was heartbroken. Irate. He asked for a spotlight piece, a mention at the chili cook-off. Anything.” She met Megan’s gaze. “I think he took it personally. As though the whole town didn’t believe in him.”
Megan could see that. She understood how valuable a sponsorship could be if the Oktoberfest celebration drew in the kind of crowds the committee was expecting. Washington Acres Café was selling food at various events across the week-long celebration, but it would be the Sauers’ name on the brochure cover, the billboard, the newspaper articles. That kind of exposure could trigger sales beyond Oktoberfest, so Ted’s disappointment made sense. But Megan could also see that a man so obsessed, so hurt, might act out in desperation.
“Does your father blame anyone in particular?”
Emily looked surprised at the question. “I don’t know. Not particularly. Maybe the committee overseeing the Oktoberfest. And his competition, of course.”
“Otto?”
Emily nodded. “He felt sure that Otto had made the committee block him so the competition would be limited. Honestly, he was so upset that he was directing his anger everywhere. It was hard to determine what was real and what was paranoia.” She frowned. “He just hasn’t been himself—and it seems to be getting worse.”
Clearly the thought that Otto’s death and her father’s plight were related had never crossed her mind. That or Emily was an excellent actress. “Why would your dad have brought his business file to the café?”
“I have no idea. Maybe he was meeting with someone about a loan. He’s run out of money. Maybe he’s still trying to convince someone on the committee to allow him to take over the brewery sponsorship.”
Now that Otto was out of the way, Megan thought. But was Ted Kuhl—quiet, diligent, wounded Ted Kuhl—capable of doing something so heinous? No. The thought was ridiculous.
Then why this constant hammering tension in her belly? Megan finished her water and rose to leave.
“Don’t go.” Emily’s eyes widened, panicked. “I thought…maybe you could help me figure out where to look. You being a lawyer and everything.”
“Former lawyer.” Megan smiled gently. “I don’t know where your dad could be, Emily. He’s probably out nursing his hurts and needs time alone. If he shows up at the café, we’ll call you. I’ll ask Alvaro and Clover to be on alert.”
Emily sat there. Teeth gnashed at a bruised bottom lip.
“Is there something more?” Megan asked. “Something you’re not telling me?”
Emily nodded. Megan could hear light whimpering coming from somewhere deeper in the house. Emily glanced backwards, seemed to be weighing her choices. Finally she said, “Wait here. Please.”
When she returned, she had Lily on her hip. The baby was chubby and rosy and happy—all the things a baby her age should be.
Emily shoved something toward Megan. “Look at this.”
It was a single piece of lined paper, ripped out of a three-ring binder. At the top was a small silver key taped onto the paper with clear Scotch tape.
The paper had several sets of numbers on it. Megan eyed Emily questioningly.
“They’re his bank accounts, and that’s the key to his safe deposit box.”
“He left these for you?”
Emily nodded. “When I came home from work yesterday, these were on the dining room table.”
“With anything else?”
“No.” Eyes darted toward the doorway. She hugged the baby closer to her breast.
Megan sighed. She could tell Emily wasn’t telling her everything—but why should she? She didn’t know Megan well. She was simply scared and looking for someone safe to confide in. “Emily, have you called the police?”
“No.” That alarm again. “Why would I call the police?”
Megan waited for Emily to draw the conclusion herself. Eventually Emily said, “In case he hurt himself.”
“That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?” Megan asked gently.
Emily rested her head against the baby’s. She didn’t answer, but watery brown eyes spoke for her.
“Do you want me to do it for you?”
Emily shook her head. “I’ll call. I promise.”
Megan hated to do it, but she asked the question that had been plaguing her since she saw Otto’s covered inert form carted away from that solar farm. “Do you think there could be another reason he’s left?”
“What other reason could there be?”
“Do you think your father is capable of hurting someone else, Emily?”
“No. Never.” Emily pulled her shoulders up, standing at her full height. She turned Lily away from Megan and shook her head violently. “Himself? Maybe. He hasn’t been the same since my mother died. But someone else?” Comprehension dawned in her eyes. “Like Otto Vance? No way. Not even by accident, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m simply asking you a question. Your father left you those accounts for a reason.” Megan paused. “Please call the police. Have them look for him. I’m sure he’s fine and just nursing his hurts, but just in case.”
“I will.”
The trusting warmth was gone from Emily’s voice now. Megan left, feeling as though she’d stolen a treasured doll from a child. She too wanted to believe Ted Kuhl was fine—and incapable of anything worse than anger and rage at a world that had let him down. But there were a lot of coincidences here. And a man didn’t simply leave home for no reason.
Megan returned home to find the house empty. She’d intended to work in the greenhouses planting a new round of lettuce seeds for winter harvest, produce Alvaro would use at the café. Despite Sadie’s excitement at seeing her and Gunther’s insistent kisses, Megan didn’t feel like being at the farm. Not now. Emily’s reaction and the reality that Ted Kuhl was missing weighed heavily on her.
