by Wendy Tyson
Megan smiled. “Bobby, when you say ‘we’ you mean ‘I,’ correct?”
He laughed. “Yes.” He shook his head, laughed again. “Wasn’t small-town policing supposed to be easier?”
“One would think. But Bibi and I watched enough Murder, She Wrote when I was little to know that the really bad stuff happens in the cutest, quaintest, littlest towns.”
“Sure feels that way.” King drained his cup. “Got results on Otto’s vest too. The one Clay found in the creek.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No blood, no DNA. Bummer.” He lifted the mug. “Got any more of the good stuff?”
“I do. Back in a second.”
When Megan returned, Bobby was looking at pictures on the mantel over the fireplace. His gaze had locked on to one of Bibi and Grandpa when they were first married. Without turning around, he said, “I didn’t just come to talk to you about the Honda, Megan. I got your message. I told you I would have one of my men drive by the woods and walk up to Potter Hill.”
“And I appreciate that. Yesterday upped the ante a bit though—don’t you think?
King turned, picked up the coffee, and sat back down. His face looked haggard. “I do, and that’s partly why I’m here. Someone has been up there. No chair, no fire, but one of my men spent time in the military and knows tracking. He said there were some flattened spots and other things indicating a warm body—or several—had spent time on that ridge.”
“So now we know—”
“But here’s the rub. There’s no indication that whoever is up there is any more than some errant hiker. Sheesh, for all we know it’s a troop of Boy Scouts. Nothing points to malicious intent, or anything else for that matter.”
“But what about last night? The man Clay and Emily saw?”
King looked deeply apologetic, but he shook his head slowly back and forth. “Here’s the third thing I wanted to talk to you about. See, I’m getting all sorts of crap from the Commissioner. They want these two cases closed, and quickly. It’s bad press for Winsome and bad press for the county. I don’t need to tell you the importance of tourism and New York commuters to the local economy.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I just don’t have the resources to assign someone to Potter Hill or the farm. Not without more to go on.”
“So we have to wait until something bad happens.”
King’s hands morphed into claws, his shoulders hunched. “Yes. No.” He threw up a hand. “Look, I know we’re both sitting here thinking about Simon Duvall and what happened last spring. For one, there are things you and Bonnie can do to protect yourselves. Get this old house wired for an alarm system.”
“And two?” Megan knew Bibi would want nothing to do with an alarm system. She could hear her grandmother now: The day I get an alarm in my own home, in my own town, is the day they can just dig my grave and bury me in the backyard.
“I will personally keep you posted on what’s happening.”
Stunned, Megan said, “That’s it?”
“Obviously there may be things I can’t tell you, but I’ll share what I can so you’ll feel safe. Look, Megan, I feel awful about all of this. You tried to tell me early on that something was happening and I didn’t listen. Now I have two dead bodies, two sets of suspicious circumstances, and a burned-out shell of a car belonging to someone named after a Pokémon character. If the only way I can help you and Bonnie feel safe is to keep you informed, then that’s what I’ll do. I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“As I have been.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. Besides, if something happens to you, Clover will kill me.” King stood up. “For what it’s worth, I really don’t think your Potter Hill hiker is related to what happened to Kuhl and Vance.”
Megan thought of the knife. “I wish I could be so sure.”
She opened the parlor door just in time to get a glimpse of a shadow slinking away. The only person home was Emily. Had she been listening outside the parlor? And if so, why?
Twenty-Five
Emily seemed off at dinner. She had made Hungarian Goulash and salad, which she served with thick slices of black Russian bread and butter. Winter food, and outside it felt like winter. Hard to comprehend that just twenty-four hours prior half the town was playing by the river, enjoying sun and a picnic near the canal. But that was Pennsylvania weather—as unpredictable as its politics. Emily picked at her dinner, swirling noodles around on her plate and staring sullenly at her glass. Her silence permeated the kitchen.
