by Wendy Tyson
“It’s empty,” Jeremy said. “Dave doesn’t like guns. No bullets.”
Gunther growled.
Jeremy moved and the dog went for him.
“I’d stay still if I were you,” Megan said.
“Get this damn beast off me.”
“The beast has a name.”
The dog let out a low snarl. He clearly didn’t care for Jeremy.
Megan looked back at the house. She could see her grandmother coming toward her, near the embankment, King with her. Bibi was carrying a rifle. Megan didn’t even know they owned a rifle.
“What’s here is mine,” Jeremy said. “All of it.”
“Yeah, well, explain that to the cops.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t need to,” Megan said, pulling Gunther off Jeremy so King could handcuff him. “And where you’re going, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
Thirty-Six
The storm system had left behind a trail of destruction in Winsome, claiming barns, roof tops, and windows, and downing trees. All things considered, the farm had fared well. A morning-after inventory uncovered a ruined flower bed, a ripped hoop house, and a sapling that had fallen on the greenhouse, breaking a window. Other than that and some minor flooding in the lower fields, the farm withstood the elements, as it had, Megan thought, for several hundred years.
The animals were fine too. The chickens, snug in their tractor, had been largely undisturbed. The goats survived, although Bibi spent her first morning after the storm with Heidi. She’d escaped again after Gunther knocked open the gate, and she wandered into the barn—cold, wet, and with a sudden interest in eating rope. Apparently, she’d kept Dave company until the police took him away.
The café was the only restaurant along the canal with a full generator, and the lunch counter and store remained open—and busy. So busy that Megan moved Clay there for a few days, ringing up groceries and maintaining a steady stock of vegetables and eggs for the wilted townspeople.
The first day after the storm, Denver visited. Megan was behind the counter, wiping down the serving area after the lunch crowd had left. Bibi was in the kitchen, chopping onions and garlic for Alvaro’s black bean chili, and Alvaro was with her, preparing the beans. Megan could hear them arguing over the correct way to hold the knife. Denver, hearing them too, laughed.
“Have a few minutes?” he asked.
Megan threw her towel to Clover, who was chatting with Lydia about hair products. She took off her “We Do It Better in Winsome” apron, placed it behind the counter, and said, “Make yourself useful,” to her store manager.
“Outside?” Denver asked.
“Sure.” Megan led the way outside, past the men drinking coffee at the farmhouse table, past Clay, who was ringing up Merry’s two dozen eggs and bag of green beans, and out into the sunshine. Despite the lack of electricity, Canal Street was alive with people—walkers, bikers, runners, mothers and fathers out with babies in strollers. It was as though the storm had reminded them all to be thankful for days like this.
Denver crossed the street and Megan followed. They strolled along the canal walkway, in silence at first. A car passed, and Megan saw Roger at the wheel. Megan waved and then looked away, down toward the water, which rushed through the old canal at a thoroughbred’s pace, its waters still muddied from run-off and rain.
“Feeling okay, Megs?” Denver asked.
“Yes.”
His eyes searched hers for the truth. Seemingly satisfied, he took her hand and continued walking.
“I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”
He was talking about her ankle, and the small stab wound in her upper back, where Jeremy had poked the knife through her clothing. Three stitches and she was all sewn up.
“Me too.”
“You’re quite brave for a gentleman farmer, ye know.”
Megan smiled. “Brave, or reckless?”
“Maybe a bit ‘o both.”
They laughed. “So it was your chef all along?” Denver asked, his tone once again serious.
“Talk about a lapse in judgement.” Megan sighed. “Their vision was impressive. Find the gold and silver, take it without anyone knowing, and move it to the abandoned Marshall house. Jeremy would buy the Marshall house and no one would ever know the treasure had been at our farm in the first place. Both homes had been part of the same parcel when the Caldbecks owned it. I didn’t realize that until I saw the painting in my aunt’s home.” She smiled. “Quite a devious plan.”
“And Simon?”
“Simon, believe it or not, was the hold out. He wanted to make a Winsome historical museum.” Megan squinted, looking past the canal to the park on the other side. She watched a mother swing her daughter on a new cedar swing set purchased by the Beautification Board. The mother was smiling; the child had a look of unabashed glee on her pretty round face.
Megan continued, tearing her eyes away from the mother-daughter pair. “Simon and Jeremy had hired Dave to find the cache. Simon was stalling on my permits because Dave had been unsuccessful when he pulled the old flooring up in the newer portion of the barn. He wanted Dave to dig in the old section. Dave refused unless Simon agreed they would sell what they found. Dave needed the money. Simon said no, things got heated and…well, the rest is history.”
“Pun intended?”
Megan smiled. “Perhaps.”
“I don’t understand Jeremy’s role, Megan. Why would he involve himself in this nonsense?”
“Because Elizabeth Caldbeck was his great-great-great-great-grandmother. After three failed restaurants, he wanted to come back to Winsome and create something that was his own. He needed the right place, but even more than that, he needed funds.”
“How did he know about the treasure?”