Although the police were looking at Otto’s death as an accident, when she added up three bits of information—Ted’s anger about Oktoberfest, Otto’s strange behavior the afternoon he died, and Ted’s sudden disappearance—logic told her there was more going on here. Bibi was right. Connecting the dots seemed to indicate that Ted had something to do with Otto’s death. A fight or a push, perhaps. He could have been the person who fled the scene. It didn’t have to add up to murder.
Megan bid the dogs goodbye and climbed into her truck. She wasn’t sure where she was going, she just knew she needed to go somewhere. She caught a glimpse of the dogs’ faces peeking through the window. She exited the truck, wrote Bibi a quick note, and loaded the dogs into the pickup. She’d drive and think for a while. Maybe with some time to mull, her brain would sort things out.
Seven
It was after four when Megan pulled into her aunt’s driveway. She was partly relieved, partly apprehensive to see Sarah Birch’s car in the lot. Her paternal grandfather’s sister lived in a storybook cottage outside of Winsome. Thick woods of mature trees horse-shoed around abundant flower and vegetable gardens. Elaborate fairy gardens peeked out from under foliage, their miniature leaf beds and walnut-shell cradles suggesting more whimsy than Sarah might admit to. With the fiery leaves and the last of the fall-blooming perennials painting starbursts of deep purple and bright orange, it was easy to see why the famous mystery author secluded herself here. Although only minutes from Winsome and less than an hour from Philadelphia, her home felt eons away from the chaos and uncertainty of the world.
Megan and the dogs climbed out of the car. Sadie and Gunther ran ahead, circling the gardens and nipping at each other’s legs. Megan made her way to the do
or. She was about to knock when the front door opened and her Aunt Sarah rushed out of the entryway onto the small porch landing.
“Megan, you gave me a scare! I was just about to leave and wasn’t expecting to see someone on this porch. But I am so very happy to see you.”
“Good to see you too,” Megan managed. She hadn’t known Aunt Sarah at all until about six months ago, so it was hard to muster enthusiasm for a woman who’d been nothing but a vague ghost of a memory for most of her life.
Sarah scanned the yard, spotted the dogs frolicking by the woods, and said, “Would you like to come in? The dogs are welcome too.”
“If you need to leave, I don’t want to hold you up.”
“No, that’s fine. I was just heading out to get a bottle of wine. It can wait.”
“If you’re sure.” Megan called to Sadie and Gunther. Gunther, better trained every day, came immediately and sat before her, the obedient livestock guardian dog. Sadie looked at her, sniffed a flower, peed next to a bush, and then trotted her way toward the house, stopping twice to investigate something interesting. For Sadie, obedient livestock guardian dog was clearly not a career aspiration.
“He’s a beautiful dog,” Sarah said, pointing toward Gunther. “A Great Pyrenees?”
“A Polish Tatra Sheepdog. Like a Pyrenees, but slightly smaller and pure white.” Megan bent down to pet Gunther and his tail wagged furiously. “When he’s not muddy, that is.” He licked her and she smiled. Hard to believe this was the same downtrodden pup who’d been so mistreated by Sauer only months ago.
“Well, we’re letting the chill inside. Come in for something to eat. And I have water and cookies for the dogs.” She looked at Megan over the bridge of her prominent nose. “Can they have ginger snap people cookies?”
“You’ve met my grandmother. She says no table food for the dogs and then feeds them when no one is looking. So yes, one cookie is fine.”
Megan followed Sarah through the dining room and into the kitchen. Her aunt had renovations completed last spring and the house was back to order—mostly. Books, half-finished sketches, and piles of manuscript paper still cluttered the flat surfaces.
“Ignore the mess,” Sarah said. She pointed to a white table in the bright cozy cottage kitchen. Blue milk paint-coated wainscoted cabinets paired nicely with bright white trim and pale yellow walls. Colorful Mexican majolica tiles formed one countertop, worn three-inch maple butcher block the other. Something simmering in a crock pot smelled of garlic and smoky cumin.
“Vegetarian chili,” Sarah said. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’m making cornbread too.”
“No, thank you.” But that would be a great combination for the café, Megan thought—something to please Winsome’s growing vegan population. Maybe Alvaro could add that to the menu for the Oktoberfest cook-off.
“Are you sure? I have plenty.”
“Bibi will be expecting me.”
“Coffee or tea, then? I have some coffee on, but tea will just take a moment.”
“Coffee would be great.”
Sarah tossed a ginger snap to each of the dogs and then placed a plate of cookies on the table. She poured coffee. “Cream?” When Megan nodded, she placed a ceramic pot of cream, a matching small ceramic pot of sugar, and a tiny pewter spoon on the table before sitting down.
Megan studied her aunt from across the table. Sarah, her grandfather’s sister, had Megan’s father’s green eyes and square jaw, but her stare was intelligent, serious, and rather shrewd—unlike the joie de vivre of her father’s easy countenance. Sarah’s long graying hair hung in one ropey braid down her back. Today she wore black wool pants cut wide and loose and a red-print kaftan that skimmed the blocky lines of her torso. Her hands were big and thick-knuckled with clean short nails. No-nonsense working hands—like Megan’s.
