Bitter Harvest

by Wendy Tyson

  “I like the goats,” the girl said. “They’re funny.”

  “And I’m sure they loved you,” Megan replied, eyeing the girl’s half-eaten sugar cookie. Megan was pretty sure where the other half now resided.

  “Beautiful area.” The mother looked around. “Amazing scenery. Old-world community feel.”

  Megan nodded. “I grew up here.”

  “I bet it’s as safe as you can get on the East Coast.”

  Not recently, Megan thought. Luckily she was saved from having to respond by the appearance of the woman’s husband. He was a few inches shorter than his wife, and he had a bald pate and a runner’s restless body. His smile emanated warmth and intelligence. Like his wife, his clothes looked custom. He reached a hand out and Megan shook it, self-conscious of her grimy fingers from handling the produce all morning.

  “Nice place,” the man said. “That house. A hundred and fifty years old?”

  “Dates back to before the Revolutionary War,” Megan said. “George Washington was rumored to have stayed here.”

  “Really.” The man took his wife’s hand. “I heard the town of Winsome has several connections to Washington.” He turned to his wife. “Someday there will even be a museum celebrating the town’s history.”

  His wife smiled. “We’re looking forward to the Oktoberfest celebration.”

  Megan asked, “Did you come in for the week?”

  “We don’t live that far away. Jersey.” The man’s eyes darted around while he spoke to Megan, finally settling on the goats. “Figured we’d drive in today and then maybe next weekend too. My daughter would like to do the apple picking at the other farm. Good for her to get some fresh air and a taste of country living.”

  Megan nodded. “Well, make sure to stop by the Washington Acres Café food stand next Friday if you come in for the chili cook-off. We use primarily local ingredients and pesticide-free produce from our farm.”

  The woman smiled. “We certainly will. That sounds great.”

  The family trailed off toward their car. Megan watched the daughter tug on her father’s hand for one last “goodbye” to the goats.

  “Cute family,” Clover said. She’d come up behind Megan and was watching the last of the cars pull out of the makeshift lot. Porter had set up cones at noon, blocking new arrivals, and now he was removing them to let the final customers leave. “Money. But I guess that’s what the committee was hoping to bring in.”

  “Seem like nice people.”

  Megan turned to Clover and Bibi, who had two sugar cookies in her hand and one in her mouth.

  “Bibi, your cholesterol.”

  “The heck with my cholesterol,” Bibi said. “I’ve been waiting all morning to have some of these cookies.”

  Megan shook her head. She knew very well the cookies would be followed by a thick slab of bread with real butter and a cup of tea with a shot of whiskey. And maybe a handful of whatever Halloween candy Bibi had stashed away in a drawer. But there was no arguing with Bonnie Birch when it came to food. And at eighty-four, her grandmother was clearly doing something right—so Megan usually just let it go.

  “Clover, do you have the Oktoberfest schedule?”

  “I have a pamphlet right here. Why?”

  “Can I see it?”

  Megan skimmed the brightly colored pamphlet. In the midst of a collage of disparate photos—the German flag, Winsome’s Canal Street, a bushel of apples, and the sign at the entrance of the Sauers’ farm—her suspicions were confirmed.

  “What’s up?” Clover asked, peeking over her shoulder.

  “The kick-off event is here, at the farm. Tomorrow is the Picnic on the Canal and craft show. During the week there are specials at Otto’s Brew Pub, the concert on the green, and some other events. Friday is the chili cook-off in town, and it all wraps up with apple picking at Diamond Farm next weekend, right before Halloween.”

  “So?”

  “What’s on the front of this brochure?”

  Clover stared at the cover. “Oktoberfest.”

  “Sponsored by…”

  “Sauer Farms and Otto’s Brew Pub.” Bibi had joined them by the produce table. There was an edge to her voice. “But none of the events are being held at Glen’s place.”

  Megan looked at her grandmother. “Exactly.”

