Bitter Harvest

by Wendy Tyson

  “This was a few weeks ago, mind you. Ted and I had arrived at your café early, before anyone else. I ordered oatmeal and fruit, like I normally do, and Ted ordered toast and coffee. He looked paler than usual. I was concerned he was ill or something. After a few minutes of chitchat, Ted said he had a legal question to ask me. He wanted to know how liens on real property were handled.”

  “Okay?” Megan said, looking for the connection.

  “I asked him what he meant. What property had a lien on it, and under what circumstances would the lien be ‘handled.’”

  “And he said?”

  “He got real quiet. Told me he’d run into some financial problems, couldn’t pay some debts, and now there were liens on his mother’s property, which he owned.” Brazzi flattened his hands on the bar top. “He wanted to know if he came into some cash would he have to pay off the liens.”

  Megan considered this. The situation wasn’t that unusual. If someone couldn’t pay a large debt unsecured by real property, like credit debt or a secondary mortgage on real property, or if there were unpaid back taxes, the creditor could ask a court to place a lien on the property. It was like an IOU. The creditor would have to get paid when the property was sold.

  “What kind of debts?” Megan asked.

  Brazzi looked away. “Didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That paying off the debts would be the right thing to do. He could try negotiating with them, but his creditors had a right to his property. Then he said, ‘What if I sold the property?’ I told him he wouldn’t be able to sell it without satisfying the liens. He seemed agitated with my answer. Almost angry.”

  Megan thought about this in the context of what she knew. “Did Ted say how he was going to come into this money?”

  “No. And when I asked him, he waved me away. Like he was embarrassed. Or it was beside the point.”

  “Which was it?”

  “I guess the latter. He was dogged about his legal question, didn’t hear much of anything else.”

  Hedy came back and asked whether they’d like another beer. Megan checked her phone—Denver was on his way—and then declined. Brazzi ordered a gin and tonic.

  “So does that help?”

  “I don’t know. It could mean anything.” Megan drained her beer, thinking. Maybe this was something. Like a motive for blackmail. If Kuhl had found out about Ophelia and Otto, he might have tried to blackmail Otto to raise capital for Road Master Brewery and pay off his debts. He could have rationalized that he was just getting what he deserved after losing the sponsorship.

  She thanked Brazzi. “By the way, Lou—what did Glen Sauer want with you this morning?”

  “You know I can’t share that.”

  “Client privilege?”

  Brazzi pursed his lips and nodded, ever so slightly.

  Also interesting, Megan thought. What did Glen Sauer need with a real estate attorney?

  Brazzi was staring into his beer when Megan’s phone beeped. Another text. Denver got called away again and would likely not make it to the brew pub. Megan thanked Brazzi and excused herself from the bar. The joviality around her only made her feel more alone.

  Later that evening, Megan relocated her laptop to the kitchen and booted it up. Bibi and Emily were watching reruns of Pretty Little Liars in the parlor, and Lily was awake but quiet in her swing. No one seemed inclined to go to bed.

  Megan thought about her conversation with Brazzi. Clearly Ted had contemplated an influx of money, but he had liens on the Kuhl acreage he’d inherited from his mother—liens that had to be paid off if he was going to use the cash for his businesses. At least based on what Brazzi said. What person was willing to commit blackmail, but was worried about repaying debts?

  That just didn’t seem logical.

  Megan considered what she knew, from the beginning. Otto Vance had suggested Oktoberfest. A committee was formed, and they selected Ophelia, the sister-in-law of Marty Jenner, to run the show. Ophelia had carte blanche to make decisions, and she handed out sponsorship in contravention of the committee’s rules. One such controversy was the beer sponsor. Otto had tenure and a restaurant, but Ted’s beer was award-winning. Upset, Ted challenged the appointment.

  At the same time, Ophelia was accused of having an affair with Otto. An accusation she vehemently denied.

