by Wendy Tyson
Debating, she reached for her cell and left a message for Denver to meet them at the nursery if he was available. She headed out the door to fetch Bibi but thought better of it. She returned to her bureau and opened The Love Chemist box. She dabbed the concoction behind her ears, on her throat, and above her upper lip. She expected a tingle, a sting—something. But the potion felt just like any perfume on her skin.
Probably rubbish, she thought—no more than a nice idea. But at least it smells nice.
Four
Merry Chance’s nursery, aptly named Merry’s Flowers & Shrubs, offered a tribute to the traditional English Christmas. Ropes of gold and green garland had been strewn across the rafters and along the tops of windows, tiny gold stars hanging from their centers. Advent candles sat atop counters near rows of blood-red Poinsettias. The nursery’s centerpiece, a twelve-foot spruce awash in Victorian finery, was encircled by a toy train carrying a bounty of tiny wrapped gift boxes. Puffs of smoke rose from the train’s engine while a whistle punctuated the silence at regular intervals. Row upon row of decorations—from tree ornaments to yard Santas—were on display, their prices handwritten on small parchment tags. In the far corner, a table was set for English tea, with miniature mince pies, tiny scones, and butter cookies shaped like crowns presented on tiered dishes.
“Leave it to Merry to flaunt her British heritage,” Bibi whispered. “Crown cookies? Seriously?” Still, she took one, nibbled, and finding it worthy, stuffed three of them in her sweater pocket.
A small crowd had gathered at the other side of the cavernous enclosure. Megan could make out a group of carolers organizing under an elaborate canopy of garlands. She recognized Roger and Anita Becker, Merry, and a few of the café regulars. She didn’t see Becca.
“Don’t look now,” Bibi said, reaching for a scone. “Here comes the Ice Princess herself.”
Merry had left the carolers to talk with Megan and Bibi. She was wearing ivory from head to toe: ivory pants, an ivory tunic belted with an ivory leather belt, an ivory tasseled shawl, and even ivory and gold ballet flats. She looked at Megan over ivory readers, smiled broadly, and said, “Megan, I’m so happy to see you.”
It was a far cry from the reception Megan had received a few days prior. “Well, thank you, Merry. Your nursery looks very festive.”
Merry grinned at the compliment. “Thank you, thank you. I tried to lighten everyone’s spirits this season.” A shadow crossed over her features. “You know.”
Megan did know. The town of Winsome was still grieving the loss of two of its own. Healing would come slowly.
Merry forced another smile, took Megan’s hand, and said, “Don’t you look pretty tonight. That doctor of yours coming?”
“I hope so.”
Bibi cleared her throat and Merry turned her attention to the other woman. Merry’s mouth turned down. “I don’t see you wearing your caroling clothes, Bonnie.”
“I’m not here to sing. I just thought it would be nice to get out, be part of the party.”
“Well good, I’m glad you came. We’re waiting on Sarah, Eloise, and a few others, and then we’ll get started.” She waved the papers in her hand, which appeared to be sheet music. “Roger keeps insisting we sing Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’ as a tribute. I told him there’s no ‘Hallelujah’ at a proper British caroling. What do you think, Megan?”
Only Megan had spied Becca’s display by the handmade wreaths and she left Bonnie to opine on tonight’s music selection. Becca seemed engrossed in conversation with a short, slender man with a neatly trimmed beard and thick curly hair. They stopped speaking as Megan approached.
“Megan!” Becca turned to the man next to her. “This is my brother, Luke. Luke, this is the woman who rescued me the day I arrived. Megan Sawyer. She’s a farmer!”
Luke eyed Megan up and down before holding his hand out. His shake was clammy, but his expression was warm and welcoming. “Appreciate you helping Becca.”
“It was my pleasure. We’ve had more snow this year than in the last three combined. Becca had bad luck coming in during the worst of it.”
Luke glanced at his sister. “Luck favors the prepared, Becca.”
“I know, but what could I have done? My car is front-wheel drive. And how was I to know it would give out on me?”
