RIPE FOR VENGEANCE

by Wendy Tyson

  Denver looked from Megan to Bibi and back again. “Megs, I’m afraid I won’t be much help.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Bibi said. “We’re a team. You can talk to your friends. See what they’ll spill about one another.”

  Denver frowned. “That seems a bit…wrong.”

  Bibi pushed herself up from her chair. The look she gave Denver could have frozen Niagara Falls. “Murder is wrong. Letting an innocent boy go to jail is wrong. Sorting through the who-did-whats-to-whom is justice.”

  The caffeine was wearing off and exhaustion lurked underneath. Despite the descending fog, Megan smiled. Leave it to Bibi to cut right to the heart of the matter.

  If Denver was offended, he didn’t show it. “I’m all for justice,” he said to Bonnie. He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll start with our missing Jatin and see just what had him so upset when he was talking with Chase.”

  “Be careful,” Megan said. “Sorting through the who-did-whats-to-whoms can be the most dangerous job of all.”

  Nineteen

  Megan had promised Alvaro she’d help at the café the following day, so she packed up her laptop and headed for Winsome proper. The morning was dark and overcast. It had rained overnight, and Mother Nature left a muddy mess in the courtyard. The weather forecasters were calling for afternoon thunderstorms, but Megan wasn’t so sure they would hold off until later in the day.

  Canal Street was empty. Megan parked and climbed out of the truck. She walked into the café carrying her computer in a bag over her shoulder and a large bag of veggies from the farm: garlic scapes, peas, kale, and a variety of lettuces. The handwritten menu board at the café entrance said Alvaro was making a spring salad as an entrée. She hoped she’d remembered everything he’d asked for.

  “Morning,” her chef mumbled. He pointed to the large chopping block where a stack of carrots, celery, hot peppers, cilantro, parsley, and onions were sitting, washed and waiting. “Can you chop those?”

  “I thought you were making salad?”

  “It’s for tonight. I’m serving a sofrito chicken stew over rice. Comfort food.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “I need a lot because I’m also…” He mumbled something Megan couldn’t hear.

  “What was that, Alvaro?”

  The chef stopped what he was doing and turned around. His white hair was disheveled, his bushy eyebrows gave his stern expression an almost comical look. “I’m also making a vegan version with pozole. Okay?”

  Megan laughed. “You don’t need to get defensive. I like that you’re doing more plant-based dishes.”

  Alvaro threw a towel down on the table. “Yeah, well, my mother, who taught me to cook, is rolling over in her grave. Vegan sofrito stew?” He shook his head. “What next? Vegan tamales?”

  “You could stuff them with squash and sweet corn. I think that sounds pretty good.”

  Alvaro glared at her.

  “You must really love Clover.”

  Alvaro’s expression softened. “Ah, just chop the vegetables. I need quiet when I work.”

  Megan set to dicing the vegetables and herbs, thinking all the while about family. Alvaro had been the chef at the commune where Clover and Clay grew up. He and his wife had been their quiet champions when they were children, and now they were their surrogate parents. People would go to great lengths for the people they loved.

  Was that an angle she was missing in the case of Chase’s murder? Was someone angry at Chase, not because of what he did to them, but because of what he had done to someone else?

  It was mid-morning before Megan could disappear into the office with her laptop. By then, Emily had shown up to handle the late breakfast crowd, and Clover had taken over at the store’s register. The whole place was perfumed by Alvaro’s sofrito stew and the chicken roasting in the ovens. Alvaro, surly as ever, was putting the finishing touches on his spring salad ingredients, which included a choice of local chicken breast, Alaskan wild salmon, or barbequed tofu.

  As she closed the door, Megan could hear Alvaro and Clover bickering about whether the honey he’d put into the barbeque sauce was vegan. No good deed, she thought. They’d work it out.

