by Wendy Tyson
She rose to leave.
“You’re angry,” Sarah said.
“No, I’m not angry.”
“You have a right to be angry. What I’m asking you to do takes an incredible amount of strength and courage. To remove yourself from the equation, to look at what happened from the vantage point of objectivity.” Sarah sighed. “It takes will and insight most people can’t muster.”
Megan mulled Sarah’s words. She called Sadie and Gunther, both of whom rushed to her side.
“Thank you for the coffee.”
“I hope you’ll come again, Megan. I really do.”
Sarah followed Megan to the front door. She placed a hand on Megan’s shoulder—strong and warm and unwanted.
Before leaving, Megan turned to face her. “There are multiple sides to every story, Aunt Sarah. My mother has one, and perhaps from her vantage point her actions were justified. You have one. And I’m sure you felt you did the right thing based on the facts and circumstances at the time. But I have one too.” She met Sarah’s gaze, refusing to be silenced, even by her aunt’s calm intellectual gaze. “I was the only one with no control. I didn’t ask to be born. I couldn’t really speak for myself. So while I am busy mustering this perspective you demand, who is speaking for me?”
Once at the truck, Megan glanced back to see Sarah watching her from the doorway. It was too far to see the expression on her aunt’s face, but her silence had been all the answer Megan needed.
“I just don’t know, Megan. The coroner believes it was an accident. No signs of foul play.” Chief Bobby King rubbed his temple. He looked tired and cross. “You’re sure about what you heard between Vance and Kuhl?”
“I know what I overheard, but I’m not certain of the context.” Megan sat forward in the uncomfortable steel chair. They were in King’s office in Winsome’s humble police station, and she was beginning to think coming here was a mistake. “Did Emily call you to report her dad missing?”
“She called, but said she was afraid he’d done something to hurt himself.”
Megan nodded. “He’s run off, Bobby, and that’s what I’m worried about. He argues with Vance, next thing you know Vance is dead. Coincidence? Maybe. But now Kuhl’s missing. And he left Emily his bank information.”
Bobby King perked up at her last statement. “She didn’t mention that when she called.”
“I don’t know what it means and neither did she.” At least nothing she would admit to. “Will you follow up?”
“Sure, we’ll follow up.”
“But you don’t think it’s anything.”
“No, I don’t.” He sighed. “Look, it’s Oktoberfest, Megan. The festival may have sounded like a great idea at the time, but with so many people expected to flood this little town, someone has to keep everyone safe. Do I have time to chase after vague theories? No, not really. So I just hope this isn’t another wild goose chase.”
“Another wild goose chase?”
“First the chair up on Potter Hill, now suggestions of aggression between Otto and Ted? Murder is a strong accusation.”
“I never said murder, Bobby. You’re putting words in my mouth. I said there could be a connection, one that warrants investigation by the police. And that chair was there, facing my house.”
Bobby didn’t respond, but the look on his face was enough. He was humoring her at best—that was all. Megan grabbed her purse.
“Look,” Megan said quietly, “if you don’t want to consider the connection between Otto and Ted, at least help Emily find her father. She seemed pretty distraught.”
“Megan, are you telling me how to do my job?” King folded his hands in front of him on his desk. “Because if you are, I don’t appreciate it.”
“You know that’s not the case.”
“Do I?” He took an audible breath and let it out loudly. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to go back to farming and running that wonderful café of yours—love Alvaro’s breakfast burritos, by the way—and you’re going to let us deal with Otto and Ted and whatever else may be going on in Winsome. Okay?”
Megan felt the hot sting of angry tears. She refused to get emotional—not here, not in front of King. She’d made what he thought of as irrational suggestions and managed to bruise his ego. The only recourse left for her was to do as he asked—or not. She preferred the not, but with her cards held closer this time.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” she said curtly.
