by Wendy Tyson
Megan walked the length of the fenced-in yard, retrieved the tennis ball, and threw it to Denver’s Golden Retriever, who seemed much happier to actually fetch the toy than the Great Dane had. Back at the deck, she reached over her head, stretching her sore back.
She said, “The police are treating Ted’s death as suspicious, which is the right call, I think. I’m anxious to see if that changes once the scene of his death has been analyzed.”
“Aye, they called me in again to ask some questions. They want me to stay mum on the topic, should the media, or anyone, ask. Official reason is asphyxiation due to allergic shock. That is all I am to say.”
“Same here. King didn’t even want me to tell Bibi, but with Emily coming to stay, I had to tell my grandmother.” Megan threw the ball for the Golden again. “King said yes. What else could he do?”
Denver’s gaze followed the dog as she raced across the yard. He looked troubled. “How are things with Emily, poor lassie?”
“She’s only been there since yesterday. Bibi has taken to the baby like a child with a puppy, and I think my grandmother’s presence has had a calming effect on Emily.” Megan smiled wistfully. “Bibi is like that. She cares, and people know it.”
“Aye, that’s true. Is Emily getting on? I know you said last night that she was mostly moping around her room.”
Megan considered his question. “She helped with the chickens this morning. And she offered to accompany Clover and Alvaro to this afternoon’s Picnic on the Canal. She just learned of her dad’s death, but I think she’s been expecting it. She wants to get out of the house, be busy.”
“Are you going to the picnic?”
“I think I need to.”
Megan tossed the Golden the ball one last time. She needed to head out. In fact, she’d just stopped by to say “hello” to Denver and check on him after Saturday’s calamity. Doctor or no, finding a second body in the super-safe Winsome had to have been a shock.
“Maybe we can go to the picnic together?” Denver asked. “I’d be happy to help.”
“The café is making funnel cake and donuts. Feel like spending some time with hot grease and powdered sugar?”
“Sounds better than many of my afternoons.”
“Okay, then. Say three o’clock? I can swing by and pick you up.”
Denver shook his head. “I forgot. I promised to check on one of Mark Gregario’s horses. It took a tumble and now it’s acting lame. How about if I meet you in town?”
“That works. By the café’s booth, on the south side of the square.”
Denver looked up. The sky, like Saturday’s, was clear blue, the temperature a bit warmer. Unseasonable for October, but perfect for a fall picnic.
Denver stood. His broad chest and narrow waist were accentuated by the sweater he’d chosen, and Megan’s mind switched unwittingly to the day Porter was stranded—to seeing Denver without a shirt by the side of the road. Which inevitably made her think of the solar field and Otto Vance. And Lana Vance. Lana had stopped by to see Megan, and had since also called, but Megan had forgotten in the midst of everything else. She wondered now what Otto’s widow had wanted.
Megan glanced at her watch. If she stopped by to see Lana now, she could still get changed in time to help Clover and Alvaro set up for the picnic. She stood on tippy-toe and gave Denver a kiss.
“You’re off then?”
“I am. I’ll see you this afternoon?”
“Aye.” He hugged her, and she sank into his embrace. “Do ye want to come back here afterwards, Meg?”
She knew what he meant, and she did want to. She really did. “I shouldn’t leave Bibi home alone with Emily and the baby. Not with everything—”
Denver put two fingers on Megan’s lips to quiet her. He leaned down for another kiss, this one heavier, more demanding.
“It’s okay,” he said. There was a husky undertone to his voice that quickened Megan’s breath. “Another time.”
Twenty-One
Megan started with the Vance Brew Pub. A sign on the wooden door of the tavern read “Oktoberfest Special: Any Vance Brew on Tap $3.” Inside, the place felt packed. Every bar seat, every table was taken. The Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” blared from overhead speakers. The air smelled of wood smoke from the corner fireplace, fried foods, and beer. And bodies. Lots of chatting, laughing bodies.
