ROOTED IN DECEIT

by Wendy Tyson

  Today she jumped on the hay bales the goats liked to stand on and began a personal grooming regimen, keeping a wary eye on the dog.

  Megan scratched Dimples behind the ears. Sometimes she swore that goat thought it was a dog. “Now if only people could set aside their differences the way dogs do.”

  “Will never happen.”

  Megan looked up to see Sylvia standing in the weak glow of the outdoor light. Sylvia smiled. “I was taking a walk. Your father’s watching a game.”

  Megan opened the gate, and the petite woman walked through. She glanced around the pen looking only slightly put out before taking a seat next to the cat on the hay.

  “My grandfather was a farmer,” she said. “A small fig farm in Verona. Perhaps that’s why I’m such a romantic.”

  Megan wasn’t sure she’d compare her father’s marriage to Romeo and Juliet, but who was she to judge? “It must be beautiful there.”

  “You’ll see when you visit. It’s breathtaking.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, Megan on the ground with the goats and Sylvia on the makeshift bench. Mutton Chops rubbed her head against Sylvia, but she ignored the cat and eventually it settled down next to her denim-clad leg.

  “I need you to do something for me,” Sylvia said. She slid something across the floor toward Megan. “There is a number on there. Please call it. The woman who will answer is named Chiara. She’s my aunt. Just tell her to send the money.” Sylvia’s curt tone belied the pleading in her eyes. “Don’t tell her about me and this legal nonsense. Don’t tell Eddie I’m asking this of you. Don’t say anything to Chiara except that I could not contact her myself and she should send the money. She will know what to do from there.”

  Megan stared at her. She sat there quietly, absorbing Sylvia’s request, until her eyes were throbbing and she felt Heidi gnawing on her knuckle with her bony gums.

  “Sylvia, why can’t you contact your aunt yourself?” she asked quietly.

  “Because I am under suspicion by the United States government—”

  “The police, but okay.”

  “And my lawyer whose name you gave us, she said not to contact anyone if it would seem suspicious.” Sylvia shrugged. “Plus, the police took my phone.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t be contacting your aunt at all if it seems suspicious.” And asking for money certainly sounded suspicious, even to Megan. “Why do you need the money? To pay the attorney fees?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just need to get in touch with Chiara. You will call, no?”

  “No.” Megan slid the number back across the floor. A curious Heidi sniffed it and started to pick up the paper.

  Sylvia’s eyes widened in surprise. She snatched the number. “I thought I could count on you.”

  “Then tell me why you need the money.”

  Sylvia closed her eyes. When she spoke again, there seemed to be genuine regret in her voice. “I’m afraid I can’t. You will need to trust me, Megan. I have done nothing wrong. The need for the money is legitimate.”

  Sylvia stood. She walked to where Megan was sitting and placed the paper down in front of her. “Ciao, Megan. Whatever you decide, please don’t tell your father about this conversation. Trust me on that at least. It’s for his own good.”

  Megan tucked the paper into the pocket of her jacket. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with it, but she was too tired to decide that now. For now, she’d sit outside with the animals and wait until it was late enough—or early enough, if you were in Scotland—to call Denver.

  It seemed the animals were the only sane ones in her life.

  Fifteen

  Saturday brought with it sunshine and a break from the humidity—but still no rain. Today, though, Megan wasn’t complaining. It was a perfect late summer day for an event, and hopefully the breeze would keep the bugs at bay. Megan spent the morning tidying up the house and yard and checking and rechecking to make sure everything was in order.

  Denver called her at two to wish her good luck. “I wish I could be there, Megs,” he said. “I know this is important to you.”

  “And to Clay. This was his baby, and I think his ego is tied into the outcome.”