  In the privacy of her office, Megan pulled up the article about the Pioneer Village School by Donna Lewis, the writer for The Bucks County Times. She skimmed the content, then went back and re-read it. It certainly wasn’t a love note to the school. Lewis had done her research. The school had started out as an orphanage. Eventually the building was sold to an unknown benefactor who turned it into a school and hired Benjamin Star to run the admissions program and oversee the counseling services. Star had been there since inception.

  Lewis acknowledged the school’s lofty goals: to service an underserved population of at-risk, intellectually gifted students. She also underscored that the tuition was high and a majority of the kids who attended were from wealthy homes. Scholarships were few and far between.

  Her parting shot had to do with Dillon. She blamed the school for covering up serious emotional and behavioral issues, issues that led to destruction in the community and even violence. She never came out and accused Dillon of Chase’s death, but she insisted that the school didn’t follow proper safety or security procedures. She gave no indication of what procedures they were failing to follow.

  Megan scribbled down the little information she could find about Donna Lewis. Donna knew something about the school, that much was apparent. Maybe she knew more about the murder than she was letting on. Megan called the paper, which was headquartered in nearby New Hope, and left a message for the reporter. She also sent her an email at the address listed in her byline, providing her cell phone number too. She kept it simple, asking only for a few minutes of her time to discuss the school. After witnessing her dogged approach at the school, Megan suspected any mention of Dr. Star and his program would be enough. She’d hear back from Donna Lewis.

  Megan sat back in her chair. Now she’d wait. Megan closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, trying to decide whether to make another visit to the school or whether to hit up Sarah for more information. Sarah could be stubbornly unhelpful when she wanted to be. She’d go straight to the school.

  Megan was about to pull up BOLD’s corporate page when her phone dinged. It was Donna Lewis already, agreeing to meet.

  Megan texted back. How about an hour from now? I’ll treat you to coffee in New Hope. She named a spot on the main road. She had an ulterior motive for wanting to meet in New Hope. Her accountant was there, and she thought maybe he could do some digging into BOLD’s corporate structure and financial dealings.

  Lewis agreed to her offer. Megan packed up her bag and tucked her briefcase in a desk drawer. She’d come back. To help Alvaro with the dinner rush, and to sample his vegan sofrito stew.

  Coffee on Main was a quaint reminder that not all great coffee shops were chains. Tucked between an independent bookstore and a jewelry boutique, the café offered comfortable, upholstered chairs, plenty of table space, baked goods, and a rich array of fresh-roasted coffees. Megan ordered and then grabbed a pair of armchairs that sat across from each other in a cozy, sunny corner.

  Within twenty minutes, Lewis arrived. Megan recognized her from the school. Today her silver hair was hidden under a teal beret. She wore a magenta shirt dress and a pair of thick-heeled, ivory sandals. The sour look on her face clashed with the cheeriness of her clothes.

  “Megan Sawyer.” Lewis placed her bag on the second armchair.

  “Order whatever you want. They’re running a tab for me,” Megan said.

  Donna Lewis came back ten minutes later carrying a toasted muffin, a large cup of coffee, and a croissant. “First meal of the day,” she said as she sat. “And after all these carbs, I’ll need a nap.”

  Megan smiled. She sipped at the coffee in her own mug and took a bite of her blueberry muffin. It was good
, but she found she wasn’t very hungry and put it aside.

  “Your note said you want to talk about the Pioneer Village School.” Lewis took a large bite out of her muffin and wiped her face with a crumpled napkin. “Right?”

  “I read your article. I have a friend whose kid may go there. I was curious about what you said.”

  Megan waited while Lewis finished her muffin. She ate methodically, slowly, as though she was unaware that Megan was waiting for her to finish. Finally, she put the plate on a side table and sighed.

  “You realize I’m a journalist, right?”

  Megan nodded.

  “Then you know part of my job is researching things and people? And I have access to all sorts of databases and information.”

  Megan nodded again.

  “In that case, because we’re now on the same page, do you want to start again?”

  Megan studied her. “You’re saying you know who I am.”

