by Wendy Tyson
“And he would be right to think that way.”
“You know Merry better than that. She’s a nosy neighbor but not a liar. He’ll wonder if she’s hiding something. That maybe she’d covered for Becca one of the nights before he died.”
One of the nights when he was being slowly poisoned, Megan thought, understanding.
“Is there anything else Merry didn’t tell him?” When Bibi shook her head, Megan rubbed her own face with her hands. She wanted a glass of wine—and it was only nine in the morning. “Bibi, I’m not getting involved in Merry’s mess. I feel badly for her and Becca, but Merry needs to tell Bobby the truth. He’s not a bad man, just young. The more we can help him do his job the right way, the more likely there will be a just outcome.”
“What would you do if this were me, Megan? If I could be in trouble and you were certain I hadn’t done anything.”
That was easy enough to answer. Hadn’t she been there before after Simon Duvall died in their barn? “I would do everything in my power to find the real murderer.”
Bibi looked at her, a faint smile of pride tugging at the corners of her lips. “Maybe we can help Merry. You and me. I’ve watched Angela Lansbury. I read Agatha Christie. And you’re young.”
Megan stifled a laugh. “That’s all I have going for me? I’m young?”
Bibi stood. The action took some effort and she winced when she moved. “When you’re my age, you realize what a huge advantage youth is. It’s like anything, really. You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone.” Bibi made her way to the sink, where she started washing dishes. “What are you waiting for?”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Start with Sarah, Megan. She knew Paul Fox well. Better than she’s letting on.”
The book. The argument in Merry’s parking lot. “Okay. If she’ll tell me anything.”
“Tell her I sent you. That we’re here to help.”
Megan didn’t go directly to Sarah’s house. Instead, she ran upstairs and grabbed Sarah’s novel, To Kill Again. She donned her hat, some thin gloves, and a thick wool blanket. With Gunther and Sadie behind her, she snuck out of the back of the house and made her way to the goat enclosure.
Heidi and Dimples were sleeping but rose when she came in. Megan spread the blanket in their heated pen and sank down on the ground. The dogs lay next to her, and after two unsuccessful attempts to eat the book, the goats soon settled as well.
Megan read.
She didn’t stop until the very last word.
Seventeen
Aunt Sarah agreed to see her that evening. “Come for dinner, Megan. I’m no Alvaro, but I make a mean bowl of spaghetti Bolognese.”
And so Megan drove to her aunt’s after finishing her farm chores and dropping greens and onions off at the café. Sarah lived several miles from Winsome, and as Megan pulled onto her property, she was once again reminded of its storybook charm. An English cottage in the woods, and now the cottage sat in a fluff of white amidst snow-covered pines. It was dark outside, but with light flurries coming down from a moonless sky, the house looked warmly lit and inviting. Or would have felt inviting were it not for the ropes binding Megan’s gut.
Megan knocked twice before Aunt Sarah opened the front door. She wore her usual attire—loose-fitting brown pants, a deep plum kaftan, and a string of colorful beads. The frames of her readers picked up the color of her shirt; the glasses hung from a brown rope around her neck.
“Good to see you.” Sarah leaned in and kissed Megan on the cheek. “Come. I’ve been waiting for you.”
The house smelled of garlic and roasting meats. Megan handed her parka to her aunt and followed her into the kitchen.
“I thought we’d eat in the dining room tonight,” Aunt Sarah said. “I lit a fire and moved the books off the table. Nice to have company for a change.”
The lights in Sarah’s home were kept dim, and the fire in the fireplace crackled brightly. The table was set for two. Two plates of appetizers had been set at one end next to a bottle of Sangiovese wine, a half-full decanter, and two wine glasses.
“Would you care for some wine?”
Megan nodded. She took the glass gratefully.
“Sit. Get comfortable. Dinner will be ready in a half hour. We can chat until then.”
Megan sank down on an upholstered armchair, it’s white with blue flowers, a shabby chic contribution to the cottage room. Aunt Sarah sat across from her in a blue armchair, lifting the chair’s current occupant—an orange tabby—and placing the cat on her lap.
“You read my book? I assume that’s why you wanted to come over.”
“Right to the point?” Megan smiled. “Yes, I read it. And I want to talk about it. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“Bibi sent me.” Megan explained portions of her earlier conversation with her grandmother. She watched Sarah’s reaction and was disappointed when the older woman’s face remained neutral. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m surprised it took you this long to show up. Bonnie knows I had a history with Paul. The police know because I told them.” She took a long sip of wine. “Hell, Megan, with the way gossip flies around this town, for all I know by now all of Winsome knows.”
The cat yawned and stretched. It eyed Megan with disdain before returning to its nap.
Megan said, “What kind of history?”
“He was my therapist. And then he was my lover.”
Megan stared at her aunt, taking in her news, swallowing her surprise. “He was your lover while he was your therapist? Or afterwards?”
