Bitter Harvest

by Wendy Tyson

  “Why you asking, anyway?” Molly asked. “Looking to buy another?”

  “Not exactly. I found this and want to return it to the owner.”

  The boy spoke, his stutter so thick it took Megan a moment to understand what he was saying. “Pr—rr—oww—st De—ee—signs,” he said.

  Molly snapped her fingers. “You’re right, Craig! That’s it.” Molly wrote something on a piece of paper. “Jacob Proust Designs,” it said.

  “He’s over in Quakertown. May not talk to you, but he does nice work.”

  The boy looked longingly at the knife. “Ni-ice stu-u-ff.”

  “Tell you what,” Megan said to him. “If I can’t find the owner, it’s yours.”

  Megan’s next stop was Diamond Farm, the smallish operation run by Mark Gregario and Ann West, two relative newcomers to Winsome. They’d been living on the land on the outskirts of Winsome next to the quarry for over a decade, and the farm was on its sixth year. Megan drove down the short driveway, shoving the truck’s five-speed transmission into park in front of the couple’s modular home. Fruit trees—mostly apple, with a few cherry and peach trees—dotted the front few acres of the farm. Behind that, horse pastures and rows and rows of raspberry, blueberry, and blackberry bushes spread out on either side. To the right of the fruit trees, the owners had cordoned off two areas for pasture. A handful of chickens pecked alongside a dozen sheep. A small garden sat behind the house, more for personal use than commerce. Diamond Farm specialized in therapy horses, sheep milk cheeses, and organic fruit—plus organic free-range chicken. Fruit was tough to grow without pesticides and Megan was in awe of their talent and resolve.

  She knocked on the door. A moment later, Ann opened it. She wore a denim skirt that brushed her ankles, a jade green turtleneck sweater, and red Crocs. Her tight black curls were pulled in a bun with wisps floating around her round face. A small fat infant hugged her hip, and a two-year-old girl dressed only in her underwear peeked out behind her right leg. Ann and Mark had seven kids. How they did it, Megan had no idea.

  Ann smiled broadly when she saw Megan. “Here for chicken? If so, I’m afraid we’re completely out.” She adjusted the baby so he was on the other hip. “We have apples though. Lots of apples.”

  “Actually, I’m here for hay. Do you have some I can purchase?”

  “Mark’s around back. He should be able to help you.”

  Megan found Mark in the raspberry beds raking soil around the bushes. Two little girls were “helping” him. One was playing with a small Tonka truck in the dirt along the side of the raspberries. The older one had her own rake and was mimicking her father’s movement. Mark said a gruff but friendly “hello” to Megan, finished with the bush he was working on, and then placed his rake up against a fence.

  “Megan, good to see you. Need apples, chicken, or cheese?”

  “None of the above. In any case, I hear you’re already out of chicken.”

  “And we just processed them in September. Fastest sale ever.”

  Megan laughed. “I’m here for hay—whatever you can spare.”

  Mark helped her fill the truck bed with hay bales. He was a thin, short man with wiry muscles, a thick neck, and a full salt and pepper beard. Used to hard labor and efficient motions, he made short work of the process.

  While they loaded, Megan watched the horses, who were enjoying some afternoon sun in their pasture. If it weren’t for the noise of the nearby quarry, this would be a perfect spot. Mark seemed oblivious to the current rumblings from his closest neighbor.

  “Shame about Oktoberfest,” Mark said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sauer. Ann and I weren’t surprised when we didn’t win the sponsorship. Figured we have some good competition with Washington Acres and some of the other farms.” He nodded in the general direction of Sauer’s farm. “But we didn’t think Sauer was even qualified to be part of the lottery.”

  “Nor did I.” Megan stopped what she was doing. “Did you challenge their decision, Mark?”

  “Nah, who has time for that? Besides, that Ophelia Dilworth did an article on our farm, and they bought the berries for the pie-eating contest from us.”

  Another consolation prize.