  “I know your boy toy is Dr. Daniel Finn, most eligible bachelor in Winsome and voted best looking veterinarian in a kilt. Didn’t take me long to figure out that Finn was friends with the deceased Charles Mars. Or that his aunt is Eloise Kent, foster mother to the accused.”

  “He’s not been formally accused.”

  “The investigation is still underway.” Lewis picked up her cup and sloshed its contents. “Just a matter of time.”

  Megan didn’t like the way Lewis was staring at her with a “gotcha” expression on her face. “You did your research well,” Megan said. “But I’ve done some of my own. I know that you were once a reporter for The New York Times. That you were fired when they found out you’d fabricated sources for a piece you did on local law enforcement. I know since then you’ve pieced together a career with bit assignments for local news outlets. Dog bite stories. Robberies. The occasional wedding announcement.” Megan matched stare for stare. “And I know you have a bug up your ass when it comes to the Pioneer Village School. I want to know why.”

  Lewis sat openmouthed. Eventually the edges of her mouth turned up into a smile, and she began clapping slowly. “Excellent. Your reputation as a local sleuth is well-deserved. You forgot, of course, to mention my messy divorce a year ago and the fact that I’m suing my chiropractor.”

  “I chose not to mention the former,” Megan said. “And I had no idea about the latter.”

  “Because it’s not true, and neither is the allegation about fabricating witnesses. They didn’t like my witness, they couldn’t take the heat, and so they fired me.” Lewis put her cup on the table. She slapped her hands down on her ample thighs. “I like you. You have ovaries. What do you want, Megan Sawyer of Winsome? Dirt on the investigation? Information about Dillon Brown? The real story behind Dr. Benjamin Star’s little fiefdom for smart, rich kids? Why did you want to see me today?”

  “I wanted to hear about any and all of these topics, if you can deliver.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “I just want an understanding of what’s going on.” Megan decided to be honest. It was a risk—she didn’t trust this woman—but what did she have to lose? “As you said, my boyfriend was friends with Chase Mars. Now his aunt’s foster son is a suspect.”

  “He most likely did it—”

  Megan held up a hand. “He’s a suspect. And while everyone is focused on him, the real killer could be getting away, quite literally, with murder.”

  Lewis crossed her arms across her chest. “Why do you care?”

  “Really? He’s a kid.”

  Lewis openly studied her, her face inscrutable. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll help you, but if you find out something that leads to an arrest, I get to use you as a source.”

  Megan considered the offer. She saw the kind of slam job Donna had done on the school. She didn’t want to be on the other end of that typewriter.

  “I will be your neutral source. You can use information I give you, but you must use it verbatim—as I give it. No twisting my words.”

  “Deal. So now that we’re pals, what do you want to know?”

  “In the article you wrote on the school, you accused them of not following certain safety or security standards. What did you mean?”

  “For one, I’ve heard they don’t follow internal safety standards. Schools like that use psychiatrists to monitor medications. Parents have complained that the structure is lax, and kids are able to get their hands on others’ meds.”

  “That’s not good. Were you able to verify that?”

  “No,” Lewis said, “which is why I didn’t include it. But there’s more. Those kids were out in public, on state lands, without the proper adult to student ratio.”

  “By law?”

  “By common sense. There were four staff members there with twenty-six kids. Not enough when you’re dealing with potentially dangerous youth.”

  “What about the mentors from BOLD?”

  Lewis laughed so hard that spit sprayed from her mouth. “You have got to be kidding. Have you seen that bunch? Not one of them went through training—self-defense, CPR, safe restraint, nothing.”

  She had a point. “You said dangerous youth. I didn’t think the kids at the Pioneer Village School were dangerous. Troubled, perhaps. Anxious. Mood or attention disorders. But not violent.”

  “You must have been talking to Dr. Star. Lies. Ask him about Cat Mantra. Or Ollie Olswager. Or Denise Byer-Helms. Or your boy, Dillon Brown. Theft. Destruction of property. Attempted rape. Fire setting. Murder. In that order.”

