by Wendy Tyson
Today the room held art. Paintings had been secured to easels and displays all along the perimeter. Watercolors, oils, collages. Everything from portraits and still life artworks to jarring modern pieces. And along the floor near the walls, sculptures sat on felt mats. Megan glanced at Ray and he nodded.
Ray said, “We need to wait here. We’ll be called when Detective Lewis is finished.”
Megan’s pulse kicked up a few notches. She wandered around the room, looking at the art, to quell the jitters.
Every piece of artwork had a small card containing information about the artist. Megan presumed everything also had a price—although none of the prices were on the cards.
Megan was staring at another piece by Thana, a watercolor of a particularly abstract barn in the throes of what appeared to be a snowstorm, when she felt a presence right beside her. She smelled Ray’s musky aftershave, saw his expensive Italian loafers. A familiar pull threatened, and Megan didn’t turn to look at him.
“She had a style, I’ll give her that.” Ray’s voice was husky with emotion. He moved away from Megan, closer to the painting, before continuing to the next Thana Moore painting beside it—a portrait of a young girl dressed solely in winter white. He stood quietly for a moment. “Do you see the magic of her work?”
“I’m not much of an art connoisseur.”
“I’m not sure Thana was either. Maybe that was her gift—she captures a certain naiveté in her paintings. The world as it should be rather than how it is.”
“The critics liked it.”
“Actually the critics didn’t like it. The people liked it. She had more popular support than critical acclaim.”
Megan turned her head in surprise. “Yet you asked her to be a feature artist during the Center’s opening week.”
Ray’s smile was twisted. “Did I?”
“Didn’t you?”
“I suppose. In a manner of speaking it was my idea for her to come.” He looked back at the painting. “She was talented, but not educated, if that makes sense. We thought we could capitalize on her local popularity.”
Megan watched Ray’s face for an understanding of subtext. Why was he being coy? She glanced at Ray’s hand. No ring. Had he and Thana been an item? Had they ever stopped being an item?
All at once it dawned on her that he could be grieving Thana’s death. Not just as a professional whose business was impacted, but as a friend. Or even lover. She was surprised to find that after all these years, it mattered to her whether they were together. And she despised herself for it.
“My father’s wife,” she said, her voice sounding twisted, even to her. “Sylvia. Can we see her now?”
Ray’s gaze lingered on the portrait for another moment. “I’ll check.” He disappeared behind what appeared to be a panel in the wall.
Megan walked to the vestibule where Eddie and Bibi were sitting on a wooden bench. Bibi was clutching her brown leather purse as though someone was actively trying to poach it.
“What’s taking so long?” Eddie asked.
Bibi glanced at her watch. “That poor woman has been in there much of the day.”
Megan thought it amusing that Sylvia had gone from the Witch Who Stole My Son to that “poor woman” in the course of twenty-four hours.
Megan said, “Ray’s checking with the police.”
“All this art.” Eddie glanced around the room. “Sylvia’s passion. I’m afraid I just don’t understand.”
A few moments later, Ray materialized from behind the secret panel. With him were three people: a stocky, bearded man in his fifties with a long, crooked nose and a sizable mole below his left eye; a younger woman wearing gray dress pants and a white blouse that contrasted elegantly against her dark skin; and a very irritated-looking Sylvia.
Eddie ran to his wife. She brushed him off with a firm head shake that left Bibi frowning.
Ray said, “Megan Sawyer, Arnold Lewis and Jasmine Jones from the Templeton PD. Megan is an attorney.”
Megan exchanged head nods with the officers.
“Are you Ms. Altamura’s lawyer?” Detective Jones asked.
“Yes,” Eddie said.
“No,” Megan corrected, “but I’ll be finding one for Ms. Altamura—assuming she needs one. In fact, I’d like a word with you in private, if you don’t mind.”
The detectives exchanged a look. Finally Detective Lewis nodded curtly. “Five minutes.” Without another word, he walked back through the panel. Megan started to follow, but when Eddie and Bibi moved forward too, Detective Jones held up a hand.
