by Wendy Tyson
“No buts, Denver. I love you.” She moved alongside him and took his hand. “One day at a time?”
He stared into her eyes for a long while, searching for something. Megan wanted to look away, but she held his stare, feeling on some gut level that he was taking her measure. Finally, he squeezed her hand.
“I love you too.”
Eight
The café was crowded. Death had a way of bringing people together, and the loss of a stranger didn’t change that. Megan waded through the people standing in the back of the Washington Acres Larder & Cafe, searching for Clover. She found her in the kitchen with Chef Alvaro and Emily, a family friend and their sometimes help. Clover was lecturing Alvaro about the importance of keeping vegan mayonnaise and butter around for guests.
When she saw Megan, she let out an exasperated sigh. “Is it too much to ask, Megan? Some Vegannaise? Geez, Alvaro can make his own.” Clover glanced at the older chef with affection, softening her words. “Although I appreciate the mango curry. It’s delicious.”
“Alvaro’s been pretty accommodating,” Megan said. And he had. Megan knew the chef considered Clover a surrogate daughter, and although it wasn’t his way to fawn over anyone, he was altering his menu options to please her. While Alvaro preferred locally raised meats, he was about as vegan as Bibi, who viewed chicken broth as a condiment.
That said, Megan liked the idea of expanding the café’s options to cater to the plant-powered crew. No harm in differentiating themselves, and it was something she could get behind. She encouraged the change.
Megan said, “Clover, two minutes of your time?”
Clover glanced out at the crowded café. Every table was full, and customers were milling about between tables, talking. Dishes were lined up on the counter, ready to be delivered, alongside a tray of water glasses. “I guess. We’re kind of busy.”
“I can handle the tables,” Emily said. She was writing out slips, tallying orders by hand. “I’m almost done here.” She nodded toward one of the copper-topped tables. “Besides, no one seems to be in much of a hurry.”
And indeed, they didn’t. This was a wake of sorts, Megan knew. A way for the people of Winsome to reassure each other, get information, and deal with the presence of death in their midst once again.
Clover followed Megan into the cramped back office. “What’s up?”
Megan sat behind her desk. Clover, with her long, dark hair and penchant for miniskirts, tended to look younger than her years, but now in her mid-twenties, Megan knew she could be counted on in a pinch.
“I need you to increase your hours this coming week. Take a few of my shifts. Support Alvaro and Bibi. Will that fit with your schedule?”
“Sure, okay…” Her voice trailed off, making the word into a question.
“You heard about Chase Mars?”
“I heard he was killed up by Lyle Lake.”
“Yes, in the park. While on a mentoring retreat as part of a corporate nonprofit initiative. He was Denver’s friend.”
Clover nodded. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Megan. If it’s any consolation, Bobby’s nowhere to be found ever since.”
“I imagine he has his hands full with this one.”
“I don’t think Chase’s friends have been very cooperative.” There was an increase in the volume coming from the café, and Clover’s attention followed the sound. “Maybe they’re here now?”
Megan listened. It did sound like more people had arrived. Voices she didn’t recognize.
“Anyway,” Megan said, in a hurry to get back out into the café, “Denver’s going to need me this week. He’s pretty upset about Dillon and about his friends. I’d like to do a little searching on my own. Between the farm and the construction and now this, I think I may need support at the café.”
Clover grinned. “By searching you mean sleuthing?”
Megan smiled. She’d been known to dabble.
“I can do whatever you need me to do.” Clover opened the door to the office. “Winsome folks pull together in bad times. Besides, doesn’t seem like I’ll be seeing much of Bobby anyway.”
“Anywhere to sit?” Xavier looked around the small café. “Quite a crowd for a such a small establishment.”
Megan glanced around. Where to put them? The tables were full, the counter was jammed. No one seemed ready to leave. She remembered the extra tables and chairs they kept locked in the back for catered events. “Give me a few minutes,” she said. “In the meantime, the menu is on the board.”
