Greenhouse Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-6

by Wendy Tyson

  “All the better reason to get Washington Acres involved. Show the people who visit Winsome that small farms that do things the old way—”

  “We don’t necessarily do things the old way,” Clay said. He was back and barely out of breath from running back and forth with the goats. “Organic farming isn’t anti-progress or anti-science. In fact, innovation is very important. We just prefer to do it in a sustainable manner that nurtures—rather than destroys—our ecosystem and the eco-balance on the farm.”

  “Well said.” Ophelia clapped as though she’d won the battle. “And something people should hear. So you’ll do it? Next Saturday? Maybe some tours, a stand with food from the café. Hay rides would be nice. Music?”

  “I didn’t say yes.”

  Clay stared at Megan. She glared back.

  “Oktoberfest starts Saturday. We will publish this in the brochure and you’ll get the attention you’re seeking.”

  “This isn’t about attention—”

  Ophelia smiled knowingly. “Perfect then. Saturday morning at Washington Acres.” She turned to Clay and her smile broadened. “Thank you, Clay. I hope Megan knows what a catch she has here.”

  Clay actually blushed. Disgusted, Megan trudged back toward the roto-tiller, the ache in her head now matching the ache in her arms.

  Poor Lana didn’t realize what she’d been up against.

  Sunday brought the kind of thunderstorms that had everyone holed up in their homes, thinking about the long nights and short days ahead. Megan and Bibi worked side by side in the kitchen, making soups from the farm’s fall vegetable harvest—butternut squash bisque, potato leek, harvest vegetable—that they would freeze for the leaner months. Normally an activity that invoked the intimacy of family and warm memories of youth, this time it felt strained and tense. Bibi maintained her reserve, talking only when making suggestions or asking a question. She wasn’t curt or grouchy—the bite of anger would have given Megan something to latch onto—just quiet.

  Rain pelted the windows and wind blew the old shutters. The chickens stayed warm in their chicken tractors, and the goats seemed for once content to be in their pens. Megan watched streams of water run against glass, the sky beyond bruised and battered, and thought about Denver. He was working; she wished he was here.

  At four thirty in the afternoon, Megan slipped on her galoshes and rain coat. She’d have rather stayed in where it was warm, but she needed to lock up the animals and check on the greenhouses. Stronger winds were expected that evening, and anything blowing about now would lose its footing by morning. Sadie stayed with Bibi by the warmth of the stove, but Gunther waited by the door, anxious to accompany her. She didn’t welcome the thought of a wet dog in the house, but he seemed insistent, and he was easy company. Woman and dog headed into the twilight.

  The air outside was heavy but warm. Rain pelted Megan from an angle, and she fought against the gusts of winds that barreled through the valley and swirled between the house and barn. Gunther wagged his tail furiously, leading the way first to the goats and then out toward the chicken tractors, happy to be outside.

  The chickens seemed restless, little harbingers of harsher storms ahead. Megan was locking up the final tractor when she felt Gunther stirring beside her, his body suddenly tense. The chickens weren’t far from the wooded edge of the property, and the trees were blowing madly. Megan chalked the dog’s reaction to the sound of waving branches.

  But as she began the descent toward the house, he stiffened again, and growled—a deep throaty growl that she’d only heard once before, when a killer was on her property. Heart strumming against her windpipe, she forced herself to stop and listen. The woods were dark, but Potter Hill was semi-visible, shrouded in a veil of rain and mist. Megan squinted, looking up. Suddenly a noise behind her startled her, and then Gunther went running toward the woods, his bark sharp against the rumblings of distant thunder.

  “Gunther,” she called. “Gunther!”

  She called him again. And again. Alone now, she felt someone’s gaze on her. Imagination? She didn’t know. She pulled a pocket knife from her jacket and switched open the blade. She couldn’t wait for the dog any longer. Her hairs rose on her neck, her blood pulsed in her ears.

  “Gunther, come!” she called again as she walked slowly toward the house. She kept the knife close.

