by Wendy Tyson
Denver would be angry if he knew she was here—it was King he wanted her to talk to, not Brian. But she wanted to see the man for herself, judge whether he was simply a messed-up kid with anger management issues or something worse. She felt unbalanced from the last few weeks, and she realized that the person she wasn’t trusting right now was herself. She needed to see Porter. She wanted to make her own determination.
“Brian, I’m not going away. I’ll camp out here if that’s what it takes.” She knocked again. “Brian! Open up the damn door!”
Megan put her ear to the white wooden entrance. She heard shuffling on the other side and pounded again. “Brian! Open up!”
Her hand was raised to give it another go when the door swung open. Off-balance, she stumbled against Porter, who was standing in the doorway looking disheveled, ill, and rather angry.
He righted Megan with a touch more force than was needed. She stood straight, pulling her blouse down and checking that all the buttons were in the right place, and scowled at the man in front of her.
“We need to talk.”
Reddened eyes narrowed. “We have nothing to talk about.” His words slurred together like verbal finger paint and his breath stunk of beer and cigarettes. Naked from the waist up, the green, brown, and blue dragon tattoo she’d only glimpsed before bared its fangs from beneath his armpits.
“You’re drunk,” Megan said.
“Who made you my mother?”
“Yeah, well, you could do with some mothering.” Megan glanced around. “Invite me in. And go put a shirt on.”
Porter, eyes narrowed to menacing slits, looked about ready to argue. Pulling her spine straighter, she said, “Go. Straight away.”
Straight away? Where had that come from? But Porter lowered his head and backed away from the doorframe. Not exactly a welcome, but at least he let her pass. Without a word, he disappeared into a darkened hallway.
Megan looked around, trying to get a feel for Porter’s life. The living room was stark: old plaid sofa, beat-up coffee table, charcoal gray dog bed next to it, flat-screen television on a stand by the wall. A line of empty Coors cans ran along the floor, aluminum soldiers marching in vain against madness. Like the man, the house smelled of cigarettes and beer.
Megan sat down on the couch, sinking deep into worn-out springs, and edged forward until she was perching on the frame. Another look around underscored his poverty and his aloneness. Porter’s dog tags, hung from a lampshade along with a set of ivory rosary beads, were his only nod to anything personal.
“My grandmother. She prayed for me every day I was overseas—using those.” Porter returned wearing an army green t-shirt along with the khaki shorts. The shirt hugged his torso and accentuated his biceps, but at least Megan wasn’t staring at that dragon anymore.
He tossed a curt nod toward the rosary beads. “Died right after I got back,” he said without emotion.
“I’m sorry. About your grandmother.”
Porter shrugged. “What do you want?”
“Why did you break into my store?”
Porter’s jaw clenched.
“Don’t you have anything to say about that?”
Stony silence.
“Look, Brian, I’m not sure what game you’re playing with me, but I need you to stop.” Megan used her attorney voice, the one she saved for recalcitrant witnesses. Porter’s eyes were like daggers and it was everything Megan could do to maintain eye contact. “I know King pulled you in today. And by now I’m sure you realize they’re not merely investigating a break-in.”
“What are you saying?”
“Murder, Brian.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
Genuine emotion, but Megan saw the slight shift of his eyes to the right. Back in her deposition days, that would signal a witness who was likely lying. But lying about what?
“Think about it. The cops have you pinged for a hothead. Winsome’s a small town.” Megan met angry stare for angry stare, then shrugged. “Suspects are limited, and as far as possibilities go, you look pretty damn good.”
Porter leaned against the wall, studying her. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face; his hands shook. “You should go.”
“You should tell me why you broke into my store.”
Through gritted teeth, Porter said, “Please go.”
Megan stood, then sidled toward the door, remembering his reaction the night Sarge was hit. She watched the end of the dragon’s tail rattle as Porter’s arm trembled.
At the door, she stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “There’s a certain veterinarian in town who believes you’re innocent. He may be the only friend you have, and right now, you’re making him look like a fool.”
Brian Porter shook his head slowly, back and forth. His eyes were dead black orbs. “Then maybe he is a fool,” Porter said before slamming the door in Megan’s face.
Megan stopped by the police station on her way home. With a heavy heart, she signed the papers against Porter for breaking into her store. He was a man who needed help, she saw that clearly, and maybe Denver was right—having the police sniffing around for breaking into her store would put the fear of God in him. Only Megan couldn’t shake the parallels to Mick. What atrocities had her husband witnessed those weeks before his death? Could he have come home as broken as Brian Porter had he lived? Whatever Porter’s sins, Megan didn’t think him a murderer.
When King told her they were investigating Brian for the murder of Simon Duvall and asked whether it could have been Porter at her farm the evening of the break-in, Megan simply shrugged, another frisson of guilt coursing through her.
“He has a record,” King told her.
“For what?”
“Aggravated assault. Bar fights, mostly.” King pursed his lips. “But crime is a slippery slope, Megan. You know that. Kids start small, go big. Aggravated assault to murder? Not a hard leap to make.”
She knew King was right. Once certain boundaries were crossed, it was hard to turn back.