“Do you want to know whether he was breaking his therapist code of honor? The answer is yes. Do you want to know if he was a cheating sonofabitch? The answer is yes.” Another swallow of wine, her face a practiced blank. “If you want to know whether I killed him, that answer is a resounding no.”
“Why would I think you killed him?”
“Just putting that out there. After the grilling I received from King, I thought I would handle the question up front. Thankfully I had an airtight alibi for the entire damn week or I think I’d be spending the night at Hotel Lockup.”
Megan took a sip from her own wine glass, trying to hide her surprise. The liquid was thick and dusky, a little bitter for her taste. “Tell me about Paul. What happened between you?”
Sarah stood. “Come with me. I need to pull dinner together. I’ll tell you in the kitchen.”
Sarah stirred the contents of a large pot with more vigor than was needed. She turned off the gas and poured the pasta through a colander in the sink. Steam clouded the window over the counter.
“I was obviously much younger,” Aunt Sarah said as she worked. “I’d recently been through a messy divorce. My first books were out, but I wasn’t making much money yet. Bill—that’s my ex—had left me emotionally and financially drained. And of course your grandfather had all but disowned me. I had no one, really. Except your mother.” She threw an apologetic smile at Megan over her shoulder. “She never wavered in her support.”
Well, I’m glad she was there for someone, Megan thought. “So you went to see Paul?”
“Yes. He was recommended to me by Denver’s aunt, Dr. Kent. Eloise had recently hired Paul to provide counseling at her office for kids and their parents—victims of trauma. I trusted her opinion, plus there just weren’t a lot of choices around here back then.”
The pasta was still steaming in the colander. Sarah poured it into a large pasta bowl and sprinkled on parmesan cheese. She ladled thick, meaty sauce on top. “Right back,” she said, disappearing into the dining room with the bowl of pasta.
When she returned, she pulled a salad out of the refrigerator. “Shall we eat?”
“Sure, but please continue with your story. I want to hear what happened.”
Once settled in the dining room, Megan took a small portion of pasta and a large helping of the Caesar salad and placed them on her plate. Sarah watched her approvingly.
“You eat like your mother,” Aunt Sarah said.
“Please don’t. I don’t want to hear comparisons. It’s not fair.”
Sarah looked away, her expression pained. “You’re both important to me. Sometimes…sometimes I forget. Your grandfather is still waiting, you know. He’s ready, I think, to see you again. If you’ll agree.”
Thinking of October, of nights spent wondering what was going on, Megan said, “Bully for him.” Megan recoiled at the reproach in Aunt Sarah’s eyes. More gently, she said, “Paul?”
“Ah, yes.” Sarah forked a piece of lettuce and studied it. “My sessions with Paul helped at first. He was an attentive listener, as he should have been, I guess. He asked questions, probed, always wanted more details, urging me to disclose the most painful parts, the most sordid aspects of my experiences, of my marriage.” She sighed. “I was so hungry for attention, for someone to hear me, that I amplified Paul’s good qualities. I made him into some psychological warrior fighting battles on my behalf.”
“And he wasn’t.”
Sarah laughed. “No, clearly he wasn’t.” She popped the lettuce into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed, then drained her wine glass before continuing. “On session five he grabbed my hand during a particularly painful disclosure about sex with my former husband. On session seven he hugged me platonically before I left. By session twelve he was kissing me. We had sex during session fifteen.”
Megan sat there, absorbing her aunt’s admission. “He was married.”
“And the father of two.”
“Yet you slept with him.”
“I did.”
The words hung there between them. It was clear from Sarah’s tone that this was something she had come to terms with years ago. That the guilt had been weighed and measured, and whatever penance required had been performed.
“At some point you ended it?”
“There was never a session sixteen. I knew the moment I walked out that office door that what had happened was wrong. I allowed him to manipulate me. I felt dirty and exposed and very, very vulnerable. It wasn’t until later that I understood the full gravity of what had happened.”
Megan put down her fork. “What do you mean?”
Sarah tilted her head, her eyes thoughtful. “The sex was very intense. I felt like he was devouring me. His eyes bore into me the entire time we were together. He was rough. I felt violated; that’s why I never returned. Years later, after I spent time with a real therapist, I came to understand something about Paul. He was a sadist in the most basic sense. He consumed my stories the same way he consumed me sexually. The trauma I had been through, the sordid details…they fed him. They excited him.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“I know.” Sarah put down her own fork. “I wish I could say I was sorry to see him go.”
“Did you report him?”
“I tried.” The orange tabby jumped up on the table and Sarah shooed him off. “Sorry. Buttercup’s not used to visitors.” She bent down to pet him, soothing his fragile ego. “I called Eloise and let her know. I suppose I should have done more, but I was pretty depressed at the time.” She shrugged. “Not that that’s an excuse.”
“Is that why Denver’s aunt fired him? Because of what happened with you?”
“I don’t know—maybe. Remember, I didn’t live here full-time. I still used my ex-husband’s apartment in New York, and after that happened I returned to the city. I heard later that Paul and his family had moved out of town. To somewhere in New York, I think.”
“So there was never a scandal?”
