by Wendy Tyson
Megan felt her face flush. “Bibi and me? My grandmother, perhaps, but not me.”
“Really? You moved here from Chicago so he could go to Italy. You cleaned up the farm he’d driven into the ground. And the café? It was an abandoned eyesore for years before you came along. You’re a bigger savior than Bonnie.” Despite his harsh words, King’s tone was kind. “Maybe it’s time Eddie Birch grew up.”
Megan stared King down. His words stung, and not just because they weren’t for him to say, but because they resonated with truth. Despite her talk of tough love and setting boundaries and her unending frustration toward her grandmother for always providing her father with an excuse, Megan had been complicit. But Bibi had been right…the right choice wasn’t always obvious at the time you were forced to make it. Life got complicated.
“I’m ready to give you my statement,” Megan said, her tone curt.
King rubbed his temples. “Come on, Megan, don’t get like that. I said that as a friend who cares about you. You work hard for this farm. I don’t know Sylvia, but ever since they got here things have been weird. You need to step back and be objective. Maybe Sylvia is somehow involved. Maybe your father has blinders on.”
He was giving voice to doubts that had been plaguing Megan too. But she didn’t want to go there. Her father had never been the most reliable man, but he was her father and she loved him. She couldn’t believe he’d marry someone who’d kill someone else.
At least, she chose not to believe it.
Megan got home from the station after nine. By then, Clay had already fixed the barn door and cleaned up the mess in the pizza restaurant. Megan found him in the kitchen talking with Bibi. He was drinking a beer and Bibi had her customary chamomile tea and whiskey—on ice. The window air conditioners in the old farmhouse were no match for the stifling heat, and Bibi was fanning herself with a brochure.
Megan dropped into a chair, exhausted.
Clay slid a cold beer across the table. “You look like you could use one of these.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Pretty bad.”
“I saw you fixed the door. Thank you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help.”
“You had bigger things brewing. How did it go in Philly?”
Megan told him about her meetings with the chefs, relishing the farm talk—it was nice to get back to basics. “If we keep this up, we may turn a profit by 2050.”
Clay laughed, Bibi did not.
“Expand the farm kitchen,” Bibi said.
“Expand it?” Megan said, surprised. “We already have the café. I’m not sure wood-fired pizza is our ticket to prosperity.”
“No, but the nice thing about the pizza kitchen is that it’s self-sustaining, and you can open it when you want. We already have most of the ingredients right here on the farm.” Bibi looked at Clay. “Did the first night turn a profit?”
“Not when you add in the cost for the renovations and the oven itself.”
“You’ll recoup those over time. When you look just at revenue from that night, was it profitable?”
“Very.”
Bibi took a long sip of her tea. She was wearing pink curlers in her hair and a light weight mint green housecoat over a floral nightgown. Despite the bedclothes, she looked bright-eyed and wide awake.
“I’ve been eyeing up that Marshall property,” Bibi said. “We could get it for a steal.”
Megan was wondering just how many iced teas her grandmother had drunk. “We don’t have a steal.”
Bibi waved her hand. “Clay and I were just talking about it. Imagine if we bought the Marshall property. We could turn it into a bed and breakfast, but not just any bed and breakfast—one that served food right from the farm. We could offer organic gardening classes, canning classes, we could work with local elementary schools, and the inn could be a source of patronage for the pizza kitchen.”
Bibi was describing exactly what Megan had wanted to do with the Marshall property. Sure, she wanted to grab it before someone else did, but even beyond that she envisioned one large farm and learning center. Cooking classes by Alvaro, seasonal breakfast dishes featuring only foods fresh from the fields, nighttime bonfires and holiday wreath-making classes. All the things she loved as a kid, but packaged for people who’ve never experienced those pleasures, or who want to re-experience them for a short while.
She loved the idea so much that she couldn’t respond. There was just no money for it, and selling arugula to Fiddlehead wasn’t going to make it happen.
“We’ll start with the pizza farm,” Clay said. “Clover told me that despite the scene at the end, it was a huge hit. Café customers have been asking about the next dinner. They love the pizza, they love the farm.” His eyes held hers. “Let me put in the patio, make a few touches, and we’ll reopen.”
Megan opened a beer. She was no match for Bonnie Birch and Clay Hand together. “Sure. Go for it.” What did she have to lose?
Before she could go to bed, Megan had two tasks to take care of. First, she needed to call her mother. Charlotte picked up right away.
“Megan, I’m so glad you called. How are you?”
Megan exchanged niceties for a few minutes before getting to the point. “Do you think you could meet with me this week? I have some questions about art valuations I’d like to run by you.”
“Of course. How about tomorrow? Lunch?”
“Can we meet at the Center? It’s more central for both of us.” And it gives me an excuse to see Ray, Megan thought.
“Sure, that sounds good. The Center at noon.” Her mother paused. “I’m glad you called, Megan.”
“I am too.” And she meant it.
Her second piece of business was an internet search on Sylvia Adriana Altamura. It was something she should have done long ago. King had been right; Megan was as much an enabler of her father as Bibi was. That in and of itself was one thing, but what if they’d looked the other way while he formed a relationship with a dishonest woman? Megan could never forgive herself.