“Ah, Megan, now don’t do that. You know how highly I think of you and Bonnie. And after last spring, I know you’re more than capable. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but with Oktoberfest coming up, we’re swamped and—”
“Oktoberfest. Is that the only thing anyone can talk about? There are bigger things to think about, Bobby. A man has lost his life, and my grandmother was the one to find him. And now a Winsome man has gone missing. Ignore my concerns, but help Emily. Tell me you’ll do that.”
She waded through King’s silence for only a moment before leaving. It was the second time that day someone from Winsome let her down. She hoped it would be the last.
Eight
Lana Vance surprised Megan with a phone call three days before Otto’s memorial service. The coroner had not yet released his body for burial, but Lana wanted to hold a ceremony now for closure. And she wanted Alvaro and the farm/café to cater a memorial lunch at their spacious Winsome estate.
“He loved your place, Megan,” Lana said. Her voice, laced with the accent she’d inherited from a childhood spent in Sweden, sounded heavy with grief. “He enjoyed spending time at the café with his friends. It was a safe place for him. I know it is short notice, but maybe some German-inspired salads and sandwiches. He was a simple man. He would like that.”
How could Megan say no?
And so she skipped the memorial service at the local Lutheran church and went instead to the Vance home to set up with Clay and Clover. The Vance family lived on nine lush rolling acres of property. Their house, originally a simple Colonial in line with the historic roots of the area, had been added on to multiple times until it was a four thousand square foot sprawling abode with a large sunporch and an in-ground pool. Otto’s German heritage was everywhere, from the ornate hex sign over the pool house entry to the black and white prints of Berlin, Munich, and Cologne in the kitchen.
The day was crisp and clear and warm. Lana had designated the sunroom and the grounds around the pool for the luncheon—and it looked like the weather would continue to cooperate.
“Why aren’t they having it at the brewery?” Clover whispered while they folded white cloth napkins and laid them beside a stack of glass dinner plates. “The brewery has the space. And they serve food.”
“I thought that was curious too,” Clay said.
Megan had been wondering the same thing. “Maybe the memories are too painful.” She glanced at her watch. “Alvaro should be here any moment with the food.”
“He’s been preparing for two days, taking time away from the things he’s making for Oktoberfest,” Clover said. “But he wouldn’t tell me what he was making. What’s on the menu?”
“Lana wanted to play on Otto’s Germanic roots, so Alvaro and I designed the menu around that. Warm German potato salad, thinly sliced chicken schnitzel, spaetzle with Gruyere and caramelized onions, bratwurst and sauerkraut, a field green salad with walnuts and goat cheese, and an assortment of pastries and cookies.”
Clover looked surprised. “Alvaro agreed to make all that?”
“He grumbled, but yes, he agreed.” Megan glanced at Clover. “In fact, he designed the menu.”
Clay smiled. “He liked Otto. Even if he’d never admit it.”
Megan heard a vehicle pulling up outside. “Speaking of our angel, I think he’s here.”
Alvaro’s 1997 van belched its way into the driveway next
to the sunroom. They rushed out to meet him, and together they placed the food on the white-clothed tables. Two vases of yellow roses—Lana’s request—acted as the centerpiece alongside pictures of Lana and Otto, their five grown children, and their six granddaughters.
“That should be enough food for two towns,” Alvaro mumbled. Still, he left and came back in with fresh-baked pumpernickel bread and homemade Bavarian pretzels—not even on the menu. He straightened out several of the dishes and nodded to himself.
“Thanks, Alvaro,” Megan said.
“Don’t thank me for doing what I’m paid to do,” Alvaro said, but Megan heard the hitch in his voice. “I’ll be at the café if you run out of something.”
“Otto was such an integral part of this town,” Clover said after Alvaro left, her eyes moist. “A lot of people will really miss him.”