A petite blond with a full chest and sunny smile stood behind the bar. It took Megan a moment to recognize Vance’s youngest daughter, Hedy. Megan greeted her, and once Hedy was free from serving customers, asked whether Lana was there.
“Afraid not. Mom’s not been herself since Dad passed. She’s likely home. Sleeping.”
“She was looking for me late last week. Thought I’d stop by to check on her.”
The young woman nodded. “That’s really nice of you. Maybe try the house?”
“I will.”
“The café did such a nice job at Dad’s funeral,” Hedy said. “Dad would have loved it.”
“Thank you. We tried to do something he would have appreciated.”
Hedy glanced around, then lowered her voice. “It was just a shame she came.”
Surprised, and not wanting to betray Lana’s confidences, Megan said, “Who would that be?”
“Ophelia. You know, She Who Must Not Be Named.”
Uncomfortable talking about this with Otto’s daughter, Megan simply nodded. “I’m sure this has all been very hard on your mother.”
Hedy shook her blond tresses. “That’s an understatement. Mom pretends to be stoic, but it’s killing her. She’s supposed to be running this place, but she can’t even step inside. We’re managing it through Oktoberfest, my brother and me. Then what? I don’t know.”
“I’m really sorry to hear how much your family’s going through.”
Hedy Vance sighed. “I know you mean it, Megan. I really do. But until you’re in a situation like this—losing someone you love and then realizing they were never the person you thought they were—you have no idea how hard it is. None at all.”
Megan drove up Baker Street, past The Village Diner and out past Ray Lottie’s small woodshop and farmstead. “Barn Sale” was advertised in big wooden letters across the barn’s bright red exterior. At Weeping Willow Lane, Megan turned left. On the right were Sauer’s back fields, and Megan could see two dozen steer standing in a crowded holding pen behind a rundown barn. No surprise that Sauer wasn’t hosting any of the events, Megan thought. Probably best he was sticking to meat and corn. His place was as welcoming as the gallows.
Megan’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and, seeing it was Aunt Sarah, hit the off button. Sarah had left two messages this week, but Megan had no desire to talk to her. Not now. Not after their last conversation.
At Pine Road, Megan made another left. She passed the turnoff for Emily’s grandmother’s property and, beyond that, a small Baptist church. Past the church was the Vance estate. Megan pulled her pickup next to Lana’s black Acura sedan. She climbed out and went to the door. She rang the bell. It took a minute before Lana showed up at the entryway. Her hair was disheveled. Her mascara had left tracks over sharp cheekbones and under the pale hollows of her jawline. She wore a blue robe that looked as though it hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks.
“Megan,” she said flatly.
“Lana, I’m so sorry. I know you called, but some things happened, and this was my first chance to—”
“No need to apologize.” Lana stayed in the doorway, her body angled to block the view of the interior. Megan smelled stale smoke and despair.
“Can I come in?”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“I thought we could talk. About things that have happened.”
Lana shook her head. Her eyes widened, her pupils looked dilated. “I’m fine. Really.”
“The police are investigating Otto’s death. They probably told you already. I thought you should know.”
“They told me. It’s not necessary. He died accidentally. And we know how.” Lana started to close the door. “It is what it is, as they say.”
“But what if that’s not the case? What if there’s more? Things that would make this easier to deal with? That would let you know that Otto wasn’t doing the things you suspected?” That he’d been faithful.
As Megan spoke, she heard the echoes of her own life, of her questions to Aunt Sarah just weeks before. What if you could make this horrible thing make sense? She wanted to ask Lana. Wouldn’t you do it? I would.
Only Lana arranged her face into a mask of indifference. “And what if what they find is worse than what I think? I am on a precipice, Megan. Teetering off is not unthinkable nor improbable. That may just be the push.”
“You should talk to someone, Lana. Someone who can help you deal with your grief.”
“There is no help for what ails me.”
With that, Lana slammed the door.
