by Wendy Tyson
Praise for the Greenhouse Mystery Series
“Worth a read among the traditional cozies: Wendy Tyson’s Seeds of Revenge.”
– Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review
“Tyson gives us an evocative sense of place, a bit of romance, and dimensional characters with interesting backstories. Readers are left looking forward to the next book in the series and hankering for organic mushroom tartlets.”
– Publishers Weekly
“This third series offering is a complex small-town mystery with well-rounded, fascinating characters.”
– Library Journal
“A warmhearted mystery with an irresistible cast of characters, two- and four-legged alike. Tyson’s small town setting is a lush bounty for the senses, and the well-structured plot will keep you guessing right up until the satisfying conclusion.”
– Sophie Littlefield,
Edgar-Nominated Author of The Guilty One
“Tyson grows a delicious debut mystery as smart farmer-sleuth Megan Sawyer tills the dirt on local secrets after a body turns up in her barn. You won’t want to put down this tasty harvest of a story.”
– Edith Maxwell,
Agatha-Nominated Author of Murder Most Fowl
“Hungry for a great mystery? A Muddied Murder is a delight and Wendy Tyson is a natural. She delivers a perfectly plotted mystery with well-planted clues and a healthy dose of secrets. This first Greenhouse Mystery will only whet your appetite for more.”
– Sparkle Abbey,
Author of Raiders of the Lost Bark
“Tyson’s first-rate second Greenhouse mystery stars big-city lawyer turned small-town organic farmer Megan Sawyer, a kind, intelligent, and spirited woman with great integrity. In short, she’s the sort of person cozy readers warm to and root for.”
– Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Tyson’s third look at the joys and perils of small-town life features enough engaging characters.”
– Kirkus Reviews
“An exceptional cozy, Bitter Harvest offers up a veritable feast for mystery fans: a beautifully drawn setting, engaging characters, and plenty of twists and turns that will keep readers guessing. The suspense deepens with every scene…Tyson has crafted a fresh, intelligent, compelling story that’s sure to satisfy.”
– Cynthia Kuhn,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Art of Vanishing
“An irresistible story with delicious food, scheming villagers, and a secret worth killing for. Her heroine, prodigal daughter of Winsome, PA Megan Sawyer, may not carry a gun, but she’s packing brains, courage, and loads of integrity. Megan is a star.”
– James W. Ziskin,
Anthony Award-Nominated Author of the Ellie Stone Mysteries
“Complex characters, interesting twists, and a charming setting add up to a satisfying mystery.”
– Publishers Weekly
“Wendy Tyson has a background in law and psychology, which lends itself nicely to her endeavors as a crime fiction novelist…Cunning crimes, charismatic characters, and a cozy (if occasionally murderous) community all set this series, and story, apart—as does the authenticity and assuredness with which the author writes.”
– Criminal Element
The Greenhouse Mystery Series
by Wendy Tyson
A MUDDIED MURDER (#1)
BITTER HARVEST (#2)
SEEDS OF REVENGE (#3)
ROOTED IN DECEIT (#4)
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Copyright
ROOTED IN DECEIT
A Greenhouse Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | September 2018
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2018 by Wendy Tyson
Author photograph by Ian Pickarski
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-384-6
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-385-3
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-386-0
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-387-7
Printed in the United States of America
For Angela.
I am very blessed to have you as my mother and my friend.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to my fabulous agent, Frances Black, and everyone at Henery Press, especially Kendel Lynn and Art Molinares. You made this book possible.
A big thanks to Rowe Carenen, Larissa Ackerman, and Claire McKinney for your marketing and public relations expertise—and your inspiring love of books.
A warm thank you to my childhood friend Marnie Mai for going with me to all of those spas over the years. By the time I wrote this book, my vision of the fictional Center was firmly set. (There is no one I’d rather go to a real spa with, Marnie!)
Thanks to my husband, Ben Pickarski, for your gardening know-how and seemingly endless patience with the earth and my questions.
Thank you to my son Matthew for helping me with the logistics behind this fictional murder.
A big thank you to Mandy, Ian, and Jonathan for all of the support—online and offline.
And finally, thank you to my mother-in-law, Ann Marie Pickarski, for the food chats and vegetarian recipe shares. No matter what you make, it’s always delicious.
One
Megan spread stain across the new barn’s fascia with slow strokes, watching the thick Indian Summer red bleed into unprimed wood. The day was hot and humid, a soupy late August afternoon that teased a cooling rain but delivered little more than sweat and sunburn. Megan wiped her hand on her denim overalls. She wished her farm manager, Clay Hand, would hurry. She was impatient to see how the interior of the new barn looked.
According to Clay, Washington Acres Farm already had enough reservations for the next Saturday’s wood-fired pizza event to pay for the pizza oven—an oversized stone monstrosity that Clay had built by hand in his spare time over the course of the spring and summer. Now Clay and his sister Clover, Megan’s store manager, were putting the finishing touches on the serving area while Megan and her farmhand, Brian Porter, completed the last of the exterior painting. Clay and Clover wanted to surprise her with the look of the new restaurant. Seemed it was a week for surprises.