“Snow tires.”
Becca snorted. “Yeah, like I could afford snow tires. I’m not the rich entrepreneur you are.”
Luke frowned, but he seemed pleased by Becca’s remark. “You will be if you continue.” He motioned toward the table behind them. “How are sales?”
“Starting to pick up.” She leaned in and kissed him, grabbing his arm and squeezing. “Thank you for coming by. For supporting me.”
Luke nodded. “Of course. Will you stop over tomorrow? I’d like that.”
“Not if he’s there.”
“He’s busy with another one of his business deals. I don’t think he’ll bother you.”
Becca made a face. “The only place I want to see him is jail.”
“Becca—” Luke glanced at Megan and seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say. “Never mind. We can talk about it another time. I’ll see you later?”
“Sure.”
Megan watched Luke walk by the exit and pause near the large Advent candle on the cashier’s counter. He took out his phone and glanced at the display. Whatever was written there seemed to upset him. He shook his head before stuffing the phone back in his coat pocket.
“Don’t let the protective exterior fool you,” Becca said, watching Luke leave. “He’s a teddy bear. Too much so.”
Megan picked up one of the boxes on The Love Chemist table. This one was chocolate brown and had the silhouette of a stag emblazoned on the front.
“That’s the same stuff, but for men. With aftershave, of course.”
Megan returned the box to its spot on the table. “Thank you for the gift, Becca. Unnecessary but appreciated.”
“You’re wearing it. I can tell.”
“I am.” And if Merry’s pleasant reaction to seeing her earlier had been any indication, it was working. “I thought I’d take a look at the rest of your wares.”
Wares was a loose term. The table held a bouquet of flowers, a poster with Becca’s credentials, photo, and a few testimonials held up by a small easel, and boxes in four colors and designs: the pink and white orchid box, the brown stag, one lavender with a vanilla bean on it, and one white with a gold rose. Megan picked up the rose box.
“That’s just a different scent for women. Some like florals, some prefer something less perfume-like, such as the vanilla bean. I’m working on two other scents—jasmine and seascape. They won’t be ready for another few months.”
“Nice.” Megan picked up the vanilla package and flipped it over. She tried not to react at the price tag—$175.00.
“Remember, that includes the pheromones and the perfume. Many products that claim to offer pheromones only give you the product. No scent.”
“But you could mix this with your favorite scent?”
Becca nodded. “Add drops to your favorite alcohol-based perfume and you can use that instead. I sell the pheromones separately too. Through my website.”
Megan was busily taking this all in when the carolers walked by. They stopped briefly to peruse the table.
“Megan, how are you?” Roger said. He gave her a quick hug and a pat on the shoulder. “Looking good.”
Megan was amused. It was unlike Roger to be so affectionate.
“Hey, Megan. We missed you at book club,” Amber Daubney said. Amber was the town librarian. She’d been trying unsuccessfully to lure Megan back to the book club ever since the first disastrous meeting during which no one but Megan had read the assigned book. “Maybe in January?” Amber smiled. “We miss your insights.”
Because they w
ere the only insights offered, Megan thought. But she returned the smile anyway. “Maybe.”
The carolers slowly drifted off until only Merry, Becca, and Megan were standing by The Love Chemist table. Megan busied herself reading Becca’s literature, a treatise on the science behind her products. It was fascinating—although the conversation between Becca and her aunt made it hard to concentrate.
“Are you coming home tonight?” Merry asked Becca.
“Probably.”
“I promise you don’t have to see him again.”
“You said that last time, and then you invited him to Winsome.” Becca lowered her voice. “He killed your sister, for God’s sake, Aunt Merry. You of all people should be able to see through my father’s pretenses.”
“That’s not a conversation for here,” Merry hissed. “And you really need to stop saying that. Your father did a lot for Blanche, and he’s done—or is trying to do—a lot for you.”
“I don’t need his help.”
“He wants to make up for missed time.”
“He wants to buy my silence.”
