by Wendy Tyson
No gray vest.
Megan pictured Otto the morning of his accident. She’d been surprised by the vest, thinking he looked unusually formal, even for a man so careful about his clothing. And now the vest was gone.
Bibi might not have picked up on that because she wouldn’t have seen him the morning he died. She’d been working in the kitchen. Nor would the police. Lana might have, if she was paying attention—but she was grieving, so a lack of attention to detail might make sense. And that’s if she’d seen his corpse. Because it was so clearly Otto Vance, the police may not have asked her to identify his body. And if they had, they would have removed his clothes or covered his body.
Megan downloaded the photos onto her laptop. By themselves, they weren’t much to go on. Maybe there was a logical explanation—the vest had already been found in his car, or he’d returned home to change his clothes before heading out again. But if not, it could mean someone had removed an article of his clothing. Perhaps because it showed evidence of a struggle. Or because it contained their DNA.
Eleven
Megan didn’t have to seek out Bobby King. The police chief wandered into the café right before lunchtime, just as Alvaro was testing out the chili he planned to serve at Oktoberfest.
“Chili doesn’t sound very German,” King said.
“It’s a chili cook-off. No one said it has to be German,” Alvaro snapped back. “Besides, I add beer. German beer.”
Bobby looked at Megan with a sympathetic grin. He accepted the small cup and the grin morphed into a genuine smile. “Why isn’t that on the menu, Alvaro? It’s delicious.”
“It’ll be on the menu the week of Oktoberfest.”
King held out his cup. “I may need to sample a little more.”
“You can have more the week of Oktoberfest.”
King shook his head. “Clearly Megan didn’t hire you for your customer-service skills.”
Alvaro mumbled something along the lines of, “You want to eat, I serve you food. That’s customer service.”
“What can we help you with?” Megan asked.
“I thought I’d pick up a sandwich to go.”
Megan handed him an order form and a pencil. “Bibi’s back there. She can have it ready in a few minutes. Do you want some coffee while you wait?”
“That would be nice.”
Megan gave King’s order form—a tuna sandwich on rye and smoked mozzarella pasta salad—to Bibi and poured the police chief a cup of coffee. She placed the coffee on one of the smaller tables, away from the few other patrons, and settled in across from him, her laptop in front of her. Clover, who had been ringing up customers at the front of the store, started to walk in their direction. King held up a hand to hold her off.
King peered at Megan over the rim of his mug. “Are you still angry with me?”
“I wasn’t angry.”
“You sure looked angry.”
“I was hurt and upset. You know me better than to think I would give in to paranoia and rash judgments. Something’s going on. After all we’ve been through, you could have given me the benefit of the doubt—without the condescension.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” King pointed at the computer. “I assume you’re not just going to show me pictures of the farm?”
Megan hesitated, unwilling to start another disagreement with King. Finally she said, “When you searched Otto’s car, did you come across a sweater vest?”
“A sweater vest? Megan, the coroner is going to rule this an accident. The autopsy showed cause of death to be due to trauma—”
“Head trauma. I get that, Bobby, but just hear me out.” Megan lowered her voice. “I’m a lawyer and a businesswoman, not some hysterical bored onlooker. And I have legitimate concerns about Otto’s death.”
“Because he passed by Porter on his way to the solar field.”
“That and other reasons.”
“Ted Kuhl.”
“Among others.”
King crossed his arms. “Lana got to you.”
Surprised, Megan said, “She told you?”
“About Ophelia? Yes. She accused Ophelia of being an adulteress.” King leaned in. “But screwing around with someone’s husband isn’t a crime, Megan. Nor is leaving your home to get away and think.”
“But Ted left his bank information with Emily. Doesn’t that make you wonder why? Some of these things add up.”
“Zero plus zero is still zero.”
Megan pushed the computer toward him. “Just take a look, Bobby.”
“What am I looking at?”
Megan explained Bibi’s malfunction with the phone. “I don’t even think she knew she took any pictures, but she’s done this before.”
Bobby glanced up, brow creased. “We took photos of the scene. And besides, these are blurry.”
“It’s not about the pictures. It’s about what’s not in the pictures.” Megan honed in on Otto’s torso. “When I saw him earlier that day, he was wearing a gray sweater vest. I hadn’t seen him wear it before, so I took notice. When Bibi found him, the vest was gone—only the shirt he had been wearing underneath was still on him.”
“He could have taken it off earlier because he was too warm.”
“It was a warm day, maybe too warm for a coat, but not that warm. Why take off the vest?”
“Maybe he’d gotten it dirty. Or he didn’t like it. People change clothes all the time.” Bobby shook his head. “Maybe Otto knew he looked overly fussy and wanted to ditch the vest.”
“Was it in his car?”
King sighed. “I’d have to check, but I don’t think so.” He ran a hand through sandy blond hair and shook his head in a gesture of frustration. “Again, Megan, he could have gone home and changed.”
“The timing seems pretty tight for that. But you could check with Lana.”
