by Wendy Tyson
Merry pursed her rouged lips. Her age was hard to tell—somewhere between forty-five and sixty, Megan figured, but she dressed like the far end of that range. She had short, tightly curled auburn hair and puffy green eyes. Her most dramatic feature was her mouth: wide and thin, it lived in a state of permanent frown, making it seem as though she was always scowling. She scowled now as she said, “Lenora has decided to push a service off until this summer. The police won’t release the body what with all their testing, and then there’s all the mud, plus he’s being cremated…well, there will be a small memorial service sometime in July.”
“Won’t the townspeople be upset? I’m sure they want to pay homage to one of their own sooner than that.”
Merry stopped what she was doing. Her eyes narrowed. “You mean one of ‘our own,’ right, Megan?”
“Yes, of course.”
Merry took a moment before speaking again, the disapproval still evident on her face. Megan watched Merry tear the receipt from the credit card machine, annoyed at herself for the slip.
“There was no love lost between you and Simon, I’m sure. What with his insistence on following procedure and your need for expediency.” Merry shrugged. “I imagine you were pretty angry with Simon.”
Megan wasn’t biting. “Did Simon tell you he was withholding our permits, Merry?”
Merry frowned, furrowing the skin between her eyes. She shifted her focus, suddenly quite interested in a ladybug that was crawling across the countertop. “Not exactly. I just knew Simon. He could be prickly about certain things.”
“Was it normal for him to delay?”
Merry shrugged again. “I wouldn’t really know.”
But Merry was a poor liar, a trait she tried to cover up with a quick shift in topic. “Lenora is devastated, I’m sure,” Merry said again. But she didn’t sound convinced.
She handed Megan her receipt and bag without another word.
Still thinking about Merry’s lie and the possible reasons for Simon’s delay tactics, Megan headed the truck toward the outskirts of town. Brian “Brick” Porter lived in a one and a half story shotgun house along a desolate stretch of highway called Curly Hill Road. A mile down the road in one direction was a gas station; two miles down the road in the other direction was Lyle Lake State Park, and on the other side of that, Jenner’s solar fields. Between the park and the gas station sat only Porter’s house, set close to the blacktop and buffered by chain-link fencing and densely planted conifers.
Megan pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine. An old-model Jeep Wrangler sat parked in the driveway on the other side of the fence. She took a moment to look around, noticing heavily draped windows, a neatly trimmed lawn devoid of any decoration, and a giant metal dog dish. She climbed out of the truck and walked to the gate. It was locked from the inside. She rattled the gate, then yelled “hello” in the direction of the house. No one answered. A dog barked, and, hopeful, Megan rattled the gate one more time. Still no response.
The house felt barren, empty. The sun, shining overhead back at the farm, had disappeared. A chilly breeze caused her to shiver.
As Megan was opening the door to her truck, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned as someone pulled aside a curtain in an upstairs window. A face stared at her from within: angular, pale, young. Megan waved. He didn’t wave back.
Back at the house, Bibi was baking. Not simply her normal baking. Megan could smell the aromas from outside: cinnamon and cloves and the rich yeasty smell of fresh bread. When she opened the door that led from the porch to the kitchen, the first thing she saw was lightly browned loaves lined up on the counter—at least nine of them. Then she saw the pies (two), big deep-dish pastries crisscrossed with a double crust, and what looked like a homemade Danish. Her grandmother was standing by the stove, stirring something caramel-colored and syrupy, a white and black “Winsome and Lose Some” apron tied around her waist.
“Megan, have something to eat,” she called when she spied her granddaughter. “I made your favorite: raspberry Danish.”
“It looks like you made enough food for the entire town.”
Bibi ignored her. She dipped a candy thermometer into her concoction, gave a satisfied nod, and turned off the gas burner. She set the pan aside.
“Why all the baking?” Megan asked. She placed her car keys on the table, and walked over to the loaves of bread lined up on the worn linoleum countertop like soldiers on the march.
Bibi shrugged. “Why not?”
“It smells and looks fabulous, Bibi, but I don’t think there’s enough room in the freezer to store it all.”
“Then we’ll share it.”
“With all of eastern Pennsylvania?”
“Nonsense.” Her grandmother whisked the contents of the pot. “Besides, we are almost out of breadcrumbs. I’ll let a few loaves go stale and make some tomorrow.”
“That’s a lot of breadcrumbs.”
“Waste not, want not.”
Megan paused by the doorway. She watched her grandmother drizzle the caramel concoction on parchment paper, making an elaborate lacy pattern. Her grandmother loved to bake, but this…Bibi’s face was flushed with adrenaline. Megan’s mind wandered to the flask, to Simon’s inert body, to King’s questions about motive.
“Is Aunt Sarah back in Winsome?”
Her grandmother blinked, turned away. “Why do you want to know about Sarah?” she asked casually. Too casually.
“I’ve never met her.”
“You have, you simply don’t remember.” Bibi pulled a loaf of what looked like rye bread out of the oven. After turning down the temperature, she placed the tray of lace cookies inside and closed the door. “You used to visit as a kid.”