  When the truck bed was as full as it could be, Megan paid Mark and thanked him for the hay. He nodded. His daughters had migrated from the berry bushes to the sheep pasture and were busily fawning over two sheep—who looked less than excited for the attention. He called his daughters over.

  “I’ll be back for apples.” Megan told him about the open house she was hosting. “Bibi may want to make some more baked goods. I want to keep everything, cider included, local.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” He squinted up into the sun. “You can have whatever we can spare. Alvaro already bought a few bushels for soup he’s making.”

  “He has a whole menu planned. The café is included as one of the street vendors for a few of the events.” Megan swung a leg up into the truck. “Bet he’s the one who relieved you of your chicken supply. He’s been waiting for fresh free-range chicken.”

  “Nah, it was Sauer.”

  “Sauer? For what? They have their own chickens.” Crowded into one large dark barn, with no room to roam, Megan thought—but she kept that part to herself.

  “I guess they didn’t raise enough this year. Said he needed them for Oktoberfest.” Mark smiled. “Wasn’t going to argue. He paid a nice premium.”

  Wonder what that was all about, Megan mused as she pulled away. Sauer gets the Oktoberfest slot because he’s big enough to supply meat for the event—but he has to buy the chicken from Mark? Strange.

  But being strange didn’t make it relevant.

  Suddenly Megan wanted to talk through everything with someone. Normally she’d ping Clay, but he was busy, and she still didn’t feel like confiding in him. Clover was too close to King, and she didn’t want to talk with King until she knew more. Bibi had been burdened enough. Megan picked up the phone and called Denver. They could have dinner at the farm and then chat over a glass of wine or a good bottle of beer.

  Denver picked up right away. “Megan. Glad ye called. I was just going to ring ye. It’s like you have a sixth sense or something.”

  Megan felt herself smile at the sound of his voice. She invited him over for dinner. “Bibi’s playing bridge at the church tonight, but I can make whatever you feel like eating.”

  “I wish I could join you. That sounds like a much better offer than what I have going. But I’m afraid I’m meeting with Ophelia.”

  Megan felt her shoulders tense. “Oh?”

  “Something about doing a photo journal of the life of a country vet for Oktoberfest.”

  He sounded pleased, even if he was trying not to let on. “You’re a regular James Herriot,” Megan said.

  “Or I will be when she’s done with me. She’s a force to be reckoned with.”

  “So I hear.”

  Denver remained quiet for a moment. “Are you sore about this, Megs? I can cancel if you need me.”

  Yes. “No, no,” Megan said quickly. “Go.”

  “I don’t know how late we’ll finish, but I can try to stop by afterwards.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll talk another time. Have fun.”

  “I think you’re doing that woman thing where you tell me one thing, but it’s the opposite of what you’re feeling.”

  Megan laughed despite herself. “I don’t trust Ophelia. Something smells in this town, and it seems to lead back to her.”

  “Aye, it’s that bloody perfume she wears. Stinks like the cosmetic section of Macy’s. I’ll take her through the dog pens at the clinic. That should help do the trick.”

  Thinking of Clay’s reaction to Ophelia, she said, “Just don’t fall for her charms. I’ve seen other men, stronger than you, succumb.”<
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  “Someone in Winsome is stronger than me?”

  “It’s good to have competition, Doctor. Keeps you sharp.”

  Denver laughed. “I’ll call you tomorrow, then?”

  Tomorrow. A lot could happen between now and tomorrow. But Megan said “Sure” as though tomorrow was just fine.

  Fifteen

  The evening dragged on. Knowing Denver was with Ophelia didn’t help, nor did Megan’s sense of isolation. After a dinner of butternut squash bisque, bread, and salad, Megan opened her laptop and started searching for Proust, the knife maker. It didn’t take long to find his website. Just as Molly had said, he lived in Quakertown, not too far from Megan’s farm. His website was bare bones though, and other than a few photographs of his work and a phone number, Megan had little to go by. No address—only a PO Box. And no email address.

  She called the number listed and it went to voicemail. Megan left her name and return number.

