by Wendy Tyson
“That’s right.” The police chief looked pained.
“We’re not going to say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. To the media, I mean.”
“I’m thinking about Kuhl. Given what you overheard, I think we need to put extra effort into finding him.”
Guilt nagged at Megan. She didn’t want to be the one to tell King about the emails Emily had shared, but nor did she want to mislead the police by staying silent. Besides, those emails could show that Ted was innocent, and that he’d stumbled upon something more sinister. And if he’d done something wrong? Justice was the only right course of action.
“I think you should talk to Ted’s daughter,” Megan said. She told him about their discussion earlier that week.
“You should have come to me then.”
“Why? So you could have told me I was being paranoid and overly sensitive?”
King had the decency to blush. “Things have changed since then.”
Megan folded her arms across her chest. “And now I’m telling you.”
“Fair enough.”
Clay and the red-haired officer ambled over. Gunther was following the policeman closely, a wary eye on this new visitor.
“Gunther, down,” Megan said. The dog sat at full attention, waiting for a new command.
“He’s quite a dog,” King said. “Can’t believe it’s the same mutt old man Sauer had.”
“Amazing what can happen when you don’t neglect an animal.”
King looked at Megan sideways. “Still bitter?”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Suppose so.”
They stood there for a few seconds by the unmarked car. Megan figured she’d come clean about everything she’d noticed recently. She told King about the Honda that had been driving behind Emily. And about Gunther’s chase in the woods a few nights before.
King shook his head and opened his mouth to say something when Megan put up a hand. “I’m telling you what I observed. Now you can’t accuse me of holding back. Take it or leave it—that’s your choice.”
“The dog was spooked? I guess I need to trust your instincts at this point. Gunther’s too.”
“You should have been trusting them all along,” Clay piped in.
“I’ll have someone check out Potter Hill again.” King shook his head. “An older gray Honda, huh?”
Megan read him the notes from her phone.
“We certainly have a bunch of disparate facts and no cohesive theory.”
“Oktoberfest,” Clay said. “I would start there.”
Megan nodded. “Sure feels like that’s the connection.”
“I wonder if we should cancel it,” the uniformed officer murmured.
“And suffer the wrath of Ophelia and the committee?” King said jokingly. But Megan could tell he didn’t find this the least bit funny. It was a terrible choice to make—and she didn’t envy him the decision.
Eighteen
It was decided the next day that Oktoberfest would go on. King met with the committee and they agreed to increase security, hiring extra guards for the week of the celebrations. A visit to Potter Hill had turned up nothing, and the Honda seemed to be a dead end. The police, deciding that Ted Kuhl was their prime suspect, expressed hope that whatever had occurred was between two people, and that no further issues should occur during the seven days’ worth of festivities.
Megan wished she shared their optimism.
Friday came and went quickly. Megan, Clay, and Porter set up tables in the barn and hung paper lanterns from the rafters. Bibi’s sweet quick breads and other baked goods were defrosted at the café, and Bibi and Clover arranged them on decorative trays. Alvaro brewed spiced apple cider in large batches. The goat pen was cleaned, the dogs endured the grooming table, and baskets and bushels of vegetables, including greens from the greenhouses, were made ready for public sale. Even Denver lent a hand, helping Clay put together an outdoor pen for Heidi and Dimples, who would be making their first public appearance the next day.
By seven o’clock that night, Megan fell, exhausted, into a chair in the living room. Denver, Clay, and Porter had stayed for dinner, and Bibi—energized by the commotion at the farm—had whipped up a supper of grilled local cheddar on sourdough and homemade minestrone soup.
“Your grandmother could probably make even mushrooms taste good,” Denver said. “I appreciate her touch in the kitchen.”
“We all do,” Megan said. “How did your photo journal turn out?”
“Haven’t seen it yet. Ophelia called me twice today though.”
Megan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
“She’s a nosy lassie, that one. I tried to avoid her, but my receptionist put her through late this afternoon.” He smiled. “Not sure she was happy with my response.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told her I had my hand up a dog’s arse and maybe now would not be such a great time to talk.”
Megan pictured Ophelia’s uptight smile twisted into a shocked frown. She laughed.
“I’m sure she loved that.”
“Aye. Just kept on yapping though.” Denver rubbed Megan’s arm with one long-fingered hand. He reached for her palm, turned it over, and began massaging the kinks from the base. Megan felt the tension release.
“A bit o’ stress in your hands, Megs,” he said. “You’re twisted into knots.”
“It’s just this open house tomorrow.”
Bibi was listening to blues in the kitchen. The distinctive sound of Freddy King could be heard through the walls.
“Maybe that’s why Ophelia kept asking me about you.”
Megan sat up straighter, pulling her hand away from Denver’s. “She was asking about me? Why?”
“Not sure, really. Wanted to know if you were ready for the open house, was quite gung ho for the whole affair. A little too gung ho, if you’re askin’.”
“That was it?”
Like that, the music stopped. Megan heard the back door open, then close. Bibi must be looking for Gunther, Megan thought. He’d been out prowling the grounds and didn’t want to come in earlier.