A search on Sylvia turned up very little of interest. No social media. No news articles. Only a brief mention of her business dealings in her home town and in nearby Milan. Relieved, Megan was about to shut down her computer when something caught her eye. One of the recommended search terms at the bottom of the page was Chiara Altamura. Megan recognized the name as the aunt Sylvia had asked her to call. More specifically, she wanted Megan to tell this woman to send money for lord knew what purpose.
Megan followed the thread. She searched for anything about Chiara. After a few minutes, she sat back, stunned. Sylvia’s aunt was a loan shark. Arrested multiple times, with connections to unsavory factions within Italy, Chiara Altamura was a household name in certain circles. Not the circles Megan generally moved in.
What the hell to do with that information?
The relentless sound of her cell phone ringing woke Megan from a deep sleep.
“I’m sorry for waking ye, Megs,” Denver said, “but I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying or thinking I wasn’t being true.”
It took Megan a moment to wake up, and as she swam through the haze of REM sleep, she latched on to Denver’s voice. She was happy to hear from him.
“Denver?” was all she managed. “Are you okay?”
“Aye, I’m fine. It’s my sister. She had some complications and had to go back in hospital.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as she. She hates the food, hates the nurses, and I despise the chairs they give family members. My back’s as twisted as a Dali painting.”
“Will she be in long?”
“No, I don’t think so. The worst seems to have passed. I expect they’ll send her home tomorrow, which is good because I think her pets are tired of the litany of sitters who’ve been caring for them these past few days.”
“Sitters?”
“The same bunch who bake casseroles and send cookies.”
“Your phone. I tried calling you but I think one of them had your phone.”
“Yeah, that—I’m sorry, Megs. That was Dolores MacNamara. She can be a bit exuberant. Left my phone at my sister’s flat and Dolores took it upon herself to answer. Anyway, I didn’t want you worrying. I miss you something awful.”
That was all she needed to hear. Megan put her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes. “I miss you too.”
“If you’re not too tired, tell me what’s going on. I feel removed from home and from you.”
Megan filled him in as best she could, struggling to remember the details. She ended with her conversation with King about enabling her father and after some hesitation, added her findings about Chiara. “So you see, a lot’s at stake here. My father’s wife. Alvaro and Maria. I wish I had a better sense of what Chiara’s occupation means—if anything.”
“None of this is great news, Megs.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’re dealing with a lot.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
Denver didn’t respond right away. Megan heard hospital noises coming through the phone. The click of heels on tile, a request coming over a loudspeaker. Finally Denver said, “Before you tell the police about Sylvia and Chiara, I would talk to Sylvia. Ask her to explain.”
“What’s the likelihood she’ll tell me the truth?”
“As I see it, that’s a risk you need to take. Like it or not, she’s important to your father. This aunt of hers may mean nothing. If you go to the authorities and cast more suspicion her way, she and your father will never forgive you.”
“What if she’s the murderer, Denver? What if I wait and she strikes again?”
“Nothing you’ve told me necessarily adds up to murder. Talk to her. See what she has to say for herself.”
Megan agreed. For now. “Thanks,” she said. “When are you coming home?”
“Not soon enough,” Denver replied. “Not soon enough.”
Twenty-Seven
Wednesday brought record temperatures and suffocating humidity. With each humid day, Megan was sure more rain would come, but other than a brief downpour here or there, nothing. She watched as her flower beds slowly withered in the heat, only the hardiest of plants surviving the unrelenting sun and lack of water. Despite the two days of storms, drought measures had been imposed, and while Megan could use water for her crops, she didn’t use it for the ornamentals. She hated to see anything die, yet she felt grateful they were still getting a decent bounty—even if some of the vegetables were faring better than others.
Clay had arrived by eight that morning and was hurrying through the morning routine so he could get to the pizza kitchen changes.
“Porter and I have things covered here,” he told Megan after she’d finished her morning chores. “You collected eggs for the store, and Porter and I already have the vegetables Alvaro requested for today’s menu.” He hauled a basket of Brussels sprouts, small cabbage heads still attached to their stalks, onto his shoulder. “He’s making a shaved Brussels sprout Caesar salad. Sounds pretty good.”
“It really does,” Megan said. She watched clay add the basket to the already full truck. He added a basket of leeks for Alvaro’s cold leek and potato soup before stepping back and wiping his hands on the small hand towel attached to his jeans.
“We’re going to work on the garlic beds and weed and water the tomatoes. Porter has watering duty later today, once the sun starts going down. If we do it now, everything will just evaporate.”
“It’s too hot to do much of anything,” Megan said. She thought of Zaneta’s in-ground pool. What she wouldn’t give for a dip right about now. “Maybe you and Porter should take the afternoon off.”
“We have a date with a pair of shovels.” Clay grinned. “Patio time.”
Megan shook her head. He really was something. “Well I’ll head to the café, but then I’m meeting my mother for lunch at the Center.”
“Fancy Schmancy.”
“A little side investigating. I’ve been so obsessed with Elliot that I failed to consider other sides of a triangle.”
“A triangle?”
