Bitter Harvest

by Wendy Tyson

  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.”

  Megan watched him work with the dog, gentle but confident. The pup remained skittish, although she seemed more relaxed in the vet’s presence. He’d come in response to Megan’s frantic call, no questions asked. But now that the dog seemed to be settling down, she could see Denver’s agitation increasing. Once Sammy—which they’d taken to calling the dog—was curled on a fleece blanket in the corner of her penned-in area, Denver leaned against the workbench, arms across his chest.

  “Are ye going to tell me why ye went there alone tonight, Megan?”

  Megan bristled. She was a grown woman who didn’t feel the need to explain her actions to Denver, Bibi, or anyone else, for that matter. She said as much.

  “I’m not asking because I want to reprimand ye. King told me about the stalker up on the hill.” Denver looked pained. He shook his head, ran a hand through unruly auburn hair. The shadow of a beard hugged the sharp planes of his face. The scar between his eyes seemed more pronounced in the artificial light of the barn, making him look sexy and slightly dangerous. “Oh hell, Megan. I’m just worried. Too many bad things happening around here, and knowing that ye put yourself in harm’s way makes me—”

  “Angry.”

  “Aye. A little.” His face softened. “I care about ye.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to treat me—us—as though we are helpless, being here alone.” Megan felt herself soften too. She’d be angry at him, and in retrospect it wasn’t the smartest of ideas to go to the Kuhl place alone. Plus, she should have been truthful with Denver about Potter Hill from the start. But like Bibi, Megan resented having to curb her behavior in her own town. She should be able to feel safe. They all should.

  “Ye need to have faith in me, Megan. If this,” he waved his hand in the space between them, “if this is going to work.”

  Megan nodded slowly. He was right. “I called King on my way back to the farm. He’s sending a crew over to check on the Kuhl property.”

  “Ye think someone’s been staying there?”

  “I don’t know. I heard something and felt eyes watching me. And then she turned up,” Megan said, pointing to Sammy. “But maybe it was just Sammy all along.” Megan rubbed her arms, still feeling the goose pimples she’d experienced earlier.

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  Megan told him about the Sauers’ farm and the empty chicken barn. “Why would his barns be empty?”

  Denver frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe they dispatched the
whole flock for Oktoberfest?”

  “But they were selling Mark’s organic chicken.”

  “That’s right, they were.” Denver shook his head. “Either they had some disease wipe out their flock or they’re getting out of the chicken business.”

  The Sauer family had been running that farm ever since Megan could remember. Before Glen started selling his poultry to big-box stores and national brands and distributors, the Sauer farm was the source of most local chicken and turkey. Growing up, every non-farming family ate a Sauer turkey for Thanksgiving, and people from surrounding towns placed orders directly with Michael Sauer, Glen’s dad. Megan could remember driving into the Sauer farm with her grandfather as a young girl to buy chicks for their own flock. The hens roamed free, and many roosted in the trees that surrounded the Sauer house, watched over by a pair of matted gregarious Great Pyrenees. No more. Now it felt like a joyless place. At least at ten at night.

  Megan glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight, and they weren’t going to solve this puzzle now. “You should go,” she said to Denver. “You’ve had a long day. Bibi’s waiting for me up at the house.” And she will have a thing or two to say about this adventure as well, Megan thought. No need to fan those flames again.

  “I could stay. My aunt can run over and let the dogs out.”

  Megan smiled her thanks. She’d love him to stay—but not that way, and not for that reason. “We’ll be fine. Perhaps another time? Under better circumstances.”

  Denver moved closer. He smelled of spicy aftershave and wood smoke from Diamond Farm.

  “I would like that.”

  While Denver gathered his things, Megan gave the dog a last pat for the night. She was a sweet little thing, and she wagged her tail gratefully when Megan sat beside her. Who are you? Megan wondered. And who is sitting up worried about you tonight?

  But there was no time for further contemplation. Bibi showed up at the barn looking cross. “King is on the line up in the kitchen. He tried your cell, but you didn’t answer,” she said. Her eyes fell on Denver; she avoided Megan’s gaze. “He wants to talk to you, Megan.”

  Here we go, Megan thought, and followed Bibi’s agitated form into the house.

  “Someone’s been living in that trailer. Not the one that’s falling apart. The other one.” King sounded out of breath and annoyed. “Bastard got away.”

  “Any clue as to who?”

  “We’re working on that. Whoever it was left in a hurry, but they mostly cleared the place out. I say mostly because they left behind some garbage and other sundry items. It’s at the lab now.”

  “How about dog stuff?”

  “Come to think of it, there was a bag of dog food in there.”

  “Well then, we have his dog. I say he, but maybe it’s a she.”

  “We think it’s a man, Megan.” He paused. “If you have his dog, he may come there looking for it. I think you should ask Denver to take the dog.”

  Megan glanced at Bibi and Denver. Both were standing in the kitchen, watching her. “You have any reason to believe he’s connected to what happened to Otto or Ted?”

  “We just don’t know.” King said something to someone else. When he came back on the line, his voice became brusque. “We’re going to need to talk with Emily.”

  “Now? She’s asleep.”

  “The morning is okay. Can you have her meet us at her grandmother’s property? Say nine o’clock?”

  Megan’s stomach tightened. “Is she in some kind of trouble, Bobby?”

  “I told you I would share what we know—within reason. I can’t tell you why we need to talk to her though. We should meet with her first.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll see to it that she’s there at nine.”