Megan could feel the weight of a stare upon her. She looked up to see Merry watching her over those ivory readers. Megan nodded and went back to the report. She wanted to walk away from this private conversation, but she wasn’t sure which would be more awkward—leaving and letting on that she’d heard, or staying and pretending not to hear.
She was saved from making a decision when Roger popped over. “Merry, we’re ready. Everyone’s here except Sarah. Amber says she’s outside in her car.”
To Roger, Merry said, “Great, everyone in position.” She turned to Megan. “Be a dear and fetch your aunt? She’s probably answering fan mail and will be out there all day if someone doesn’t move her along.”
In addition to being Megan’s great aunt, Sarah Birch was also a famous mystery author who wrote her bestselling novels under the penname Sarah Estelle. Megan hadn’t seen much of her grandfather’s sister over the past few months. Their last few conversations back in the fall had been laced with resentment and peppered by accusations. But she said “sure” to Merry now, happy for a chance to grab some fresh air and text Denver.
Megan spotted Sarah in the corner of the nursery parking lot talking with Becca’s father, Paul Fox. A light but steady snow was falling and both stood with arms crossed against the cold. It wasn’t until she got closer that she heard the raised voices and harsh tone of angry words. She was about to turn around when their conversation stopped. It was too late to retreat. Sarah had seen her.
“Megan? Are you looking for me?” Aunt Sarah flashed a half smile. She beckoned with her hand. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me for months. It’s so nice to see you.”
“Merry said the carolers are ready to start. They’re just waiting for you.”
“Better go then.” Sarah looked at Paul, frowned. “Take care of that cold.”
“You should take care as well.” He coughed, the violence of the spasm doubling him over. When he finally regained his breath, he stood and wiped his mouth. His eyes looked teary and slightly red. “And think about what I’m saying. You know it makes sense, Sarah.”
“I don’t need to think about it, Paul. Please don’t ask me again.” Sarah seemed to remember Megan’s presence. She recovered quickly. “Forgive my manners. Paul, have you met my niece, Megan Sawyer? She owns Washington Acres Farm and the café on Canal Street.”
Paul managed another smile. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met.” He held out his hand.
Megan returned his handshake, getting a better view of Paul Fox up close. He was a handsome man in an unsettling way. Medium height, broad shoulders, with sharply intelligent eyes, and what would be construed as a cruel mouth if it weren’t for the amused half smile that played on his lips. His gaze was intense, and right now he was aiming it at Megan with laser-like focus.
He said, “A farmer? At the risk of sounding old-fashioned, you don’t look like any farmer I’ve ever met.”
“No?”
“Not at all.” His tone was teasing and self-deprecating at the same time. “Perhaps if more farmers looked like you, I would spend time at the local outdoor markets.”
Megan tilted her head. “Perhaps if you spent more time at your local outdoor markets you wouldn’t have such a wicked cold now.”
Paul laughed. He contemplated Megan for a long moment, his stare both challenging and appreciative. He turned to Sarah, coughed again, and like that his demeanor changed. “You’d better start singing, Sarah.”
“I’m only too happy to sing. For the right person.”
Paul glanced back at Megan. He smiled again, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Your aunt’s a smart lady. Smart people know when to open their mouths—and when to keep them closed.”
As Megan and Sarah walked back inside Merry’s nursery, Megan pondered those words. Was that a veiled threat directed at her aunt? And anyway, how did Aunt Sarah know Paul Fox? Not that it mattered. But her aunt certainly had an interesting life.
Five
Denver never showed on Wednesday night because of a lame horse and an injured cat, but he stopped by Thursday morning between farm rounds to sample Bibi’s waffles and sausage and catch up with Megan.
The farmhouse kitchen was unusually crowded. Denver and Clay occupied one end of the long table, Megan and Emily the other. As usual, Bibi bustled around the kitchen, her eighty-four-year-old body wrapped in a red long-sleeved “Winsome Rules” t-shirt, complete with a list of Winsome’s “rules” for vacation fun on the back.