  Megan was in the small commercial kitchen they’d set up in the old barn, chopping red onions from the farm for use in the house salad. Tonight’s menu would be simple. Every adult would receive a field green salad tossed with Bibi’s maple cider vinaigrette and a personal wood-fired pizza with their choice of local products as toppings. Caramelized onions. Morgan Farms sausage, barbeque chicken, and pepperoni. Red and green peppers. Even goat cheese. Anything, really. And Alvaro’s amazing tomato sauce. Children under ten could opt for crudités with ranch dressing and a smaller personal cheese pizza for free. The kids’ wood-fired pizzas were adorable; Clay had practiced making them until he could master the crust on such a small oblong shape.

  The onions caused Megan’s eyes to tear. She dabbed at them with a napkin. “How’s your sister?” she asked Denver.

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. Still having difficulty with basic tasks.” He sighed. “I know she’ll get through this, but I wish I could make it better for her. She has a long road of physical therapy ahead of her before she’ll be running more marathons. Before she can walk to the front stoop, for that matter.”

  Megan had never met Denver’s older sister, but she’d heard about her eccentric personality and her love of running. “She’s lucky to have you,” Megan said. “I hope you’re finding some time to enjoy Edinburgh.”

  “If by enjoy you mean checking in on every one of Eileen’s friend’s pets, I am. It’s funny how many Scottish dogs, cats, and horses, and even a rather cantankerous iguana, need a vet’s attention this time of year.”

  Megan laughed. She bet that these requests for house calls from his sister’s friends had more to do with his status as a handsome, single practitioner than the maladies of their furry and non-furry companions. “At least you’re staying busy.”

  “And at least I don’t have to cook. While my sister may be wishing for some lovely haggis accompanied by tatties and neeps, she’ll have to make due with a spot of whiskey and some of her friend Bridgette’s homemade tuna noodle casserole. You heard right, Megs. Or maybe her other friend Dolores’s very traditional Scottish sauerkraut and pork, which she brought yesterday in a Crock-Pot large enough to feed the entire bloody country.” Denver laughed. “Apparently Dolores did some research on the region of Pennsylvania in which we live and saw German heritage was common. I should be touched, right?”

  Megan smiled. “As long as there is no actual touching, yes, you should be touched.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. My heart is loyal. Now if you had come with me this problem would be a non-issue, you know. These ladies would see the beautiful farmer Megan Sawyer and stop visiting with their sluggish reptiles and their Betty Crocker recipes.”

  Megan pulled another onion out of the bin, wiped it with a damp cloth, and peeled off the outer layers. “But then you’d have to cook, although there is always takeaway. Pizza, I understand, is available everywhere.”

  “True.” Denver paused. When he spoke again, his tone was serious. “Did you hear from your mother? Will she be attending tonight?”

  Denver was the only person aside from Aunt Sarah who knew she’d invited Charlotte to the wood fired pizza opening. “No, she’s busy.”

  When Megan didn’t say more, Denver let it go. “And your father? He and Sylvia will be there?”

  “As long as Sylvia isn’t arrested first.” Megan described recent conversations with her father and his wife—leaving out the bit about the request for money. “I have to admit, I’m worried about her and about Alvaro’s wife, Maria. Have you heard from the police since they called you to confirm the details of your visit to the Center?”

  “No, thankfully they’ve not called
again. The first discussion with that Detective Jones was unpleasant enough. A lot of me cracking witty jokes and her not laughing even a little bit. But she must have realized there was no time to strangle an artist between the time I lounged in the reception area, or whatever they call it, and that first delightful bite of my Beef Wellington.”

  “You did go to the bathroom.”

  “True. Although the three minutes that took was barely enough time to find a scarf, much less use it.” Denver’s voice had lost its bantering tone. “It is awful, the poor woman. Do you have a sense that the police have any clues beyond Sylvia and Maria?”

  “Just Thana’s ex-boyfriend, but that’s my hunch.” Megan told Denver about her conversation with Thana’s father and her visit to Elliot’s hang-out. “He seems like a possible candidate.”