  She followed up with a few other searches: “Proust” and “customer reviews” (hoping someone would post a photo of the knife she’d found), and Proust on Facebook, Twitter, and other social media sites. Other than an old Facebook page that hadn’t been updated since knives were invented, there wasn’t much she could find on the knife maker. She sent a message through Facebook and switched to researching Ophelia Dilworth.

  By eight thirty, she knew three things about Ophelia. One, she was only twenty-nine. Two, she’d gone to Yale. And three, her current employer was a firm called Ledbecker LLC.

  Make that four: she was still out with Denver.

  Megan was just closing up her laptop when her phone rang. Megan glanced at the screen. Unknown number. It was awfully late for Bibi to still be out, and a quick chill twisted its way down her spine. She switched on the outside light and answered the call.

  “Is this Megan?” a soft voice asked.

  “It is. Who is this?”

  “Emily. Ted’s daughter.” Emily’s voice sounded thick and husky, as though she’d been crying.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. Lily’s just asleep—finally—and I’m trying not to wake her. I was hoping we could talk.” She paused. “I found your note at the brewery.” Another pause, this one more prolonged. Megan heard the distant horn of a train. No train trekked through Winsome, which meant Emily wasn’t home. “Tomorrow?” Emily said finally. “At the brewery. Say eight o’clock?”

  Megan ran through her to-do list. There was no good time tomorrow, so eight would have to work. She agreed to meet her at Road Master in the industrial park.

  “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Emily said. “I just want to talk.”

  It seemed like an odd request, but then, this had been an odd few weeks.

  “Fine,” Megan responded. She hung up, wondering where her grandmother was and why Emily Kuhl was staying somewhere other than her home.

  There was no sleeping in on a farm. At Washington Acres, the sun would peek its way over the eastern horizon around seven fifteen, but Megan was up well before that, feeding the chickens and cleaning out the goat enclosure. Dimples and Heidi were in a rare mood Tuesday morning. They greeted Megan with head butts and sloppy goat kisses, and even seemed happy to see Gunther, whom they normally taunted with childlike glee.

  Megan took a few minutes to play with them, relishing the brisk morning air and thinking about the day before her. Bibi had gotten home after ten—very late for her—but she seemed more animated, which was a relief. She’d told Megan that her bridge group knew Ted was missing, and that he was wanted for questioning in Otto’s death.

  News did travel fast.

  But Bibi had been able to address the gossip head on, which had made her grandmother happy. “I told them that there was nothing but circumstantial evidence pointing to Ted. After that, Merry said she’d heard Lana did it as retribution for an affair. And Dee Stalk said she’d heard that Otto’s lover pushed him during a fit of passion and he’d hit his head.” Bibi had looked at Megan, eyes shining with laughter. “Both plausible explanations, by the way. I had some torrid times in my marriage. These things can happen. Sex can be dangerous.”

  Megan, amused, had remained silent about Emily’s phone call. It too was merely circumstantial, as Bibi put it.

  But this morning, in the darkness before dawn when everything seemed gloomier, Megan reconsidered all of those explanations. Could it have been Lana? And had Otto had an affair with Ophelia? He was a handsome man, true—strong and tall with a chiseled face that harkened back to the Hollywood stars of yesteryear. But would an up-and-coming PR specialist from the city be interested in a man like Otto? More importantly, would a family man like Otto risk everything for a fling with a woman like Ophelia? Megan saw how Ophelia operated. She was a flirt and a tease, perhaps—but an adulteress? It wasn’t hard to picture, but somehow the whole situation didn’t sit right.

  If Megan assumed Merry or Dee was right and this was a love triangle issue, then what about Ted Kuhl? Was his daughter correct? Had Ted fled because his business was failing? Was he a danger to himself—and only himself?

  Circumstantial evidence, Bibi had said. Wasn’t all of this—an overheard conversation, strange behavior, a popped button, a missing sweater vest—circumstantial? And were the chair and the campsite at the top of Potter Hill related?

