Seeds of Revenge

by Wendy Tyson

  “I don’t think he was such a nice man.”

  Surprised, Megan looked up. “Why do you say that, Alvaro?”

  He shrugged, his thin shoulders sharp under an impeccably white chef’s jacket. “I read.”

  “What did you read?”

  “Newspaper articles. Old ones.” Alvaro grabbed a bowl of chopped carrots and added the carrots to the contents in the pot. “Someone left them on a table. I saw them when I was cleaning up.”

  Megan stopped chopping. “When was that? Do you remember?”

  “Sí, of course I remember. Last Tuesday. It was snowing. We had a rush at dinner—I served my tortilla soup, which everyone loves, especially on a cold day—and the café was a mess. The papers were there under a New York Times.”

  “Were they actual news articles or printouts?”

  Alvaro pursed his lips. “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. Just curious.”

  “They were cut from an old newspaper. Like if you were making…what you call it?”

  “A scrapbook?”

  Alvaro snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Clipped for a scrapbook.”

  A scrapbook about Paul? Megan handed Alvaro a bowl of rutabagas, which he added to the pot, wondering who would go to that degree of trouble.

  “Do you remember what the articles were about? What newspaper they were from?”

  Alvaro waved his hand, clearly annoyed he had brought the topic up. “He was a cheat. Didn’t pay money he owed. A bad guy. I have no idea what paper they were from.”

  “How about the date?”

  Alvaro seemed to think about this. “They were a little yellow, a little crispy. Old, I think. But I don’t recall the date.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  Alvaro stirred the pot with a long spoon. His arm churned with added vigor. “No one asked me. What am I going to say? That someone left newspapers? Someone always leaves newspapers. I threw them away.”

  “And the man was still alive then,” Megan said. How was Alvaro to know he’d die just days later—and that those papers could be important. Megan would tell Bobby when she saw him, but she doubted he’d get much more from her chef.

  Megan went back to chopping. It was snowing outside, and the café would have its usual evening visitors—Winsome residents who didn’t mind braving the inclement weather to share some company and savor Alvaro’s comfort food. But the articles bothered her. Someone had gone to the trouble of clipping them. And saving them.

  And leaving them at the café.

  Megan was still thinking about the articles and Paul Fox when she left the café after five o’clock. The café was crowded despite the snow, but Clover had arrived to help Alvaro, and Emily was giving them a few hours once her workday at the spa ended. Megan had promised to have dinner with Denver that evening, so she headed to his house directly from the café.

  It wasn’t until she reached his bungalow that she remembered Luke’s visit early that morning. Had Becca ever shown up?

  Once parked in Denver’s driveway behind his 4Runner, Megan dialed Merry’s house phone. Merry didn’t answer—but Becca did.

  “You’re okay,” Megan said, relieved. “Your brother was worried about you.”

  “Worried?” She laughed. “I doubt it. He just wanted to keep tabs on me.”

  Megan turned off the truck ignition. “He seemed pretty worried to me.”

  Becca seemed to be doing something that involved running water. She said, “Hold on,” and was back after a few seconds. “Sorry. Washing my equipment.”

  “Becca, is everything okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Your father, Luke, you disappearing.”

  “I didn’t disappear, I just had some stuff to attend to. How are you, Megan?” she asked in a transparent attempt to change the topic. “Have you used your pheromones recently?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “The women of Winsome are loving my products. Soon there may be more competition for that handsome vet of yours.”

  Speaking of her handsome doctor, Megan glanced at Denver’s house. She could have sworn the lights had been on just a few minutes ago. The snow was falling harder now, and the gray skies eclipsed the remnants of the setting sun. His house, his large yard, and the deep woods beyond loomed dark in the burgeoning night.

  “Perhaps,” Megan said. “I’ll take that chance.”

  Becca’s laugh sounded hollow—a little too perky, a little too positive.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I know Bobby King spoke with you yesterday. That has to be hard. For anyone.”