“Bonnie, sit. I’ll get the coffee.” Clay, Megan’s farm manager, stood halfway up before Bibi pushed him back down.
“The day I can’t treat guests right in my own kitchen is the day you can bury me,” Bibi said. She stopped by Megan to stroke Lily’s cheek. “I won’t say the baby suits you, Megan, because I’ll get an earful later.” She looked pointedly at Denver. “Isn’t that right, Daniel?”
Bibi had started calling Denver by his given name, a habit the veterinarian seemed not to mind.
“Oh, no you don’t, Bonnie. That’s a trap. If I agree with ye, I’ll be getting an earful later too.”
Everyone laughed, including Megan. Lily was eight months old and a darling package of rosy cheeks and inquisitive round eyes and roving fingers. Right now, those chubby fingers were wound around Megan’s locket, the one her mother had given her before she left home more than twenty years ago.
Megan’s cell phone rang. Emily held out her hands, and Megan reluctantly returned the baby. She frowned when she saw the name on her phone display: Bobby King. King was Winsome’s youngest-ever police chief. It’d been a baptism by fire for the young cop, and Megan knew a call from Bobby typically portended problems.
“Bobby,” Megan said. “How can I help you?”
“Morning, Megan. I’m looking for Emily Kuhl. Any chance she’s with you?”
“She happens to be right here. Everything okay?”
“I’m afraid I need to speak with her. Can you pass the phone?”
“Of course.” All eyes were on Megan, and all conversation had stopped. Even Lily’s gentle gurgling had transitioned to a silent stare fixated on her mother. Megan knew after the trauma of the last few months, Emily would want nothing to do with Bobby King, but she had no choice but to pass the phone to her.
“I’m here, Chief,” Emily said. She was silent after that, nodding along as though Bobby could see her. She ended with, “I see.”
Emily handed the phone back to Megan. Her face was snow white, her fingers shaking. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Bobby?”
“That damn house should just be burned to the ground. Nothing good seems to come of it, that’s for sure.”
“Bobby, you’re not making any sense.”
Lily, sensing her
mother’s distress, had begun to wail. Bibi took her gently from her mother’s arms and walked her into the parlor, crooning all the while in her ear. Megan waited for King to say more.
“There’s been a death at Emily’s grandmother’s house, Megan. The medical examiner is here now, but the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.”
“Unusual in what way?”
“Let’s just say someone had a very rough night.”
Megan tensed. “Someone as in—”
“Paul Fox. Paul’s son found him dead in his bedroom this morning.”
Megan’s breath quickened. Her thoughts shifted from the man on the phone to Emily to a memory of the night before. Paul Fox. A little bit charming, a little bit aloof. But alive. “He seemed okay yesterday. What happened?”
Bobby sighed, a novice quickly becoming a veteran. “We’re not sure.”
“Could it be…” Only she let her words trail off, unwilling to give voice to her fear with Emily and Lily sitting so close by.
“We don’t know. I’ll tell you more when you get here.”
“Me?”
“I’m hoping you can bring Emily. We need her here to answer some questions, but I’m thinking that after what happened last fall, she could use some moral support.”
“Yes, of course,” Megan said. She clicked off her phone, tension rising like bile in her chest.
Winsome’s town center was a cobblestoned reminder of simpler times, but its surrounding area suffered from the very real problems associated with modern life—such as occasional gridlock. The storms from earlier in the week had knocked out power to parts of the town, and crews were on the scene, cutting down branches and repairing downed poles. As a result, the fifteen-minute drive to Emily’s grandmother’s Cape Cod took two detours and almost forty minutes.
Emily and Megan arrived to a frustrated Bobby King circling the house beside a man Megan recognized as Winsome’s fire chief, Don Friar. When Bobby saw Emily, he waved noncommittedly, leaving them to loiter by Megan’s truck. Megan recognized the scene before her. She had lived through a death on the farm property the year before when the local zoning commissioner was murdered in her barn. While Bobby hadn’t made it sound like this was murder, the presence of so many police and firetrucks—plus two ambulances—gave her pause.