Finally, Bibi said, “Emily, why don’t you head to bed early? Megan and I can watch Lily for you.” She glanced at Megan, who was clearing the table. “Right, Megan?”
“Sure,” Megan said.
“I’m fine. I’d rather stay up.”
Bibi flexed her fingers, grimaced, and with a glance at Megan said, “Well, then I will let you two young ladies finish up in the kitchen.” She stretched, grimaced again, and said, “Old bones.”
Megan knew that was her cue to talk with Emily.
Once Bibi left, Emily’s mood seemed to get even worse. She banged around the kitchen, putting away dishes and drying pots without a word. The baby, propped in a swing in the doorway, seemed to sense her mother’s mood, and she whined and whimpered quietly to herself, laughing only when one of the dogs decided to sniff her face, up close and personal.
When the last dish was away and the counters were wiped down, Megan could stand it no longer. “Is there something in particular bothering you, Emily?” she asked. “Did Bonnie or I do something?”
“No.” Emily shook her head. “Not at all. You both have been so generous.”
“You seem upset tonight.”
Eyes shifted away, toward the stove. “Just missing my dad.”
That was understandable, although Megan didn’t believe for second that was the only thing on her mind. There was more, and Megan had a feeling it related to whatever Emily thought she heard King talking about behind the parlor doors.
“If you want to talk about the investigation, we can.”
Emily threw her rag down on the counter. She walked to Lily and started unstrapping her daughter from the swing. “You know, maybe I am really tired.” She glanced over her shoulder at Megan. “I think I will head to bed early.”
It was only 7:48.
“Suit yourself,” Megan said. “Do you want us to take Lily so you can sleep?”
“No. Thank you. She’s had a long day too.”
Megan watched Emily run up the stairs, moving her legs like the devil himself was chasing her.
“What in heaven’s name was that about?” Bibi asked. They were settled in the parlor and Bibi was watching the nightly news. “That girl looked like Atlas with the world on her shoulders. Which I suppose she has, in some ways.”
“I don’t know,” Megan said. “Something is definitely on her mind.”
“I heard King was here. Anything new?”
“Nothing really on Otto or Ted. They’re still trying to piece things together. But I have to tell you about something else. It seems like someone has been watching the farm from atop Potter Hill.”
Megan gave her grandmother bare bones details about their stalker. She included the two times Gunther chased something in the woods, but left out the knife, the man, and the campfire.
“Surely it’s related to whatever happened with Teddy and Otto.”
“Bobby doesn’t think so.”
“Then maybe Bobby needs to reconsider his position.” Bibi sat back in her armchair. “I don’t know what is happening around here, Megan, but it’s time this all comes to a close. Folks need to feel safe in their own homes.”
“We could get an alarm system.” Megan braced herself for the onslaught.
“We could, but we won’t. I refuse to rely on some gizmo to tell me when someone is on
my property. Then my ears and eyes will go soft. And what else do we have these dogs for?” At that, Sadie, who was fast asleep at Bibi’s feet, opened one eye.
“It’s just an extra precaution.”
“Old Mrs. Kennedy has one and look at the good it did her. Teddy Kuhl in her tool shed.” Bibi shook her head, just as agitated as Megan knew she would be. “And then there are the false alarms. Merry Chance had to pay twice for ambulance visits that were triggered by false alarms. No way.” She crossed her arms over the “Winsome and Lose Some” motto on her navy-blue sweatshirt. “And that’s the end of that.”
“Only it’s not the end of that, Bibi. Until we know what’s going on, we need to take precautions.”
“The police need to do something.”
“Bobby said they’re stretched thin, getting pressure to close things with Otto and Ted and lacking in manpower. He’ll keep us posted on what’s happening though.”
“Good of him to care.” Bibi sighed, the steam streaming out of her as quickly as it had inflated. “I know Bobby means well. And this is big, and he is young.” She shook her head. “Ask Porter and Clay to hike up there once a day. They should take Gunther. If someone is watching the farm, they’ll know we’re on to them. We may not catch whoever it is, but they’ll leave us alone.” She reached down and stroked Gunther, whose head was in her lap. “But I wouldn’t leave Gunther outside alone. Just in case whoever it is wants to remove the threat.”