“Afraid not,” she said.
Megan didn’t wait around for an invitation. She ducked through the panel and into a hallway. Like a spa, the lights were dimmed and the hallway had multiple unmarked, closed doors along one side. Also like a spa, the hall smelled of lavender.
An odd place for a police interrogation.
Detective Lewis led Megan into the room at the end of the corridor. The eight-by-eight space had been set up as a temporary conference room. A square brown table had been placed in the middle of the wooden floor; four folding chairs sat around it. Pads of paper, granola bar wrappers, and dirty water glasses littered the top. Unlike the hall, the air inside the room smelled of body odor and onions.
Detective Lewis sat down heavily on a chair. “What do you want?” he asked with a tired sigh.
“What’s going on? Ray said you’ve been talking to Sylvia half the day.”
“We had a lot to talk about.”
“Is she a person of interest?”
“Are you a criminal defense attorney?” Lewis’s look was challenging.
“No.” Megan sat back. She decided to placate Detective Arnold Lewis. “An environmental attorney.”
“Barred in Pennsylvania?”
“Illinois. I practiced in Chicago.”
Another sigh. “Look, I don’t generally talk offline with the relatives of people we’re questioning and I’m not about to start, lawyer or not. But I will say this: we’d like Ms. Altamura to remain in the United States. If you can’t see to that, then she needs to stay somewhere that folks can babysit her.”
“In other words, you’ll lock her up.”
“Can you make sure she stays in the area?”
“My father’s wife didn’t kill anyone, Detective, and without evidence you can’t detain her. Why would she hurt Thana? She has no motive to kill Thana Moore, a woman she didn’t even know until yesterday.”
Detective Lewis inspected his fingernails, which had been chewed to the quick. “You’re smarter than that. You and I both know people do inconceivable things for rational reasons, and conceivable things for irrational reasons. Crime rarely makes sense.”
“Nevertheless, unless you’re dealing with a sociopath, there would likely be some reason behind Thana Moore’s death. You’re barking up the wrong alley with Sylvia, and in the meantime you could be letting the true killer get away.”
Detective Lewis stood. “Our five minutes is over.”
Megan found herself missing Winsome’s young Chief of Police, Bobby King. “So you’re telling me Sylvia needs a lawyer.”
Detective Lewis said, “She needs to stay local.”
“You’d like her to stay local.” Megan stood up. With heels she was nearly the same height as the detective. Her eyes drifted to one of the pieces of crumpled paper laying on the table. She could make out one word in messy print: Maria.
Maria? Another guest? Or Maria Hernandez, Alvaro’s wife?
Megan started to ask Detective Lewis another question, but before she could utter a syllable, he had left the room, sucking any air along with him.
Seven
Sylvia refused to remain at the Center, so she and Eddie drove back to the farm in their rented Ford. Once there, Sylvia stormed upstairs without another word to any of th
em. Eddie was left standing in the large farmhouse kitchen with three oversized suitcases and Sylvia’s baby blue satin wrap.
Megan almost felt sorry for her father. Almost. Hadn’t he been making poor choices for years? Wasn’t it about time he faced up to those decisions? And his new wife was one of those decisions. Megan couldn’t see how Sylvia could be involved with Thana’s murder, but clearly Sylvia’s personality wasn’t making any of this easier.
Megan’s frustration with her father dissipated a few moments later when he sat down at the kitchen table, head in his hands, and said, “Once in a lifetime, God forgives you for all of your mistakes and sends you someone who helps you see clearly for the first time.”
“And Sylvia is that person?” Megan said softly, knowing that’s whom he meant.
“You don’t see what I see in her.”
“You’re right,” Bibi said. “We don’t.”
Megan filled a tea kettle with water and placed it on the stove. From her vantage point near the window, she could see Porter in the far side of the yard. He was hauling hay bales around the outside edge of what was to be parking. Gunther stood watch near him, his gaze on the chickens pecking around their yard.