  A burst of motion from her left caused her heart to plummet into her stomach. It was the dog, wet and mud-covered from the nearby creek. He ran to her and pressed his dirty body against her leg, clearly pleased with a job well done. She jogged the rest of the way toward the house with him at her side. It had been a rabbit, she told herself while she bathed the caked mud and twigs from his fur. Or a deer.

  Only she knew Gunther wouldn’t leave her side for a rabbit or a deer.

  There’d been someone in the woods, watching her. If only she could figure out who.

  Fourteen

  Megan and Clay spent Monday morning shuttling root vegetables to the café so Bibi and Alvaro could start making vegetarian chili and meat chili for the Oktoberfest celebration. The café had deep freezers, which would come in handy for storing backup quantities. When they arrived before eight, Bibi was sitting on a stool by the prep counters, chopping onion and garlic in amounts big enough to make a giant cry. Alvaro was standing by the stove, browning meat and telling Bibi she was chopping all wrong.

  “Why don’t you tell someone who cares,” Bibi snapped back. She looked up, saw Megan and Clay, and smiled wanly. “We work well together, don’t you think?”

  Megan smiled back. “Better than anyone else works with Alvaro.”

  The chef huffed out a sigh, but he looked pleased. “Do you have my potatoes?”

  “Clay is bringing them in through the back. One hundred sixty-eight pounds.”

  “I asked for two hundred.”

  “You’re going to clear us out. We harvested a thousand pounds, but they need to last through the winter.”

  Alvaro shook his head in disgust. Clearly the farm had failed him.

  Megan peeked into the pans on the stove. There were four, all the size of large lobster pots. Two contained a savory concoction of ground beef and neatly chopped vegetables, and the other two sat empty, a coating of olive oil on the bottom, waiting for the onions and garlic.

  “Looks good,” Megan said.

  “Would look better with two hundred pounds of potatoes in my pantry,” Alvaro grumbled.

  Megan gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. “We love you too.”

  She met Clay outside and they climbed back in the truck. “That should do it for now,” Megan said. “Although we may want to bring Alvaro another thirty or so pounds of potatoes so he stops grumbling.”

  “He’ll never let that go. Alvaro forgets nothing. And if we bring him more potatoes, he’ll just find something else to grumble about.”

  The storm had taken its toll, and after their trip to the café, they concentrated on tidying up the farm. Megan couldn’t bring herself to talk about the upcoming open house—she was still annoyed at Clay for going behind her back and herself for caving—but she made a mental note of the things they would need. She dreaded bringing the topic up with Alvaro. Maybe they could serve something simple, like Bibi’s fall breads and apple cider. They still had twenty or thirty loaves of zucchini bread, carrot-apple loaf, and pumpkin bread in the freezer. Less work for Alvaro, more room for storage. Megan made a mental note to double check their supplies.

  At ten, Porter arrived with Sarge, his German Shepherd, running along beside him, to Gunther and Sadie’s delight. Porter was late, but his cargo shorts and sweatshirt looked clean and his face, covered in stubble, was freshly scrubbed. Megan was always on alert for a relapse with Porter. She’d promised Denver she’d watch out for the young man, and she intended to stick by her word.

  “Sorry. Odd amount of traffic on Smyth Pike,”
Porter said. “Construction out by Sauer farm.”

  Megan nodded. When Porter first started, he showed up when he wanted and rarely made conversation. A post-traumatic stress sufferer from his time serving in Afghanistan, Porter liked to drink and hang out with Sarge—and that was about it. People had always been an annoyance he avoided. Denver, who saw echoes of himself in Porter, had asked Megan to find work for him on the farm. Megan didn’t need too much arm twisting. Not only did she respect Denver, but after losing Mick to the same war on terrorism, Megan had felt obliged to help. After five months, Porter was still pretty antisocial, but now he had the wherewithal to apologize when he was late. Definitely an improvement.