  Megan chose to ignore the mention of Dillon. “Those are kids, Donna. Confidentiality. How did you get their names?”

  Lewis sat there smugly. “You didn’t see their names in print. Next question.”

  Annoyed, Megan moved on. “What makes you so sure Dillon is guilty?”

  “For the same reasons most people believe he’s guilty. He was found with the murder weapon. We know Chase left to find him. No one else was present.” She gave Megan a sly smile. “And there is one other small piece of information I got from a source.”

  “Which was?”

  A pause. “You promised. Remember that. The police report indicated that the killer was most likely left-handed.”

  “And Dillon is left-handed.”

  Lewis nodded. “Smart girl.”

  Megan mulled this over. King hadn’t mentioned a word about the killer being left-handed. But then, maybe the police were sitting on that piece of evidence and he couldn’t share it.

  “You have a source inside the Winsome police?”

  Another sly smile. “You know I can’t say.” Lewis glanced at her watch. “I have to go soon, Megan. What else you got for me?”

  “In the article you wrote about the school, you mentioned the history of the building and the fact that the school was started not that long ago by a wealthy benefactor. Do you know who the benefactor was?”

  “It was actually a small group of benefactors, most of whom had children who needed somewhere to go. Self-interested bastards. I don’t have names, but they could probably be found if you know where to search. County records and the like.”

  Megan nodded. She could see what she could find. “Why do you dislike the school—and Dr. Star—so much?”

  Lewis seemed to sink into her chair. She made a fist with one hand and rubbed her knuckles into her thigh. “I don’t dislike them. That implies personal interest, and this isn’t personal. I don’t think it’s fair when rich people get away with things because they’re rich. I really think it’s unfair when rich kids get away with things because Mommy and Daddy have money.”

  “Like the things you mentioned. Destruction of property, etc.”

  “Like that.” Lewis lowered her voice. “When I first moved to Philadelphia, I was asked to write about a kid from Strawberry Mansion. Been there?”

  Megan sho
ok her head.

  “No surprise. Rough neighborhood. Kid born there is already a few football fields behind their peers in the game of life. Anyway, I was covering a young black man’s journey to prison. He’d spent most of his life in juvie, and it all started when he stole a pack of gum from a local store. Gum. His first three offenses were all minor—shoplifting, loitering, graffiti.”

  Lewis shook her head. “Look, I’m not condoning theft or any other crime, but as I was writing that story, I was alerted to another story in Bucks County. Young girl arrested for vandalizing and torching a public area in the town of Blessings. The story isn’t about her—she’s underage and goes to a special school—it’s about how bad things can turn good because the town got a new bird sanctuary out of it.”

  Cat Mantra. Megan listened, understanding Donna Lewis’s outrage.

  “My Strawberry Mansion kid gets beat up in juvie, joins a gang, goes down a path that leads him to prison. Mommy and Daddy didn’t have the money or wherewithal to buy him out of trouble. Young woman runs away from hoity-toity school, causes thousands of dollars in property damage, and she gets away scot-free. Now she’s running from homeless shelter to half-way house, a burden on the system.”

  “Life’s not fair,” Megan said. “I see that every day.”

  “It’s not. But unless someone is willing to point it out, it won’t get any better.”

  “And Dr. Star?”

  “He’s their puppet. Send Junior to Dr. Star. He’ll arrange for some nice calming medication, a diet worthy of a four-star restaurant, and plenty of fresh air. And if Junior should try to rape or kill someone along the way?” Lewis shrugged. “Dr. Star can take care of that too.”

  Megan didn’t doubt what Lewis was saying. Things weren’t fair. Politicians and bankers avoided jail time for fraud, and poor people went to prison for possession of pot. Lewis’s bitterness seemed disproportionate, however. She said it wasn’t personal, but it sure felt personal.