She thought about sharing her theory about the flask, her belief that Porter’s stony silence had more to do with fear than guilt. But when she looked again at King and saw the impatience on his face, she decided to save her theories for another day, when she had more proof. For now, Porter needed to cool off. And maybe having him behind bars—if it came to that—would cause someone else to get comfortable and show their hand.
Twenty-One
The Winsome Farmers Market was small by national standards. Tucked into the parking lot of the Eternal Life Episcopal Church, it boasted thirteen vendors selling wares under a shady line of maple trees. More like a craft fair than a true farmers market, only five of the vendors sold food products. In addition to Megan’s vegetables and flowers, locals sold free-range chicken and pastured pork, apple products, canned fruit, fruit pies, and fruit jellies. Megan walked past a blueberry crumb pie that made her stomach growl so loudly she had to cross her hands over her midriff to soften the sound.
“Morning,” Megan said to Merry.
Merry nodded in return. Merry was selling her award-winning roses from the tent next to Megan’s. She’d forgone a large table, and instead had pots containing young rose plants surrounding a small foldable bistro table on which she’d placed her cashbox and calculator. Two large coolers held bunches of roses for sale and their fragrant scents perfumed the air between the two tents. Megan couldn’t complain about the scent—the heady flowers were more welcome in the outdoor setting—or the added business. Merry’s roses were always a hit, and inevitably customers who stopped to see Merry would drift over to pick up some vegetables afterwards, as was the case with Lenora Duvall.
Lenora perused Megan’s table, taking in the vegetable selection. She paused by the kohlrabi, picked up two, and placed them in a plastic bag.
“Can I assume these won’t be fibrous?” she as
ked Megan.
Clay, who was bent over behind the table, sorting through the eggs and organizing them according to size, smiled so that only Megan could see him.
“We grow a hybrid that’s supposed to remain tender, even as the weather gets warmer,” Megan said. “Try them. If you don’t like them, I’ll refund your money.”
Lenora frowned. “Simon used to make kohlrabi fritters, but that’s far too much work for me. How do you prepare them?”
“I like them steamed with butter.”
Another frown, as though Megan had said something distasteful. “I’ll take these two. And a bunch of your basil. Oh, and Clay, hand me a dozen of those eggs. The smallest you have.”
Megan packaged the kohlrabi and basil in a small bag while Clay grabbed the eggs. The day, which had started out chilly and overcast, had warmed quickly as the clouds gave way to sun, and now sweat trickled down the back of Megan’s linen shirt and between her breasts. A breeze blew through the lot, offering some relief. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist before handing Lenora her change. She noticed that the other woman looked pale. Dark circles smudged her eyes, and her normally impeccable clothes seemed rumpled.
“Lenora,” Megan said casually. “That research you mentioned, about Washington’s stay in Winsome? Fascinating stuff. I would love to see it.”
A crowd was gathering at the market, and the large parking lot was filling up quickly with cars, people, and dogs. Two small boys darted across the market square, heading for the comic book table. Lenora was watching their progress, a deep frown on her face. Megan shifted her gaze in that direction and saw Porter. He looked better today, although his eyes were hooded and distrustful. He carried a camera and was busily snapping photos of the market. He glanced in the direction of Megan’s tent, saw the two women watching him, and snapped a photo before heading off toward Annie’s Alpacas.
Megan said, “Wonder what he’s doing here?”
Lenora said, “Someone must have hired him to take pictures for the local column.”
“I didn’t even realize we had a local column.”
Lenora, still frowning, shifted her attention back to Megan. “You were asking—?”
“Yes, about Washington’s visit to our farm.”
“You’ll see the information this summer,” she said half-heartedly. “When my article is finished. Journal of Revolutionary Times bought it for their August edition. It provides a whole new spin on the town—and Washington.”
“That’s exciting, Lenora, but maybe it would be possible to see some of your research beforehand? The part related to our farm?”
Lenora clutched the bag to her body as three more locals entered the tent. “I’m afraid not. A lot of effort went into that research, and not merely by me. I’m planning pieces for several other magazines, and if I share, well…you understand.”
A condescending half-smile from Lenora was coupled with, “Do you have any spinach?” from a tall, lean man wearing a bowler hat.
Megan pointed to the large basket of spinach packages at the end of the table and said, “Is this related to Caldbeck, the original owner, Lenora?”
A shadow passed across Lenora’s face. Her lips turned downward. “Wait for the article, Megan.” She raised the carton of eggs and waved. “I have to go.”
“Ah, that woman,” Megan said under her breath to Clay after Lenora was out of her sight. Clay was standing next to her, shaking his own head.
“She’s difficult,” he agreed.
“Did she seem distracted to you?”
Clay shrugged. “Eccentric, as always. Perhaps more tired than usual. Why?”
“I don’t know. She lost her son recently. Maybe I’m sensing grief.” Megan shrugged. “She just seems off.”
But there was little time for ruminating over Lenora’s state of mind. The crowd was migrating from Tanya’s Handmade Soaps, at the farthest end, toward Megan’s tent. A few stragglers were already ogling Merry’s roses. Megan quickly straightened the vegetables, put a few more bouquets of early wildflowers into the bin of cold water, and waited.