“Asked me if you liked Winsome, whether the farm was doing well. That kind of stuff.”
“Out of concern for us, I’m sure.”
“No doubt.” Denver took Megan’s hand again and resumed the massage. “I told her to ask you herself.”
“Good.”
“Aye, she’s a scunner, that one. Not sure where the committee found her.”
“Scunner?”
“Nuisance.”
“She went to Yale, you know.”
“Lot of good it did her.”
“And she’s beautiful.”
“She’s too clean for my taste.” Denver leaned in and kissed Megan on the cheek. “I like a lassie with some dirt under her fingernails. Someone who really knows how to roll around in the muck.”
Megan laughed. “Do you now?”
“I do.”
They kissed again. By the third kiss, Megan had forgotten about Ophelia Dilworth. And tomorrow’s open house.
A bit later, they flipped on the television and settled for the last half of Sleepless in Seattle. At ten after ten, Denver rose to leave. “I’d best get home to the dogs. And you need your rest for tomorrow.”
“Are you coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Will do my morning appointments—Mrs. Kennedy and her bacon, I mean kittens, again—and then I’ll be by. Call me if you need me to bring anything.”
“Well, I won’t be calling for candy. Bibi bought enough for the entire Commonwealth.”
Bibi. Speaking of her grandmother, Megan hadn’t heard her in the kitchen. She bounced off the couch and ran through the hall, calling Bibi’s name.
No answer. No G
unther either.
“I don’t know if she ever came back in,” Megan said to Denver. They were both slipping on their shoes and grabbing their coats. Megan’s heart was racing. She was glad Denver was a doctor. Who knew what had befallen her grandmother. At eighty-four, anything could have happened. A fall. A slip. A stroke.
A stalker.
Get yourself together, Megan told herself. But she’d been there with Denver, enjoying herself. While her grandmother was…where?
“Come on,” Denver said. He grabbed two flashlights from the shelf on the porch and ran outside. Megan and Sadie sprinted after him.
Bibi wasn’t in the yard outside the house. Neither was Gunther.
“Bibi!” Megan called.
“Bonnie!” Denver yelled.
The night air was cool but not cold. Beyond the flood lights near the main house, the farm was bathed in a wash of eerie darkness. Trees rustled in the wind, making it hard to hear. Megan strained to listen for her grandmother, her eyes all the while scanning for movement.
“Could she be in the barn?”
“Maybe. You check the woods and I’ll check the barn.”
“We stay together, Megan.”
His tone was clear: if Bibi had fallen victim to something besides natural causes, that something could be out there still. A lump formed in Megan’s throat. She nodded.
They ran to the barn and opened the door. The place was dark, the interior set up just as it had been when they closed up more than four hours before. Denver nodded and they went in together, echoes of a similar situation weighing, Megan was sure, on both of them.
Only this time the barn was blessedly empty.
They were about to leave and call the police when Denver put a hand on Megan’s arm. “Shh. Listen.”
Megan couldn’t hear over the sounds of her own ragged breathing and thumping heart. “What is it?”
“Music.” He tilted his head. “In the goat pen.”
They trotted quickly from the barn to the goat enclosure. The music became louder as they approached.
“There she is,” Denver whispered.
And indeed, there she was.
Bibi lay fast asleep on the fresh hay bales, her fleece coat wrapped snuggly around her diminutive body. Gunther lay by her side, on the floor. His tail wagged furiously when he caught sight of Megan and Denver, but he stayed by his charge. Heidi was curled at the end of the hay bale, and Dimples was on the floor a few feet from Gunther. A CD player poured the sounds of Arlo Guthrie into the small space.
Megan felt hot tears of relief track down her face. Denver grabbed her hand.
“What is she doing out here?” Denver wondered aloud. “Poor woman is knackered.”
Megan placed a hand on Bibi’s back and roused her gently. It took her grandmother a moment to wake up. She stirred, stretched, and sat up with some difficulty. Looking around at Megan, Denver, and the animals, she said, “Oh my, I must have dozed off. I’m going to pay for this tomorrow.”
Megan sat on the floor in front of her grandmother. She wanted to pick her up and squeeze her tightly, crushing the terrifying images of her in the hands of some faceless intruder. Instead she said, “What are you doing out here, Bibi?”
“I heard something outside. Thought maybe it was Clay or Porter, that they’d forgotten something for tomorrow. Remembered Gunther was still outside and went looking for him.” She smiled. “He was up here by the goats. Clay had brought the CD player for tomorrow, and I thought I’d listen to some music. It’s quite peaceful out here. And you kids needed some time alone.”
“We don’t need time alone, Bibi. We can get that at Denver’s house if we really want it. You gave us quite a scare,” Megan said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Denver replied. He knelt down by Gunther and gave the dog a pat.
Bibi closed her eyes and smiled again. “Your grandfather and I used to sneak up to the barn when you were little, Megan. We’d play some music and dance. He liked to dance.” She opened her eyes. “I bet you didn’t know that about him.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“There is a lot you didn’t know. He wasn’t always such a hard man.”