  “But Glen is supplying beef for the Winsome Historical Society’s chili stand, frozen corn for the church’s fundraiser on Wednesday, and the chicken and hot dogs for the Picnic by the Canal.” Clover shook her head. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure myself. But I heard you earlier, Bibi, when you said Ophelia is somebody’s puppet. Otto’s Brew Pub makes sense. The beer isn’t great, but tourists have a place to go where they can drink and eat—and Oktoberfest was Otto’s brain child. Eating isn’t possible at Ted’s brewery. Same with Glen Sauer. He could have supplied the meat without being the sponsor, especially if he wasn’t going to host events. We’re supplying food too, as is Diamond and a few other farms.”

  “Plus, they bookended Oktoberfest with the two nicest local farms—at least from a touristy perspective,” Bibi said.

  “True.” Megan hadn’t thought about that. “Tourists come to Winsome expecting to see the canal, the leaves, abundant orchards, and quaint farms with old stone houses. We have the quaint farm and Mark and Ann have the orchards. And on the two busiest days—the first and last—that’s what Ophelia is giving them.”

  “So why Sauer? Money?” Clover asked.

  “I don’t know.” Megan reached for her phone. “But I intend to find out.” She glanced at the home screen and frowned. “Looks like Denver’s been trying to reach me.”

  Megan dialed his number. No answer. Just then, Porter jogged up the driveway and stopped where they were standing. Resting one hand on a knee while he caught his breath, he pointed to a blue Chevrolet parked along the road by the cones.

  “Bobby King’s here, Megan. He wants to talk to you.”

  What now? Megan thought. “Did he say why?”

  “Nope.”

  Clover said, “We’ll start cleaning up. Do what you need to do.” She looked worried. “Brian can help us.”

  Megan walked down to King’s car, head spinning with possibilities. He was inside the vehicle, on the phone, but when he saw Megan he ended the call and climbed out.

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  Megan nodded. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m afraid I have some news.”

  Megan flashed to Denver’s calls. “Is Denver okay?”

  King looked momentarily confused. “Dr. Finn? Yes, of course…he’s fine. It’s not him, although he was involved.”

  “Bobby, get to the point.”

  “Ted Kuhl is dead.”

  Megan stared at him. “Dead?”

  King nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Did he…did he take his own life?”

  “We’re not sure what happened.” King paused. “I may need some help with his daughter, Emily. She’s beside herself. Asked for you.”

  “Of course. I’ll do what I can.” Megan glanced up toward the barn. She could see Clover, Bibi, Clay, and Porter all staring down, no doubt wondering what was going on. “Can you please tell me what happened?”

  “Dr. Finn was tending to Mrs. Kennedy’s cats when she complained of an odd smell in the field behind her house. He investigated for her and there he was.”

  “In the field, just in the open?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Bobby King, looking suddenly young and inexperienced, sighed. “Dr. Finn found Ted Kuhl in Marilyn Kennedy’s tool shed. The exact cause of death is under investigation, but it appears to be asphyxiation. Indicators point to intoxication at the time of death.”


  Megan was horrified. “So he choked on his own vomit?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What then? Bobby, this is quite frustrating—”

  “He suffered a reaction from a peanut allergy. His windpipe closed. At least’s that what we think. We’re waiting for the coroner’s report. It will take some time to know for sure.”

  “Anaphylactic shock?” Megan shook her head. “You mean to tell me Ted crawled into the tool shed, drunk, and knowingly consumed a food he was deathly allergic to? I don’t think so.”

  “Could have been an accident.”

  Megan simply stared at him.

  King said, “It fits with suicidal intent.”

  “It fits with a frame-up too.”

  “If someone wanted to kill Ted, I can think of easier ways to get the job done.”

  “And I can think of better ways to commit suicide.” Megan’s voice was creeping up in octave, and she took a deep breath to control it. “Bobby, what would it take for someone to force him to eat peanuts? Or feed him something that contained peanuts, something he would never expect? Otto was supposed to look like an accident and so is this.”