“An excellent idea. Clay and Porter are already keeping a lookout, but I will ask them to be extra vigilant.”
“And we don’t go out alone at night either.”
Megan was thinking of Bibi’s evening nap in the goat enclosure. She figured Bibi was thinking of Megan’s nighttime patrols of the property. “Fine.”
That seemed to satisfy her grandmother. “Now, how about that Dr. Finn? When is he coming over again?”
“In the middle of all of this, you’re matchmaking again?”
“He’s single. Likes animals. And doesn’t mind a woman as smart as him who prefers getting dirty to keeping a house clean. I think you should nab him before someone else does.” Bibi smiled to let Megan know she was kidding—mostly.
“You make me sound like such a catch.”
“You’re a handful, Megan Sawyer. Stubborn and independent-minded.” Bibi closed her eyes, the conversation and the nightly news losing to the call of sleep. “In your own way, quite a handful. And Dr. Denver Finn would be darn lucky to have you.”
With Bibi dozing in the parlor and Emily upstairs, Megan found herself with some rare free time. She considered working on the farm’s books, but decided instead to do some online sleuthing of her own. In particular, she was curious about the connection between Ophelia Dilworth and Marty Jenner. What had caused Jenner to recommend Ophelia’s firm? And what about the twenty-nine-year-old was so special that the Oktoberfest committee would allow her to run the show?
The firm Ophelia worked for seemed to be reputable. Its online presence was limited but positive, as one would expect from a PR firm. Ophelia’s page on the firm’s website was short and to the point—and nothing Megan hadn’t seen before.
Yale graduate. Social-media expert. Event manager. She looked legitimate.
Yet all of this started with Oktoberfest, an idea Otto had set forth last year. He wanted to celebrate the town’s German roots. He wanted to highlight its local businesses. And now he was dead.
Megan’s head was swimming. She felt for Bobby King—so many seemingly disconnected details, including a torched Accord that had been owned by someone named…what? King had mentioned Pokémon. Pinchu? No, Pichu. Pichu Rivera.
Just as she was sure the police had done, Megan entered Rivera’s name, even paying for an online criminal search. Rivera was a two-bit thug with a history of theft and assault. Only the car had been stolen from Rivera, so his background likely meant nothing—given that he’d reported it stolen two months before it turned up in Winsome. Even if they discovered forensic evidence, there may be no way to trace the car back to the driver. If only she’d gotten a glimpse of whoever had been behind the wheel that day.
The knife maker Proust had said the original purchaser of the small butterfly knife was an older man. Could it have been Jenner? Somehow she didn’t see the accomplished businessman spending his evenings on Potter Hill. Not with a young wife and a new baby.
Out of curiosity, Megan started a search for Jenner and the new wife. She hit pay dirt within five minutes when she came across a two-year-old wedding announcement in the Philadelphia Inquirer. A September wedding. The bride had worn an exquisite Charlotte Balbier gown. The reception took place at the lavish Cescaphe Ballroom. Nine bridesmaids, nine groomsmen, all with blue-blood last names. Only the best for Mrs. Janice Jenner.
Mrs. Janice Dilworth Jenner.
Sisters? Megan kept scanning the article. And there she was, listed as the maid of honor—one Ophelia Dilworth, looking glorious in pale-peach chiffon.
So Jenner hadn’t had an affair with Ophelia. She was his sister-in-law.
Had that connection been disclosed to the Oktoberfest Committee? And did it matter—this was a small affair for a small town, after all. Jenner was doing Winsome a favor. As was Ophelia.
Megan went to bed that night thinking of strange bedfellows and weird alliances—and wondering whether any of this would ever make sense.