  Maybe King was right, Megan thought, and I’ve let the events of last spring get to me.

  Megan had just started watering plants in the large greenhouse when she heard tires on gravel. She looked outside, surprised to see Denver’s 4Runner. Gunther was greeting the vet as though he was a long-lost best friend.

  Megan waved from the greenhouse door. A moment later, Denver was inside. He wore jeans and a brown plaid flannel shirt. A wool cap sat atop his thick auburn waves. He smiled broadly, flexing dimples that made her melt.

  “Morning.”

  She smiled. “Good morning to you too. What brings you here so early?”

  “Sauer.”

  “Glen Sauer? I thought you didn’t go there anymore.”

  “Aye, you’re right. But he had a cow in trouble and didn’t have time to get his usual doctor. I felt bad for the cow, so I agreed. And I guess seeing me was better than losing an asset.” Denver frowned. “Make no mistake, his cows are nothing to him but assets.”

  “Try telling that to Ophelia and her Oktoberfest committee.”

  Denver smiled. “I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Aye. Last night. During my photoshoot.” He flashed a comical sultry pose. They both laughed.

  “Did she listen?”

  “As they say in my home country, ‘A nod’s as guid as a wink tae a blind horse.’”

  “Translation?”

  “A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.”

  Megan nodded. “That was my impression too. She has a thing about Sauer and there’s no changing her view.” Megan sat against the potting table she’d placed at the back of the greenhouse. “Did it look like Sauer was preparing for the festivities?”

  “If by preparing ye mean casting a thick cloud of gloom over all he touches, sure.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously? Who can tell? The barns are still rundown, there are still old cars parked by the house. I got in and out as fast as that poor sick cow would allow.”

  Megan thought about her conversation with Mark Gregario the day before.

  “Did you know Sauer bought Mark’s chicken? I mean the meat. All of it.”

  “Seems out of character.”

  “Did Sauer stop raising chickens?”

  Denver considered the question. “Not that I know of. But then, the wee things are stashed tightly in a barn, not outside, so I can’t really say.”

  “Maybe he wanted to pass off Mark’s organic chicken as his own. For Oktoberfest.”

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sp; “That sounds like Glen Sauer.” Denver pulled himself up on the potting table next to Megan. “One thing was odd about today’s visit.”

  “What was that?” Megan scooted nearer to Denver. He put his arm around her, pulling her close. He smelled of Old Spice and damp hay—an interesting combination. She put her head on his shoulder, happy he’d stopped by.

  “The missus.”

  “Irene?”

  “Aye. She was downright friendly. Even at four in the morning. I didn’t know what to make of it.” Denver pulled off his cap and pushed his longish hair away from his face. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the woman smile. Until today.”

  Irene Sauer was a sour-faced woman who mostly kept to herself. Thick, tall, and stocky, with thin brown bobbed hair and broad shoulders, she rarely had anything nice to say to anyone. Megan had always felt sorry for her. Glen was no peach, and farm life could be grueling, but Irene wasn’t from Winsome and she let everyone know it at every opportunity—a habit Megan found tiresome. And then there was her attitude toward the animals in her care. Anyone who could condone the mistreatment of dogs was not someone Megan wanted to be acquainted with.

  “That is odd. Maybe she’s happy about the sponsorship. Sees it as her ticket to financial freedom.”

  Denver laughed. “Need I remind you it’s only a little festival in a wee little town, Megs? No one is getting rich off the Winsome Oktoberfest celebration. Not even Glen Sauer. No matter what manure Ophelia tries to feed everyone.”

  “Tell that to Ted Kuhl.” Ted Kuhl. Megan remembered her appointment with Emily. She needed to get going soon.

  “Sauer asked about you,” Denver said. “Knows you have Gunther.”

  Megan tensed.

  “Don’t worry. He seems to have his hands full these days—he wasn’t asking to get that dog back. Even if he did, he has no right to him.”

  “Why was he asking about me, then?”

  “Wanted to know how the farm was coming along, whether you’d tired of country life, that sort of thing.”