Megan couldn’t picture Sarah Birch, and that bothered her. “What happened between Grandpa and Aunt Sarah?”
“They were at odds.”
“Do you still have contact with her now that she’s back in the area?”
“You know we have been estranged from Sarah for years.” She looked at Megan and smiled softly. “For reasons I would rather not discuss.”
And yet somehow Sarah knew about the bid on the farm—a bid that could be tied to a murder. Megan asked nonchalantly, “When was the last time you saw her?”
But Bibi was already on to other things.
With Clay working on the spring harvest and Bibi immersed in baking, Megan decided to head over to the café early. She had her new chef, Jeremy, coming by, and she could use the extra time to work on the store. She was determined to open the store tomorrow, the café next week, but as she drove through town, her mind fixated on Simon’s lifeless body. His death felt like an inauspicious start to her new life. Why kill him in their barn? Who met—or followed—him there? And why was he there in the first place?
Had he been snooping? Had he come to tell her something, something related to the permit process? Then why not go to the house and knock on the door? Why go to the barn? What if someone lured him there for the specific purpose of killing him? Someone who wanted to sabotage the farm or shine a spotlight on the Birch family.
The breeze at Brick Porter’s house had been a harbinger of inclement weather, and a soft drizzle fell from a sullen sky. Megan pulled onto Canal Street and parked in front of the café, forcing her mind to think about business, not murder. But as much as she hated to admit it, the two were now intertwined.
She walked inside to the sound of Clover arguing with Bob King at the café counter in the back of the store. Megan was about to call out when she caught on to the topic of their conversation.
“Let it go, Bobby,” Clover was saying. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“It’s my job to ask questions.”
“Your questions don’t make sense.”
“You know I have to be thorough. It’s for her own good a
s much as anything.”
“She’s not involved with what happened to Simon.”
“Clover Hand, you are infuriating. I am in charge of this investigation. You know that.” His voice was whiny, almost petulant. “You need to stay out of this.” A pause. “Please.”
Megan had heard enough. She was certain they were arguing over her. Let King investigate all he wanted. She hadn’t killed Simon. But someone had…and while he was busy arguing with her shop manager, that someone was getting away with murder.
She marched to the back of the store. Clover’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and King looked like a man who’d bitten into an especially sour pickle.
“Bobby,” Megan said with a curt nod. “Clover.”
“I hope you don’t get the wrong idea—” Clover started to say.
Megan help up a hand. She turned to the police chief. “Tell me what you need from me. I didn’t kill Simon. My grandmother didn’t kill Simon. If I can help you move this investigation along so that you can focus on the actual killer, I would view that as progress.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, but it is. Someone killed Simon. Until you start casting a wider net, you won’t know who else may have profited from his murder. Others may be in danger.” She lowered her voice. “I—or my grandmother—could be in danger. So could Clover. I want to help you cast that wider net.”
King looked peeved. “Let me do my job.”
Megan pulled herself up and over the café counter. She scoped out the kitchen, now finished, painted and clean as a model home, and placed her hands on her hips. “I am letting you do your job. I’ve given you and your staff full access to the farm. I’ve answered your questions. But I have a meeting in thirty minutes, so I’d be thrilled to do my job.” Her eyes met his. “Please?”
Bob nodded. He glanced at Clover, his eyes traveling from her khaki capris to her midriff-bearing white peasant blouse. He flushed, swallowed, and looked like he was about to say more, but instead he walked toward the front of the store, shaking his head the whole way.
When he was gone, Clover placed a hand on Megan’s arm across the counter. “I’m sorry, Megan. Bobby doesn’t really think you killed Simon. He’s worried, and he’s letting nerves get the best of him. This is his first murder investigation and he doesn’t want to screw it up.” She shrugged. “Besides, I don’t know the last time Winsome has had a murder. Hunting accidents are about the extent of it.”
“No need to apologize. But until the police nab whoever did this, we all need to be especially careful. I intend to do what I can to help the investigation, but I sure hope Bobby gets what he needs from us and moves on. He’s wasting time and resources.”
Clover nodded. She, too, looked about to say something else. Instead, she pulled a white rag from beneath the counter and started wiping down the surface of the already spotless countertop, not meeting Megan’s gaze.
“Spit it out.”
“Spit what out?”
“Whatever you’re not telling me.”
Clover stopped wiping. She pushed a stray dark hair back from her face and winced as though the action had hurt her. Finally, she said, “It’s your grandmother. Bobby thinks you’re protecting her. He found some stuff…correspondence between her and Simon. He said she’s not being completely honest and it’s making him wonder what she’s hiding.”
“Bibi?” Megan asked. “Was it about the bid?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He was afraid I would tell you.” Clover looked down, her face a shade paler. “Like I guess I just did.”
“My grandmother is in her eighties. It’s absolutely ridiculous to think she’d have anything to do with Simon’s murder.”
“I know, Megan. I know.” Clover looked up. “But then why is she being so secretive?”
