by Wendy Tyson
“Let me see. I got to the café about eleven thirty. I was going to bake, but instead I helped Alvaro make potato leek soup for lunch because he’d run out of his tomato bisque. It’s so good, Bobby—try it if you haven’t already. I wasn’t paying too much attention to the customers—you know how Alvaro can be about uniformity when it comes to dicing vegetables.” She met King’s gaze. “Alvaro likes everything to be exactly the same size. He’s very particular.”
King smiled. “Otto, Bonnie.”
“Oh, yes. I never saw him. He must have been gone already.”
Megan turned to King. “Which makes sense. Bibi received the call from Otto at the café shortly before Denver and I arrived to help Porter. He had been waiting there a while. Even so, if there’s a gap, it’s a short one.”
King turned to the uniformed officer. “We’ll need to construct a timeline.”
Megan said, “You know he didn’t arrive at the solar farm until after his call to the café to report Porter’s flat. In the interim, Denver and I helped Porter. We heard the sirens. The solar farm is right up the road. That means either he took a detour after seeing Porter or he was at the park or solar field for a fairly long time. Bibi left the café to pick up Porter and happened by the solar farm, which is when she saw Otto’s body. You know what time her 911 call came in. That part should be easy to piece together.”
Bobby was jotting down notes. “We pieced most of that together, and there is a gap. I agree. Either Otto made a detour before going to Jenner’s field, or he was there longer than we’d originally thought.”
“So what was Otto doing between the time he left the café and when he arrived at the solar farm?” Bibi said. She sat back, thinking. “Have you checked his phone?”
“We have, Bonnie.”
“How about his calendar.”
King looked amused. “Yes, of course.”
“And?”
“And nothing so far.” King dismissed the officer with instructions to send him the timeline. When the officer was gone, he said, “Anything else, ladies? And here I thought I brought you in so I could ask the questions.”
Megan knew he was trying to be funny for Bonnie’s sake, but she didn’t feel like playing along. Not after the hard time he had given her. Instead she said, “There’s still no sign of Kuhl?”
“No. Nothing.” He seemed to weigh how much to divulge. Finally he settled on, “We’ve spoken with Emily, have been by the tap room, even talked to some of the men he breakfasts with regularly. Nothing. It’s as though he simply disappeared.”
“Is Emily still worried he’s done something to hurt himself?”
“I don’t think she knows what to think.”
They sat in silence until Bibi asked, “Is Teddy your chief suspect?”
King turned to her in surprise. “Frankly, Bonnie, we don’t know if we even have a crime. We’ve just reopened the investigation.” He tapped his fingers against the table top. “The medical examiner found Otto’s wounds to be consistent with the fall, but the button and the vest call into question whether we missed signs of a struggle. You heard him arguing with Ted, Megan. So at this point, Ted’s a person of interest.”
Megan wasn’t surprised—and it was the right thing for the police to do. It didn’t mean she felt good about it.
Bibi, who’d been mostly quiet up until now, asked, “Do you need anything else from us, Bobby? I’m tired and would like to go home.”
“I need to take a statement from Megan about what she heard at the café. But you don’t need to be here for that.”
“And then what?” Bibi asked.
“For the police? The real fun begins. For you? You get to go back to the farm.”
When they were finished with their statements, Bibi headed to the restroom. Megan took that as her chance to talk with King alone. She pulled the chief aside and showed him the knife she found at Potter Hill. “There was a fire too. Well, the remnants of a campfire.”
He stared at the knife for a moment. Took it from her, turned it over, and opened it. “Beautiful work.” He handed it back.
“You don’t want it?”
“You’ve touched it. Any prints will be worthless.” He rubbed his temples with beefy fingers. “Look, Megan, I know you may have been right about Otto, and I admit I should have believed you from the beginning. But Potter Hill is public domain. Whoever was up there shouldn’t have stayed overnight—if they even did—but I don’t have a name, anything. There’s been no real crime.”
Megan said the thing that had been plaguing her. “What if they’re related?”
“Otto’s death and your hiker?”
“Yes.”
“What would make you think that whoever tussled with Otto has it out for you too?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you hiding something?”
“No,” Megan said firmly. “I’m just looking for patterns. And I don’t like the idea of someone up there, especially at night, possibly spying on the farm.”
“You don’t know that’s what they were doing. It’s a lookout point. Could’ve been a couple of kids seeking privacy. Could have been someone who is interested in farms. Could have been leaf peepers. It’s that time of year.”
Or it could have been someone interested in the treasure a farm may hold, Megan thought. She said, “But the chair. Someone went to a lot of trouble to drag a chair up there. And that knife seems expensive. Whoever left it may have bolted in a rush.”
“I will admit there are some oddities, but short of setting up surveillance, there’s nothing we can do. And we have no basis for that kind of capital expenditure, human or otherwise.” He took the knife from Megan, rubbed a calloused thumb over the smooth metalwork again, thinking. “Do you know Molly and Mort Herr?”
“No.”
“They live about six miles down Curly Hill Road, on the edge of the park, well past the solar farm. They have a shop about a mile farther down. They’re knife makers and sellers.” He held out the knife and Megan took it. “Talk to them. Maybe they can tell you something about the owner.”