  King nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

  “You don’t want it to be murder. None of us do. But all of these disparate facts are starting to add up. Ted knew something, and he shared it with Otto. Whatever it was, it got them both killed.”

  “We’ll see what the coroner finds in Ted’s stomach. That may tell us something—whether he was given peanuts unknowingly, or whether he ingested them outright.”

  Megan nodded. “The killer made one mistake,” she said.

  Bobby took off his cap and pushed back his blond hair. He looked pale and uncomfortable, and a pang of sympathy coursed through Megan. Their police chief was having to grow up fast.

  “What’s that, Megan?”

  “Think about it for a moment.”

  Understanding flashed across King’s face. “Peanuts. A medical condition—”

  “That only someone who knew Ted would know about,” Megan finished. “Chances are, you’re not dealing with a stranger, Bobby.”

  “He wore one of those medical bracelets.”

  “Not always.”

  “Oh, damn,” King said. “How many rotten apples do we have here in Winsome?”

  “Very few,” Megan said. “But you’d never know it by the smell.”

  Twenty

  Miriam Dorfman Kuhl’s property stood on the outskirts of Winsome, not far from the Jo-Mar strip mall, Tally’s Creamy Freeze, and Sauer’s two-hundred-plus-acre farm. The property, formerly owned by Ted’s mother, consisted of a hodgepodge of buildings on about ten acres. Just yards from the road sat the main house, a once stately stone Cape Cod that had declined into something sagging and in need of repair since Miriam’s death. About a hundred yards behind the Cape Cod sat a derelict trailer, its windows busted and the door hanging crookedly from a twisted frame. A second trailer had been parked in the field on the edge of the woods. This one was smaller and rundown, but the windows and door were intact. The fields were in dire need of a mow, and the hedges and flower beds were overgrown to the point of earning jungle status.

  Megan pointed toward the trailer. “Is that where Emily is staying?”

  King shook his head. “She’s at her grandmother’s house. The last renter left a few weeks ago, and Ted had been getting it ready for new tenants. The power is still on.” He glanced at Megan. “Look, I know it’s unorthodox, but I have some questions for Emily and I would like you to be there. She seems to trust you. Is that okay?”

  Megan nodded.

  They approached the door and knocked. Emily, accompanied by a uniformed female officer, opened the door. When she saw Megan, Emily started to cry.

  “I’m sorry to drag you in,” she said between sobs. “But you’ve been there since the beginning…and I…thought…you could explain that this was no accident. Dad always carried his EpiPen. Always. And the police said it wasn’t even with him.”

  “I already told Chief King that I thought this could be intentional, Emily.”

  This seemed to calm Emily somewhat. She gulped air, and then wiped her eyes with the back of one long arm.

  “Come in,” Emily said. “Please.”

  Megan followed King and Emily into the cramped house. The downstairs consisted of three rooms: a small outdated kitchen, a floral-wallpapered dining room, and a square living room devoid of furniture. Emily led them into the dining room where Lily was lying awake in a playpen. They sat in folding chairs around a folding table. Tubs of latex paint perched on sawhorses on the beige-carpeted floor. Rags and paintbrushes had been left in a pile in the corner. Boxes were stacked here and there with no apparent order.

  Emily followed Megan’s gaze. “Dad was trying to rent this house. Figured if he fixed it up, he could get more money.”

  After a few minutes of idle chitchat aimed at putting Emily at ease, King asked gently, “You say it was no accident, but do you know why someone might have wanted to harm your father?”

  Emily shook her head. Her gaze darted to Megan.

  “She can stay,” King said. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I’d prefer it.”

  After a pause, King continued. “Do you think it’s possible that your dad was blackmailing someone?”

  Emily stared at the police chief, startled. “Blackmail? Over what?”

  “We’re just exploring all options.”

