by Wendy Tyson
“A fairy home,” the woman said. She placed a final feather on top of the bite-sized building and then stood, wiping her hands together as she did so. “For a children’s book. A fun distraction, really.” She held out a hand, now mostly free of dirt. “You must be Eddie’s girl, Megan. You look like Bonnie when she was younger.”
They shook. Close up, Sarah had the toughened skin of a woman who’d spent much of her life outside. But her blue eyes were vibrant, inquisitive, and maybe even a touch amused. Megan searched for a flicker of a memory, an echo of recognition, but found none.
“Do you have time for some lemonade? Or maybe a cup of hot tea? I have chamomile, English Breakfast, or green.” She tilted her head, waiting for Megan to answer.
“Lemonade would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Her great-aunt nodded approvingly and motioned for her to follow her into the house.
The inside of the cottage was clean but cluttered. Stacks and stacks of books buried every surface, from the white countertops in the small kitchen to the floral cushions on a loveseat in the sunroom. Megan read a rainbow of titles, from mysteries and thrillers to how-to books to nonfiction treatises on such wide-ranging topics as physics and photography. White frilly curtains billowed in open windows. The walls were a plain white but covered with artwork: expensive-looking oils, watercolor prints, and matted and framed children’s crayon drawings. The house smelled of vanilla and lemon. Megan glanced around, feeling off-center. She expected déjà vu; she got only a vague sense of welcome.
Sarah suggested she take the overstuffed armchair in the living room. Megan moved two coffee table books and sank down into the chair.
“Give me a minute,” Sarah said. “I’d apologize for the mess, but I didn’t know you were coming.” She shrugged. “I’m having work done in the bedrooms. I’m afraid everything has been moved out here. Not sure it would have made a difference. I’m forty years past caring what anyone thinks.” She smiled. “Make yourself at home, though. Watch out for the cat. Sammy likes to bite.”
Sammy turned out to be a standoffish Siamese sitting on the white-washed windowsill. He glanced at Megan, let out one disdainful meow, and returned to staring out the bay window. Tearing her eyes away from the cat, Megan turned her attention to the rest of the room. She noticed a painting leaned up against a wall on top of a buffet by the window, a series of photographs in mismatched white frames on a slate fireplace mantel. She rose to get a better look at the pictures.
Some were of small children she didn’t recognize, chubby-faced cherubs in denim and white. Here and there a face looked familiar, more because of features shared with her father, Eddie, than because she actually recognized the subject. Disappointed, she strolled the length of the mantel, taking in more pictures of strangers. The last three photographs made her pause. The woman in the photos was her great-aunt—younger, perhaps, but definitely her aunt—and in each picture she was accepting an award. An Edgar. An Agatha. A Macavity.
Why was Aunt Sarah accepting prestigious mystery book awards?
“Another life,” said a voice behind her.
Megan turned abruptly. “You’re an author?”
“Yes.” Her aunt placed a tray down on a striped ottoman next to a pile of hardcover novels. She picked up a tall glass of lemonade and handed it to Megan. She waved toward the mantel. “A silly nod to vanity. I should have disposed of those photos ages ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you recognize the name Sarah Estelle?”
“You’re the Sarah Estelle?”
Her aunt nodded. Moving another stack of novels from a second overstuffed chair to the top of a coffee table, Sarah sat down, sipping her own glass of lemonade.
“Why didn’t I know that?”
“That’s an excellent question. One I’m not in a position to answer.”
Megan sat back, thinking. Sarah Estelle was the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of three mystery series, including one that had been made into a long-running television show. Megan had cut her teeth on Estelle’s novels. Finding out Sarah Estelle was her aunt was like being kicked in the face and winning the lottery all at once. Her mind spun for something to say. She finally asked, “Do you know my father well?”
“Eddie?” Sarah smiled. “Well enough.”
“Were you ever close?”
Sarah placed her glass on a nearby empty plant stand. “Why did you come here, Megan?”
“To talk.”
“About…?”
Megan took a deep breath. The sense of imbalance, of being spun topsy turvy, increased. “About Washington Acres. About my grandmother. About why I don’t remember you.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I’m glad one of us does.”
Sarah stood. She lingered by the mantel, one tanned, thick-knuckled finger tracing the top of each frame, wiping nonexistent dust from the worn wood.
“Don’t you think these are things you should discuss with Bonnie?”
“She won’t tell me anything.”
“But she told you I was back in Winsome.”
“No, my contractors told me that. Because of…because of the murder.”
She turned. “Simon.”
“Yes. You knew him?”
“I may not have been here for the last twenty-four years, but I knew him. Everyone knew Simon. And, of course, his mother.” She gave a wistful smile. “Simon was considerably younger than me. A precocious young man. But that was before…well, I heard he’d become rather bitter and off-putting.”
Megan nodded. She hated to talk ill of the dead, but Simon Duvall had given her nothing but trouble. It was hard to think kind thoughts.
“I heard my grandmother almost sold Washington Acres to Simon.”
Sarah’s mouth twisted into a frown. It looked like she was deciding how much to share. Eyes narrowed, she finally said, “I doubt that’s true.”