They came to a bench and Megan sat down. She was wearing a long skirt and fitted wrap top, and she pulled the skirt tight around her knees, enjoying the security of cotton against skin.
“He had some old journals, kept from generation to generation. When Simon told them about his mother’s findings—that Washington had been to the farm—he looked back through them. He and Simon compared notes. Elizabeth wrote that she was leaving and would hide ‘her most precious belongings.’ They decided to act in concert. Only Jeremy wasn’t willing to see the money go to a museum either. He wanted it for his own.”
“He stabbed Lenora.”
“Yes. She was on the verge of figuring out what had happened, according to King. He wanted her silenced.” Megan stared at her feet, thinking. “It looks like she’ll make it.”
“That could have been you.” He squeezed her hand. “I hate the thought.”
“Gunther may very well have saved me.”
“Aye. He’s a fine dog.”
“You bought him back from Sauer, didn’t you?”
“How did you figure that out?”
“Bibi told me you pushed Sauer. I believe you did. But I also figured you wouldn’t want any chance that Sauer could have a claim against you and regain custody of the dog. You paid him for Gunther and gave him to me.”
“There’s nae pockets in a shroud.”
“And that means?”
“It’s an old Scottish saying.” Denver grinned. “You can’t take it with you, sweetheart.”
Megan looked at him, eyes watering. She or Bibi could have been hurt. The thought had occurred to her many times. Things could have been much worse. By entrusting her with Gunther, Denver had, in fact saved her life.
“I came by for a favor, Megan.”
She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she said, “Whatever you want.”
“Brian Porter.”
“He didn’t kill anyone, Denver. He was a witness. They tried to threaten him, just as we thought. Made him break into the store to create a distraction. He ran so he w
ouldn’t have to do any more of their bidding.”
“Aye, ye were right about that, then.”
“But you’re still concerned.”
“The man needs a job. Something to keep him busy. So much idleness is not good for anyone, much less an alcoholic. I will try to find something around the clinic, but I thought maybe there might be something at that gentleman’s farm of yours for him to do. Physical labor.”
“We can always use help, but does he want to work?”
“He says he does.”
Megan thought about that. Porter was strong and could make a good worker. Plus, Mick would have wanted him to have a chance. Mick with his soft heart and soldier’s strength. “I’ll make Porter a deal. If he gets help—and we both know he needs some professional help—I’ll hire him. But he’ll have to prove himself.”
“Ta. Sounds like a fair deal to me.”
They sat quietly next to each other, Denver’s hand still on her own. She liked the heft of it, and the warmth. His fingers, incredibly long and strong, were a mite rough.
A child rode by on his bike, speeding along the canal path. Denver watched him. “Did they ever discover what was under your barn?”
“Not yet.” Megan glanced at her watch. “They’re pulling it out in an hour. It seems that Dave had struck something—a box of some kind. I need to be present when they remove it from the ground. Even though it’s evidence, it belongs to us.” She turned, moving her head and torso so that her face was close to his. “Want to join me?”
“In an hour? Sure.” He tilted his head. “Would you like dinner tonight?”
Megan smiled. “Maybe. I still owe you a dinner.”
“And dessert?” He grinned, that boyish smile giving way to dimples.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “We’ll see.”
Thirty-Seven
A crowd had gathered at the farm. There were police, media, and a few members of the Historical Society whom Megan had invited. Plus, she and Denver and Clay and her Aunt Sarah, who stood alone at the far side of the barn, her earthy features a blank canvas. Was this hard for her, Megan wondered. The farm should have been hers. Does it matter to me? Yes, she decided. It did matter. They had no relationship now—Megan was still digesting her aunt’s presence in her life and her role in her mother’s leaving—but maybe someday. Maybe.
The barn was once again a crime scene, and the old portion of the barn had been taped off until the police could dig up the box. For her part, Megan didn’t much care what was in it. Gold and silver would be nice, of course—she could use the money to fix up the farm, maybe even buy the old Marshall estate. Or she could give it to Aunt Sarah, her portion of a rightful legacy denied.
Beside her, Denver moved from foot to foot, impatient. His broad shoulders and lanky form looked even bigger in the small space. He caught her looking at him and smiled.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Sure,” Megan said.
King, donning gloves, was the one designated to do the honors. A pair of uniformed officers, also gloved, pulled the metal box from the earthen floor. It was large, maybe three feet by two feet, and decorated with tiny scroll engravings. There was a lock, but it had long since rusted. King took a deep breath, looked around the room, and then clipped the lock with wire cutters. He opened the box. Only he could see the contents, and he stared for a long moment into the abyss of the container.
“Well?” Roger said.
King turned the box so the crowd could get a look at the contents. It took Megan a moment to register what she was seeing. It wasn’t a box of coins, nor was it full of anything of obvious value. There was what appeared to be a wedding portrait, presumably of Elizabeth. She wore an extravagant magenta dress set with purple panels and a plunging, gold-trimmed neckline. Her plain oval face gazed out with an innocence that was at once heartbreaking and endearing.
