by Wendy Tyson
Megan followed him around a fire truck and to the first ambulance. She found Bibi sitting on a stretcher, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. Her white hair was pushed back from her face, and the hem of her pink cotton blouse hung partway out of the waist of her pants. She wore a “Winsome Rules” t-shirt over the blouse, and Megan could see a smudge of what looked like blood along the seam. Normally not one to show emotion, Bibi’s eyes were red and puffy. One hand clutched a balled-up tissue; the other rested on her silver phone. She was scowling at a blood-pressure cuff that hung flaccid from the outstretched hand of a very young EMT.
Bibi caught Megan’s eye. Her frown deepened. “I told them not to bother you. I’m fine.” The EMT leaned in with the blood-pressure cuff and Bibi pulled her arm away. “I said I’m fine.”
“Would you give us a few minutes alone?” Megan asked the paramedic.
“Certainly.” She looked relieved.
Megan waited until the EMT was out of earshot before asking her grandmother what happened.
“They didn’t need to call you. I’m fine.”
“They didn’t call me. I just happened to come by.”
Her grandmother raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Really.” She laid a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Bibi, you’re sitting on a stretcher in the middle of a solar field, surrounded by a score of Winsome’s finest.” She looked over at Bobby King, who was now headed slowly in their direction. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I drove by, saw something, and called 911.” She lowered her head, and her thin shoulders looked frail under the light material of her shirts. “Well, I tried to call 911, but I kept hitting the wrong dang buttons on that new phone you made me buy.”
Megan felt a wave of affection—and concern. “What did you see?”
“Enough to know I wanted my phone to work.”
Megan wanted to hug her and strangle her. Bonnie Elizabeth Birch could be one stubborn lady when the mood hit, and the mood always seemed to hit when she was trying to protect Megan. But Megan wanted to know what was going on before Bobby arrived. She knew from experience that once the Chief was involved, Bibi would be as selective about her words as a savvy politician in a news conference. Bibi liked Bobby King, but she didn’t trust the police—or anyone in authority.
“Did you see what happened?”
“No.” Bibi sighed. “Only the aftermath.”
“So you drove past, saw something, and called emergency services. That’s it?” Megan peered into her grandmother’s eyes, searching for an indication that Bibi was holding back, trying to protect her granddaughter. She saw a spark of something and leaned in. “Bibi.”
“I may have gotten close enough to touch the body.”
“Touch the body?”
Bibi sighed. She closed her eyes, then opened them, focusing her very sharp attention on Megan. “I had to see if he was alive.”
Megan glanced over Bibi’s head, looking for Bobby King. He’d stopped to talk to the ring of firefighters, but his gaze was on Megan and Bibi. On the other side of the road, a Hummer was pulling up to the curb. She recognized Marty Jenner’s jowly face through the windshield. Once the owner of the solar fields began grilling everyone, there’d be no answers. A Philadelphia investor and recovering attorney, Marty had a way of making the Winsome townsfolk feel small and extremely protective of their own.
“Who was it, Bibi? Who was killed?”
“I’m not sure. The body…was turned over.” Another blink, this one longer. “I just saw blood.” Bibi kept her voice steady, but the shake in her fingers gave her away. “Lots of blood.” She frowned. “I felt for a pulse, but I knew it was pointless. He was…he wasn’t…he couldn’t have…”
“It’s okay. Never mind.” Megan reached out and grabbed Bibi’s hand. She had more questions, but King had renewed his journey in their direction, and she could tell now wasn’t the time to pepper her grandmother with queries. She waited until King reached them, which only took a few seconds.
“Megan.” Bobby nodded a curt greeting. He looked hard at Bibi. “Thank you for calling us, Bonnie. I’m curious though—how did you know he was here?”
“I already told your people this.”
“They said you saw color in the field, called 911, stopped to investigate, and that’s when you found the body. Is that right?”
Bibi nodded.
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“You spy anyone leaving here, Bonnie? Someone running away? Maybe pass a car on the road?”
Megan shot him a questioning look. He returned the stare with a subtle shake of the head that said just asking routine questions.
“No,” Bonnie said. “No one. No cars. Nothing.”
The corners of King’s mouth turned down. Tall, blocky, and blond, Bobby King was Winsome’s youngest-ever police chief, but he was quickly becoming a seasoned professional—mostly out of necessity. Winsome had seen more action in the last year than in the entire decade before it. It was baptism by fire for King and his crew, and while Megan didn’t always agree with their approach, she gave King props for hard work and ethics. He wanted to do the right thing.
“Bonnie, what brought you by here to begin with?”
This was the question Megan wanted answered. Curly Hill Road was four miles from the farm and seven miles from the café. Unless Bibi was headed on a roundabout route to the hardware store, was visiting Porter’s house, or had decided to go for a hike, there was no need for her to be out here.
“Porter,” Bibi said. “Brian Porter had a flat. His car died.”
“Brian called you?” Megan asked. It made a certain sense. He’d called Clay. And Denver. Maybe he was getting impatient and decided to beg a ride from Bonnie too.
“Brian didn’t call me,” Bibi said. “Otto did.”