Megan stood, agitation rising. Why was everyone being so circumspect? “Neil Dorfman told me.”
At this, Sarah laughed. “Neil? Really, Megan—I assumed Teddy’s granddaughter would have more sense than to believe a Dorfman, especially Neil. Simon was never kind to the Dorfmans, or their family. In fact, he shut down their sister’s antique business before it even got off the ground. Called it an eyesore. No, he wasn’t a nice man, especially in his later years.” She shook her head, sending the braid flying across her back. “And you’re a lawyer, from what I understand?” She smiled, her hand reaching out toward Megan. “I’m happy you came. I really am. You’re a lovely girl, exactly as I imagined.”
Unhappy at being dismissed easily, Megan stood firm. “Why would Neil make that up?”
“Perhaps he heard it from someone else and simply got his source wrong.” She made a motion like she was sipping from a bottle. “As one of my characters would say, he has a tendency to get ripped to the giddy tits.”
Neil did like to drink. Megan took another look at the award photographs, at the pictures of babies lined up across the mantel. Grandchildren. That meant Megan had cousins, cousins she didn’t know. The house felt claustrophobic, the ground moved beneath her.
She turned, and she was suddenly staring at the painting on the buffet. She recognized the subject in the painting. It was the Birch farm, only as it must have looked years ago. The barn without additions, the house a plain rectangle, and a second house. The Marshall house. It had been one big parcel.
“Where did you get that painting?” Megan whispered.
“Your father. He found it on the farm.”
Sarah had loved the farm enough to keep a painting of the original homestead for all of these years. Megan felt like an interloper. Her vision clouded, a vise squeezed her temples.
“I shouldn’t have come.”
“Nonsense. I’m glad you did.”
“No—it was wrong of me.” Megan backed away, toward the kitchen and the door that led outside. “I have to go.”
“You’re always welcome, Megan. I—”
But Megan was back in the yard, hurrying toward her car. She never heard the rest of her great-aunt’s sentence.
Megan drove the truck wildly, pedal pressed to the floor. She didn’t know where she was going, she just wanted to get away. Her mind was reeling with what she’d learned. She had a great-aunt living near Winsome. Not only that, she had cousins—baby cousins—an entire branch of family members she’d never met. And her aunt was the Sarah Estelle! In all those years, why wouldn’t someone—her grandmother, her father—have told her that?
She flew past Winsome’s small medical clinic and was approaching the elementary school when she applied the brake to slow down. Unconsciously, she had headed in the direction of the veterinary hospital. She started to pull over to turn around and thought better of it. She wanted to see Denver. Needed to see him. He’d have no answers, but that was okay. He wouldn’t be hiding anything either.
Fifteen
Denver returned from an appointment at a horse farm. His arms were covered with abrasions and blood streaked down the side of his neck. He gave Megan a cheeky smile when he saw her, and continued to lather up his arms in the back room, strong hands working disinfecting soap into his tanned skin with long, firm strokes.
“The receptionist let me back here,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind.” She eyed his arms, wincing at the sight of the scratches—now enveloped in soap. “Get into a fight with razor wire?”
Denver laughed. “Aye, might as well have.” He rinsed, then began drying his arms with a clean white towel. “Lowry’s filly gave birth. While I was there, he asked me to take a look at his feral cat. Last time I was there to give the lassie inoculations, we had to sedate her by drugging her food. I should have known better.” He glanced at his arms and shrugged. “Hazard of the job, I suppose.”
Megan reached out a hand and tentatively fingered a spot above one particularly nasty-looking scratch. “She’s up to date on her shots?”
“Aye, thankfully.” Denver glanced down at the finger pressed against his skin. “What brings you here?”
Megan shrugged. “A visit, I guess.”
“You look troubled.” He said this candidly, eyes searching her own in a way that was kind without being intrusive.
Megan found herself explaining recent revelations—her aunt, her aunt’s career, the fact that she had cousins she’d never even met. She left out the questions surrounding the bid on Washington Acres. Her grandmother’s reticence was too much for her to talk about, and mentioning it aloud felt disloyal.
“So you feel hurt and betrayed,” Denver said. “And it seems to me you have a right to those feelings.”
“That pretty well sums it up.”
“I can understand.” His accent made it sound like “ina understand.”
“You can, huh?” she said.
Denver, arms clean and dry now, took a step closer. “I learned a long time ago, Meg, that family can be a bit awful. But if you love your family—and it sure seems to me you do—then you can decide to trust them. Though their reasons for doing what they did may not make sense now, no doubt they made sense at some point. And likely they had naught to do with you.” He smiled, his intelligent eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ask your grandmother again what happened with your aunt. But timing is everything, as you well know.” He bent his head toward her, and Megan could feel his warm breath on her face. Her skin tingled; her legs felt weak. “Wait for the right moment.”
Megan was no longer sure he was talking about her family. She felt herself leaning in, toward him, the desire to have him in her arms as overwhelming as her earlier feeling of claustrophobia.
The door slammed open. Denver’s receptionist poked her head in, saw the two of them standing there, close enough that a ruler would not fit between them sideways, and stammered, “Deek was hit by a car.”