  The idea of blackmail was news to Megan, but she had to admit it made a certain sense. Had Ted learned something, something that killed Otto, one way to deal with it and solve his financial problems would be blackmail. But blackmail was a dangerous game—as Ted would have learned.

  “No, absolutely not,” Emily said. “No way.”

  “How about Ophelia Dilworth? Does that name ring a bell?”

  “The woman organizing Oktoberfest.”

  “That’s right.” King crossed one leg over another. Mr. Casual. “Is it possible she and your father were having an affair?”

  The look of incredulity on Emily’s face seemed genuine. “Seriously? She’s like thirty and Dad was in his sixties. I don’t think so.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Dad was devoted to the memory of my mom. If he had been seeing someone, I would have known.” She shook her head again. “He would never do that.”

  Megan knew King was thinking of two potential scenarios. A love triangle—two men after the same woman, and the deaths were related to a lovers’ quarrel. Or Ted was blackmailing Ophelia or Otto over an illicit affair—ending in two deaths.

  “You never heard your father talk about Ophelia?” King pressed.

  “Only in the context of Oktoberfest.”

  “And then because…”

  “Because he was damn bitter that he wasn’t chosen as the sponsoring brewery. He saw it as his ticket to success here in Winsome, something he desperately needed.” Emily held the Chief’s gaze. “And deserved.”

  King and the uniformed officer exchanged a look.

  “Assuming this wasn’t his own doing—and to be clear, we haven’t ruled that out—do you have any idea whether a customer may have wanted to do him harm? Or maybe someone he was doing business with?”

  “No.” Emily let out a long, low sob. “No one who knew him would want to hurt him.”

  “Emily, we will need more access to your father’s things. At your residence, here, and at the brewery. Will that be a problem? I’ve asked for a warrant, but it would make things easier if you give permission.”

  Emily nodded. “Whatever you need.” Megan handed her a tissue, which she used to dab her eyes and blow her nose. “Just find who did this.”

  “Will you be staying here? We need to know where to fin
d you.” King’s voice was soft. “But I don’t think you should be alone.”

  “I guess I—we—can stay with my ex.”

  “She’ll stay with us,” Megan said quickly. “There’s room at the farm.” There was no way she’d let Emily and her daughter return to her ex, not if the rumors of his bullying behavior were true. And of course King was right. She shouldn’t be alone.

  Emily nodded gratefully.

  “It’s settled then. I’ll have more questions, so if you go anywhere else, call me.” King stood, the signal to go. He stopped short of the door. “Emily, is it possible your ex did something to your father? Maybe over anger that he took you and your daughter in?”

  “No. My former husband is in Ohio. And he doesn’t have the money to hire someone. Besides, his anger is at me, not my dad.” She stood, drawing in an audible breath. “Don’t waste time looking at Kent. Or me. Find my dad’s killer. Because I know in my heart that my father was murdered.”

  “Peanuts.” Denver sighed. “I have now officially seen everything.”

  “It must have been awful. Finding Ted the way you did.”

  “Aye.” A shadow fell across Denver’s face. “But worse for Mrs. Kennedy. I’m afraid she could not hold down her bacon or her sausages.”

  They were at Denver’s home, sitting out back with the dogs. His Great Dane brought Megan a tennis ball. She threw it, and the dog stood there, watching it fly.

  “He only likes to see you work, that silly beast.” Denver reached over and petted the dog behind the ears absentmindedly. “Doesn’t actually fetch anything. Will sit here while you run across the yard and get that bloody ball yourself.”

  Megan smiled. All of Denver’s dogs—all five—were rescues. And a motley crew, at that.

  “Emily’s convinced it was murder. What’s your medical opinion?”

  “He died from an allergic reaction, that much seemed apparent. The question is whether the poor laddie was moved, and whether he was fed something with peanuts—forcibly or through trickery.” Denver frowned. “I suppose it could have been an accident. He had clearly been drinking. The smell of liquor in that shed was strong.”