Megan stared at it a moment, wondering about the shift in Lana’s demeanor and attitude since the funeral. Then she’d seemed vulnerable, wounded but open. Now? A different person. Rage could do that.
Megan left, feeling more hurt than she believed she had a right to. Lana never did tell her what she’d wanted. Megan wanted to help Lana. But maybe Lana was beyond help.
Twenty-Two
It was hard to reconcile the deaths of two of Winsome’s sons with the joviality of Oktoberfest week. Sunday’s Picnic by the Canal was, in everyone’s estimation, a great success. Fourteen hundred tourists showed up for the event. Megan watched from the café’s food booth as families rode bikes, navigated canoes and kayaks through the canal, and strolled along the canal path. There were three-legged races, water balloon tosses, carnival rides for tots, a band in Austrian garb, and food and beer. So much food and beer.
Including the café’s contribution: Alvaro’s donuts and funnel cakes. The treats were provided by the café, and the profits went to Winsome’s Historical Society. Alvaro worked tirelessly, pouring donut batter into hot oil and handing the goods to Emily, who sprinkled powdered sugar on the fried dough. Clover handled the money. Bibi was home, watching Lily. She’d offered happily, and Emily had accepted gratefully. Megan was just thrilled to see her grandmother content.
Megan didn’t see Lana Vance, nor did she spot Ophelia. She did, however, see Glen and Irene Sauer walking by the ticket tent. His hulking form shadowed her slightly smaller one. They huddled together, stalwarts of gloom against the cheerful façade of the picnic.
“What’s that painting?” Clover whispered when she spotted them. “American Gothic?”
Megan snickered despite her distaste for their role in the event. The famous artwork was a decent rendition of the couple. She followed the Sauers’ progress as they checked in with Merry Chance at the ticket booth, then headed back toward Canal Street and their Ford Bronco.
“So much for a sponsorship role,” Clover said.
“I guess engagement wasn’t a condition.”
Later Megan had a chance to meet Roger Becker while refilling the ice in the coolers of water, iced tea, and juice the café was selling. The Sauers still on her mind, Megan remembered what Merry Chance had said days ago: Roger would know who recommended Ophelia to the Oktoberfest committee.
“Megan,” Roger said. “Happy to see the café has been such a success.”
“Thanks. We’re pleased. We owe it to Alvaro—he’s an amazing cook.”
“Well, the café has been just what Winsome needs.” Roger looked around the makeshift fairground, a wide smile on his thin face. Roger was a skinny man, tall and narrow, with a long narrow face reminiscent of Ichabod Crane. He’d been a lifelong resident of the town, and despite what Megan often thought of as occasional overzealousness on his part, he generally meant well. “The Oktoberfest celebration too. I just wish Otto was here to see his idea come to fruition.”
“Oktoberfest will definitely bring some attention to the small business owners here, which is what Otto wanted. Speaking of which—” Megan lowered her tone conspiratorially “—can you tell me who recommended Ophelia?”
Becker’s jaw tightened. “Is this over Sauer?”
“No, actually.”
“Then why do you ask?”
“She’s done a bang-up job with Oktoberfest. I thought she might help advertise the farm.”
“Really?” Becker looked at her, brow knit into a V. “She said you were annoyed over her choice to let Sauer be the farm sponsor.”
“I was confused by the decision. It seemed the opposite of every guiding principle the Oktoberfest committee set forth last year.”
“Ah, but that was before Ophelia came along. She convinced us that our sponsors had to be big enough to meet our supply demands.”
“So the farm had to meet the meat requirements.”
“Absolutely. And you can’t do that.”
Megan chose not to point out that Sauer couldn’t meet the vegetable requirements—he only produced soybeans and corn. She said, “That sounds like a stretch, Roger. You’ve known me and Bonnie for a long time. Tell me the truth.”
Roger looked suddenly uncomfortable, just as Merry had before. Were they embarrassed to have handed Ophelia control—or was there more? Megan wished she knew.