“Even if we find out that the vest is missing, so what? What does that prove?”
“It could be evidence of a conflict.”
King thought for a moment. “You’re again suggesting this wasn’t an accident? Otto and someone had a fight, the vest contained evidence, and someone pulled it off him before fleeing the scene.”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“It’s a longshot.” King frowned. “You’re not going to let this go until I check, are you?”
Megan smiled.
Alvaro gave a shout from behind the lunch counter: “Your sandwich is ready.”
King stood.
“You know, if you’re right, the timing is bad.”
Was the timing ever right? “Because it will put a damper on Oktoberfest?”
“Because we could have a killer in our midst. Again.” King placed his palms on the table between them and bent over. In a hissed whisper, he said, “Only this time, we’d also have several thousand strangers watching the drama unfold.”
Aunt Sarah’s words rang in Megan’s ears: you didn’t create the problem, so don’t feel responsible for other people’s actions.
“It’s better to be ahead of things than wish you’d acted sooner,” Megan said.
“I guess. I just wish we had big-city resources. If you’re right, my force will go from thin to sheer.”
Megan pulled into the farm at 2:10, leaving the café after the lunch crowd had dispersed, and got right to work helping Clay and Porter. Alvaro had sent over his café order earlier, and when Megan found her manager and farm hand in the barn, they were staring at a crinkled piece of notepaper containing a paragraph of hard-to-read scribblings.
“Do we even have two hundred pounds of potatoes to spare?” Porter was asking.
They both looked up when Megan came in. The barn—a huge multi-roomed building that dated back to Pennsylvania’s Colonial roots—housed their farm office, a washing and prep station, the Cool-Bot w
here they kept their veggies and eggs, and most of the farm tools. It lacked good lighting and comfortable seating though, and both men were standing under a bare bulb, brows furrowed in frustration.
“That man is nuts if he thinks we can give him this stuff,” Porter said. He handed Megan the list. “I don’t think we can grow that amount of arugula between now and then. And the beets? We have a lot in storage, but his request will wipe out the entire cellar.”
Clay nodded. “Do you know what he intends to do with all of those potatoes?”
“Potato pancakes.” Megan handed the list to Clay. “He’s cooking things we can mostly make ahead and sell in large quantities. Chili, vegetarian chili, latkes with sour cream, quinoa salad with roasted beets and local goat cheese. Mini funnel cakes with fruit compote made from local berries. Street food with a twist.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Clay still looked skeptical.
“Well, let’s start scouting out what we have—and what we’ll need. If we have large quantities of something in storage, Alvaro may be able to alter the menu.”
“We have a lot of celeriac,” Porter said. “But what do you do with that?”
“Knowing Alvaro, something good,” Clay said. Alvaro had been the cook on the commune where Clover and Clay grew up. If anyone had an appreciation for the man’s culinary skills, it was Clay. “Celery root and apple soup, for example.”
“Not a bad idea. Celeriac and apples,” Megan said, pulling on her gloves. “Winsome has plenty of both.”
“Do you think that many people will come?” Porter asked. “Their estimates seem high.”
Clay said, “I think we’ll have a good-sized crowd. Ophelia Dilworth has done a great job getting the word out there. Whatever your thoughts about her, she’s a hard worker.”
Megan didn’t say anything. She was thinking of yesterday’s conversation with Ophelia and the impact of crowds—and the need to control them—on Winsome.
“There was an article about Otto’s death in the paper today,” Porter said. He spoke slowly, as though weighing his words. “An op ed piece about the safety of solar. The author said his accident proves that fields should be secured. Not a lot of moving parts, but sharp edges represent danger. I say that’s a load of crap.” He stared defiantly at Megan. “And who’s to say that Otto’s death was an accident?”
Megan shot him a questioning look.
“Why do you say that?”
“Otto sped by me when I had that flat, before you or Dr. Finn arrived. I did some work for Otto. He used to give me odd jobs around the brewery when I was having trouble making ends meet.”
“So?” Clay had stopped what he was doing to listen. “What does that have to do with his death?”
Porter rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. But sometimes you get a feeling about someone, right? And I got a feeling about Otto. He was distracted and in a hurry, otherwise he would have stopped. Then he winds up dead.” His gaze turned to Megan. “People are talking, wondering what happened and why he was there. They don’t know I hear them, but I do. And they know you’ve been talking to Bobby, Megan.”
“So?” Clay said again.
Another shrug. “So people make connections—right or not. Megan comes back to Winsome and things happen. People talk.”
As they headed deeper into the barn to go through the root cellar, Clay pulled her aside. “Don’t listen to Brian,” he said. “He means well, but he doesn’t always think. People aren’t talking about you.”
Megan struggled not to let the hurt show on her face. “I don’t know about that. Porter was just being honest.”
“If people are talking about you, it’s because of all the good things you’re bringing to Winsome.”
This time, her stoic veneer cracked.
“Am I though?” she said finally. “I’m not so sure.”