“Will you and Clay watch my tent for a moment?” Merry leaned over and asked after the last of her customers had moved on. She motioned daintily toward the church with one polyester-clad shoulder, indicating her need to use the ladies’ room. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Sure.”
Fifteen minutes later, Merry was back and Megan had four customers, all crowded around the table. A banner day.
The Dorfmans arrived a little past eleven. “Can I come by next week and finish the barn?” Neil asked.
“That’s fine,” Megan said. “It will be good to have it finished.”
Dave, who was sorting through bunches of kale and Swiss chard, finally decided on a bundle of Red Russian. Megan refused to ring him up. “After all the work you and Neil have done, the least I can give you is some kale.”
Dave’s face reddened. “That’s awfully nice, Megan, but we can pay.” He placed three crumpled dollar bills on the table.
“Suit yourself.” Megan took the dollars and was in the process of straightening them out when she caught another glimpse of Porter. This time, he was moving between the comic book table and the soap seller, his camera now tucked back in its bag.
“Hey, Dave,” she said quietly to the elder of the two brothers. “You’ve hired Porter in the past. What did you think of him?”
The skin on Dave’s face turned a darker crimson. “You know I don’t like to say anything bad about people, Megan—”
“But?”
“But he’s unreliable,” Neil piped in. “Sometimes you can trust him to do fine work, and sometimes he’ll fail to keep his word for days on end.” Neil grimaced under his bushy red mustache. “Hard to give work to someone like that.
“You’re being hard on the boy,” Dave protested. “He’s more of a—”
But Dave’s words were cut off by the next round of customers, who formed a line around the front of the table and out into the lot. The market was livening up. The smells of Bernie’s BBQ filled the air, as did the steady murmur of the crowd, all of which was accompanied by the musical sounds of a small jazz band set up under a tent by Tanya’s Handmade Soaps.
And so they continued for the next hour: answering questions, bagging vegetables, handing out Bibi’s recipe cards, and filling the cashbox with much-needed revenue. The eggs went first—their small flock could only produce a limited number and Megan needed some for the store and the café—followed by the lettuce and the broccoli. She jotted notes about other vegetables people asked for, determined to grow what she could in the greenhouse and hoop houses over the winter so she could have a fuller bounty come next spring.
“Pretty decent haul,” Clay said.
She nodded. It was more than enough to cover Clay’s time and the expense of hauling the tent, coolers, and vegetables the six miles to the market, but that was about it. No one was going to get rich selling vegetables locally, that was for sure.
“Next year we’ll start the CSA,” Megan said. “And then people will come to us.”
“And pay ahead of time.”
“That would be nice.” Megan hoped the new zoning rules, if they passed, wouldn’t preclude the community supported agriculture model, or CSA, as it was called, from being employed on her property. Having customers order shares of a harvest ahead of time would mean capital for maintaining and expanding the farm. Plus, she would offer customers a choice of full price or a discount if they volunteered hours on the farm. She could use the help, and the more people who understood how their food was produced, the better. That disconnection from the environment was one reason she left the law practice; she hoped like hell the Historical Society and its grand notions of making Winsome the best place to visit wouldn’t impede that vision.
A young college student, a ros
ebush in hand, stood in front of the table and opened her mouth to ask a question. At the same time, a high-pitched scream erupted from somewhere in the sea of cars on the other side of the parking lot. Megan, surprised by the unexpected wailing, thought for a moment the scream was coming from the student. It took a second to realize people were running toward a spot near the shadiest portion of the church lot.
“Woman down!” one man yelled. “Call 911!”
“She’s dead!” another shouted.
Neil Dorfman went flying past. Megan grabbed his arm. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“Lenora,” he whispered. “Someone killed her.”
“But she was here only a few hours ago.”
Neil’s eyes widened. He shrugged.
Megan could hear a siren’s wail.
“Clay, stay here, okay?” she asked. Her companion nodded, his face stricken.
Megan put her hand lightly on his arm before turning toward the gathering crowd. She scanned the parking lot for a sign of Porter, but the young man was nowhere to be found.
Twenty-Two
“Everybody get back now. Please.” An officer held up her hands and motioned for everyone to move to the side. “Let the paramedics do their job.”
Megan, on tiptoe, watched as two paramedics started an IV while rushing a limp and lifeless-looking Lenora into the ambulance. Blood pooled around the base of the gurney and trailed behind, a house of horrors indication of what had happened. Megan, feeling numb, was in awe, as she always was, at the hurried ease with which the paramedics worked. To be the barrier between life and death for another human being was unthinkable to her; to do that daily—terrifying.
“She’s alive,” she heard someone say.
“Just barely,” said another. “Knife wound. Bad one.”
Within minutes, the ambulance was off and the police got to work. They cordoned off the area and made an announcement that no one was to leave the premises. “Vendors, please go back to your tents and remain there,” the female officer called to the agitated crowd. “I repeat: everyone should remain at the market until we have had a chance to speak with you.”