  “I have nothing to hide.” A note of defensiveness.

  “I wasn’t implying that you do.”

  “Well, Chief King did.”

  “He needs to turn over every rock. Ask questions—some of which are bound to be uncomfortable.”

  “He’s looking under the wrong stones. I didn’t kill my father. If I had, it would have been slow and painful. And it would have happened long ago.”

  A light went on toward the back of Denver’s house. The truck was getting cold with the ignition off. She needed to get going.

  Megan said, “I wouldn’t make comments like that, Becca. Not now.”

  Becca make a “pfft” sound. Megan heard water running again.

  “Seriously. If your father was murdered, the police will be looking for motive.”

  “I’ve made no attempt to hide my feelings, so that cat’s long out of that shopping bag.” Becca was quiet for a moment. Megan heard the clanking of glass, the hum of a dryer. Finally she said, “Look, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, okay? Big girl and all that.”

  Only Megan was worried about her. She seemed so alone, and despite the false bravado she wore when it came to her father’s death, she sounded afraid. Nevertheless, Megan said, “Of course.”

  “Use the perfumes, Megan. They work. And spread the word.”

  “I will, Becca.”

  “Okay. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “Good night.”

  Becca didn’t answer. Megan waited for Becca to hang up first, and in the meantime, Megan could still make out the sound of water—and the harsh whispers of someone else in the room.

  There was a note taped to Denver’s front door. Megan removed it carefully and turned it over. Plain white envelope, “Megan” written on the front in Denver’s slanted scrawl. Snow drifted beyond the glow of the outdoor fixtures, a thousand points of glittering light. She opened it under the protection of the small vestibule, curious.

  The door’s open. Come in, grab the container from the refrigerator, and meet me out back. WEAR GLOVES AND A HAT. There are extras in the front closet.

  –Denver

  Intrigued, Megan entered the house. She could make out a light on in the kitchen, behind the sparsely furnished dining room. She found the kitchen empty. She opened the refrigerator. Inside was a large container with another envelope attached to the outside. Bring me, it said.

  Megan pulled the container out of the refrigerator. It was heavy. She tucked it under her arm and headed for the front closet, where she grabbed a pair of ski gloves—warmer than her wool ones—and a fleece hat. She pulled an extra parka from the closet too. One never knew quite what Denver had in mind.

  Making her way through the house to the back door and Denver’s deep backyard, Megan stopped. She realized what had caught her attention: silence. Denver’s five rescue dogs weren’t here either.

  Thoughts of Becca and Paul Fox and Aunt Sarah still lurking in the back of her mind, Megan went outside through the back door. On the back deck under a small awning sat a pair of snow shoes. A sign that read Wear me was taped to the front. Megan laughed. A pair of boots—her size—sat next to them, just in case. Another enve
lope was taped to the boots.

  Megan didn’t need the boots. She opened the letter, though. It was short and sweet:

  You don’t have nearly enough fun in your life, Megs, so I thought I would add some silliness to your evening. Plus, the daft dogs were feeling restless—and I have this thing I need to try out. You’ll see—it’s what happens when you’re a country vet. So just strap on the snowshoes and head straight back toward the wooded end of the property. I imagine you’ll know what you had been looking for once you find it. Isn’t that often the case? Don’t get lost in the backcountry. If you do, call me.

  –Denver

  With another chuckle, Megan strapped the snowshoes on and headed out into the yard. She figured there was a good eighteen inches or more on the ground—unusual for the Philadelphia area—and the snowshoes made trekking in the snow much easier. Once Megan was over the rise in Denver’s fenced-in property, she saw smoke billowing from near the tree line. The pines were thick, and she strained to see where the smoke was coming from. As the back of the property became more visible, she eventually saw where she was headed: a large tipi. The pipe protruding from the top was the source of the smoke.

  Denver’s Great Dane and Golden Retriever emerged from the tipi and darted in her direction. They greeted her like a long-lost best friend and led her back to the shelter. When she arrived, she saw Denver standing in the doorway. He wore jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt. His tousled hair fell into his eyes, and he was smiling at her with a mixture of affection and amusement.