  As she hung up, she saw Bibi filling a kettle with water. Her grandmother was feeling restless. Chamomile tea and a shot of brandy or whiskey or rum…Bibi’s remedy for eyes wide open. Megan knew all this was weighing on Bibi: finding Otto, suspicions about Teddy, concerns that someone was watching the farm. She also knew Bibi was tough as old hide leather—and that no one should underestimate her. She decided to hit the issue head on, with Denver there.

  “Whoever was at Emily’s could be connected to what happened to Otto and Teddy,” Megan said. “But the police can’t be sure. They want to talk with Emily tomorrow.”

  Bibi didn’t respond. She placed a chamomile bag in her cup and added a shot of whiskey, then another. She poured boiling water into the cup along with a heaping teaspoon of sugar. She carried the cup to the kitchen table and sat down.

  “Are you going to say something?” Megan asked.

  “You let me believe you were going to the Kuhl property with Denver.” Bibi’s voice was even and low—a sure sign of anger. “You went alone, knowing full well that her father may have just been murdered.”

  Megan didn’t say anything. It was pointless to argue. She was right, and an apology would only sound hollow to both of them.

  Bibi picked her mug up. “I’m going to bed. In the morning, I’ll watch Lily so you can accompany Emily to meet with Bobby.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” She turned, her eyes piercing Megan’s. “You promised. No walking around alone. Don’t break your promises to me, Megan.”

  “I should have never made a promise I couldn’t keep.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I run a farm. I have responsibilities. It’s not practical for me to wait for someone to hold my hand.”

  “But you expect that of me?”

  She had a point, of course. Being older didn’t make her helpless—or any less resourceful. “I’m sorry, Bibi.”

  Bibi nodded. She waved to Denver. “Thanks for coming, Denver.” To Megan, she said, “Get some rest. Morning will come quickly.”

  Megan watched Bibi leave. Turning back to Denver, she said goodnight.

  “I can take that dog back to the clinic, Megan,” he said. “It would be safer for all of you. In case its owner comes looking.”

  Megan shook her head. Whoever had the dog had cared for it. From skin to nails to teeth, the pup had been loved. Her owner might come looking, but perhaps that would be a good thing—an end to all of this, a way of flushing him out. And if not, Megan would rather the dog stayed here rather than be shut up in a cage.

  “The dog could stay at my house,” Denver said. “If you’re worried about her comfort.”

  Megan smiled. He was a generous man, and she needed to appreciate that. “And put your pups at risk? I don’t think so. We have the barn here—she can safely stay separate.”

  Reluctantly, Denver agreed. He promised to check on Sammy the next day. Megan locked the door after him. Sadie followed Megan out of the kitchen, up to bed. A glance back told Megan that Gunther had stayed behind, his body against the door, always the guard.

  Megan’s last thoughts before sleep descended were of the Sauers’ farm. She reached for Sadie, who was curled at the end of the bed, her mind grasping for a pattern in the chaos. As her eyes closed, she pictured that empty barn. No chickens. What if Sauer was closing shop? But what did that mean? And how did it fit with Otto Vance and Ted Kuhl?

  Or did it fit in at all?

  Twenty-Nine

  Megan returned to where it all started: with the Breakfast Club. She arrived before eight and found Albert Nunez and Lou Brazzi at the large copper-topped table at the back of the store. Alvaro had made them omelets. Brazzi was still picking at his food and reading a Wall Street Journal. Nunez, half-finished plate shoved to the side, was paging through Field and Stream. Megan sat down with them in the empty seat next to Nunez.

  “What can we do for you, Counselor?” Brazzi asked. He smiled. A steel-haired man in his late fifties, Brazzi had the only real estate law business in town. He made his own hours and was picky about the engagem
ents he accepted. Megan had always liked him. Perhaps it was the kinship of lawyers—or the easy way he had around people.

  “I want to talk about what happened with Otto and Ted.”

  Both faces shut down. Brazzi pursed his lips. Nunez snorted.

  “What about it?” Brazzi asked.

  Megan thought about how to ask her questions. She knew these guys would be offended by a frontal attack, but she had neither the energy nor the time to beat around the bush.

  “In the days leading up to Otto’s death, it seemed like Teddy and Otto weren’t seeing eye to eye. I sensed a lot of tension in the group.”

  Nunez gave Megan a wary glance. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I wonder if whatever was between them could have been more serious than any of us thought.”

  “Ted died of an allergic reaction,” Nunez said. “Peanuts.”

  Brazzi shook his head. “I heard his death is suspicious. Bobby and his people are doing more tests.”

  Nunez frowned. “What kind of tests?”

  “Not sure,” Brazzi said. “But they’re not certain the peanuts are really what killed him.”

  Nunez sat back in his chair looking agitated. He turned to Megan. “Are you saying Ted and Otto were murdered? And it was because of Oktoberfest? Because that’s what all the bickering was about—who got to be the beer sponsor.” He slammed a hand down on the table. “Utter nonsense.”

  Brazzi shot Nunez a withering look. “Ted had everything tied up in that brewery. Everything. It wasn’t utter nonsense to him.”

  Megan glanced up in time to see Alvaro staring at her. He lifted his chin toward the door, where Glen Sauer was standing alongside his wife, Irene. Sauer, a beefy giant of a man with porcine features and a putty-like nose, was gripping Irene’s shoulder and whispering in her ear.

  Megan lowered her voice.

  “I’m not saying Ted did anything to Otto, nor am I denying or confirming that what happened to Ted was due to foul play. I’m just worried—and I think there was more to the tension between the two men than anyone is letting on.”