King called at ten o’clock that night. Bibi was taking a bath, and Megan was in the kitchen drawing up plans for the layout of a new greenhouse. Clay and Porter had cleared the brush in a section of the property between Washington Acres Farm and the old abandoned Marshall house next door, and they were going to begin construction of a new heated greenhouse after Oktoberfest. Megan had her sights set on buying the Marshall property—someday, when she had the funds. In the meantime, she figured she could distinguish herself from Sauer and some of the other local large farms by offering more greens and other fresh vegetables year-round. She could also sell to farm-to-table restaurants in the Philly area. The farm was creeping toward the black, but as a small operation offering organically grown produce, she needed to diversify her revenue sources. And everyone appreciated fresh vegetables in the dead of winter. But which ones would prove to sell best?
So when the phone rang, Megan, deep in thought, jumped. “Hello,” she said, assuming it was Denver or her father.
“Megan, it’s Bobby King. Do you have a moment?”
She tensed. “Of course.”
“That sweater vest Otto Vance was wearing the morning he died, can you describe it?”
“Uh, sure…let me think.” Megan closed her eyes, picturing Vance at the table with the other members of the Breakfast Club. “Charcoal grey, probably Merino wool, pockets—”
“Can you describe the front in more detail?”
“Button-down, two slash pockets on the bottom.”
“The button detail?”
“The buttons? Large, round, kind of a pewter look.” She concentrated on her visual image, honing in on Otto as he’d appeared that morning—a trick she’d taught witnesses when preparing them for trial for the firm. She could see Otto in that vest, could picture the minute details of the garment. “They had x’s in the center and a thick ring around the outside. The buttons were distinctive and almost retro.” She paused. “Why?”
“No vest in the car, and Lana said he hadn’t returned home that morning. We went back and searched the area again before dark.” King hesitated. “We located a button that matches your description at the solar farm. Not far from where Otto’s body was found. I’ll need you to take a look, just to be sure.”
Megan ran through the implications of the police discovery. Could mean a conflict, just as she’d predicted. Which meant a second person had been involved.
“I’m afraid this also means we need Bonnie’s phone. And we’ll need to talk with her again.”
“But she already told you what she found when she arrived at the field. Can’t we leave her out of this?”
“You know the drill, Megan. This could be a game changer, and Bonnie was the first on the scene.”
Megan was familiar with the drill, all right. More so than she’d like to be.
Twelve
Winsome’s police headquarters consisted of four rooms and a holding cell about two miles from the historic downtown center. The building was a glass-fronted concrete rectangle, a slave to utility rather than style. When Megan and Bibi pulled into the lot the next day, Bobby King stood outside speaking with a linebacker-sized man in a tailored suit.
“That’s Jenner,” Bibi hissed. “I know those shoulders anywhere.”
“Made sense that they’d pull him in. He does own the solar field.”
“Bet he’s as angry as a bull on castration day,” Bibi said. “Hasn’t lived in Winsome for thirty years. The last thing he’ll want is trouble on the one piece of property he still owns.”
Megan was well aware of Jenner’s reputation. He owned the solar farm and a number of other real estate holdings within fifty miles of Winsome, but his real money maker was his investment firm. Mostly he stayed out of Winsome business, coming up occasionally to check on his investments or visit his mother who lived in a retirement home in the next town over.
Megan said, “May actually be better for him if it wasn’t an accident, at least from a liability perspective.”
“Spoken
like a lawyer,” Bibi said. She squeezed Megan’s arm. “Don’t lose that aspect of yourself, Megan. You worked hard for your law degree.”
King and Jenner parted with a curt nod. King spotted Megan and Bibi and walked briskly in their direction.
“Looks like I get to use that aspect of myself now. Ready?”
“I’m always ready.”
Megan smiled. Bonnie Birch was always ready—something else Megan loved about her grandmother. “Have your phone?”
Bibi held up a plastic sandwich bag with her cell phone inside. A small label identified her name and the date.
“I think they bag the evidence, Bibi—not you.”
“I’m giving them a hand,” she said. “Sometimes these younger folks need a lesson in efficiency.”
“That is the button I saw on Otto’s sweater,” Megan said.
Bobby pushed the object closer. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
They were in a windowed conference room that smelled of stale perfume and even staler coffee. Megan and Bibi sat on one side of the table, King on the other, next to a freckle-faced woman in uniform.
King sat back, rubbed his face with his hands. “Thank you.” He didn’t sound at all like he meant it.
Megan said, “I assume you checked the button for prints or blood.”
“Yep on both counts—nothing.”
“Did Lana Vance have any insight?”
“She was surprised he’d worn the vest. Said she bought it for him years ago and he let it sit in the back of his closet. Didn’t remember seeing him in it that morning, but she admitted he left before she was out of bed.” King asked, “Do you recall what time he left the café that morning?”
“He was still there when I left. Bibi arrived at the café later. He may have already gone.” She turned to her grandmother. “I think he’d already left. Is that right?”