  “I know I’ve found a special woman when she’ll humor me this way,” he said, taking the container and the extra coat from Megan. “Give me the coat you’re wearing too. Ye won’t need it in here.”

  Megan peeled off some layers. The inside of the tipi felt plenty warm thanks to a small red stove that sat in the dead center. The floor was covered with a thick tarp, and a stack of firewood sat on the floor next to the stove. The structure was big—large enough for the two of them and the five excited dogs. Megan said hello to each of the pups, and they eventually lost interest, preferring to bask by the fire entwined around one another.

  “Lazy lot,” Denver said, his eyes betraying his words. “Wouldn’t let me be here alone. It’s the fire. Give them a good fire, and they become worthless.”

  Megan laughed. The Golden was snoring, and Denver’s Beagle, snuggled up against the Golden, was waving two paws in the air in the throes of some happy canine dream.

  Megan sank down on a thick comforter that Denver had spread out next to the stove.

  “I’ve had a few dates in my day,” she said. “But none quite like this.” She glanced around. “Where in the world did you get a tipi? And for the love of all that is good in this world, why did you put a tipi up in your backyard?”

  Denver pulled the container in front of him. “Well, that’s a long story. It begins with a wee lassie of a dog named Betsy.”

  “Betsy, huh?”

  “Betsy. Now Betsy is not a fancy breed kind of dog. In fact, she’s probably got more breeds in her than Max there.” Denver pointed to one of his dogs—a true mutt who looked like a cross between a Jack Russel and an Afghan hound. “But Betsy is the beloved pet of little Ryan Simons. Know Ryan Simons?”

  Megan did. Ryan was the grandchild of Delores Simons, Winsome’s primary pharmacist. Ryan had Down Syndrome, and he lived with his grandmother and his father after losing his mother and grandfather in a horrible accident. Winsome had rallied around the Simons family, but the accident had shattered their lives, and Delores had a lot of challenges to contend with.

  “I can see by your eyes that you know of the Simons family and their misfortunes. Well, Betsy is Ryan’s dog and wee Betsy became very ill. She ate something she should not have, as dogs are apt to do, and it poisoned her. We spent a long time nursing Betsy back to health.”

  “I remember. You were gone for nearly forty-eight hours straight.”

  “Aye. I didn’t think she would make it, quite honestly. But God was looking out for Betsy—and Ryan—that day.” Denver seemed lost in the memory. “When she finally woke up, first thing she did was lick that boy’s face. Could barely move, wee thing, but that tongue shot out.” Denver looked away. “Well, as my people say, Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye.” He looked at Megan and she saw the gleam of moisture in his eyes. “What will be, will be. And so Betsy lived.”

  “And you inherited a tipi?”

  “Mrs. Simons was so grateful that she sent her youngest son over here with this bloody tipi. Said it was her late husband’s backcountry hunting tent and she had no use for it.” He laughed. “Guess she figured with a nickname like Denver I must like backcountry trips.” He stood and touched the walls. “Have to admit, it’s nice. Quite warm.”

  Megan nodded. It felt oddly homey inside. “Are you going to keep it?”

  “For now. I’ll eventually donate it, if it’s okay with Delores. But I thought we could try it out since it’s here.”

  Denver knelt down in front of the container and opened it. He pulled two craft beers, two sandwiches, and a container of crudités from its depths. He smiled. “Dinner.”

  “You do spoil me.” She peeked in the container. “You forgot dessert,” she joked.

  Denver’s smile broadened. He leaned over and kissed her, hard. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Oh, I didn’t forget about dessert, Megs.”

  Understanding made her face flush. She returned his grin, all other thoughts gone.