Her interest piqued, Megan nodded. “Maybe I will.”
King put a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “If you hear anything else at the café, let me know. But please, if you and Bonnie could keep this quiet, I’d appreciate it. I don’t want the committee or that Ophelia woman blaming me for ruining Oktoberfest.”
Megan agreed.
King said, “Plus, if there was a fight and it resulted in Otto’s death, it was likely over a personal issue.” He looked out toward the small lobby where Bibi was chatting with the receptionist. “Nothing for anyone else in Winsome to worry about. At least I hope so.”
Megan nodded her assent, although the weight of that knife in her hand caused her to wonder.
Bibi was quiet on the way back to the farm. She responded to Megan’s questions with one-word answers and nods, her attention on other things. When they arrived home, Bibi headed for the kitchen. Without a word, she took out a large pot and filled it with water. To this she added the carcass of a roasted chicken she pulled from the freezer and placed the pot on the gas stove. She reached for an onion and started peeling it on the worn wooden butcher block.
Megan stood in the doorway watching her. Bibi had on a “Winsome Proud” t-shirt with a rainbow across the front. Megan wasn’t sure if Bibi knew her father had made them for Gay Pride week, but she didn’t think Bibi would care. In fact, she figured her grandmother would embrace the idea. Her spirit was one of the things Megan loved most about the woman who’d raised her. So this recent bout of reserve—if that was even the right word—had Megan worried.
“Don’t you have a farm to tend to?” Bibi asked.
She tossed an onion in the pot and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Are you crying, Bibi?”
“It’s the darn onions. I should
peel them under water, but I always forget.”
Megan sat down on the chair, signaling to her grandmother that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Something’s clearly been bothering you. You’ve been off ever since Otto’s fall.”
“You mean murder.”
“We don’t know that. It still could have been an accident.”
Bibi peeled another onion—no running water again—and lowered it in the pot. She added celery stalks and tops and two unpeeled cloves of garlic. Megan was waiting through the addition of peppercorns when impatience got the best of her.
“So you’re upset about Otto’s death, Bibi. That’s understandable.”
Her grandmother stirred her pot. “I’m not upset. I’m disgusted.” She looked at Megan, a deep frown etched on her face. “First Simon Duvall last spring, and now this. At the risk of sounding every one of my eighty-four years, what is the world coming to?”
“We don’t know what this even is.”
Bibi shook her head. “Something’s not right—I knew it the moment I laid eyes on poor Otto. Only I didn’t know it was Otto.” She stirred the pot with a violent twist of her wrist. “Otto was a good man. But I’ve known Teddy Kuhl his whole life. When Marcia died, he was heartbroken. He had to reinvent himself, and he did that—through his brewery and by taking on his daughter and granddaughter after Emily’s divorce. Why would he risk everything in his life that mattered because he was angry he didn’t get sponsorship at a stupid town celebration?” Bibi let out a huff. “Chili cook-off? That’s not even German.”
“Emily told me Ted had money issues.”
Bibi spun around, her face red with anger. “This farm had money issues. Did you kill someone because of them?”
“Of course not.”
Bibi lowered herself into a chair. Sadie and Gunther, who’d been hovering near the stove, sensed her distress. Gunther put his great head in her lap. She put a hand on it but sat there, still.
“You’re angry at me,” Megan said with dawning realization. “You think I should have kept my mouth shut about what I heard transpire between Ted and Otto.”
Bibi slouched down in her chair. “I’m not angry, Megan. You did what you thought was right. That’s what any grandparent wants to see.”
“But?”
“But nothing. Ted is a grown man. If he did something dumb, he should be called in to account for it.” She twirled her fingers around the long tufts of hair on Gunther’s head, using the dog to steady her arm. “Oh, heck. Otto’s life is over. Lana’s life will never be the same. Even if Teddy is completely innocent, once Merry Chance and her band of blithering idiots gets hold of the story, his life will be in tatters too. I just hate to see another family affected when it won’t bring Otto back.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Ted.”
“We served Ted up on a silver platter. I’ve seen enough of those cop shows to understand that motive plus opportunity equals guilt.”
“Not always.”
Bibi sighed. “You’re not thinking like King.”
Her grandmother was right. King wouldn’t want the media nightmare of a murder in this quintessential American town—not right before Oktoberfest and not six months after another murder occurred on Winsome soil. If Kuhl was guilty, Otto became the victim of a grudge match, nothing more. Winsome could go back to being a safe little all-American town.
Megan stood. Despite Bibi’s words, she knew Bibi was annoyed at her for sticking her nose in where perhaps it didn’t belong, but she also knew Bibi would want the truth exposed—and justice for Otto—as much as anyone.
“You’re heading out?” her grandmother asked.
“Maybe I can help set things straight.”
“It may be too late for that. What’s done is done.”
Megan glanced at her grandmother’s tiny frame against the backdrop of this big problem. “I can try,” she said. “And I will.”
Thirteen
Emily wasn’t home. Megan knocked and waited, thinking perhaps she was tending to Lily. Both the driveway and street were empty of Emily’s old Pontiac Grand Prix, so after a few minutes, Megan gave up.