  And at some later point, someone online was trolling Road Master, leaving mean-spirited reviews.

  And then there was the mountain stalker and the lost dog. Related? Or related to the treasure buried on the farm’s property? Or merely a coincidence?

  Finally, Emily was followed by someone in a stolen Honda, which later turned up decimated by fire. And Emily’s father was killed in such a way as to suggest an accidental allergic reaction.

  What a crazy set of facts.

  Megan started by looking up the Kuhl property. She had access to an online database that listed county properties—mortgage liens, sale prices, and other liens. It took about twenty minutes, but she finally found what she was looking for. Ted Kuhl did have liens on the property—to the tune of over $168,000. A good percentage of what that property was worth.

  Megan kept coming back to Ophelia and Oktoberfest. Ophelia seemed to be the connection between all of these disparate facts. Megan again searched Ophelia’s background. When that didn’t turn up anything new, she looked up Janice Jenner, Marty’s stolen-from-the-cradle bride. The search engine led her back to the wedding announcement. It seemed the most prominent thing Janice ever did was get married.

  Frustrated, Megan again read the Jenners’ announcement. She skimmed the description of the venue, the food, the bridal party, the prominent guests in attendance…and then she stopped. A picture on the bottom of the page caught her attention. She looked at it again, her breath catching in her chest. There, next to Janice and her father, stood a short man. Bald head, sinewy runner’s body. A brunette clung to his arm, a glass of champagne in her hand. He wore a three-piece Italian black suit. She wore an ankle-length ruby-colored gown. The caption said, “The bride, Janice Dilworth Jenner, and father-of-the-bride Kevin Jenner, with New York developer Scott Hanson and his wife, Leigh.”

  She’d met these people before. Her mind flashed back to the open house at Washington Acres. The couple from New Jersey with the cute little girl. The woman’s interest in Winsome, the man’s quiet confidence. Scott and Leigh Hanson.

  A developer and his wife. Land.

  Megan’s head spun with the possibilities. She searched Scott Hanson and found a dozen hits immediately. Known for large developments in New Jersey and New York, he was a proponent of planned communities. His latest, Peaceful Valley Acres, sat atop a hundred and forty acres of former New Jersey dairy farm. Two hundred “carriage house” townhomes, fifty condominiums, one hundred single family mega-homes, stores, restaurants, playgrounds. All with a nice iron gate keeping the riffraff out and the wealthy in.

  He hoped to develop an even larger community. One for “sophisticated” professionals.

  Megan could barely breathe. Synapses were firing, puzzle pieces were falling into place.

  She dialed Denver’s number, anxious to test her theory out on someone. He answered immediately. “Can’t talk now, Megs. I’m with Ophelia. She wanted to review a few things for the article.”

  Megan said fine and hung up, disappointed. She couldn’t very well tell him about Ophelia with Ophelia in his living room.

  Ophelia in his living room.

  Megan forced air into her lungs, again and again. A planned community. A spy in the house. A spy in Denver’s house.

  Megan had no idea how all this fit together, but she had a feeling that Scott and Leigh Hanson had not shown up at Washington Acres by accident.

  Megan was the only one awake at midnight when she saw lights coming up her driveway. Sh
e stared out the kitchen window, surprised to see Denver’s Toyota pulling to a stop beside the porch. Her mind flip-flopped with emotions—unsure where to land. Anger? Jealousy? Happiness? Terror? The truth was, she’d been fighting her internal demons ever since that first kiss in his bungalow more than six months earlier. The fight was still raging. Her heart and head slugged it out while she opened the door.

  “What brings you here?” Megan asked.

  Denver was wearing faded Levi’s and a hungry look in his eyes. He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

  He stripped off his coat and laid his hat on the table.

  Megan took his hand, led him toward her. Her fears fell away as the distance between them closed.