Megan agreed. He wasn’t a showy man, or a leader, but he was always there with a kind word or a creative suggestion—like Oktoberfest. The brewery drew patrons from Winsome and other local towns, as well as passersby. The beer wasn’t great—Emily was right about that—but it was decent, as was the food. Thinking of Emily caused thoughts of Ted Kuhl to come unbidden to her. Would Emily attend the memorial service? Ted? They had been friends after all. Megan had hoped to join Bibi and Denver at the service to pay her respects and to see for herself, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Guests started arriving fifteen minutes later. Clover had volunteered to run the buffet, so Megan wasn’t needed. She changed into a plain black vintage dress and patent leather heels and went to look for Bibi and Denver. She found them together by the pool, watching the floating orchids and candles Lana had placed on the water.
“Ta,” Denver was saying to Bonnie, “I’d like that.”
“Like what?” Megan asked. She slid between them, gave her grandmother a kiss, and smiled at Denver. “What did I miss?”
“A lot of tears,” Denver said. “It was a sad service.”
Bibi nodded.
“And I was just inviting Dr. Finn here back to the house for some coffee and cake after the luncheon.”
“Were you now?” Megan asked.
“Can’t have our only veterinarian going hungry.” Bibi shot a sly smile at Denver. “Right?”
“Aye,” Denver said, patting his flat stomach. “Wouldn’t do at all.”
“There’s plenty of food inside,” Megan said. “In case you’re starving. From being a bachelor and all.”
Denver laughed, Bibi didn’t. Leave it to her grandmother to matchmake during a memorial luncheon.
The back door opened, and a group of people spilled out onto the stone patio, all carrying dishes piled high with food. All except one woman, that is, who carried only a glass of white wine. Many sets of eyes were on her—including those of a number of the gentlemen standing nearby. She was young, petite, and slender. Chin-length straight brown hair accented a heart-shaped face. Megan saw almond-shaped brown eyes with unnaturally thick lashes. A pertly sculpted nose. A long, graceful neck. She would have been a beauty had it not been for her mouth—thinly lipped, tight, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl. In fact, she had the look of a woman who’d just sucked her way through an entire basket of lemons.
“Who’s that?” Megan whispered.
“That would be Ophelia Dilworth,” Denver said.
“So that’s Winsome’s PR expert,” Megan mused aloud. “Not what I’d envisioned.”
“Aye,” Denver whispered. “A bit of a priss behind the scenes, I bet. The kind of person who’s sweet to your face right before she chops you up and buries you in her flower garden.”
Megan laughed. “I take it you’re not a fan.”
“Anyone who chooses Sauer over you is my sworn enemy.” He smiled, softening his words. “There is something about her. I can’t put my finger on it.”
After excusing herself, Megan left to check on Clover and the buffet. From the sunroom window, she watched Ophelia make the rounds outside the courtyard. The young woman stopped to talk with Clay before moving on to the town’s newest zoning commissioner, Roger Becker. It wasn’t long before the PR specialist was holed up in a corner talking to Denver too.
Megan swallowed a stab of jealousy. She had no right. Still, she wished Denver looked a little less animated and Ophelia a little more homely. Megan tore her gaze from the pair outside and back on the chicken cutlets, warming in a tray over a Bunsen burner. It was then she saw Ophelia and Denver had another observer. Lana Vance was standing by the stove, a chef’s knife in one hand, a knife sharpener in the other. The knuckles wrapped around the knife handle were bone white—matching the pallor of her face.
Megan stayed to help Lana clean up.
“I want to thank you for doing this,” the older woman said. She was washing glasses in the remodeled kitchen’s oversized apron sink despite the empty dishwasher a foot away. “Otto would have approved.”
“Alvaro did the heavy lifting. As much as he complains in general, I think he had a soft spot for your husband.”
“He wasn’t the only one.” A shadow fell across Lana’s fair features. “He could be charming.”
Megan wrapped the last of the leftover salad and placed it in the refrigerator. The house, so lively just an hour ago, echoed with the tap of her shoes against the old pine floors. Megan knew from experience that the echoes would seem louder, the emptiness more pronounced, in the coming days. Lana would need to keep busy. If cleaning helped with that, so be it.