  “So you have a local artist on the brink of fame, and possibly fortune. Suspects? An envious and controlling ex. An Italian visitor with no apparent ax to grind. And an upstanding local citizen who got into a tiff with the deceased.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  Megan cleaned her chopping block and the knife and pulled a scrubbed and peeled carrot out of the cooler, her mind on Thana. She started to slice the carrots for the kids’ meals. “Don’t forget all of the as-yet-unidentified people with something to gain from killing Thana. Whether or not she was rich off her paintings doesn’t matter. It’s the perception that counts.”

  “Were any paintings missing from her van?”

  “I don’t know if they had an inventory of what was in there. Based on what Bobby told me, the van was like a traveling studio—half-finished work, supplies, and the like.” Megan placed a row of uniform carrots sticks into a large container lined with paper towels. “I’ll have to ask Bobby if there was any sign of theft.”

  “And no theft from the Center?”

  “None that I’m aware of.” Except the painting Maria supposedly took, but Megan kept that mum. “It makes me wonder, though—who else was angry at Thana? If she was difficult enough to anger Maria, who by all counts is Bucks County’s answer to sainthood, then she must have ticked off others.”

  “Only one way to find out. Ask around.”

  Megan put her head back and closed her eyes. “How I wish you were here.”

  Denver laughed, and the sound was like music to Megan. “You could use a massage. And maybe some heavy beef stew. Make an appointment at the Center. Use the facilities.”

  “And sneak around. I like it.” Megan grabbed several more carrots and poised the knife over their bright orange bodies. “The tuna did you good. Brain power.”

  “I didn’t take a bite of Bridgette’s casserole,” Denver said. “Pork and sauerkraut is more my thing.”

  “Four cancellations, two additions, and otherwise ready to go.” Clay stood by the big wood fired oven. His long hair was up and tied in a ponytail. He wore khaki shorts, a blue Washington Acres Farm t-shirt, and a blue and white “Winsome Rocks” apron, courtesy of Bibi’s stock of leftover Winsome souvenirs. He held a wooden pizza panel in one hand. “And now I just need my co-chef.”

  “Alvaro’s not here yet?” Clover looked up from filling the glass Parmesan cheese shakers and the vegan “cheese” shakers. “I assumed he was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the sauce.”

  Clay shook his head. “And he didn’t answer the phone when I called. I tried him twice.”

  Megan frowned. Alvaro was always punctual, always reliable. She pictured him as he’d been the day before, standing in his door as the detectives took away his wife. She wished she had talked to him then, had gone inside and provided some comfort. He and Maria had no children. This would be devastating, and he was likely too proud to ask for help. She had little doubt today’s absence was tied to Maria.

  “Try him again.” Megan finished arranging the flowers in the Mason jars. She plucked out a sunflower with a broken stem and replaced it with a fresh bloom before wiping her hands on her own apron. “Leave him a message asking him to call me as soon as he can.”

  “And tonight?” Clover asked. She looked around the renovated space, and Megan’s gaze followed.

  The picnic tables were pristine, the hostess station was gleaming, and even the wooden floor shone from the cleaning the team had done the day before. Megan glanced at Thana’s paintings. She wondered if she should take them down, but opted not to. For better or worse, they would remain a testament to her former friend’s talent.

  “Tonight we go on,” Megan said. “Clay can make the pizzas. Porter will help in the kitchen and as needed by the oven. You and Emily can waitress. Bibi can seat our guests and I’ll fill in as needed.”

  “Your dad doesn’t want to help?” Clay asked.

  “Help?” Megan smiled. Even if Eddie were to get involved—and he certainly hadn’t offered—getting him up to speed would take half the evening. “He may show up to eat.”

  The barn door opened and Megan saw Bibi’s head pop in and out. When she finally came in and closed the door behind her, she let out a long sigh. “Those dogs! They follow me everywhere.”

  “Which means you’re carrying candy in your pockets again.” Megan held out her hand. “Give it up, Bibi.” She thought of Bibi’s last medical appointment—and the results of her grandmother’s bloodwork.

  Bibi waved away the request. “Nonsense.” But the skin on her face had colored to the shade of roasted beets. Bibi liked her sweets, and unbeknownst to her, Megan was aware of the not-so-secret stash of Hershey bars she kept hidden in a kitchen drawer. “It’s almost showtime. Are we ready?”

