by Wendy Tyson
“Maybe he’s just being kind.”
“Perhaps.” Megan frowned. “Honestly, I don’t know him that well. My guess is that he’s trying to win some political points with the town.”
“Or maybe Ophelia isn’t the catch she pretends to be.” Denver stopped brushing and turned around. “Maybe Jenner was doing his wife a favor by finding some work for her sister.”
Megan hadn’t thought of that angle. Yale grad, big firm? But you never knew. Perhaps Ophelia was having trouble drumming up business. Megan remembered her own days at the law firm. It wasn’t enough to work hard and well. To move up, you needed to make rain. And if Ophelia really wasn’t that great an employee, then her demand to have Sauer sponsor the event could have simply constituted bad judgment on her part. Nothing more.
The Palomino pushed at Denver’s back with her nose. Denver caught her face gently with his hand. “Now, now, we’ll have none of that,” he said to the horse. The Palomino gave him a look of brazen disregard.
“She doesn’t care what you have to say,” Megan said with a smile. She reached out to pet the Palomino. The horse closed her eyes, then flicked her head.
“She likes you. Here—you can brush her.” Denver handed the grooming brush to Megan. “Just watch out. She looks sweet, but she kicks.” He leaned back against the fence rail and took a long sip of water from a bottle. “Ye know, Megs, there’s another explanation as well. One that is less pleasant to consider.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Maybe Ophelia is a spy.”
“I think this girl kicked you in the head.”
“Hear me out. Not the international intrigue sort of spy. What if Jenner planted her here for a reason?”
“What reason could Jenner possibly have to plant a spy?”
“Figure that out and maybe you have your motive.”
“Easier said than done.”
Denver smiled. “You’re the detective, Megs. I’m just the dashing country vet.”
Twenty-Seven
Night came early to Winsome, or at least that’s how it seemed. The streetlights had been dimmed for the concert, which was taking place on the green near the canal. The committee had set up a makeshift stage with seating for about a hundred guests who required something other than a grassy hill. The rest of the concert-goers were sitting on blankets on the lawn.
Driving down Canal Street, Megan saw that the downtown area had been transformed. Volunteers were selling Alvaro’s popcorn balls, soda, water, and apple cider from small carts. The Historical Society was hawking hot dogs—donated by Sauer Farms—from a small booth on the south side of the lawn. Carmine Roy and the Revelers were playing cover tunes from the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s, and a dance floor had been set up under a large tent strewn with lights near the new statue of George Washington. At ten, there would be fireworks.
Parking was tight, but Megan crammed the truck in the alley behind the café. She and Denver helped Alvaro and Clay load the remainder of the popcorn balls and apple cider on two carts. Because volunteers were handling tonight’s event, Clover would be able to enjoy the rest of the concert. They’d decided to close the store early, and the café had stopped serving at noon. Still, Clover waited until the carts were on their way down to the green before gathering her belongings to leave.
“Bobby meeting you?” Megan asked Clover.
“He’s here already, keeping an eye on things down there.” She pointed to the concert area. A shadow fell across her pretty features.
Clover was wearing an ankle-skimming brown sarong, boots, and a white blouse. A leather jacket hugged her curves. She looked beautiful and Megan told her so.
Clover beamed. “Hoping to distract Bobby a little tonight. He’s been so stressed.”
“Understandable.”
Megan had no doubt Clover would succeed in distracting King. She and Denver watched the younger woman weave through the crowd on the way to the stage.
“How about you, Alvaro?” Denver said. “Sticking around for some music?”
“Ah, I don’t listen to this stuff.” Alvaro waved a gnarled hand toward the throngs of revelers. It was a school night, and there were fewer people than on the weekends. But still, Megan was shocked by the numbers. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
“You’ve been a trooper,” Megan said. “I know it’s been a ton of work. We appreciate it.”
Alvaro grunted something unintelligible. Then, “The kitchen’s clean. Keep it like that.”
“We will,” Megan said.
Alvaro eyed Denver up and down. “Make sure you lock up. So many people here this week.” He grunted again. “Strangers.”
“Yes, sir,” Denver said without an ounce of condescension.
Alvaro studied him for a moment longer. He nodded to Megan and touched Denver’s arm before leaving.
“Quite a character,” Denver said when Alvaro had left. “You lucked out.”
“Don’t I know it? He’s the best thing that could’ve happened for the café.”
Denver pulled Megan close. “Shall we go down and see what the fuss is all about?”
“Sure.”
But before Megan could turn the key in the lock on their way out of the café, Denver’s cell phone rang. “Hold on,” he said. He walked back inside to take the call. When he came back out, his brow was creased with worry. “I’m sorry, Megan. That was Mark Gregario. That horse is worse. I’m afraid I need to make a house call.”
Megan tried to flash a smile that said understanding, but she was afraid it came off as anything but. She’d been looking forward to a night with Denver—and she knew he had too. “No problem. Let me grab the truck. I’ll take you over.”
