by Wendy Tyson
“Ophelia must be proud. Looks like they had a big turnout.”
“Never saw Ophelia. Come to think of it, you’d think she would have wanted to be here.”
“She’s probably getting ready for the next round of events.”
“Perhaps.”
Denver led Megan down the path and under a row of trees that bordered the canal. A few paddlers were still on the water, and Megan watched as a large canoe holding a couple and a young child floated by.
She told Denver about her conversation with Becker. “I’d been hoping the connection was Sauer, but it was Jenner. That seem odd?”
“Not really. He runs a business himself, so it’s logical he’d need PR help. And he’s connected to the area.” Denver placed a hand over his eyes and squinted up toward the main thoroughfare, Canal Street. “I saw him here when I arrived. In fact, there he is now with his family.”
Megan looked in the direction that Denver was pointing. She recognized the ruddy-faced thick-haired businessman. He wore pressed dark denim jeans and a tan field coat. A maroon scarf was draped in an elegant twist around his neck. A woman half his age held his arm, and in her arms perched an infant.
“I had no idea Jenner was a new father.”
“I had no idea either. I think that’s the new wife. I’d heard the last one left him when he decided one lassie wasn’t enough, if ye know what I mean.”
Megan did know exactly what he meant. Lana’s allegations about Otto and Ophelia popped into her mind.
“Think maybe Ophelia had been the other woman?” Megan whispered.
“Don’t know, don’t much care. I have no time for cheaters.” He squeezed Megan’s hand. “It’s all gossip in any case.”
Only Megan didn’t care about gossip. She wasn’t thinking of the illicit nature of Jenner’s affair, assuming he’d actually had one. She was thinking of motive and love triangles and murder.
And chicken.
“Well, look at that,” Megan said. She pointed to the sign listing today’s events. Under the culinary board, the offerings of each farm were listed. The notice said, “All-Beef Hot Dogs and Organic Chicken from Sauer Farm.”
Denver’s brow crinkled. “So?”
“So Glen Sauer doesn’t raise organic chickens. But Mark Gregorio does.”
“Still not following, Megs.”
“The committee wanted sponsors who could meet product demands. Yet Sauer provided Mark’s chicken as his own, which he bought at a premium from Diamond Farm.”
“Maybe he decided the organic label was important.”
“Maybe,” Megan said. “Or maybe I am smelling bullshit. And not from one of Sauer’s bovines.”
It was well after eight by the time Megan returned to the farm. Clay’s truck was still there, and Megan saw a light on in the barn. Before going inside the house, she walked back to talk with her farm manager. She found him drawing something on a large sheet of white paper, which he had spread out on a wooden potting bench that was doubling as a drafting table. A large measuring tape lay on one side, and a scattering of other drafting tools were by Clay’s left arm.
“Hey,” Megan said. “What are you doing here so late?”
Clay looked up quickly, startled, then smiled when he realized it was Megan. Gunther was with him, and the big dog ran over to give Megan a very wet hello.
“The open house was such a success, I thought I would start to lay out plans for the pizza oven.”
“You’re really into that idea.”
“I think locals would love it, and it would be another way to bring money into the farm.”
Megan glanced down at the paper he was working on, which sat next to a hammer and a flashlight. She saw lines and figures and measurement numbers. A wave of affection ran through her.
“Looks good, Clay. The idea is growing on me,” she said. “But you decided Sunday night at 8:36 after an exhausting weekend was the right time to pull together the plans?” Megan smiled. “Why are you really here?” She pointed to the hammer, a weapon in the hands of someone who knew just how to use it. Someone like Clay.
Clay sighed. He pulled the band out of his long hair, shook it free, then pulled it back again, securing it tightly. His handsome face looked wan and tired.
“I figured I’d stay until you got home.”
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t like the idea of leaving a grieving woman, a baby, and an eighty-four-year-old grandmother here alone.”
Megan touched his arm. “We’re always here alone.”
“Not under these circumstances.”
Megan gave him an inquisitive look.
Clay sighed again. He started putting his drafting tools away in a clear zippered case, turning away from Megan’s stare. “Look, Emily seemed nervous so I had decided to stick around a while. I was in here, cleaning up, and Emily was outside with the baby when she saw something.”
Megan thought of the glove Gunther had found before. “It was probably a deer,” she said. Hollow words.
Clay stopped what he was doing long enough to meet Megan’s gaze. “She saw a man by the barn. She screamed and he ran.”
“She just lost her father. Perhaps she’s imagining things.”
Clay stared at her. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward. “I came running outside. I saw him too, Megan. Gunther was in the house. By the time I made sure Emily and Lily were safe and ran after the man, he’d disappeared into the woods.” Clay’s eyes were round with worry. “I think it was your stalker. He’s still here.”
Megan could barely bring herself to speak. Finally she nodded. “Thank you.” She told him about the sound in the woods, the footsteps Bibi had heard, and the glove Gunther found. “I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But we’re not all hallucinating. Someone is watching this farm.”
Clay nodded. “We should tell Bobby.”