Both Megan and King looked at her in surprise. “Otto Vance?” they said together.
Bibi nodded. “He drove past Porter coming the other direction. Said he didn’t have time to stop, but wanted to let Megan know the boy needed assistance. Otto called the café. Only you’d already left, so I came out.” Bibi glanced at Megan. “I was going to pick Brian up, but I came in from Curly Hill Road and never got to him.
King chewed his lip again. “You’re sure it was Vance who called the café?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Did he tell you where he was headed? Vance, I mean.”
“No, just told me about Brian.”
King frowned. “Did he sound upset?”
“Rushed, maybe, but not upset.” Bibi let out a sigh. “Oh, I don’t know, Bobby. When I heard Porter was out there with a flat, I left the café and got here as quickly as I could. I wasn’t thinking about Otto. Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe he did sound upset or annoyed. He was kind of breathing hard.”
Megan turned to King. “You think Otto had something to do with this?”
Bobby stood up straighter, forcing his full six-and-a-half-foot frame into military posture. “Not purposefully.” King squinted in the direction of the pack of police officers, who were now talking with Marty Jenner. A body lay inside a bag nearby, the vague outline of a human form the only hint to its contents. “That body over there belonged to Otto Vance.”
Megan glanced at him in surprise. Bibi let out a low moan. King placed a paw-like hand on her arm.
Softly, he said, “Bonnie, this means you may have been the last person to speak with Otto. You can understand our interest in interviewing you.”
Bibi waved toward the scene behind them. “Do you think it was an accident?”
“I’m not sure why Otto was here. There’s really no reason for him to be at the solar fields—unless he stopped to check something too.” King placed a hand on his hip, squinted up toward the sun. “But yes, looks that way.�
��
“He hit his head,” Bibi said. “At least that’s what I saw.”
King nodded. “Coroner will have to corroborate, of course, but it does look like an accident. Seems he fell hard—very hard and at a very bad angle—and slammed his head into the sharp corner of a panel. Happened very recently, by the look of it.”
“Where’s his car?” Megan asked.
“One of my men found it in the state park lot.”
Odd. Megan thought back to the scene at the café earlier that day, the spoken and unspoken tensions in the room. Otto’s vitriolic words. Ted’s Kuhl’s reaction. An accident?
Megan sure hoped so.
Four
“You didn’t notice anything odd at the café?” Megan asked her grandmother for what felt like the umpteenth time. “More arguing? A fight? Something we may have missed?”
“Oktoberfest has everyone agitated. But I heard the same noise that I hear every day. Grown men with nothing better to do than pick at each other.”
“They love to argue. It keeps them going,” Megan said. “And I suppose those grown men pay our bills.”
Bibi sat in the kitchen chair and picked up her needlepoint. She stared at it, then put it back down. “I know,” she said noncommittally. She glanced up at her granddaughter. “I really didn’t hear anything else, Megan. I wish I had. I want to help.”
“I know you do. I’m sorry for all the questions. I’ll end the inquisition.”
Bibi nodded. “You heard Bobby King. It was an accident.” She brightened, bringing out the wrinkles around her eyes and drawing her sharp intelligence into focus. “Otto probably saw something while out on a walk—maybe an injured bird, solar panels can be bad for birds. And Otto had a soft spot for small creatures. I remember that about him. From the time he was young he could be counted on to help a bird or baby squirrel. One time your grandfather even found him with a bear cub. Its mother had died.” Bibi shook her head at the memory. “Poor Lana. And those kids. He was a young man, Megan. Too young. At least to my standards.”
Megan nodded. Otto did like animals, and he was too young. Only what if his death had less to do with curiosity about a solar farm or a hurt bird and more to do with the all-too-common human foibles of greed, lust, or jealousy?
Megan thought about Otto racing past Brian Porter, calling Bibi rather than stopping himself. In a small town like Winsome, people went out of their way for neighbors. Even if they were late to something. And someone like Otto…who would save a bird? The fact that Otto didn’t stop caused Megan to wonder where he was headed in such a hurry.
Bibi went on: “In any case, we’ll send flowers. And maybe some cakes. I’m sure the Vance family will have people coming and going for days. They’ll appreciate some cakes.”
Megan nodded.
“Cakes would be good.”
“I just wish I hadn’t been the one to find him,” Bibi said. “Maybe someone younger or faster could have gotten to him sooner. Maybe he would still be alive.”
“I don’t think so, Bibi. It sounds like he died instantly, based on what Bobby King said.”
Bibi traced a swollen-knuckled finger down the length of her needlepoint. She stabbed the center of a flower with a sharp needle, pulling the bright red thread through the other side. “Such a waste,” Bibi said heavily. “Much too young.”
“Do you think maybe you’re reading too much into things?” Clay said. His voice was kind but firm. “After what you went through, it would be easy to read motive into everything.” Clay was referring to the body she and Denver had found in the barn last spring—a body that had been bludgeoned to death. A body that threw the town of Winsome into a tailspin.
It was later that evening. Clay and Megan were tending to the Pygmy goats, Heidi and Dimples. Each tiny goat wanted attention, and they took turns ramming their small heads into the back of Megan’s legs while she was cleaning their heated pen. She stopped periodically to pet them, marveling at how much personality could fit into such a small package.