“A love triangle.” Megan swung one leg into the truck. “Or two love triangles, depending on how you look at it.”
The café smelled heavenly. Megan arrived by nine thirty. After putting away the produce and eggs she’d brought with her, she checked on the stock in the store, making notes on what needed to be ordered. Clover was already there manning the cash register, and Emily had joined them to help out at the café. All of the café’s tables were filled, and even the Breakfast Club, the group of men who came to eat foods their wives forbid and to argue politics and sports, had returned. The café was blessedly cool, and customers seemed reluctant to head back outside.
“How about the heat?” Phil Dour said as Megan poured coffee refills. He was a mechanic who owned the town’s only auto shop, so everyone had needed to rely on Phil at one point or another. “Haven’t seen anything like this in years, if ever.”
“It’s brutal,” Megan said. “You should be drinking water, Phil, not caffeinated coffee.”
“Ah, coffee is a liquid. I’ll be fine.”
Megan smiled. He probably would be fine. A lot of these Winsome old timers had lived through tougher times.
“How’s your father?” he asked. “Heard he was in town but I haven’t seen him.”
“He’s been keeping a low profile. Newly married and all.”
“I heard.” Phil raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Italian bride.”
“Sylvia Adriana Altamura,” Roger Becker said. “Lovely lady. I met her at the Center. We took the same yoga class.”
Megan tried to picture six-foot-two Roger doing yoga. “The Center, huh? Like it?”
Roger waved his hand. “Plastic food, too much aqua, and more expensive than my mortgage. Here I can get coffee and Alvaro’s blue plate special for less than the Center’s valet parking fee.”
That started the men in a whole discussion about the Center’s valet parking and other fees, and while Megan felt somewhat vindicated while listening, she had too much to do to yap with them all morning.
“They must be doing something right,” Megan said to Alvaro back in the kitchen. “That Center is expensive.”
“They cater to the rich and spoiled,” Alvaro said. The twist of his mouth made his disdain apparent. “Don’t let the trappings fool you, Megan. Put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.”
Megan found Charlotte waiting for her in the Center’s Welcome Hall. She wore a heather brown sheath dress and matching pumps, and she carried a flat, brown handbag. Megan, who had traded in her t-shirt for a silk tank, still had on jeans. She glanced down. At least they were clean.
Charlotte’s hug was warm. “It’s so good to see you, Megan.”
“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”
“Are you kidding? I was happy you called.”
They followed a hostess to their inside table nestled next to a window—too hot for outside dining, even with fans blowing—and waited while the waitress poured them ice water.
“This is my first time here,” Charlotte admitted. “It’s quite something. I guess I was expecting more yoga meditation center, less Hamptons resort.”
“It’s a little over the top.”
Charlotte smiled. “Someone had vision.”
“I actually know one of the owners. He and I were friends a long time ago. I’m hoping to meet with him after our lunch.”
“Oh? Someone from Winsome.”
“He used to be from Winsome. He brought the artist here, Thana Moore. The woman who was killed. Thana, Ray, and I were inseparable once.” Megan instantly
regretted the statement. When she talked about her childhood, she felt like every utterance was an unintended rebuke.
Charlotte placed her linen napkin on her lap and took a sip of water. Megan appreciated her mother’s elegance, the way she made even simple acts seem graceful. “Did you meet with Elizabeth Yee at the Mission?” When Megan nodded, Charlotte said, “I hope she was able to give you some insight into what you were looking for.”
“She presented another side of Thana, for sure. A woman who wanted to give back—but was also looking for recognition and attention.”
“Aren’t many who make grand gestures? She was an artist. It’s a tough field.”
“True. And that’s why I wanted to talk with you. You mentioned editing Art magazine, and Sarah told me that you’re background is in art. I’m curious about how art is priced. Some of Thana’s work was going for tens of thousands of dollars. Isn’t that high for someone relatively new to the scene?”
“Not necessarily. Art has no intrinsic value. If you think about it, it’s just canvas and paint, or whatever the medium. The value comes in the form of people’s perception about the work—and their estimation of its future value. Perhaps Thana’s reputation was such that she could demand a higher price for her work.”
The waitress returned to take their order. Charlotte selected the quiche and salad special, and Megan asked for the salad with grilled chicken. When the waitress was gone, Megan said, “Mick, my late husband, bought me two of Thana’s paintings—the two you saw—for less than a hundred dollars at a craft fair less than ten years ago. Now her paintings are getting thousands. Does that seem odd?”
“It’s just hard to say. People pay millions for artwork, Megan. If she established a track record of sales, that would build her brand and make her work more desirable.”
“Her work is good. To my untrained eye? Really good. Critics pan it, though.”
“Lots of artists do good work; that’s not enough. Her work is unique and pleasing to the eye, but even that isn’t often enough. Somehow things came together for her. She became trendy. It’s kind of like acting or writing. You have to have talent, you need to be persistent, and then there’s that something extra—luck, fate, marketing savvy, networking, call it what you want—that generally comes into play.” Charlotte turned around so she was facing the door. “I saw a brochure advertising the art show for the opening weeks of the Center. Is her exhibit still here?”