There was also a set of candlesticks, a trinket box, and an elaborate tapestry of the Washington Acres farmstead as it must have looked in the mid-eighteenth century—much like the painting in Sarah’s living room. Carefully, King opened the trinket box. A silver chain and locket, severely tarnished, lay inside.
“Open it,” Merry whispered.
King looked at her and nodded. Everyone remained silent as King worked the lock, springing the ornate oval to make the picture inside visible. King motioned for Megan to come forward. She gazed at the miniature portrait inside. It was a man. In the fashion of the day, he wore a brown suit and frilly white shirt, and his thick dark hair was swept back from his broad, open face. The face of a husband. The face of a traitor.
“Is that Paul Caldbeck?” Megan asked.
Roger peered at the picture over her shoulder. “I believe so.”
“There’s no treasure,” Merry Chance muttered. She and Roger looked devastated.
“Hold on, folks. There’s a letter attached to the back of the picture frame,” King said. Carefully, he untucked yellowing parchment, surprisingly intact for such an old item. The letter was secured with wax, the imprint of a crest pressed firmly in the center of the red circle.
“Open it,” Merry whispered.
A hush had descended over the room. King looked around from face to face, seemingly unsure whether he should break the seal here, in the barn—or at all.
“Would you like me to do it?” Megan asked.
King nodded. He handed the letter to Megan, who ran a finger across the crisp parchment and the hard wax. First, she took a photo of the seal with her smart phone—for future’s sake. Then Denver handed her a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, the knife blade open. Megan used it to work the seal free. She read, first to herself, then aloud.
My dearest Paul,
If you are reading this, my love, we are together once again or you have returned home alone. I pray that the former will be our fate, but I am afraid the latter is a more likely course. I waited as long as I dared, but time was not on our side, and without my father’s protection, I feared for my life and the lives of our children. In either case, you must know that should we return, Mr. James has agreed to terminate our contract and return our home to us for the original sum plus 10% as one last favor to my father. Be well, my Paul.
Always, in love and marriage,
Elizabeth
The hush continued. Megan stared at the paper, turning it over in her hand. A memory box, filled with one woman’s sentimental treasures. It hardly seemed worth killing for.
King said, “You’ll need to think about what to do with this once we’re done. This stuff belongs to the house, Megan.”
Megan glanced at Denver, then at Sarah. She’d talk to Bibi, of course, but she knew already what was right. “Simon’s museum,” she said with a glance at Merry. “Once the Historical Society sets it up.”
Merry nodded. “We can do that.”
“I’d like to keep the letter, Bobby. If that’s all right with you.”
“We’ll need to make a copy for the records.”
“Of course.” Megan took a deep breath. Everyone was looking at her expectantly, but she was at a loss for words. She walked out of the barn, back toward the greenhouses. She wanted to get back to work. To normalcy.
Denver followed her to the greenhouse. Her heart felt leaden, her mind numb. He took her hand at the entrance, spinning her around toward him. He ran a finger along Megan’s jawline and smiled. “It’s not quite the treasure Jeremy was after, was it?”
“Love letters and sentimental keepsakes? No, I don’t suppose it was.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Not in the way you might think.”
Megan pulled the letter from the pack she was wearing on her back. “Read it,” she said.
His eyes widened when he reached the end. The portion she’d omitted when reading it aloud had no doubt caught his attention: You will fi
nd the money necessary to repurchase the house in the place we discussed the night you left.
“So there is money hidden on these grounds. This was a ruse.”
“Here, or on the old Marshall property, most likely.” Megan gave him a wan smile. “You understand why I kept that quiet, don’t you?”
“Aye, and ye were smart to do so, Megan. You don’t want another bloody brigade of people sneaking on your property to try and find the treasure. As we’ve seen, greed can bring about one’s baser nature.” His face softened. “But what about you and Bonnie? You could no doubt use those funds. And what about the preservation district?”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Otherwise, we’re doing fine. Besides, I don’t even want to think about treasure for a long, long time. If we happen to come across it—” Megan smiled “—well, then I guess we’ll decide what to do.”
Inside the greenhouse, the air was hot and humid. Trellised tomatoes wound their way up toward the ceiling, their hanging fruits in various stages of ripeness. Megan glanced around, her gaze falling on the table in the back, up against the windows. A bin of fresh potting soil mixed with compost sat on one side of the table, potting blocks on the other. Clay had placed packets of seeds next to the potting soil.
“Know your way around a garden, Denver?” Megan asked.
He smiled. “Aye, a bit.”
“Want to help me plant some annuals?”
Denver nodded. “Sounds like a perfect afternoon.”
“What time is your next appointment?”
“Besides dinner?” Gently, Denver pushed Megan up against the wall so that her back braced against warm glass. He kissed her while his hands trailed gently down her sides. “Not until tomorrow.”
Megan smiled. She kissed him back. “All the time in the world.”
THE END
(Book #1)
BITTER HARVEST
A Greenhouse Mystery #2
Wendy Tyson