Eight
Megan met with her new chef later that day. Like her, Jeremy was a Winsome native who’d returned to his roots after years away—in his case, New York City, Paris, and London. Classically trained, he’d given up the hustle and bustle of the big city for small-town Pennsylvania when he needed a change. A self-proclaimed organic-food zealot, he was now trying to figure out his next move, and the challenge of getting the café off the ground was appealing.
“When can you start?” Megan asked. They were in the café’s kitchen, and he was staring at the small but tidy space, wheels obviously turning.
He shrugged. “Today.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with the salary? I know it’s nowhere near what you were making in New York.”
Jeremy smiled. He had a chiseled, stern face, but when he smiled, all the hard edges softened. It was a smile that gave the recipient a frisson of satisfaction because it felt hard-earned. “I’m worn out and need to make some life decisions. Plus, I love what you’re trying to accomplish here. The salary is fine.”
Megan studied him for a moment. She remembered him as a boy—a teen, really. Football, soccer, track—you name it, he’d played it. He’d been a grade ahead of her in school, but he’d always been handsome in an unapproachable sort of way, and even at a young age, the girls took notice. Now, his dark, wavy hair, worn short, was graying at the edges, but he still had the aristocratic nose and strong jaw that had made women—including a young Megan—swoon. Her eyes darted to his left hand. No ring. She’d heard he’d never married.
Not that it mattered. She recognized that flutter in her stomach as excitement. A classically trained cook at her café. Maybe this whole crazy idea would work after all.
“Megan?”
Megan looked up, realizing too late that he’d been talking to her.
“I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”
He smiled again. “I was asking about the menu. Do you know what you want to serve?”
Megan nodded. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the types of food establishments that are available in and near Winsome.”
“Pizza, diners…a steakhouse or two.”
“Right. The people of Winsome deserve something more.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Start with fresh, whole ingredients: veggies and eggs from the farm, humanely-raised chicken, pork, and beef, sustainable fish, organic tofu. Beyond that, my only requests are seasonal, simple and, where you can, an ethnic twist.”
Jeremy frowned. “Sounds expensive. I’m not sure the diner-loving folks of Winsome will pay for organic chicken tikka.”
Megan smiled. “They will. I’ve done the number crunching, Jeremy. The key is to have a limited menu with a few standbys for the meat and potatoes crowd. That way we don’t over-order and we can keep it seasonal. If the menu changes weekly depending upon the farm’s crops, we limit costs for perishables and we have built-in variety.” She pulled a paper out of one of the folders she was carrying. “Like this.”
Megan watched as he perused her sample menu. She was sure it seemed amateurish to a professional chef, but she knew the kind of place she wanted. If he couldn’t go along with that…well, maybe he wasn’t the best candidate after all.
Eventually, he placed the menu on the counter and affixed his eyes to hers. “This works. I’ll start working on next week’s menu today.”
Megan held out her hand, suddenly self-conscious of her calloused fingers and short nails. But Jeremy didn’t seem to notice. He shook her hand firmly. “One day we will toast the café.”
Megan laughed. “With all we’ve been through lately, I hope that day comes sooner rather than later.”
Megan was on her way home when Bibi called. “It’s that cat. Mutton Chops. He’s acting funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Vomiting. Listless. He doesn’t seem himself.”
Megan’s first thought was poison. “Did you call Dr. Finn?”
“I did. He said he can see him immediately, but you
have to go to his office.” Bibi paused. “I already boxed him up.”
“He let you put him in the carrier?”
“That’s how sick he is, Megan.”
Megan knew her grandmother held no great love for cats. She saw them mostly as a necessity on a farm, little hunters who kept the rodent population at bay, so she was surprised to hear the concern in her grandmother’s voice. Maybe she’d misjudged their friendship. Maybe she was misjudging a lot of things.
“He’ll be okay,” Megan said, trying to mask the worry in her voice. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Better hurry. He seems worse every minute.”
“Well, it’s not poison, at least. He’s blocked. His urinary tract isn’t functioning correctly.” Denver had finished the exam, and was standing by the cat, stroking his fur. “He should probably stay overnight.”
Dr. Finn’s office was now closed and empty, except for a young and very perky assistant who was busily cleaning the other exam room.
“Wouldn’t he be better off at home, with me?”
Denver shook his head. “I’ll come by later and check on him. And my assistant is on duty tonight.” He smiled, and Megan felt her stomach tighten. The combination of intelligent blue eyes and the dimpled smile were irresistible, only Denver seemed completely unaware of how handsome he was—part of his charm. “No need to worry. At least not about him.”
“Thank you.”
They were interrupted by the assistant, who poked her head in, smiled at Denver, and said, “All finished out here, Dr. Finn. Is the cat staying?”
Denver nodded. He gave the technician a rundown of meds the cat needed and said, “That means you have two overnight guests. Are you okay with that?”
The young woman nodded, reddish curls bouncing. “Of course.” She sounded almost giddy, clearly affected by Denver’s charm as well. To Megan, she said, “You can take care of the bill tomorrow when you pick him up, if that’s okay. We were already closed for the day when you came in.” Then, realizing she may have said too much, she looked at the vet apologetically. “I mean—”