She knew of one other place Emily—or Ted—could be.
Megan pulled into the parking lot of the industrial complex off Towers Drive nine minutes later. She wound her way through machine shops, printing operations, and blade-sharpening businesses until she got to a squat-looking building fronted by two garage doors. A simple sign over the garage door on the right read “Road Master Brewing Co.” in thick red letters. No cars sat out front.
Megan got out of her truck and walked around the small property. She’d been here twice: once when it first opened and a second time a few months later with Denver. On warm-weather weekends, Ted would open the garage doors and serve beer at the tap room, offering flights of his three varietals and sometimes bringing in a local band. It was always BYOF—bring your own food. She had to admit, the beer was significantly better than what Vance served, even if the operation was tied together with gossamer strings.
Megan knocked on each of the garage doors. No answer. She peeked inside, but the interior was dark. She turned to go. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the metal glint of the small mailbox attached outside of one of the doors. She opened it and peered inside. It seemed to be stuffed with bills and circulars—enough material to suggest Ted hadn’t been here in some time.
Megan ran back to the truck and grabbed a notebook from the glove compartment. She scribbled a quick note asking Ted or Emily to contact her and placed it in the box. The police could get a warrant and search the box, she knew. But they wouldn’t know when she’d put it there—or why.
Megan took a wrong turn while leaving the industrial park. She meandered through the unrelenting sameness of now-deserted buildings, watching for the deer that moved in from the outlying woods. It was dusk when she finally pulled out onto the road. Her stomach grumbled, but she knew even Bibi’s chicken soup wouldn’t satisfy this raw feeling gnawing at her insides.
Saturday morning came and went, and with it Megan’s next opportunity to visit the knife shop Chief King had mentioned. Megan kept the knife wrapped in a linen shawl in a dresser drawer. Although she didn’t mention the stalker to Bibi, she asked her grandmother to be vigilant based on recent Winsome events. She also kept Gunther with Bibi—inside or outside—and had the massive dog doing extra rounds of the farm each evening. She knew Denver would tell her to keep him outside all night—he was a sheepdog after all, meant to guard—but she felt safer with him close by, and she hated the idea of him sleeping in the cold. He’d proven his fierceness and loyalty last spring. He’d do it again if required, she was sure.
By two o’clock Saturday afternoon, Megan felt worn out and her arms ached from pushing the tiller. They’d planted cover crops on most outdoor beds in September, and now they were turning the last of the pumpkin beds with a large roto-tiller. She could feel the vibrations from the machine up through her shoulders, and her hands felt numb. Clay was also tilling, and Porter had the unenviable task of turning the compost piles, pungent and hot from bacterial breakdown—and chock-full of fat earthworms.
Finished with the last row of one large bed, she turned off her machine and pulled it onto the surrounding grass. She tugged at a water bottle hooked into a belt around her waist and guzzled a long drink of lemon water. The sun was high and warm today. The leaves, still flaming around her, rustled in a gentle October wind. The wintery feeling of a few days ago had passed, and now Megan smelled the earthy autumn scents of decaying plants and burning wood.
“Want to call it a day?” Clay asked from behind her. A sheen of perspiration covered his tanned face and the bare skin of his sinewy arms. He wore a gray t-shirt and jeans, and his hair was pulled into a neat ponytail. “You look beat and I feel it.”
Megan surveyed the fields. Pennsylvania weather was tricky. They could
go an entire winter without snow, or the white stuff could start falling as early as October. They had one more bed to turn, and then they could plant clover. The clover crop may or may not take before winter depending on the temperatures, but any nitrogen she could add back to the soil would be a boon for next year’s vegetables.
“Let’s push through and finish,” she said. “If you can stay another hour or so.”
“Sure thing,” Clay said. He took the handle of Megan’s roto-tiller and started pulling it toward the last bed. “You start from one side, me the other?”
“That works.”
Before Megan could get through half of her side, she saw Gunther barking down by the house, and then watched as a silver BMW five series fishtailed up the driveway.
“That must be Ophelia, the PR lady,” Clay said. He’d turned off his machine and was wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “She said she might stop by.”
“I know very well who Ophelia is,” Megan said, sounding more snappish than she’d intended. “Why is she here?”
“She had an idea for showcasing the farm. I told her I thought it sounded like a good opportunity.”
Megan glared at her farm manager. “I don’t want anything to do with Ophelia or her ideas.”
“It’s for Oktoberfest.” He turned his head, following Ophelia’s progress out of the car and onto the stone driveway. “Just have an open mind, okay?”
Megan didn’t answer. Ophelia was wearing a tailored red pencil skirt, a low-cut matching fitted jacket, and black stilettos. Watching her navigate the bumpy pavement was entertaining. Watching her race walk away from the dogs was downright hysterical.
“Can you call off the white one?” Ophelia yelled. She was holding her purse in front of her like a shield.
Gunther was sniffing Ophelia—all of Ophelia—quite intensely.
“Gunther, come,” Clay called. He glanced at Megan in exasperation. “He only listens to you,” he hissed under his breath. “Do something.”