True to her word, Megan was back quickly. She’d pulled a square folding table from storage and wiped it down. She placed it in front of the aisles of the store portion of the building and covered it with a white cotton tablecloth. Clover unfolded two chairs and went back for two more.
Barbara sat in one of the chairs. “Have you seen Denver?” she asked.
“He’s on a call,” Megan said. “He’s dealing with some emergency or another.”
Xavier coughed. “Convenient timing.”
“I’m sure the animals planned it.” Megan was about to say more but she bit her tongue—literally. “I’m sorry about Chase,” she said instead. “About everything you must be going through.”
“You have no idea,” Xavier said. “It’s been hell on all of us.”
Clover had returned with the two additional chairs, and Martine and Jatin took their seats. Martine looked tired. Her face was pale, the skin around her eyes and mouth flaky and dry. She wore minimal makeup, and without it her pale eyes seemed ghostly.
Jatin looked no worse for wear, but he was quiet, allowing Xavier to speak for him. Of all of them, Megan felt for Barbara. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders in greasy waves, and her eyes looked listless. She seemed devastated.
“What can I get you?” Megan asked the group.
She jotted down their orders, which ranged from coffee for Barb to mango curry for both men. Martine wanted nothing but water.
“I’ll be back shortly with your food.”
Martine’s hand shot out. She grabbed Megan’s Washington Acres apron. “Have you heard anything?” she asked. “Anything at all about the kid? About who the police think did this to Chase?”
Megan paused long enough to meet her gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t have any news.”
“This is a PR nightmare.” Martine’s eyes pleaded with Megan, but for what, Megan wasn’t sure.
“Chase is dead, and you’re worried about PR?” Barbara shook her head. “He’d dead, Martine. He’s not coming back.” Barbara’s voice became choked, shrill. She reached in a red Prada bag and pulled out a wad of tissues. “He didn’t deserve that.”
“She feels guilty because she convinced him to come,” Xavier explained. His face said she should feel guilty.
“That’s understandable, but it’s not your fault.” Megan turned toward Jatin. “How were the other children besides Dillon? I imagine this was horribly traumatic for them as well.”
Eyes blinked with surprise at the question. Finally, it was Barbara who said, “I guess they were okay. The school got involved pretty quickly and picked up the children. All but Dillon, of course.”
“Why did Dillon take off in the first place?”
Barbara looked pointedly at Xavier. “Ask Mr. Sensitivity here.”
“Don’t look at me.” Xavier raised heavy brown brows. “The kid has issues, that’s apparent. All I did was—”
“All you did was tell him he was an unathletic loser and he’d best get with the program if he wanted to succeed in life.” Jatin spewed the words with disgust. His focus turned to Megan. “Dillon didn’t want to take part in a trust exercise. He was afraid to fall.” He glanced at Xavier, eyes narrowed in anger. “You insulted him in front of his peers, Xavier. What kid wouldn’t get upset?”
“A kid with the drive needed to succeed.” He glanced around the tab
le and then up at Megan. “What? Wasn’t that our job? Hard truths. Mentoring. What kind of mentor would I be if I told him the world was made of sugar plums and he could get by just staring at his shoes? It was a trust exercise, for god’s sake. A simple one.”
“The exercise was over and everyone had gone their own way,” Barbara said. “Chase must have seen Dillon head to the lake and followed him. No one is quite sure.”
Jatin said, “Had Xavier been doing his job, we would be in the woods right now, getting some great photos, eating s’mores, and looking at the stars. Not mourning our friend.”
Xavier slammed a fist down on the table. “Enough.”
Jatin shook his head, stood up. “The restroom?”
Megan pointed toward the back of the café.
When he left, Barbara said, “As you can see, tensions are high. Maybe if you hear from Denver, send him our way? We’re at the Bucks County Inn. I have no doubt we’ll be there for a few days. We could use the distraction and the support.” She sniffed, wiped away a tear. “I have to deal with Chase and his…family. And the police, of course.”