Megan reached for the mustard to tuck it into the refrigerator when a wailing sound from Lana stopped her. Sobs racked her client’s shoulders, and big angry tears trekked down her cheeks.
Lana’s fist balled. She punched her arm, then her palm. “I. Hate. Him.” She closed her eyes, scratched at the raw skin on her forearm.
Megan sprinted to her side. “Hey,” she whispered. Louder, “Lana, I’m right here. It’s okay.” She placed an arm around Lana and led her toward the living room. It was like leading a rag doll.
Megan knew this feeling. She remembered the bewilderment, the hurt, the rage of losing Mick. It did get better—eventually. The anguish eased, the loneliness abated. It all devolved into a constant dull ache rather than searing torture.
Lana said, “He was screwing her.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Her?”
“That slut. Oph-ee-lia.” Lana repeated the name twice more, leaning in to the rhythm on her tongue. “Oh-pheee-li-a.” She spat, “God, how I hate her.”
Megan felt the urge to defend Otto, but what did she know? She stayed quiet, not wanting to feed Lana’s angst. The other woman’s body stiffened beside her.
“I hate him for doing this to me,” Lana said. “Oh, lord, I’m sorry, Megan. I just don’t know who to talk to. Otto was everything to me. We’d built a life together. We were going to sell this house and travel.” Another sob. “And to leave me like this.”
“Are you sure, Lana? You may be jumping to conclusions.”
“They’d been texting and meeting.”
“That could mean anything. Oktoberfest had been Otto’s idea. He was a sponsor. They were probably just meeting over business.”
“When her name came up, he’d blush, stumble over his words. You knew my husband. Kind? Yes. Strong? Absolutely. A good liar? No.”
“Still, there could be another explanation.”
Lana turned, looking Megan in the eyes. “A woman knows when something’s not right. I’d been meaning to confront Otto for weeks, but I never found the time. Or the courage.” She shuddered. “Maybe if I had—”
“You can’t allow yourself to think that way.”
This time Lana laughed—a crazy, eerie laugh. “What else am I supposed to think? Middle-aged man, younger woman. It’s so common, it’s cliché. What’s not cliché is him dying at the end.” She flexed her hand. “Unless th
e betrayed wife is the one to kill him.”
Nine
Megan kept this newest information to herself. Not only was she not sure what to do with it, she didn’t want to betray Lana’s confidence. She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to Lana clutching that chef’s knife. She didn’t think Lana was capable of committing murder—even in a fit of rage. It had been angry talk, born of a desire to have answers to questions she could never now ask. Still, with Otto’s death so fresh, everyone seemed suspect—including an aggrieved and angry wife.
Perhaps Lana’s suspicions explained why she chose to have the funeral lunch at her home. The house was Lana’s territory, filled with the evidence of her husband’s love and devotion to family. She couldn’t very well bar Ophelia from coming, but she could let Otto’s mistress—if that’s what Ophelia was—know who’d really won in the end.
Only it felt like no one had won.
“You’re awfully distracted today.” Porter’s voice broke through her reverie. They were planting arugula in one of the hoop houses, and Porter was on hands and knees in the dirt. “Something wrong?”
It was unusual for Brian Porter to pay much attention to anything beyond his own needs, so Megan was startled by the question.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Why don’t we finish this row and call it a day in here.”
“Suit yourself.” Despite the cool weather, he wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The tail of a tattooed dragon snaked down his arm. Megan studied him, looking for signs he was drinking again. He seemed self-possessed. And calm.
As they walked back toward the barn, shovels and seeds in hand, Porter surprised her again. “I headed up to the hill yesterday,” he said, “when you were all at the funeral. Thought I’d make sure no one was watching you again.”
Megan’s heart swelled. “And?”