  Thirteen

  Sarah’s novel arrived the same day that Bibi fell. It had been colder than normal for December—in the teens—and snow had fallen every day for the past three. The parking lot at Merry’s nursery shone with a mix of ice and hard-packed snow, but it was someone’s discarded umbrella, half buried under a drift, that tripped Megan’s grandmother and sent her to the local emergency room. Thankfully, the only thing badly bruised was Bibi’s ego. But orders to stay off her feet for a few days coupled with tender shins and knees had Bonnie Birch on edge—and Megan knew from experience that dealing with Bibi in such circumstances was a job that required thick skin and even thicker patience.

  It was hard to get things done while lying on a couch. And in Bibi’s world, things needed to get done. Time didn’t stop because of a few leg injuries. Ironically, Megan didn’t get much done either, including finding the time to read Sarah’s novel.

  By Saturday, Bibi was feeling better. Her legs had mostly healed, and the aches and pains that went along with a sudden fall had subsided—or so she told Megan. In usual Bibi fashion, she refused anything stronger than ibuprofen, ice, and her evening tea with a shot or two of whiskey. But two days of rest had some benefits: an entire stack of quilted holiday placemats to sell at the store and a new scarf for Megan. As testy as Bibi seemed to feel, Merry Chance’s daily visits were worse.

  The morning Bibi was allowed back in the kitchen, Merry arrived at eight a.m. under the pretense of needing more eggs. Megan didn’t believe her for a second.

  “Merry, I was just about to have some toast. Will you join me?”

  Merry eyed the thick harvest bread Bibi was slicing. With a glance at the giant slab of butter Bibi had set on the table, Merry shook her head.

  “I’d better not, Bonnie. Right to the waist, you know.” She glanced knowingly at Megan. “I look at bread and I gain weight.”

  “Then don’t look at it. Just eat it,” Bibi said. She limped her way to the table and sat down. “Well, don’t just stand there, Merry. Sit with me.” Bibi glanced at Megan. “Do you want some more toast or are you heading out to the barn to get those eggs?”

  Megan knew Bibi wanted Merry gone, and the sooner the eggs appeared, the sooner she’d leave. But Megan figured she should remain to play referee should things get out of hand. Besides, watching the two of them was rather amusing. She sliced a small piece of bread and sat down, waiting f
or the fun to begin.

  “So how are things, Merry?” Megan asked.

  Merry unwound her navy blue scarf, taking the time with the delicate wool weave. “Well, things have been better. For one, I’m worried about Bonnie here. And that fall.”

  Bibi took a sip of tea, her eyes glued to Merry. She put her cup in the saucer, wiped her mouth, and said, “You can stop worrying. And you can stop coming by to check on me. No one needs that many eggs, Meredith. No one.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m not going to sue you, if that’s what’s got your knickers in a bunch.” Bibi looked at Megan for confirmation. “Right, Megan? I’m as likely to sue somebody over a stupid fall as I am to dance at that so-called gentleman’s club two towns over.”

  “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were going to sue me.”

  “No?” Bibi pursed her lips. “Okay, then. I’ve saved you the trouble of worrying about it in the future. As to my health, I am just fine. Old bones take a little extra time to heal, but they do heal. And I’ve sat around long enough.”

  Bibi took the last bite of toast and picked up the plate and napkin. After placing both by the sink, she walked toward the hallway. Megan suspected she would have run had she been able.

  At the doorway, she turned. In a softer voice, she said, “Thank you for visiting me, Merry. I understand in these litigious days that everyone worries about lawsuits. I fell. It was dumb of me not to pay attention to where I was placing my feet. I just feel…old…I guess.”

  Bibi disappeared around the corner. Merry, open-mouthed, watched her leave.

  Megan smiled. “I think you just received the Bonnie Birch version of an apology. Savor it. Doesn’t happen often.”

  Megan grabbed her coat off the hook. When she turned around, Merry was still sitting at the kitchen table. Fat tears were running down her face, and her shoulders were shaking with chunky, silent sobs.

  Megan put the coat back and returned to the table. “Merry, she didn’t mean anything. You know how Bibi is. She’s just—”