Twenty-Six
Megan was at Ophelia’s headquarters before it opened, so she waited in the shade for the PR expert to arrive. At 8:46, Ophelia’s sporty Miata pulled into the lot and screeched to a stop in front of the building. Megan accosted her at the door.
“Can we chat?” Megan asked sweetly.
Ophelia, dressed neatly in a long black skirt, ankle boots, and a deep plum sweater, gave Megan a cursory glance. “I have a nine o’clock meeting,” she said.
“This won’t take long.”
Ophelia unlocked the front door as she said, “I don’t want to rehash the Sauer farm.”
“Nor do I.”
Ophelia looked marginally relieved. “Fine. Five minutes.”
When the door had closed behind them, Megan cut right to the core. “Marty Jenner.”
Ophelia looked ready to protest, but she settled on, “What about him?”
“He’s your brother-in-law.”
“So?”
“So does the Oktoberfest committee know that?”
“Oh my lord, Megan, what is your problem? I have no idea what Marty may or may not have told your little backwoods committee, but does it really matter?” She spun around on her black high heels. “Seriously. They’re getting my firm’s reputation for a steal. They’re getting me for a steal.”
“How well did you know Otto?”
This seemed to stymie Ophelia. She looked sideways at Megan, then frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean how well did you know Otto? Friends? Business colleagues?” Megan knew she was on fragile ground here. These were prying questions, and under normal circumstances, none of her business. But these were not normal circumstances, and so she persisted.
“You sound like her,” Ophelia said. “And I think you should leave.”
Megan assumed her was Lana Vance. “It’s a fair question, all things considered.”
In almost a growl, Ophelia said, “Is it? A younger woman comes to town and suddenly no one can see past her age or the way she looks? Forget that I have an Ivy League degree. Never mind that I had offers from big firms all over the country. No, it’s my status as an attractive single woman that everyone focuses on. You simply assume I would stoop to sleeping with another woman’s husband.” She shook her head. “You of all people should understand the harm in that way of thinking.”
Megan stood there, chagrined. She was right, of course. Ophelia seemed to use her flirtatiousness to get what she w
anted, but that was no excuse. Megan had engaged in just the type of stereotyping she hated.
“I’ll let myself out,” Megan said finally. She didn’t wait to hear Ophelia’s response.
“Come on now, Megs, ye are being a bit hard on yourself, don’t ye think?”
No, Megan didn’t think, and she said as much. “I saw heels and designer threads and a flirty personality and I assumed she was a man-eater.”
Denver looked bemused. “She still may be.” Denver lifted Megan’s chin and smiled. They were at his aunt’s house, outside with her horses. Denver was finishing up so they could head into town for tonight’s Concert by the Canal. The café was serving Alvaro’s caramel popcorn balls and hot apple cider to the concert-goers. “Look, the woman is a PR specialist. She excels at making bad things look good. She used her skills to turn your decency against you.”
Now Megan felt even worse. Either she was a small-minded chauvinist or easily fooled. “Either way, I look like an idiot.”
Denver laughed. “Just a poor detective, perhaps.” He ran a brush down the length of one of his aunt’s Palominos, a striking animal with a testy disposition. The horse stomped and brayed. Denver spoke to her, firmly but kindly. He turned his attention back to Megan. “Have you found out anything new?”
Megan shared what she’d found on the internet.
“Jenner’s sister-in-law, huh? Feels like something that should have been disclosed.”
“That’s what I said. Ophelia didn’t agree.”
“Maybe Jenner told the committee and they didn’t care.”
Megan nodded. “I guess. Especially if they were getting a deal.”
Megan picked up a brush and started grooming the other horse, a large male Quarter Horse with a white star on his muzzle. Unlike his companion, he was a gentle giant. He leaned in to the brush, clearly enjoying the attention.
“Why would Jenner care enough to bring in his high-paid sister-in-law?” Denver asked. “Doesn’t strike me as the civic-minded type.”
“I don’t know. That’s what bothers me too.”