  Megan handed Porter a rake. “Help Clay clean up, please,” she said. She patted Sarge, who responded by darting toward the goat pen. “Then the two of you can start clearing out the main section of the barn.” She told him about Ophelia’s idea for the open house to kick off Oktoberfest. “That gives us less than a week to get ready. We need hay bales for the hay rides.” Megan turned to Porter and explained, “I want organic hay for the ride so we can use it afterward as mulch.” When his expression remained blank, she said, “Treated hay often contains persistent herbicides that stay in the soil and can affect certain types of plants.”

  “Like brassicas?”

  Megan smiled at Porter, impressed. “Yes. You’ve been paying attention.”

  A sly smile crossed his face. “Give me some credit.”

  “I think Diamond Farm has extra hay,” Clay said.

  “Then that’s where I’ll go,” Megan said.

  “Need help?” Clay’s expression was apologetic. “That’s a lot of hay to haul into the back of your truck.”

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, Mark will help me.” Mark Gregario, the farmer who owned Diamond Farm, had become a friend over the past year. Farming was a tough existence, and small farmers often stuck together. He’d become her go-to person for the things Washington Acres didn’t produce on its own.

  “I could go with you.”

  “I’ll be fine. You stay here and work with Porter. I have a few other things to do get done.”

  She felt Clay watching her as she left. The open house continued to be the elephant lounging between them. The event was a good idea—but she didn’t like feeling ganged up on, and she especially didn’t like that Clay had spoken to Ophelia before talking with her. He knew Ophelia was offering the event to placate Megan. Or if he didn’t, it was because Winsome’s new PR expert had clouded his very male vision.

  The knife shop existed in a small strip mall off the side of the road, between an ice cream shack and a gun shop. The parking lot was wide and shallow. The ice cream shack was closed for the season, and only two other vehicles sat in the lot—a beat-up Ford pickup and a brand new Honda Civic. Megan parked next to the truck.

  The knife shop was empty save for an older woman with frizzy gray hair and a high oily forehead. She stood behind the counter talking with a thin pimply boy of around nineteen who was staring into a display case. When Megan walked in, the boy ignored her. The woman looked up.

  “What can I do ya for?” she asked.

  Megan approached the counter, knife in hand. “Are you Molly?”

  “One and the same.” She squinted. “Who’s asking?”

  Megan introduced herself.

  “Eddie’s girl! I should have known. You have his eyes.”

  “You know my father?”

  “Mort grew up in Allentown, but I’ve lived near Winsome my whole life. In fact, I knew—” Her face colored ruby red. “Oh, dear, I’m rambling. What can I help you with? You in the market for a new knife?”

  Megan figured she was about to mention her mother. She wanted badly to quiz her, but wasn’t sure she could take the look of pity now plastered on Molly Herr’s features. Megan knew that look all too well. She’d endured it for all the years she lived in Winsome as a child. Instead of mentioning her mother, Megan got right to the point. She laid the knife on the counter.

  “What can you tell me about this?”

  Molly picked up the knife and opened it. She ran a stained stub-nailed finger over the handle.

  “Nice piece of craftsmanship.” She glanced up. “What do you want to know?”

  “I was hoping you knew who bought it.”

  Molly shook her head. “Sorry, love. This isn’t one we sold. Custom job.”

  “Might you know who made it?”

  Molly frowned. “Hold on.” She ran into the rear of the shop and came back with a binder full of catalogs and brochures. After a few minutes of paging through, she shook her head. “See these patterns?” She pointed to the intricate inner handle. “They look vaguely familiar. But I can’t place the knife maker.”

  The boy wandered over and looked at the knife. Megan gave him a few seconds to admire it before packing it up in the linen wrap and placing it back in her bag.

  “Why you asking, anyway?” Molly asked. “Looking to buy another?”

  “Not exactly. I found this and want to return it to the owner.”

  The boy spoke, his stutter so thick it took Megan a moment to understand what he was saying. “Pr—rr—oww—st De—ee—signs,” he said.