  Thirty-One

  The alarm went off at 3:18 in the morning, waking Megan from a fitful sleep. She opened her eyes in a panic, then felt her dresser until her hand hit the tiny egg-shaped device connected to the camera. She hit the off button and leapt out of bed, grabbing her phone. She sprinted to the window, looking for light in the barn, and dialed 911. She got through immediately and reported an intruder at the farm. It could have gone off accidentally—Clay said that could happen—but Megan wasn’t taking any chances.

  She was alone, but the warmth of Denver’s body stayed with her, calming her nerves. She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and waited. The police arrived by 3:29. They found the barn empty, except for Sammy, who was awake and whining in her pen.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone was here,” the first officer said. “But we’ll look around.”

  The two cops made a round of the property, sweeping their floodlights in the shadowed corners. Nothing. Chagrined, Megan thanked them for coming. She’d look at the camera footage in the morning to be safe, but it seemed like a false alarm.

  Sleep was hard to come by. At 5:50, Megan crawled out of bed and into the shower. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, tracing the curves of her body with one hand, just as Denver had hours before. She saw her mother’s clear Irish complexion and broad high-cheekboned face and her father’s eyes. The face staring back at her looked tired though—tired and pale.

  She toweled off quickly in the cool air and dressed in canvas cargo pants, a black turtleneck sweater, and boots. She dried her hair and pulled it back into a loose ponytail. She took her time brushing her teeth and putting on moisturizer.

  She was stalling. She couldn’t help it.

  At 6:22, she made coffee and wolfed down a blueberry muffin and a large mug of java. Bibi was still asleep—unusual for her—and the quiet in the kitchen was deafening. Megan talked to Sadie and Gunther, hungry for company. At 6:46, she headed back to the barn, a pit forming in her stomach. She climbed a ladder, carefully detached the lens and memory stick, and walked the camera back to the house.

  At 7:12, she hit play.

  At 7:14, she saw him. Thick head of gray hair. Beefy shoulders. When he knelt down to pet Sammy, his face remained in the shadows.

  Megan watched the murky footage again and again. Nothing more was visible. She had hair and shoulders and an excited dog. Could have been anyone.

  Anyone.

  He looked, however, like Marty Jenner. Same full head of gray hair, same bulky shoulders. Megan picked up the phone. This time she called King directly.

  Megan waited until ten to dial her old firm in Chicago. She knew the person she wanted to speak with would be in by seven Central time, but she gave her another hour to get settled. Tina Yang picked up immediately.

  “I thought it might be you. Recognized the area code.”

  Megan was happy to hear Tina’s voice. They’d been summer associates together at the firm, and while Megan quit to become a farmer a year before she was up for partnership, Tina, a real estate attorney—a damn good one—had remained. She was a partner now.

  “What can I do for you?” Tina asked. “Buying another farm?”

  Megan laughed. “Not just yet. I actually have a whole different kind of question for you. About developers.”

  After a few moments of small talk, Megan gave Tina a quick summary of her concerns. “So if someone was trying to buy up land in Winsome, wouldn’t they have to go to the zoning board first? And under Sunshine laws, we would know about it. They would have to notify the public about the meeting.”

  “Not necessarily. Think about it; why go to the trouble of getting approvals if you may not have the land locked up?”

  “So you buy the land first?”

  “You can, certainly. But a lot of developers go through a promoter. Think of a promoter like a matchmaker. They’ll find the property, determine suitability, and eventually work with the township to procure approvals.”

  Megan frowned. “Sounds like a great deal of risk.”

  “There can be, but there can also be a huge upside. When the developer gets the land, the hard part has been taken care of. The promoter, whose interests are usually aligned with the landowners, can get a big cut of the profits.”

  Megan closed her bedroom door and sat down hard on her bed. “So no one in the town would have to know until everything had been lined up.”

  “Usually people talk. Once the developer—or promoter—comes knocking, word gets around fast.”

  “And then someone could act to get a better price or to stop the deal.”