“No need. Ann’s here with some of their kids. She’s driving me to the farm.” He kissed Megan. “Stay. Try to relax. Have a Vance Big Time Ale and think about something other than what’s been plaguing ye.” He glanced toward the green. Below him, at the bottom of the grassy hill, the band was warming up. The sound of the Beach Boys drowned out the collective voices of the crowd and made it hard to hear. “If all goes well, we’ll be back in an hour.”
Megan nodded.
“The life of a country vet.”
“Aye, you’re right.” He gave her that dimpled smile and then he was off.
Megan wandered down toward the green. Bibi, worried about Emily, had opted to stay home, and Clay had taken a well-deserved night off. The air was dry and chilly, and a cool breeze blew through Winsome’s center. Around her, families huddled on blankets, eating popcorn and hot dogs and drinking hot spiced cider from small paper cups. Children chased one another, playing tag or simply being kids, noisy and energetic. Megan recognized only a fraction of the faces. She climbed back up to Canal Street and sat on a sidewalk bench—an addition paid for by the Historical Society’s Beautification Board. The crowds amplified a sudden and overwhelming feeling of loneliness.
At seven thirty, Megan decided to get some paperwork finished back at the store. She didn’t feel much like partying alone. She was hurrying down the sidewalk, coat pulled tight against the creeping cold, when her own phone rang. She paused by Nel’s Hair Salon to pull her cell from her pocket. It was Bibi. Emily needed a box of the baby’s things from Emily’s grandmother’s house.
“I don’t think she should go over there herself,” Bibi whispered. “Can you and Denver go on your way home from the concert?”
“Of course. Does she need the stuff right away?”
“I think it contains extra bottles and clothes and things. So probably not a rush.” She explained to Megan where the key and the box could be found. “Later should be okay.”
Only Bibi didn’t sound like later would be okay, and Megan didn’t have the heart to tell her Denver was gone. Megan glanced at her watch; paperwork could wait.
“No worries, Bibi. I’ll grab what s
he needs. Everything else okay there?”
“I guess.”
“You can’t talk?”
“Correct.”
“Emily still seem off?”
“Correct again.”
“Okay. Hang tight. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Be careful,” Bibi said. “Lots of Oktoberfest concert-goers means lots of beer. Be alert on the roads.”
“Of course.”
Megan clicked off her phone. She pushed her dark hair back from her face and glanced around. Maybe Clover would want to go with her. But she sighted Clover by the hot dog booth with Bobby. They were laughing, arms wrapped around one another’s waists. Winsome’s police chief seemed to be having a good time. Deciding she was being paranoid again, Megan decided to go alone.
She walked back through the café, relocking the front and back doors, and climbed into her truck. She was just pulling out onto Canal when a figure emerged from the shadows.
It took Megan a moment to realize it was her Aunt Sarah. She was accompanied by Merry Chance. Both women wore heavy black coats and jeans, but Sarah had a bright pink and orange scarf wrapped around her neck. Her long thick braid made her easy to recognize.
Megan rolled her window down and greeted the women. “Heading to the concert?”
“We are,” Merry said. “We’ll be attending to the hot dog booth. Little will people know a famous novelist is serving their food.” Merry looked quite thrilled at the prospect of deception.
“Are you leaving?” Aunt Sarah asked, ignoring Merry’s comments.
“For a little while. I have to run an errand.”
With a quick glance at her companion, Sarah said, “We need to talk.”
“Tonight’s not good, Aunt Sarah.”
“I’ve called you twice.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Megan figured Sarah wanted to continue the conversation about her mother. While she wanted to know more, she really didn’t have the heart or stomach for confronting that particular issue. Soon…maybe. But not right now.
“We have a lot to do around the farm. Maybe in a few weeks when the harvest is completely over and we have the beds ready for winter—”
“It can’t wait,” Sarah said.
“It’ll have to.” Megan started rolling up her window. Sarah looked like she wanted to stop her. Whatever else she had to say would have to wait until another day. Megan accelerated away from the curb. She’d stop by the Kuhl property, grab the baby’s stuff, and then give Denver a call. She was feeling tired. If he was going to be working much later, perhaps she’d just go home and go to bed.
Emily’s grandmother’s house was dark, illuminated only by the moon and the feeble milky light thrown by Megan’s phone. Megan kept a flashlight in the back of the truck and she went to dig it out. Bibi had explained where the key was hidden—within a fake rock in the unkempt flower bed—and Megan found it quickly.
She fumbled with the front door, heart a pounding jackhammer in her chest. The property was deserted, the two trailers just ghostly sentinels in the shadows, and the small Cape seemed anything but inviting this October evening. After the third try, the door finally opened. Megan held the flashlight out in front of her, sweeping the light back and forth against the blackness. It took her a moment to find a light switch. She flipped it on and nothing happened. She made her way through the hallway and into the kitchen, relieved when that overhead light worked.
It was only 8:08, but it felt like the Witching Hour. Perhaps it was the dark—or knowing that most of Winsome was a few miles away at the concert. Whatever the reason, Megan wanted to get in and out quickly.
She located the boxes just where Emily said they would be, in the living room. Three cardboard containers sat stacked one on top of the other. There was no light in the living room, so Megan held the flashlight under one arm while she struggled with the large boxes, pulling each onto the floor and undoing the taped tops. The second one held what she was looking for: baby clothes, bottles, diapers, and toys. She taped it back up, returned the others to a neat pile, and pushed the box toward the entrance.