“He knows. He’s been sending a patrol officer to the area on occasion.”
“I’m not so sure a sporadic patrol will help. Someone could hide in these woods for months and never be found. They’re dense. Beyond Potter Hill, they just keep going.”
“Bobby has his hands full right now. They’re short on resources. Most of Winsome was at the Picnic on the Canal tonight. It’s unlikely our visitor is connected to what happened to Otto.” She said the words as much to convince herself as Clay. He didn’t seem to buy it—and deep down neither did she.
Clay packed up the rest of his tools. As he was rolling the drafting paper into a tube shape, he said, “You’re the one who found the chair on Potter Hill.”
“I know. But I keep telling myself that was a coincidence.”
Clay shook his head. “A human’s ability to rationalize almost anything is well-documented. You keep telling yourself that, Megan. Just don’t start believing it.”
Twenty-Three
Clay’s words were still ringing in Megan’s ears the next morning. She knew she needed to reinforce their vulnerability with King, and she left the chief a message explaining what had transpired the night before. Before she left the farm, she patted her pocket to make sure she had the print-outs about Proust, the knife maker. Proust had responded to her Facebook message with a short note giving her the time and place of a knife show he’d be at in a neighboring town. If Megan finished her morning chores quickly enough, she could make it there before the show closed.
Monday was overcast. A heavy layer of fog had settled over the canal, misting the grass and smothering the downtown area in a wash of gray. Megan parked in front of the café and went inside, carrying two crates of fresh lettuce from the greenhouse for Alvaro’s Monday special—a Cobb salad featuring the farm’s produce and eggs. She was greeted with the shy smile of Judge Bernie Mason, one of the Breakfast Club members. The Wall Street Journal sat next to him, and his hand clutched a large
mug of coffee.
“Here alone today, Bernie?” Megan said as she passed him.
He nodded. “Oktoberfest has everyone running.”
In the kitchen, Alvaro was already chopping and sautéing for today’s Oktoberfest specials. He’d refused to keep solely with the German theme, but had, after some heavy coaxing, agreed to one German-inspired meal each day. Today’s was Kohlroulade, German cabbage rolls covered in a savory, rich gravy. Alvaro had made them ahead of time, and what he was cooking now smelled distinctly Mexican—not German.
“New Mexico chili,” Alvaro said without being asked. “Posole, green chilies, grass-fed beef…try it.” Alvaro started to scoop some in a bowl before Megan could respond. “Want me to make you some eggs too? And I have homemade corn tortillas. I brought them for my lunch. I could whip up some huevos rancheros.”
Megan politely declined the eggs and tortilla. Although her stomach didn’t feel up to a breakfast of chili, she took the bowl and tasted it. Layers of flavors and textures—the piquant heat of the chilies, the sweet chewiness of the hominy, the richness of beef and tomato—melded together beautifully.
“Are you adding this to the cook-off menu for Friday?”
“Depends. What do you think?”
“It’s delicious.”
Alvaro nodded. He didn’t smile—he rarely smiled—but his eyes shone with pleasure. “I put some aside for Dr. Finn,” he said gruffly.
Megan thanked him. “I see Bernie Mason out there, sitting alone. Have the other members of the crew been here much since Otto’s passing?”
Alvaro shook his head. He had a full head of white hair, which contrasted strikingly with mocha-colored skin. His eyes, now coal-black and stormy, softened. “No, not much.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I was just getting used to having them around.”
Megan smiled. “Me too.”
Alvaro nodded. “Yeah, well. This much tragedy makes you think. Appreciate what you got.”
“By tragedy, you mean Otto and Ted’s deaths?”
“And the erosion of trust.” Alvaro stopped chopping. He placed his chef’s knife down on the wooden chopping block and wiped his hands on his immaculate white apron. “For a town like this to work, people have to trust each other and the system. No trust, the heart of the town withers and dies.” Alvaro struck his chest with his hand. “Something is not right. We have a traitor among us. I know it.”
Megan knew Alvaro was speaking figuratively, and she was relieved Alvaro had sensed it too. He seemed to keep to himself. But in his role behind the counter, watching the comings and goings of Winsome’s regulars, it made sense that he’d observe what other people missed.
“You need to go now,” Alvaro said, his tone suddenly gruff again. “I have to finish the day’s specials or customers will arrive and I’ll be running around like a mad goat.” He pointed to the large chili pot. “And this Oktoberfest? Never-ending. Now you like this chili too, so I have to make it as well.” He shook his head as though her compliments on his newest chili had been an affront causing him even more work.
Megan smiled. She gave the cook a hug. To her surprise, he hugged her back.
New Hope sat on the west bank of the Delaware River, across from Lambertville, New Jersey. Another historic Bucks County town, its main drag was home to upscale stores, art boutiques, quaint inns, and high-end restaurants. Only Megan wasn’t heading to one of New Hope’s finer establishments. The address she had was an old school off of busy Route 202.