As Megan walked away to place their order, she couldn’t help wondering a few things. What was the deal between Jatin and Xavier? And why did Xavier seem so unaffected by his friend’s death?
Bibi was visibly shaken. “I don’t understand people these days, Megan,” she said. “The man was doing a good deed. And now this?” She put her face in her hands and shook her head, a crack in her normally stoic demeanor. “Are they sure he was murdered?”
Megan thought about a utility knife. About a ruined life. Two ruined lives. “Yes, I think it was clear.”
They were in the kitchen at Washington Acres. Megan had returned home after the dinner rush to have a bowl of soup and a conversation with Bibi. Her grandmother had found out about Chase’s death earlier, from Merry Chance, who always liked to be the first person to share news. The more shocking, the better. If they crowned people for gossip-mongering, Merry would be a queen.
“He was such a young man,” Bibi said. She studied her hands, knuckles swollen from arthritis and years of physical labor. “Too young.” She stood up and placed her half-eaten bowl of vegetable soup by the big farmhouse sink. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
“Not really.”
Bibi turned to face her. “What about the boy? What’s his name? Eloise’s foster child.”
“Dillon.”
“Yes, that’s it. Poor child. Merry made it sound as though he’s the killer.”
“Merry needs to mind her own business once in a while.”
Bibi smiled. “That will never happen. If she returns as a ghost, it will be to bring news of the afterlife.”
They both chuckled. Sadie, Megan’s mixed-breed rescue dog, rose from her spot under the table and sat in front of the sink. With a dog’s sense for leftover food, she begged by the half-full soup bowl until Bibi finally caved and placed the bowl on the floor. The dog lapped at it gratefully, and Bibi gave Megan a look of reproach as though she had been the one to break the rules.
They both watched Sadie eat. Finally, Bibi glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was almost nine at night.
I’m going to clean up in here and go to bed,” Bibi said.
Megan started collecting plates from the table. Bibi held up a hand.
“I’ll get this. Why don’t you finish the farm chores while there’s still a little daylight left? I’d rather you not be out there in the dark with—”
She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to. Here we go again, Megan thought.
Megan collected some vegetable and fruit scraps from the compost bin for the animals and a ginger cookie for each of the goats—their favorite. As she was leaving, Bibi pressed something into her hand. It was a package wrapped in wax paper.
“For Camilla. I made her special pig cookies. They’re good for her.”
Megan squeezed Bibi’s shoulder. She knew better than to say anything. Just like Bibi would never admit to giving table food to the dogs, she’d deny spoiling the farm animals. But small acts of kindness were Bibi’s way.
The night air was heavy and humid. The sun had gone down, and the horizon glowed in the distance, a fiery explosion of pink and yellow. Megan trotted across the courtyard to see to the chickens first. Safe in their chicken tractor, they were already in for the night. She made sure the house was secure—fox in the area had a taste for chicken—and headed for Camilla next.
A noise in the distance startled her, and Megan jumped. She heard rather than saw something moving her way. It took a moment to see the white fur, the massive head. It was only Gunther, her Polish Tatra Sheepdog, doing his own nightly rounds. Like Great Pyrenees, Polish Tatra Sheepdogs were bred to watch over sheep and other livestock. Gunther had been bought by a local farmer who mistreated him. Rescued by Denver, he came to live with Megan when still a puppy. Since then, he’d earned a spot as a reliable farm hand and steadfast friend. Megan allowed him his freedom on the farm as well as a warm spot in her bed.
More frequently, he preferred to stay outside with the goats. Tonight, Megan was happy for his company.
She reached down and patted his head. “Good boy, Gunther. What’s happening?”
The dog walked beside her as they visited Camilla, gave her Bibi’s treats—which she devoured with all the grace of a ravenous wolf—and moved on to the goats.
Megan found Heidi and Dimples asleep. They lay next to each other, tucked between bales of hay. When Megan entered their enclosure, Heidi jumped up to greet her. Dimples did the same, only she ran for Gunther and play-butted his chest.