“We just don’t know Sylvia well,” Megan said. She pulled three mugs from the cupboard and placed a Breakfast teabag in each. “It hasn’t helped that you chose to stay at the Center rather than here.”
“Sylvia didn’t want to impose.”
“I thought it was all about business,” Bibi said.
“Business. Respect. Privacy.” Eddie looked at his mother, clearly exasperated. “Had we stayed here you would have complained that she was too demanding, too picky. We didn’t stay here and we were punished for that. We couldn’t win, Mother. Sylvia knew that. Even I saw that.”
Megan had to admit, he had a point. When Bibi didn’t care for someone, she had trouble hiding it. Eddie and Sylvia were damned whatever direction they’d chosen.
The tea kettle whistled. Megan poured the boiling water into the mugs and placed one in front of her father. It was well past lunchtime, and Bibi was bustling around the kitchen, fixing what looked to be egg salad on toast, so Megan placed her mug on the counter. She took a seat across from her father.
Megan said, “The question is what to do next.”
He glanced at her with surprise. “Next? What next?”
“Detective Lewis didn’t give me the sense that his inquiries were over.”
“Why?” Eddie’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. That was the problem.” Megan knew she had to tread easy here. If her father got excited, calming him down would take energy she just didn’t have. “He wants her to remain in the area, though.”
“Meaning?”
“The United States. Winsome—or nearby.”
Eddie pushed a hand through his hair. “Come to think of it, he mentioned as much to me too.”
“Did Sylvia say anything, Dad? Maybe in the car while you were driving back here? Anything that would indicate why she and Thana fought? Why she was tromping around in the woods?”
Eddie shook his head. His eyes looked heavy, his skin gray. “Just that Thana had been insufferable, but that didn’t mean she killed her.”
“But why was Thana insufferable? What had she done?”
He shrugged, his mind clearly elsewhere. “She wouldn’t say, Megan.”
Megan drained the last of her tea, thinking. “You should get some rest. We can talk more later.”
“Uh-uh. First you eat,” Bibi said. She placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated, and she put a plate in front of him. He looked at the sandwich, chips, and carrot sticks as though she was trying to dispense cow manure.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll eat.” Bibi walked away to grab her own lunch and the one she’d prepared for Megan.
“And this is why we stayed at the Center,” Eddie whispered to Megan. He took a few half-hearted bites of a carrot stick.
Megan, on the other hand, felt ravenous. She wolfed her sandwich down while contemplating the rest of her day. There wasn’t much she could do for her father’s morale, but Alvaro needed kale, potatoes, and onions at the café, so she could run those over. She knew Clay would take them, but he and Porter needed to finish up the yard for Saturday’s grand opening—and maybe Alvaro would know something about what was happening at the Center. At this point, she planned to move forward with the pizza farm. Reservations were booked, and she didn’t want to disappoint.
“Megan,” her father said, “what if they’re seriously considering my wife for this murder? Who do we talk to?”
“She needs a lawyer. We should find one now.”
“Can you do that?”
Megan nodded. She watched as her father took a bite of his sandwich under the mindful eye of Bibi. She’d call Lara Bjorn, a woman she knew from law school. Better to have someone lined up…just in case.
“In the meantime, it would be nice to have more information,” Bibi said. “About the investigation and whether those detectives are really looking at Sylvia as a suspect.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Megan asked her grandmother. They’d been through this a few times, so Megan suspected they’re thoughts were aligned—in this, at least.
Bibi said, “Call Bobby King?”
“Yep. I’ll do that now.” Megan glanced at her watch. Late afternoon. Perhaps Winsome’s Chief of Police would be willing to talk to her for a plate of Alvaro’s never-on-the-menu secret specialty of farm fresh huevos rancheros.
And if not, maybe he’d make time at the station. The way Megan saw things, King owed her a favor or two.
The café was crowded. Megan looked at the full tables and the wall of backs sitting along the food counter with a degree of relief. She knew that nothing brought Winsome residents together like a tragedy, but she was glad to see so many familiar faces in her store.