  “Theoretically. Depending, of course, on the local zoning rules and what the property will be used for.” Tina paused. “Is there development happening in Winsome? Cause it would be a shame to erode that small-town charm.”

  “I don’t know. No one has said a word, which I found odd.” Megan left out the fact that two people were dead—and definitely not speaking.

  Tina said, “NDAs.”

  “Non-disclosure agreements?”

  “Why not? I said promoter or developer, but the truth is that the deal can be a hybrid, and much more complicated. Your promoter or developer could be buying options to purchase land. To get paid for the option—which could be a handsome sum—the landowner must agree not to tell anyone about the deal.” Tina paused. “Imagine you’re a promoter. You see potential in an area, but you don’t want to go to a developer until you’re sure landowners will sell. You start approaching landowners. You offer them a sum of money—say $20,000—for the option to buy their land if certain conditions are met. To get that money, they have to agree not to mention the deal.”

  “The NDA.”

  “Exactly.”

  Megan thought about what Tina was suggesting. “Then once all of the properties are lined up, the promoter can sell the options to the developer for more than they paid.”

  “That’s right. Or they can develop the land themselves.”

  Bingo. Megan considered Sauer and his mysterious conversation with Brazzi, a real estate attorney. Suddenly the lack of chickens in his chicken barn made sense. If you were planning to sell, why replace the animals? You’d be downsizing, purging the farm of assets before the sale. And if there was an NDA in place, you wouldn’t be able to mention a word. Nor would your attorney.

  She thought about Hedy’s comments the night before, Lana’s sudden reticence to talk. Perhaps someone had gotten to the Vance family. They owned a good chunk of handsome land in Winsome. An option to buy their land could come with an NDA—and enough money to shut up a grieving anger-fueled widow. And if that widow suspected her late husband of infidelity, she might be willing to take the money and run far from the business that introduced him to his lover.

  While all of this made sense, it didn’t explain either Otto’s or Ted’s death.

  Megan asked Tina, “What might keep a developer from biting even after the promoter has done his or her work?”

  “Hmm. Good question. Again, it depends on the project. If it’s big enough, the developer will want everything to be perfect. He or she will be taking on a lot of risk.”

  Megan thought
about the articles she’d found the night before about Scott Hanson’s current projects. “How about for a large planned community?”

  “How large?”

  “Couple hundred acres. Stores, restaurants. A gated one-stop shop for the discerning resident.”

  “Oh, man, pulling something like that off would require location, location, location.”

  “Commuting distance to Philly, Allentown, New York City, and parts of New Jersey?”

  “Are you talking Winsome? Add in a lovely historical town setting, pastoral views, and a decent school district and you just may have a winner.” Another pause, then Tina said, “But the stars would have to align, because opposition could be steep. Zoning, taxes. Again, risk-reward analysis for the buyer. Everything would have to line up.”

  Darn right, Megan mused, thinking of Jenner. So why not limit those risks any way you can?

  Thirty-Two

  “Megan, why in the world would Jenner be here just to see his dog? And if that were his dog, why wouldn’t anyone else know it? I’ve heard of hiding a mistress, but a dog?” King shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Megan had to admit, now that she’d had some caffeine and time to think, this felt like a long shot. But Jenner was the only person who made sense as a promoter. And as a promoter, he’d have the most to lose.

  They were at the farm’s kitchen table. King played the footage again and again, just as she had. “Well, it’s something, I guess. Although not much.” King closed the laptop. He sat back in his chair and stretched. “Just doesn’t carry himself like Jenner. Not that I can tell from this grainy footage.”

  The last few weeks had taken their toll on him, and King rubbed at the bruised-looking skin under his blue eyes. “I’ll need to take the camera recordings. Maybe our team can do something with them.” He tapped a finger on the table top next to the untouched plate of banana bread Bibi had given him. “I just can’t figure out why a murderer would take the risk to sneak in here to visit a dog.”