“Ready!” Clover said a few minutes later. The twenty-something wore a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a sage green tank top. Her long, thick hair was imprisoned in a tortoiseshell clip and escaped strands clung to her face and neck. One thing the new pizza farm didn’t have yet was air conditioning, which was being installed later that day, and it showed in Clover’s red complexion and soaked shirt.
Megan quickly washed the brush with cold, soapy water using a bucket and the hose. She dried the brush and placed it next to the can on the lawn to dry, anxious to join Clover. Last she saw the interio
r, the new barn had still been cavernous and barren, a stark wooden structure with high ceilings, a bathroom at one end, the oven at the other, and a lot of empty space. Before that it contained unused horse stalls that doubled as storage units. The pizza farm had been Clay’s vision for that section of the barn for a long time. It was finally coming to fruition.
“Close your eyes.” Clover took Megan’s arm and led her through the red entry door. She positioned Megan gently. “Voila.”
Megan opened her eyes. She let out a long, slow whistle. “Wow. Just wow.”
The barn had been transformed. The space was filled with cedar picnic tables painted in primary colors: scarlet, lapis lazuli, turquois, and yellow. Atop each one was a Mason jar filled with blossoms—sunflowers, lavender, daylilies, and dahlias—from the farm’s abundant flower gardens. The rafters overhead had been strung with tiny white lights, giving the place a cozy, festive feel. Two paintings, a landscape and a portrait both painted by Thana Moore—a local artist and long-ago friend—had been hung on the walls. While Megan had mixed feelings about the artist, she was happy to see Clover and Clay had found a use for the art, which until then had sat propped against a wall in her office. The stone hearth, on which sat the giant wood oven, rooted the eye, pulling it the length of the barn. A large dinner plate clock and wooden forks and spoons hung on the upper part of the hearth. “Washington Acres” was painted on the clock in red block letters.
“This looks amazing.” Megan wandered around, touching everything.
A new hostess station sat near the barn entrance. Clay had gone over a basic pine frame with milk-white paint. A chalkboard propped against the barn wall listed the pizza menu. A laptop computer sat alongside a Mason jar full of pens, a large bouquet of flowers, and an easel on which Clover had painted “‘Laughter is brightest where food is best.’ –Irish Proverb.”
“I can’t believe it. You did it,” Megan said, clapping. After months of suggestions, hints, and proposals, Megan had finally caved in to their insistence that the town needed a wood-fired pizza venue. She’d used the farm’s meagre savings to fund the new pizza farm amidst promises from Clay that he, Clover, and Porter could build the main structure and oven for a pittance. It hadn’t quite been a pittance—to her and her grandmother, Bonnie “Bibi” Birch, at least—but it had been an impressively low sum of money for something like this.
Megan hugged Clay, then Clover. “I absolutely love it.”
“I told you,” Clay said. “If you build it, they will come.”
“You already have a full house coming next Saturday.” Clover used a parchment paper menu to fan herself. “And you haven’t even opened yet.”
“Want to try out the oven?” Clay asked.
“Are you offering to make dinner?” Megan smiled.
“I am.” Clay scrunched up his nose. “Do you want to invite…everyone?”
“That’ll be a party,” Clover’s words dripped with sarcasm.
Megan sighed. “We should. Can’t exactly exclude one person.” Much as we might like to, she thought. She looked around the barn. It seemed large enough to house everyone’s ego.
Clay wiped his hair back from his face with large, slender hands. Clay was a strikingly handsome man in his early twenties. He looked like a rugged Jake Gyllenhaal with long hair and a warm smile. “We can get streamers and balloons. A homecoming celebration.”
“A homecoming, indeed.” Only Megan wasn’t thinking streamers and balloons. She was thinking ear plugs, Tylenol, and convenient hiding places.
“Megan.” Sylvia Adriana Altamura air-kissed each of Megan’s cheeks with perfectly rouged lips. “Darling, it’s so lovely to be here, at your quaint homestead. This farm is gloriously antiquated. Charming, truly. One would never really know how close to bankruptcy it was.” Sylvia kissed Clay, taking a little longer than seemed necessary. “Edward has said many kind things about you.” She looked from Clay to Clover and back again. “About all of you.”
“I’m sure,” Bibi responded. Megan’s grandmother’s face was curled tight as a newly sprouted fiddlehead fern. “And we’ve heard so little about you.”