The address led to a large brick rectangle positioned well off the road. Cracked and pitted blacktop looped around the front and ended in a large parking lot in the back. The lot was almost full. Megan climbed out of her truck and walked to the main entrance. She opened the front doors and paused to let two heavily tattooed men out. Unsure what to expect, she made her way through a hall and into the main area—presumably once the school auditorium. The building still had an institutional feel.
Inside felt like a flea market. Proust hadn’t said anything about where he’d be, and his website contained no photographs of the illusive artist. Megan hadn’t expected this many vendors. Knife makers and other related craftsmen lined narrow pathways throughout the space, most cramming their wares on five-by-eight-foot tables. A few had set up elaborate display cases, and one craftsmen even had a small replica of his forge. What little light there was filtered through high grime-covered windows. That didn’t seem to bother the customers, many of whom were carrying multiple packages. The smells of body odor, mildew, and acetone were strong.
“Ticket?” someone said.
To Megan’s right, an older woman with curly white hair was selling tickets. Other than the flower tattooed on her right hand and a diamond stud nose piercing, she looked like someone’s kindly conservative grandmother.
“Ticket?” the woman repeated.
“I’m just here to speak to someone.”
“You still need a ticket.”
Megan fumbled with her purse. She handed the woman a twenty and waited for her change. “Can you tell me which one is Proust?”
“Sorry. I come with the building, not the knife makers.”
Someone else was waiting to enter and Megan shuffled her way inside. She started down one aisle, then zigzagged her way around the auditorium. She finally caught the attention of a young woman who pointed toward the stage when Megan asked about Proust.
There were two vendors wedged next to the front portion of the old auditorium: a middle-aged bald man wearing army fatigues and a youngish man in his late twenties wearing a button-down checked shirt and glasses. Megan put her money on Army Fatigues, but as soon as she got close to his table, she realized she was mistaken. Army Fatigue made switchblades and hunting knives. Her mark would make butterfly knives.
The younger man’s display was meticulous. Three rows of knives, all in different sizes, sat on a bed of brown plush material. Two easels showcased photographs of his modest work space and his forge. The artist himself looked more like an accountant than a knife maker.
Megan waited until two other customers were finished talking with the man, then she stepped forward and introduced herself. “Proust?”
He nodded. “That’s me. What do you need?”
He had an unnerving way of speaking. His words were clipped, and his eye contact was intense and never wavered. Megan looked away first.
“I messaged you on Facebook.” She pulled the knife from her purse and separated it from its linen shroud. “I’m looking for the owner.”
He took the knife from her and turned it over. “You found this?”
Megan nodded.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“It’s not yours?”
“I made the knife. But someone altered it. Significantly.”
“In what way?”
Proust frowned. He flipped the knife open and traced the blade with one finger, echoing what Molly Herr at the knife shop had done. If his clothes and demeanor screamed white collar, Proust’s hands told a different story. They were strong and thick-knuckled, with small red scars and flat glossy burn spots along the digits and palms.
Proust handed the knife back to Megan.
“Everything’s different. The blade. The coloring. This may have had two or three owners since I originally sold it.”
“Do you remember who bought it from you? Maybe I can start there.”
Proust looked over Megan’s head toward the entrance way. Suddenly, he placed his hands on the table and leaned down so that his face was near Megan’s.
“What do you want with this guy?” His vitriolic tone startled Megan.
“I told you. I want to return the knife to its rightful owner.”
“Lady,” Proust said in that same penetrating way, “I sold this knife for $425. That’s cheap in my world. It’s been altered, so it’s likely wort
h even less now. You’re going to an awful lot of trouble to return this to someone you don’t know.”
“I have my reasons.”
He stood straight, said, “I have my reasons too,” and turned away.
“So you won’t help me?”
Megan continued to stand there, unsure what to do next. She’d come this far. To leave with nothing didn’t seem like an option.
“Please,” she said. “Anything you can tell me. Anything.”
Megan’s voice must have betrayed her desperation, because Proust turned toward her finally and said, “The original buyer was an old guy. Paid cash. That’s all I remember.” His gaze stabbed at her. “Really.”
Twenty-Four
Emily was outside with Clay when Megan arrived back at the farm. The two were digging in one of the rear beds, planting garlic bulbs for the following spring. Lily was asleep in a stroller under a shade tree, her small body wrapped neatly in a pink fleece blanket. Sadie lay beside the stroller, looking happy to have a tiny playmate to watch over. The rain that threatened that morning never materialized, but the afternoon was chilly and cloudy. Megan pulled a hat from her jacket pocket and pulled it on over her ears.
“Need some help?” she asked.
They glanced at her at the same time, each clearly lost in his or her own thoughts. Gardening was good for that.
“We’re okay,” Clay said. “Besides, you had a visitor.”
Megan looked at him, waiting for more.
“It’s okay,” Emily murmured. “Chief King. He had a few more questions about my dad.”
“Am I supposed to call him?”
Clay nodded. “He asked that you give him a ring when you’re back and he’ll stop by.” Clay looked like he wanted to say more, but with a glance at Emily, he walked away, toward the barn.
Emily watched him go.
“He’s a good guy.”
“Clay? The best.”
“Just reinforces what a loser my ex is.”