She made her way to the kitchen amidst nods and greetings. King had agreed to meet her there at six, once he was off work. He also agreed to make a few calls beforehand to see what he could learn about Thana’s death and the Dartville investigation.
For now, she’d help Clover and Alvaro with the dinner crowd.
After putting the vegetables in the walk-in cooler, Megan donned a dark green Washington Acres Farm Café apron and washed her hands in the commercial sink. Alvaro was busy at the stove, hovering over a large pot of something fragrant while flipping grilled sandwiches on the griddle.
“Roasted corn chowder,” Alvaro grumbled. “Did you bring me the kale?”
“In the cooler.” Megan peaked over the rim of the giant pot. “Smells amazing.”
“I need the potatoes. I have six orders of the Cubano, which comes with potato salad and sautéed kale.” He lifted a lid off a steaming pan and looked inside. “This is the last of the kale. If you want to be helpful, chop some up.”
Amused, Megan obeyed. Her chef was as known for his curmudgeon-like personality as for his talent in the kitchen. He’d been the chef at the commune where Clay and Clover Hand grew up. When Megan’s first chef quit, she’d hired Alvaro, unsure what to expect. He’d never failed her. And in time, she’d gotten used to his salty personality.
She was chopping her first bunch of rinsed kale when she noticed the chef staring into space while the Cubano sandwiches sat untouched on the griddle.
“Hey, Alvaro,” Megan said, “I think those sandwiches may be burning.”
Alvaro jumped. Deftly he pulled the Cubanos off the stove and slid them onto plates. She watched as he sliced the sandwiches, eyeing the layers of ham, slow roasted pork, and melted cheese. To the plate he added a scoop of red-skinned potato salad and a large pile of fragrant sautéed kale with garlic and cumin seeds. Despite the sandwich she’d eaten recently, her stomach rumbled.
> Alvaro rang a bell that sat on a slim counter by the stove. Within seconds, Clover joined them in the kitchen. She balanced three of the dishes and left the room with a smile. She was back a few seconds later for the remainder.
“Keep it up, Alvaro,” Clover said. “They love the Cubanos. And Mrs. Henry wants a bowl of roasted corn chowder.”
Alvaro filled a deep ceramic bowl—made by a local artisan—with the creamy soup. To that he added a dollop of sour cream, some freshly ground pepper, and chopped fresh chives. He rang the bell again, but it was barely a ding—not the exuberant ring she was used to hearing.
Once Clover had come back in and left again with the soup, Megan put down the chef’s knife and turned to her cook. “Spill it. What’s eating you?”
Alvaro continued sautéing garlic and spices, his back to her.
“Alvaro?”
“Nothing, Megan. I’m fine.”
“Something’s bothering you.” She walked around the side of the huge gas stove so she could see his face. Bags under his eyes, a day’s growth of white beard. Very unlike Alvaro. He was always impeccably groomed and on his game. “Alvaro?” Megan said softly. “Are you okay?”
Clover called out, “Two more Cubanos, one with no pickles.”
“Then it’s not a Cubano,” Alvaro barked.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” To Megan, Clover said, “Bobby’s here for you. He wants those huevos rancheros you promised.”
In addition to being Winsome’s youngest-ever police chief, Bobby King was also Clover’s boyfriend. She was a free spirit, he tended toward uptight. She grew up on a commune, the daughter of a house cleaner and a father she never knew; King’s father was a Lutheran minister, his mother the pianist at the local church. Clover had never been to a party she didn’t like; King preferred football games and quiet nights at home. The two were as opposite as they came, but somehow it worked.
As Winsome’s police chief, King was earnest and fair. Megan hoped she could pick his brain about what was happening at the Center. One glance at Alvaro told Megan that her chef was in no mood to make the wonderful egg dish he was known for. Megan asked Clover to see if a Cubano would work for Bobby, with some soup—all on the house.