They were pygmy goats, unable to do much harm even if they wanted to. Other than eating things they shouldn’t. Gloves. Bibi’s hats. Their entire crop of strawberries. Naughtiness aside, Megan ended most nights with a visit to the ladies. She found some semblance of peace in their midst.
So did Gunther, apparently.
Megan was just settling on a bale of hay when her cell phone rang. A local number, but one she didn’t recognize. “Hello?”
“This is Martine.” Hesitant, high-pitched voice, slight whine. “From BOLD Pharmaceuticals. Denver’s friend.”
“Yes?”
“I’m…I’m looking for Denver. I hope you don’t mind that I called.”
“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Megan paused, wondering what Martine wanted with Denver. And how she got her number. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No.” A long pause. “But thank you.”
“Look, Denver’s working. He’s dealing with a breach birth and it could be a while before he’s finished, and by then he’ll be exhausted. Are you sure I can’t help you?”
Martine took so long to reply that Megan thought she’d hung up. With a deep sigh, Martine said, “I can’t talk here. Can you meet me somewhere?” She was silent for a moment. “But I don’t know where. I have no idea what’s even open in this town.”
“You’re at the Bucks County Inn?”
“I am, but we can’t talk here.”
“Okay.” Megan thought about this. Normally she’d consider a friend of Denver’s to be a friend of hers and invite her to the farm, but these were not normal times. While Martine’s motives may be benign, Megan couldn’t put Bibi or the farm at risk. “Do you have access to a car?”
Martine grunted a yes. “If this is too inconvenient…”
“There’s a Starbucks about four miles up the road from your inn. They’re open until midnight.” Megan glanced at her watch. “Meet me in twenty minutes. And I’ll text Denver, asking him to meet us if he becomes free.”
Martine agreed. Megan was sure it had little to do with the prospect of talking to Megan—and everything to do with the hope of seeing Denver.
Nine
In keeping with her promise to Martine, Me
gan texted Denver. She didn’t hear back, which was no surprise. He was up at a farm and could be there half the night. Megan changed from her work jeans and t-shirt into a pair of gray linen pants and a matching tunic, slipped on sandals, and ran a comb through her dark hair. Why she cared what she looked like, she wasn’t sure. Maybe the fact that this was a woman from Denver’s past. Maybe because she was half hoping Denver would show up. In either case, she was out the door and on the road in ten minutes and at the Starbucks in twenty-two.
Martine wasn’t there.
Megan sat in the truck, engine off, and watched the traffic speed by on Route 611. She wondered what Martine wanted to talk about, and why it couldn’t be discussed at the bed and breakfast. The presence of the others? Or fear of the police. No matter, whatever it was would have to wait.
Megan was about to turn the key when a silver Volkswagen Jetta pulled into the lot. The driver was a woman. She wore a black scarf over blonde hair. When she got out, Megan recognized the slim build, the hesitant walk. She watched as Martine entered the coffee shop before climbing out of the truck herself. Martine slipped onto a bench at a table in a shadowed corner.
Megan waved a greeting. At the counter, she ordered two teas. She met Martine at the table, offering an herbal Chamomile tea and what she hoped was a friendly smile.
Martine looked at her through heavily made up eyes. She kept the scarf draped over her head, covering her hair a la Jackie Kennedy Onassis. Her black sheath dress and heels were reminiscent of Jackie O as well. A smear of red lipstick marred her front teeth, and mascara stained the pale skin under her eyes. She watched Megan take a seat with large eyes, her expression despondent.
“Thank you for meeting me. I guess Denver couldn’t make it?”
“I haven’t heard back from him.”
Martine nodded. She stared at her cup for a moment before tearing open the tea wrapper and placing the bag in the steaming water. She watched it sink.
“Thanks for meeting me.” She gave Megan a shy smile. “I was at a loss. I can’t trust anyone, don’t know where to turn.”