“About me?” Sarah looked confused by the question. “No, of course not. Not back then. I mean people knew something had happened, I’m sure, but I didn’t go screaming from the rooftops. And I don’t think Eloise would have told many people. The fact that he worked for her would have made her look bad.”
Megan placed more pasta on her plate. It was good, and she was hungry. “I’m just looking for the connection to your book, To Kill Again. I thought maybe if your fling was public, someone might have used that book against you.”
“Just because I didn’t make a big deal about it doesn’t mean other people didn’t find out. Blanche could have told her sister or a friend. And who knows, maybe Paul told someone—bragged about his conquest.”
“What about the parking lot? That day at Merry’s? The two of you were arguing.”
Sarah nodded. “He was afraid I was going to go public with what happened. Seemed suddenly paranoid that I would. As though after all those years I’d try to get revenge that way.”
“It does seem odd.” Megan twirled spaghetti onto her fork. It resisted, slipped off, and she caught it with a spoon. “Does Becca know about the two of you?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“But she could have learned about it on her own?”
“Anything is possible.”
Truer words, Megan thought, and downed some more wine.
Megan helped Sarah clean up. They worked side by side in a comfortable silence. Megan caught herself wondering if this is what it would have been like with her mother. Whether this was what her mother had shared with Sarah.
Before she left, Sarah handed her a Tupperware container. “For Bonnie. I know she loves spaghetti.”
“Thank you.”
They headed toward the front door. “What did you think of my book?”
“I devoured it,” she said, recognizing the echo of the words Sarah had used to describe Paul not an hour ago. “It was excellent. I had no idea whodunit until the end.”
“Did you see the parallels?”
“The phosgene, the room, the taped windows? Yes. That’s where the similarities ended though. The killer was a drunk ex-husband. The victim an abused wife.”
“But the means were the same.”
Megan slid her coat over her arms. “And the house in which the crime was committed even sounded eerily similar. An older Cape Cod in a rural area. There must be a connection. Or someone got their ideas from your book.”
“Neither thought is comforting.”
Megan hugged her aunt and thanked her for her time and the dinner. “It rivaled Alvaro’s,” she said.
“You flatter me so.” Sarah smiled. “Don’t be a stranger. Please.”
“I won’t. I may have more questions about the book. About Paul.”
Sarah nodded. She held Megan’s gaze for a long time, her own uncharacteristically maternal. “I wonder about Becca,” Sarah said finally. “Paul’s desire to feed off pain. His need to dominate and possess. It could not have been easy growing up in that household.”
“You think she may have more mental scars than what we see?”
“I think the damage is lasting and deep. Paul’s biggest casualty could be his daughter.”
Sarah’s words echoed the things Merry had said about Becca Fox. The thought unsettled Megan for the rest of the night.
Eighteen
The café was unusually crowded the next morning, a phenomenon fueled, Megan figured, by the upcoming holidays and Paul’s untimely death. Clover had done a great job creating a holiday atmosphere, and despite the charged tension, Megan enjoyed the smells and sounds of Christmas. The scents of coffee, cinnamon, and cloves wafted from the kitchen, and instrumental Christmas music played softly in the background. Clover had set up a wreath stand outside the storefront using wreaths purchased from a nearby farm, and a line of customers waited to pay for their decorations.
Megan should have felt happy. Their first real Christmas with the farm and café running, and things were really coming together. Yet Megan couldn’t get her conversation with Sarah out of her mind. Or Bibi’s re
quest that they help Merry. Megan glanced around as she headed back toward the café. She nodded at people she’d known her whole life, people who rallied around her grandmother when her mother left, when her grandfather died. People who sent cards and gifts and made phone calls when Megan’s husband was killed in Afghanistan. This was small town living.
And once again there was a sore festering amongst the good people of Winsome.
Roger Becker stopped Megan in her tracks. He tugged gently at her elbow and pulled her aside. The new zoning commissioner was gaunt and balding, and he looked down at Megan over wire readers. A Santa hat covered his scalp, and a red and green Phillies tie mostly hid the coffee stain on his white shirt. “Do you have a minute, Megan? I need to speak with you.”
“Sure, Roger. Although I promised Alvaro—”
“This will just take a minute. I promise.” He led her back to a quiet corner of the store, next to the paper goods and organic pet food. “It’s Merry. She didn’t show up to last night’s Historical Society dinner. She always comes to the meetings and the dinners. Always.”
“I think she’s been preoccupied, Roger. With Becca and what happened to Paul and all.”
Roger pressed thin lips together, shook his head. “I know, but she always comes. The Historical Society is what roots her, feeds her mojo. When Blanche died, she still came. When Simon was murdered, she still came. When she had an emergency appendectomy, she called in to that night’s meeting and participated by conference call, for goodness sake.” Roger’s face was quickly turning red. “And last night she neither showed up nor called in. She didn’t even call to let me know she wasn’t coming.”
“Did you swing by her house to check on her?”
“Of course.” His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. “I went first thing this morning.”
“And?”