“After all,” Clay continued, “it’s been a rough year.” His eyes pierced her own. Not a trace of pity or doubt—only concern. “One could forgive you for seeing nefarious intent where there is none.”
“I know what I heard and saw. Don’t forget, once upon a time I was paid to decipher people’s motives and behaviors. That training doesn’t just disappear.”
She was referring to the years spent as an environmental attorney in Chicago, working for a big firm that defended corporations against claims of environmental malfeasance. Not quite the work she’d envisioned when she decided to go into environmental law, and after Mick’s death overseas and her father’s departure to Italy to be with his new girlfriend, she’d decided to change course.
When her father asked her to take over the farm and café and stay with Bibi, she’d agreed. She hadn’t enjoyed practicing law, but something good had come out of it: a better understanding of human nature, boils and all.
Clay spread fresh hay on the floor, then flopped down next to Dimples. The goat immediately climbed on his lap and started chewing the cuff of his long-sleeved t-shirt. Clay didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll take a ride by Jenner’s place tomorrow,” he said eventually. “See if there is anything curious about the panels. Something that may have caused Otto to stop on his way elsewhere.”
“I’m sure the police are investigating that.”
“If they have it in their heads that his death was an accident, they may not.” He shrugged. “Can’t hurt to take a look.”
Clay was an engineering student and a die-hard tinkerer. When he wasn’t studying or at the farm, he was inventing stuff in his apartment, which sat over the café in town. Megan had no idea what Clay created up there, but every day that the café building remained intact was, in Megan’s mind, a good day.
“I would appreciate that,” Megan said. “You’re right, it can’t hurt.”
Clay nodded. He lifted Dimples up so that she was eye level and said, “Can we talk about the chair you found on Potter Hill?” He placed Dimples back on the floor and scratched behind her ears. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately—”
“Stop. This isn’t about stress, or Duvall’s murder last spring, or anything other than facts. I know what I saw. Someone had a chair at the top of the hill and it was situated toward the farm.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “The angle gave a perfect view of the driveway. I know because I sat in it.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about. I believe you. I just don’t want to add to the stress.” He picked up Heidi, looking into her eyes for signs of wateriness or discharge. Once she’d nestled into his chest, he glanced back at Megan. “You may have a stalker.”
“I know.” Megan sat heavily on the ground across from Clay. “The fact that whoever it was removed the chair after I discovered it worries me the most.”
“Because they might have been watching you?”
“Or they were heading there at the same time and happened to see me.” She thought again of treasure hunters and human greed. “Neither alternative is comforting.”
Clay stood up and wiped his hands on a terrycloth towel. “I talked to Porter.”
Megan looked up. “Porter?”
“I know he seems gruff and difficult, but I think he cares about you. He and I are going to take turns heading up there periodically. To make sure whoever it is doesn’t set up camp somewhere else.” Clay smiled. “It was Porter’s idea.”
“Absolutely not.”
Clay glanced at her with surprise. “Why not?”
“You both have enough to do around here. If someone wants to spy on the farm, let them. All they’ll see are dogs, goats, chickens, and a lot of boring farm work.”
“And you.” He softened his voice. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Of course it does.�
�� Megan glanced at her watch and pulled herself upright. It was getting late. She saw the worry in Clay’s eyes and tempered her position. “Fine, if you think it will help, go up occasionally. But if you see something, bring in King. I don’t want any vigilantism, especially not from Porter.”
Clay nodded his assent. “It does make me wonder why someone would want to watch Washington Acres.”
Megan thought about the letter she’d found last spring, now tucked away in a small safe in her room. She thought about Otto Vance and whether her stalker could be related to what happened on that solar farm. The frown on Clay’s face told her he had been contemplating Otto’s death too. Before either of them could say anything to heighten the anxiety further, Megan stood and opened the gate to the goats’ enclosure. She walked out into the cool night air. Gunther had been waiting outside the gate. He wagged his white tail furiously at the sight of Megan. She knelt down to pet him, using his calming presence to quiet the jitters in her mind.
Clay followed Megan, securing the gate behind him. “I’m going to close up the barn and head home. Will you and Bonnie be okay?”
Megan smiled at her farm manager. How someone so young—someone who’d had such an unorthodox upbringing—could be so chivalrous was always a mystery to Megan. Clay had Captain America Syndrome. But she was grateful he was in her life.
“We’ll be fine.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Megan nodded and headed back toward the house. She paused in the driveway, outside the porch that led to the kitchen. The harvest moon lit her path, and she looked up, toward the hills beyond the farm. Toward Potter Hill. Was someone up there now, using their vantage point to watch her walk along the yard, enter her house? Maybe they had binoculars. She could almost picture a man sitting in the shadows, a lit cigarette by his side. Faceless, brooding. Megan jutted her chin forward and lifted her head. On impulse, she stuck out her arm. She wanted to follow with her middle finger but something held her back. Instead, she held up her hand, palm side toward Potter Hill. She refused to feel cowed on her own property. If someone was there, she was sending a message: I know you’re watching. And I am not scared.