Megan thought about her discussion with Aunt Sarah, the suggestion that her mother had been forced into marriage. Not the moment for questions, but it made her wonder whether her grandparents were capable of making such a demanding ultimatum. A conversation for another time.
Megan said, “Let’s get you back to the house, Bibi.”
Denver squeezed Megan’s hand. “Why don’t we all sit out here for a few minutes? Give Bonnie a moment to wake up. The music and breeze are nice.”
They sat in silence for a quarter of an hour, listening to Arlo and watching the animals sleep the sleep of the just.
Eventually Megan said, “What was the noise you heard? The one that originally brought you outside.”
Bonnie waved a hand dismissively.
“It was nothing.”
“What did you think it was?” Denver asked.
“Footsteps. On the porch,” Bibi said. “Turned out to be just an old woman’s imagination.”
On the way back down to the house, Denver pulled Megan aside. “I don’t think it was your grandmother’s imagination.”
“Why is that?”
Denver pulled something from his pocket. It was a man’s nylon glove, dark gray, with tooth marks along the thumb. “It was lying by Gunther.”
Megan’s heart beat wildly against her ribcage. She struggled to keep her face neutral. “He could have just found it. It doesn’t mean someone was here.”
Even in the faint glow of the outdoor lights, Megan could see the disbelief on Denver’s face. “Someone was here, Megs. Someone Gunther chased away.”
Nineteen
In the brilliant sunlight of Saturday morning’s kickoff event, the prior night’s problems seemed far away. Mother Nature had graced Winsome with a perfect fall day. The leaves still displayed their brightest kaleidoscope of reds, yellows, and oranges, the muddy browns of late autumn decay a few weeks away. Sun poured through the treetops, dappling the farm yard with a lacework of greens and warming the air to a comfortable fifty degrees. The sky, lapis lazuli blue, domed overhead, a backdrop to crows and hawks soaring through the air. Even the goats cooperated, allowing small hands to pet their necks and gently taking the oats offered on tiny outstretched hands.
“This is what Winsome is all about,” Ophelia beamed. She breathed in, exhaled, and smiled. “Aren’t you glad you agreed to do the open house?”
“If this is what Winsome is about, then why isn’t Washington Acres the farm sponsor?” Bibi asked. She had been handing out slices of her homemade pumpkin loaf and small cups of spiced apple cider, but now they had a lull at the treat table. She shook her head. “The committee should be ashamed of itself, choosing the Sauers’ farm. What were the lot of you thinking?”
But Ophelia didn’t bat a single heavily mascaraed eyelash. She simply clapped her hands, smiled more broadly, and said, “Mrs. Birch, you make the best pumpkin loaf,” and walked away toward Clover and the tour line.
“How would you know?” Bibi called after her. “You haven’t eaten any!”
Megan stifled a laugh. She was selling produce at the table next to Bibi, and she handed a customer change and their bag of veggies—baby spinach and lettuce from the greenhouse and two butternut squash from the fall harvest—before reaching under the table for her thermos of coffee. They’d had a steady stream of visitors since the open house started at nine, and they were almost out of everything, including candy. Bibi, wearing a “Fall for Winsome” sweatshirt embroidered with tiny gold and red leaves, another leftover from Megan’s father’s old store, was restocking the last of the breads on the trays. After that,
they were down to some sugar cookies and a tray of cinnamon scones.
When the last vegetable customer had walked away, Megan said, “I have to hand it to Ophelia. She’s unflappable.” Not many people could ignore Bonnie Birch’s infrequent but biting comments—but Ophelia managed.
“She’s a puppet,” Bibi said. “But whose?”
Megan glanced at her grandmother. It seemed an odd but insightful thing for Bibi to say. Megan didn’t have time to follow up on Bibi’s statement before both of them received a new queue of customers, but her comment gave her pause. Ophelia had gone to Yale, and she was good at her job. But her job—public relations—meant putting a good face on everything. Creating and protecting an image by carefully constructing a story. But whose interests was she representing? Winsome’s?
Or someone else’s?
By noon, the last of the visitors were finishing their walking tour. Clover returned with seventeen people in tow—twelve adults and five children. Megan sold the last of her greens and a few more squash and other root vegetables to the adults while Bibi plied the children with cookies and cider. The kids loved Bibi—but not as much as they loved the goats. Megan knew that Heidi and Dimples had stolen/been given more than their fair share of baked goods, despite the signs asking that they not be fed human food. She wouldn’t be surprised if the services of the good Dr. Finn were needed later to calm the bloated bellies of two little Pygmy goats.
Speaking of Denver, where was he? Megan wondered. She figured he’d gotten caught up in an emergency and couldn’t make it. Or he’d fallen into conversation over Mrs. Kennedy’s bacon and egg breakfast. She’d check her phone once the last guests were gone.
“Lovely farm,” one of the customers said to her, a slender woman in her thirties with long straight dark brown hair and almond-shaped green eyes. The woman wore a fitted designer coat, and her calfskin ankle boots screamed “money” in Italian. Her accent said New York City. The woman’s daughter, a sweet-faced child wearing head-to-toe leopard print, nodded.