  Molly snapped her fingers. “You’re right, Craig! That’s it.” Molly wrote something on a piece of paper. “Jacob Proust Designs,” it said.

  “He’s over in Quakertown. May not talk to you, but he does nice work.”

  The boy looked longingly at the knife. “Ni-ice stu-u-ff.”

  “Tell you what,” Megan said to him. “If I can’t find the owner, it’s yours.”

  Megan’s next stop was Diamond Farm, the smallish operation run by Mark Gregario and Ann West, two relative newcomers to Winsome. They’d been living on the land on the outskirts of Winsome next to the quarry for over a decade, and the farm was on its sixth year. Megan drove down the short driveway, shoving the truck’s five-speed transmission into park in front of the couple’s modular home. Fruit trees—mostly apple, with a few cherry and peach trees—dotted the front few acres of the farm. Behind that, horse pastures and rows and rows of raspberry, blueberry, and blackberry bushes spread out on either side. To the right of the fruit trees, the owners had cordoned off two areas for pasture. A handful of chickens pecked alongside a dozen sheep. A small garden sat behind the house, more for personal use than commerce. Diamond Farm specialized in therapy horses, sheep milk cheeses, and organic fruit—plus organic free-range chicken. Fruit was tough to grow without pesticides and Megan was in awe of their talent and resolve.

  She knocked on the door. A moment later, Ann opened it. She wore a denim skirt that brushed her ankles, a jade green turtleneck sweater, and red Crocs. Her tight black curls were pulled in a bun with wisps floating around her round face. A small fat infant hugged her hip, and a two-year-old girl dressed only in her underwear peeked out behind her right leg. Ann and Mark had seven kids. How they did it, Megan had no idea.

  Ann smiled broadly when she saw Megan. “Here for chicken? If so, I’m afraid we’re completely out.” She adjusted the baby so he was on the other hip. “We have apples though. Lots of apples.”

  “Actually, I’m here for hay. Do you have some I can purchase?”

  “Mark’s around back. He should be able to help you.”

  Megan found Mark in the raspberry beds raking soil around the bushes. Two little girls were “helping” him. One was playing with a small Tonka truck in the dirt along the side of the raspberries. The older one had her own rake and was mimicking her father’s movement. Mark said a gruff but friendly “hello” to Megan, finished with the bush he was working on, and then placed his rake up against a fence.

  “Megan, good to see you. Need apples, chicken, or cheese?”

  “None of the above. In any case, I hear you’re already out of chicken.”

  “And we jus
t processed them in September. Fastest sale ever.”

  Megan laughed. “I’m here for hay—whatever you can spare.”

  Mark helped her fill the truck bed with hay bales. He was a thin, short man with wiry muscles, a thick neck, and a full salt and pepper beard. Used to hard labor and efficient motions, he made short work of the process.

  While they loaded, Megan watched the horses, who were enjoying some afternoon sun in their pasture. If it weren’t for the noise of the nearby quarry, this would be a perfect spot. Mark seemed oblivious to the current rumblings from his closest neighbor.

  “Shame about Oktoberfest,” Mark said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sauer. Ann and I weren’t surprised when we didn’t win the sponsorship. Figured we have some good competition with Washington Acres and some of the other farms.” He nodded in the general direction of Sauer’s farm. “But we didn’t think Sauer was even qualified to be part of the lottery.”

  “Nor did I.” Megan stopped what she was doing. “Did you challenge their decision, Mark?”

  “Nah, who has time for that? Besides, that Ophelia Dilworth did an article on our farm, and they bought the berries for the pie-eating contest from us.”

  Another consolation prize.

  When the truck bed was as full as it could be, Megan paid Mark and thanked him for the hay. He nodded. His daughters had migrated from the berry bushes to the sheep pasture and were busily fawning over two sheep—who looked less than excited for the attention. He called his daughters over.

  “I’ll be back for apples.” Megan told him about the open house she was hosting. “Bibi may want to make some more baked goods. I want to keep everything, cider included, local.”