  Megan, exasperated, nodded. “Are you ready?”

  Bibi walked around in a circle, hands out. She’d donned lavender sweat pants and a tie-dyed lavender sweatshirt for the occasion. “Tie-dye one on in Winsome” had been embroidered in a deeper shade of purple across the chest. “Ready and energized.”

  “Because of the sugar?” Megan frowned at Bibi, but it was a playful reproach. Chocolate hoarding was as much a part of who Bonnie Birch was as baking and Bridge. “Alright, Bibi, you’ll manage the cash register. No freebies.”

  “No freebies here. We need the income, I know that.” She glanced around. “Where’s the old man?”

  “Alvaro’s not here yet.” Megan didn’t want to explain now and worry her grandmother. “Hopefully he’ll arrive before the guests.”

  Bibi nodded, but her eyes clouded with concern. “That’s not like him.”

  “No, it’s not,” Megan said.

  Clover handed Bibi the clipboard with the reservations. “It’s not at all like Alvaro. And I’m really worried.”

  Before she could say more, they heard tires on gravel. The first guests had arrived.

  Sixteen

  “Megan, this is the best pizza I’ve had in a long time.” Merry Chance wiped her mouth daintily with a cloth napkin. She had half of a wild mushroom pie in front of her, and she pushed it forward, toward the center of the table. “Clay is a genius.”

  Megan picked up the tray. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  Merry was sitting with Roger and Anita Becker, and Bruce Holiday, Winsome’s only architect. They all nodded.

  “Delicious,” Bruce said. He was a medium-sized, middle-aged man with thin lips and delicate hands. Bruce’s most distinguishing feature was the ring of flaming red hair around his head, which contrasted with his perpetually pale skin. He’d finished his Winsome Pot Luck pizza, a combination of all the available toppings. “Nothing left to take home.”

  “Will this be a regular thing?” Anita Becker asked.

  “We hope so.” Megan picked up the remainder of Anita’s plain pie. “Just on Saturday nights during the summer. Maybe more often as the weather gets colder. At least that’s the thought now.”

  “Well, Clay did a great job,” Roger said. He glanced around. They were on the second se
ating, and the barn was full of people, chatter, and laughter. “Where’s Alvaro? Not interested in moonlighting at the farm?”

  “He couldn’t make it tonight.” Megan’s stomach churned. She’d checked her phone a dozen times—no call from her chef. “Hopefully he’ll be here next week.”

  “Doesn’t look like his absence hurt sales.” Bruce pointed toward the line at the reception counter.

  Five people were standing at the counter, talking to Bibi. Others were milling about, looking at the décor or the art on the wall or talking to neighbors at nearby tables. The atmosphere was festive, the smells from the wood stove intoxicatingly delicious. Megan just wished she could enjoy it. The spots she’d saved for her mother, father, and Sylvia sat empty. Sylvia had a headache and Eddie was tending to her. Sarah had stopped by, stayed for a quick bite, and left. And then there was Alvaro.

  Bibi’s wave caught Megan’s eye.

  Megan gave her a one-second signal, handed Anita and Merry’s pizzas to Emily to wrap, and made her way through the crowded barn to Bibi. The barn door opened and another group of people walked in.

  “What’s up?”

  Bibi nodded toward the couple standing in front of her. “They heard about the event tonight and were wondering if we had any seats left.”

  “Or maybe we can get a pizza to go,” the woman said.

  Megan glanced at her watch. 8:16. The last of the pizzas had been served and patrons were beginning to leave, but Clay was still back at ovens. “Let me check with my chef.”

  As she made her way through the picnic tables, she let herself enjoy this moment. Everyone seemed to love Clay’s cheesy wood-fired creations, and the restaurant was a great way to showcase the farm’s vegetables and other ingredients from small, local farms. She’d resisted this idea for so long, and now it seemed to be part of the financial answer they were looking for.