Roger continued. “Look, I respect you and Bonnie, you know that, Megan. You’ve done an amazing job, as have Mark and Ann at Diamond Farm. But part of our agreement with Ophelia’s firm was that we would take her direction as the expert. And this was her direction.” He glanced down at his feet, shoulders hunched. “What do we know about running something this ambitious? That’s why we hired her.”
“So she is so good that she could call the terms despite the fact that the town’s paying her?”
Roger looked like Megan had purposefully stepped on his sandcastle. “We got a Yale graduate from a big PR firm for a good price. We were pretty pleased with ourselves.” His demeanor shifted. Suddenly he was looking at Megan like he was a school teacher and she was a naughty student. “And you can’t see that because your business wasn’t chosen.”
“Oh, Roger, you know us better than that. It’s just that small farms are disappearing, and I—we all—thought the point of this exercise was to highlight small farms and businesses.”
“On a national scale, Sauer’s still small.”
Megan was ready to end this pissing match. It was going nowhere. She watched a family of four skip down a hill toward the canal and said, “Did Sauer recommend Ophelia’s firm to the committee?”
Becker laughed. “Heavens no, Megan. That would have been a conflict of interest. Marty Jenner knows the head of the firm. It was he who suggested Ophelia.”
Jenner? He wasn’t even on the committee. Megan nodded and thanked Roger for the information. Clover would be wondering where the missing cooler was. She needed to get back to their tent.
“Let me know how it goes,” Becker called after her.
“How what goes?”
“The PR for the farm. With Ophelia.”
“Oh that. I sure will. Assuming we can afford her.”
“Maybe you can work a deal,” Becker said. “Free veggies for a year.” He laughed, quite taken with his own humor. “If she likes Winsome enough, maybe she’ll stay.”
Oh, I hope not, Megan thought. But she kept on walking toward Alvaro and the line of tourists waiting for donuts and funnel cake.
It took Denver longer than anticipated to wrestle with and examine the agitated horse at Diamond Farm. He finally arrived at the Picnic on the Canal at six thirty, just as the afternoon event was winding down, distinctly not looking like a man who had spent the afternoon tussling with a mammal many times his size. He’d showered and changed, an
d his normally beard-shadowed face was clean shaven.
Megan smiled when she saw him approaching the tent. “Another photoshoot?”
Denver laughed. “This masterpiece is for you, not my adoring public.”
Emily had long-since returned to the farm, but Alvaro and Clover were packing up the last of the supplies. Clay was due any moment with his truck, and they were going to cart the fryers, cookware, and coolers back to the café.
“We have a few minutes,” Clover said. “Why don’t you two go for a stroll?” She winked at Alvaro.
The cook made a pained face, rolling his eyes. “Go, go.”
The setting sun reflected off the water in the canal, painting the downtown area in brush strokes of orange, red, and purple. Ducks had collected by the canal banks, and children were tossing them leftover bits of bread and funnel cake. Denver reached for Megan’s hand.
“Watch it. The other single ladies in Winsome will be jealous.”
“Aye, as they should be. How was the picnic?”
“Fine. Raised quite a bit for the historical society. Merry said it’s earmarked for Simon Duvall’s museum.”
“How do you feel about that?” Denver didn’t mention the secret they shared—a treasure buried somewhere on Washington Acres’ property. A secret that would have been of interest to Simon, had he not been brutally murdered last spring.
“Feels like the right thing.”
They’d come to an Oktoberfest Week display board attached to a sturdy wooden stand at the entrance of the canal walkway.
Denver said, “Speaking of raising money, how did Irene and Glen Sauer do? Being the sponsor and all.”
“He didn’t actually have a booth. His meats and chicken were prepared by the Historical Society, which sold hot dogs and grilled chicken sandwiches.” She considered the crowds amassed around the food booths. “I guess it went well. I didn’t ask.”