Megan shot Bibi a look. While Sylvia was saying all the right things, her flat tone and constant blinking seemed to tell another story. But maybe I’m biased, Megan thought. Bibi certainly was. Megan’s father’s new wife—the woman her father had left Washington Acres and Bibi for—was not exactly the person they’d envisioned her father would choose. Not because of Sylvia’s appearance, certainly. In her mid-fifties, she was tiny—barely breaking five-feet tall—with long, straightened, red hair in a shade nature had never intended, a prominent nose, thin, expertly painted lips, and hooded green eyes. Her look was sensuous, her personality…challenging. She had a way of standing tall, neck and head extended, eyes sharp, surveying everything around her with a judgmental gaze and a quick, biting comment. She exuded confidence and entitlement. So much so that Megan wondered what she saw in her father, Eddie Birch.
Eddie Birch—Megan had called him Eddie since she could remember—was known for many things. His casual good looks and easygoing personality. Being a dreamer. An infectious laugh. Not finishing anything he started. But he was not known for his good judgment or his wealth, so being the husband of a successful Milanese boutique owner seemed a stretch. And while Megan was trying hard to play nicely in the sandbox, Bibi had thrown the toys out with the sand. She and Sylvia seemed to take an instant dislike to one another. Maybe because Bibi still resented the way Eddie had left the farm on an impulse two-plus years ago to chase after Sylvia and Italy. Maybe because their personalities conflicted. Maybe a little of both. If Eddie noticed, he wasn’t letting on.
“How was your flight?” Clover asked.
Eddie took the cue and regaled them with stories of multi-continental travel woes while Sylvia corrected him at every turn. They sat in the barn around two picnic tables that had been pulled together. Clay had prepared five pizzas, and he brought the first of them to the table. It looked and smelled amazing, a succulent mixture of rich tomato sauce, locally-made cheeses, and Washington Acres spinach, onions, and peppers on a chewy-crispy, smoky crust.
“So this is what all the fuss was about,” Bibi said, digging in. “Now I get it.”
“Amazing,” Clover muttered. “So good.”
“Americans are so enamored with a cheese-heavy version of pizza.” Sylvia picked a pepper off her slice and pushed it to the side with sharp fingernails. “In Italy, the ingredients make the dish. No need for—”
“It’s perfect, sweetheart,” Eddie said to Megan. He glanced at Clay. “Delicious.”
Sylvia pursed her lips, mirroring Bibi’s inverted smile.
“A toast,” Eddie said. He stood, his white linen shirt billowing in the light breeze from the new split-system air conditioner. “To family reunions and new endeavors.” His gazed landed on Megan, and the warmth of his smile made her blush. “You took a failing farm and turned it into a treasure. I feel the love, pumpkin. I feel the Birch spirit. I’m so proud of you and all you’ve accomplished.”
“Hear! Hear!” Bibi tapped her glass against Megan’s.
Wine and beer were flowing and there were toasts all around. Only Sylvia sat quietly, observing, her hand cradling the base of her wine goblet.
When the pizza had disappeared and Bibi looked drawn, Megan said, “Shall we head inside? Your room is ready, Eddie. I put your bags upstairs, and there are fresh towels and quilts in the dresser.”
“Oh, we can’t stay here. Edward told you that, yes?” Sylvia’s eyes widened. She tilted her head toward Eddie, who seemed suddenly intent on studying the lines on Thana Moore’s landscape painting. “We have reservations at Peaceful Summit Yoga Retreat Center and Spa.”
“You’re not staying with us?” Bibi stared at her son, open-mouthed. “When I found out you had flown in, I made biscuits and gravy for tomorrow, your fav
orite, Eddie. And homemade biscotti for Sylvia.”
It was Sylvia who answered. “I’m afraid this is a business trip, Bonnie. Edward should have told you that. I’m going to meet with local artists and artisans so I may bring some assets back to Milan.” She looked at Eddie for confirmation, but his fingers were twisting around his napkin, an activity that seemed to require all of his attention.
Bibi said, “Eddie?”
Sylvia’s smile was hard. “I made reservations at the Center. It’s new. It’s a business expense. We will see you for dinner later in the week, perhaps?”
“Oh,” Bibi said, crestfallen. “I thought Eddie and I would spend this time together.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” If Sylvia was picking up on Bibi’s disappointment, or if she cared, she didn’t let it show. “Eddie is coming to the Center.”
Megan watched the all too familiar way her father dealt with conflict—by escaping. He stood, kissed his wife on the forehead, and then gave Bibi a quick peck on the cheek. “I need to get our things,” he mumbled. He nodded to Megan, avoiding her eyes.
“Yes, good.” Sylvia sipped the last of her wine, scanning the faces around her with a fierce intensity. “The pizza was nice. Too cheesy, perhaps. And watch the sausage. It overwhelms the palate.”
Clay gave her a half smile. “Thanks for the feedback.”
Sylvia waved a hand languidly toward the paintings on the walls. Her gaze lingered on the portrait. “That artist. Thana Moore. I recognize her work. She’s scheduled to show at the Center. I want her pieces to take back to Milan.”
That was interesting. Megan hadn’t seen her old friend Thana in ages—since that craft fair years ago. Before Mick died. Before Megan’s life changed forever.