Megan wanted to fight this feeling of kinship with an aunt who had betrayed her, but try as she might, she couldn’t muster anger—only bewilderment.
“Megan, you seem unsettled,” Sarah said. “Everything okay with Bonnie?”
“My grandmother is fine. So is the farm.”
Sarah took a sip of coffee and cocked her head sideways, waiting.
“I’m struggling with a bit of a moral dilemma, and I was hoping for some insight from you.”
“A moral dilemma? Of the intellectual or emotional variety?”
“Is there a difference?”
Sarah smiled. “Depends on your attachment to the underlying problem.”
So different from talking with Bibi, Megan thought, for whom many things were black and white, cut and dry, right and wrong. Lawyers were used to working within the gray—and so, Megan figured, were crime authors. That’s what had brought her here.
Megan started with a question. “You and Ted Kuhl knew each other in school?”
“We did indeed—although we were four years apart.”
“How well do you know him now?”
“How well do I know the man little Teddy has become? Not very well, I guess. Why?”
Megan shared her concerns with Sarah—from overhearing the conversation between him and Otto, to Otto’s behavior toward a stranded Porter, to Ted’s recent disappearance. “Something is off.”
“You think Ted had something to do with Otto’s death.” It was a statement, not a question.
Megan looked toward the window. Nodded. “He might not have been the cause, but I think he knows something at least.”
“And only you overheard their heated conversation. You’re afraid you misinterpreted what you heard, and you don’t want to get an innocent man in trouble if that’s the case.”
Again Megan nodded. She kept her gaze on the window, then on Sadie as Sadie quietly groomed Gunther’s neck in the corner.
“And to complicate factors, you’re just getting established here in Winsome. People like your café, the farm is coming along well, and the hoopla from the happenings of last spring has finally died down,” Sarah continued. “You don’t want to make waves for yourself in such a small town by being the one to suggest Otto’s death could be more than an accident.”
Megan looked at her aunt, surprised. She was right, of course—although Megan hadn’t even realized she was feeling that way. She felt her face flush.
“So for you it’s not simply an intellectual exercise, but an emotional one too. You have something to lose.”
“I guess I do.” This certainly wasn’t helping her feel any better.
“Megan, I think you know the answer to your dilemma.” Sarah stood to refill the coffee cups. Megan’s sat untouched. Sarah dumped it and poured her a fresh cup. “You can’t control what these townspeople think of you. And as for Ted, if he’s done something wrong—no matter how understandable his disappointment with life—justice should prevail.”
“And if he hasn’t done something, and I make his life even worse—”
“You didn’t cause the argument you overheard. You didn’t leave town in a manner suggesting wrongdoing or guilt. Stop taking responsibility for others’ actions.”
Megan chewed at her bottom lip, thought of Emily, and stopped. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You asked whether there was a difference between an emotional or intellectual moral dilemma. The key is to remove the emotionality and treat any dilemma as an intellectual exercise.”
“Like you did when you helped my mother leave, all those years ago?”
Sarah paused mid-sip. She quickly regained her composure, set her mug down, and nodded. “Yes, Megan. Exactly like that.” She leaned forward, her face a study in tranquility. “Would you like to talk about your mother?”
Yes. No. Maybe, Megan thought.
Her mother had abandoned her when she was only eight years old, leaving her in the hands of her very capable and loving grandmother, a stern grandfather, and
her loving but not-so-capable father, Eddie Birch. It was only last spring that Megan discovered her aunt was living again in Winsome, that her aunt was a famous mystery author, and that Sarah had been the catalyst to her mother’s departure. It had been a lot to take in then. It was still a lot to take in.
Megan mustered her courage. “Why did you help her?”
“Because she was trapped and miserable and it was the right thing to do.”
“Intellectually.”
“Yes.”
“But what about me? What about your young niece and the fact that her whole life would be turned upside down? Didn’t that come into play in your decision at all?” Megan could feel her voice rising in pitch and she struggled for control, but these were questions that had been plaguing her for months. “How could your decision be made so coldly?”
Sarah leaned forward. She very deliberately made eye contact with Megan. The look on her face was one of understanding and empathy—not anger or pity. Somehow that made it worse. “Your mother loved you, Megan. I loved you—love you still. You are looking at this through the eyes of a hurt little girl, not a grown woman. To understand, you must force a different perspective.”
“I don’t think I will ever understand how a mother could leave her child.”
“Do you understand that people make mistakes? That sometimes those mistakes have unintended consequences?”
“Like an unplanned child?”
“Like a forced marriage.”
“You’re saying my mother was forced to marry my father? Certainly not by him—or my grandparents.” She seemed suddenly unable to control her anger. Bibi would no more force a marriage than kill a child. Sarah was rationalizing her own hand in all of this.
“I’m saying this situation is much more complicated than you think. No decision was made coldly or rashly.” Sarah placed a napkin over her cup. “Now isn’t the time to talk about it. Clearly.”
Her words were gentle but firm and Megan knew she was being reprimanded. A million conflicting emotions soared through her body. She landed on frustration—with herself and her aunt.