“Again?”
The receptionist shrugged apologetically. “He’s a runner—what can I say? Broken leg, by the sound of it.” She glanced from the doctor to Megan, who had taken several steps back. “I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
Denver nodded. “When the dog arrives, get him right into x-ray. I’ll join you.”
With the receptionist gone, Megan said, “Thank you for the pep talk.”
“Aye, don’t be thanking me so quickly,” Denver said. “We gave the town a new thing to talk about. I love my assistant, but she can make gossip spread faster than a California wildfire.”
Megan laughed. “So by the time news of our…talk…reaches the other side of Winsome, we will have been twisted in an intimate embrace right here on the scrub station.”
Denver, hand on the knob of the door, shook his head. “Intimate embrace? Nah. More like a full-fledged orgy, with you dancing naked on the examining table.” His face sobered for an instant, and he looked at her in a way that made blood rush to her face. “’Course, that’s something I wouldn’t mind seeing myself.”
He left, leaving Megan to ponder whether he was joking. Or more specifically, whether she wanted him to be.
Megan spent the next few hours at the café alongside Clover. Business was brisk, and she couldn’t keep the fresh greens, sugar snap peas, and herbs on the shelf. The milk, cheese, and canned goods were popular too, although mostly with the other shop owners who seemed relieved they didn’t need to drive to the next town to go to Giant or Whole Foods for that night’s dinner. The real test would be the café. Tomorrow she and Jeremy would try out the sample menu, and Monday was set as the date for the café’s grand opening. She felt lucky to have nabbed a chef with Jeremy’s history. He’d insisted on doing things his way, but he clearly knew better than her.
Megan had already decided she would offer free samples from eleven until one on Monday in the hopes of attracting the lunch crowd. The Dorfmans were due any time to drop off the new tables—she needed them before the grand opening. They were Megan’s design and she couldn’t wait to see them. She was ringing up Merry Chance’s three dozen eggs (and wondering what Merry needed three dozen free range eggs for) when she heard the front door bells jingle. Clover poked her in the back.
“It’s Dave,” she hissed. “The tables are here.”
“Quiche,” Merry said perkily over red-framed readers. “In case you’re wondering about the eggs. I’ve promised quiche for the reenactment after-party.” She tilted her head. “You will be there, right?”
Reenactment? After-party?
“A week from Saturday,” Merry said, continuing her uncanny ability to read Megan’s mind. “We’re setting up a tent. Cost is five dollars per person to watch, free if you participate. Proceeds benefit the Historical Society.”
“I thought they’d cancel it after…well, after what happened to Simon,” Clover said with an apologetic shrug toward Megan. “You know, the Historical Society and the reenactment were his babies.”
But Merry wouldn’t be deterred. “No sense ruining the things Simon loved most. Roger is managing the reenactment at the church, and Lenora is handling the Historical Society fundraiser next week. I’ll be hosting.” Merry pulled her glasses off and let them dangle by the gold chain around her neck. She said, “You are going to that, right?”
In truth, Megan had completely forgotten about the fundraiser, but she nodded her head in any case. The last thing she wanted to do was spend a ton of money to stand around and talk about the benefits of the Beautification Board.
“Well, that was weird,” Clover said when Merry had disappeared. “But ever since her husband left, she’s acted odd.”
“That’ll do it to a person.”
“I guess.” Clover was silent for a moment. “Are you going to the fundraiser?”
“With a new business? It’s an oppor
tunity for networking.” And sleuthing, she thought. Bibi might be off the hook, but King was still poking around. “You?”
Clover made a face. “No way. Bobby can go alone.”
“Don’t blame you.” Dave Dorfman, carrying a legal-size pad of paper, had been standing by the counter, waiting. “If it weren’t for Amelia’s pestering, I wouldn’t go either. Now the Revolutionary War reenactment? That’s a different story.”
“Aw Dave, you know you love quiche,” Clover teased.
“I do, as a matter of fact. Especially with gruyere and bacon.” He looked dreamy for a moment. “But not fake conversation and tedious speeches,” he said, recovering from his food reverie. “Those things I can do without.”
“I’m still surprised all of this is going despite Simon’s murder,” Megan said. “The man died a few days ago. Shouldn’t everything be postponed?”
Dave gave Megan a long, hard look. “To what end?”
“Out of respect? To avoid further incidents? Winsome’s not exactly out of the woods.”
“She’s right,” Clover said. “It does seem peculiar.”
“I don’t know,” Dave said. “I heard the police have a suspect. Found a shoe print by the barn that matches up to someone in town.”
Now that was news. “Even so, there’s the issue of respect. A mourning period.”
Dave shrugged. “I guess for people to mourn for someone, they have to miss them. I’m not sure many folks miss Simon, right or not.”
Megan arrived back at the farm to find Clay in the back fields with her grandmother. Bibi was standing, hands on hips, mouth upturned in a look of absolute delight. She was watching a miniature dune buggy as it made its way down a long garden bed in a lumbering fashion, trailing what looked like a rotating butter knife and leaving a pair of furrows behind it.