Feeling only slightly calmer, Megan left the box by the front door so she could turn off the kitchen light. The sudden darkness felt oppressive.
A sound stopped her. Scratching, scurrying…just a mouse in the cabinets. Megan let out her breath, only just realizing she’d been holding it. She hustled toward the front door. There, she lifted the box and went back outside, locking the door behind her. She’d keep the key. She didn’t relish the idea of spending more time hunting around the yard.
The box tucked neatly in the truck bed, Megan was walking around to the driver’s side door when a new sound stopped her. Something was in the bushes by the nicer of the trailers. Megan whipped her flashlight around, aiming it toward the sound. She heard a growl in the distance.
“Who’s there?”
A sweep of the area caught movement in the rear field. Someone or something was running across the high grass, toward the Sauer property across the road.
“Stop!” Megan called. She still had the knife she’d found in the woods, and she sprinted to the truck and pulled the knife from her purse. She was debating whether to get in the truck or chase down whoever was out there when the stream of light from her flashlight caught the shape of a dog in the road.
“Damn,” Megan muttered under her breath. She locked the truck door and grabbed a rope from the truck bed. She was halfway to the road when motion again caught her eye. Her flashlight passed back and forth across the field. Nothing.
The dog was still in the road.
Megan called to it. It looked at her, then ran the rest of the way into the Sauers’ property. The back section of the Sauer farm was largely pasture dedicated to grazing. Beyond that were the chicken and turkey barns and then barns for the cows. The house, a large Dutch Colonial with a long rambling tail of mismatched additions, sat toward the front of the two hundred plus acres, close to another road. The dog ran around the fenced pasture, toward the chicken barn. Megan pursued it, aware that the Sauers had barbed wire and electric fencing around their enclosures.
“Here, pup,” she called. She glanced over her shoulder. No one there. “Come on, baby.”
The dog ran farther into the darkened farm. Megan followed the thin band of land that hugged the pasture and led toward the front of the property. She was afraid the dog—scared as it was—would get tangled in the wire or shocked by the fencing, and pursuing it might only make it more likely to get hurt. If Glen found it though—well, she didn’t trust him to do anything to help the dog find its owner. Megan glanced at the Sauers’ house. She wondered whether they were at the concert. She was trespassing, and knew Glen would be angry if he found her. She stood, indecision rooting her to her spot.
The glow from the flashlight dimmed. She couldn’t stand there forever.
There was a sharp yelp, followed by a long whine. The hair on the back of Megan’s neck bristled. The pup was hurt. She followed the whine past the inner pasture, toward the chicken barn. Shining the dying beam on the outside of the barn, she searched until she found the dog. It was huddled against the building, its foot caught in a band of barbed wire. It whined again.
Megan approached it carefully, low and hand out, palm down. It looked like a Beagle mix of some sort—small and muscular with a boxy face—but right now that face was twisted into a doggy grimace of pain. It growled.
Megan crawled close enough to reach the dog. Gently, carefully, she tied the rope to its collar. Then she unwound the wire from its leg. It growled twice more, but let her do it. When the wire was off, the dog pulled against the rope, trying to run. Thwarted, it stood and looked at Megan, teeth bared. She reached out again and this time the dog let her pet her. Her tail wagged from between her legs, tentatively at first and then with
more vigor.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Megan crooned. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Megan stood, the beam from the flashlight all but dead. She listened, trying to get her bearings. She pressed a palm against the barn door. It gave way. She stumbled and nearly fell into the Sauers’ chicken barn.
Only there were no chickens. Megan couldn’t see much past the entranceway, but the smell—musty and sour—and the complete lack of sound told her the entire structure was empty. Weird, she thought. The reason the Sauers bought Mark’s organic chicken? Megan wondered if the turkeys were gone too. No time to look now. She needed to get the dog off the property and into Denver’s hands so he could look at that leg. And she had to do it before the flashlight batteries were completely drained.
It took five minutes to return to the road and another minute to cross to her car. She loaded the dog into the passenger side of the truck, and then walked around to the driver’s side. She looked around once more before climbing in. The Kuhl house remained dark, as did the trailers. The long grassy fields blew in the wind, but other than the moan of the breeze in the trees, silence shrouded the lot.
Still, Megan shuddered.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was watching her.
Twenty-Eight
“I’d say she’s about six years old. Beagle mix, perhaps. Someone has cared well for the wee lassie.” Denver straightened up, giving the dog a pat on the head. “Wish we had a name or something. In any case, that leg will heal just fine. A few deep scratches is all.”
They were in the barn, where Megan had set up a home for the dog. They had no idea whether she was vaccinated, and until Denver had a chance to examine her, Megan didn’t want to expose the other dogs or Lily.
“Can you vaccinate her?”
“Aye. I will give her the normal shots, the ones that won’t hurt her if she’s had them already—although I suspect she’s up to date.” He looked up. “Keep her isolated for a few days. And I wouldn’t let her near the baby. Your dogs are vaccinated, but we should keep an eye on this one until we know she’s healthy.”