by Wendy Tyson
“What does that mean?”
The Phillies batter struck out, giving them three outs. Booing ensued, and King waited out the noise.
When the crowd was only mildly rowdy, King said, “They’ve been through Winsome, questioning anyone and everyone with a connection to the Center the day Thana died. You know Thana’s parents are from Winsome, right?”
Megan nodded. Bobby was too young to remember when she and Thana had been pals.
“Her dad’s still alive, and word is he’s devastated—as any parent would be.”
“Wesley Moore. I remember him from when Thana and I were kids.”
“Yeah, well, Wesley called me to complain about the detectives’ tactics. I guess in the process of questioning folks they’ve been digging up dirt on the deceased. They insinuated to Wesley that his daughter wasn’t always well-liked.”
“And he was upset?”
“Sure he was. Problem is, there were lots of folks in Winsome with a connection to Thana, either because they knew her well—like her daddy—or because they were at the Center the day Thana died.” King grabbed a handful of nuts and popped them into his mouth, one at a time. He followed the nuts with a swig of his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You, too, from what I hear.”
“They dragged me in this morning.”
King was silent for a moment, his eyes on the game. Not looking at her, he said, “How’d that go?”
“Fine. Once we got past their attitudes.”
“They’ve got a right to be suspicious, I guess. Dead body says so.”
“Perhaps. Do they have a lead suspect?”
“Nothing new, I’m afraid. Your stepmother is on the list.”
“She’s my father’s wife.”
“Ah, I forgot how sensitive you can be. Yes, Sylvia is on the list. Some others.” He made a disapproving face. “Including Maria Hernandez.”
Megan pulled her stool closer to King. Keeping her voice low, she said, “That’s why I wanted to come find you. Alvaro left the café early today, Bobby. He never leaves early.”
“That’s probably why. The Dartville police called her in for questioning again.”
“Do you know why they’re so focused on Maria?”
Bobby’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “I really can’t say more, Megan. I’m walking a thin professional line as it is.”
“Maria? Come on, Bobby. We both know Maria Hernandez is as likely to kill someone as Bibi is.”
“Under the right circumstances, your grandmother could pack a wallop.” His gaze became serious. “Really, Megan. If you or your father were threatened, Bibi wouldn’t hesitate to protect you, I’d bet a year’s pay on it.”
“But we’re not talking self-defense. Thana Moore was murdered. In cold blood.” Megan shook her head. “Maria would never do that. For god’s sake, she was like a second mother to Clover and Clay growing up.”
Bobby swallowed more beer before signaling Hedy for another. “Think about that, Megan. What if someone—Maria, anyone—thought they were acting in self-defense, even if the harm was in the past, or anticipated again in the future? When does self-defense slide into revenge?”
Hedy handed King another beer. “Anything else for you?” she asked Megan.
Megan thanked her but declined. “Bobby, unless you’re not telling me something, revenge hardly seems to apply here. What in the world would Maria be seeking revenge for?”
King chewed on his lower lip. “What if I told you that Thana got Maria fired.”
Stunned, Megan sat straighter. “Fired? Why would she do that?”
He shrugged. “She lodged a complaint that morning. Accused Maria of trying to steal one of her paintings. Maria was called in to account for her actions.”
Megan thought back to the Meditation Gallery and all of the work displayed there. Ray never mentioned this. “You said trying to steal.”
“The painting was found.” King leaned in toward Megan. “Look, I’m trusting you with this. You can’t repeat any of it. To anyone.”
“Of course.”
King took a deep breath. “The night before her death, one of her portraits went missing. Initially Thana believed it was a theft, but the painting was found.”
“I’m confused. Why does she think Maria was to blame?”
“They’d had a disagreement the day it went missing. An ongoing disagreement, really. Maria was an event planner. She’d set up the show, and Thana felt like she deserved more space, more recognition, a gold-plated toilet, whatever. She complained to Maria, and Maria put her in her place. Then Thana complained to Carly Stevenson, one of the owners.”
“A painting went missing after that and they tied it to Maria? Wouldn’t that be rather obvious? Maria’s an intelligent person. She would never do something so transparent.”
“It went missing and later showed up…ruined.”
Megan sat back. “Ah, the revenge you mentioned. So the police think Maria argued with Thana, was ratted on, management took Thana’s side, so Maria took the painting as revenge, ruined it, and when Thana again reported her, she killed her?” Megan let out a whistle. A man next to her glanced over and she smiled an apology. “Wow. That feels like a hell of a stretch.”
King shrugged. “The fact remains that Thana Moore was murdered. You and I both know that they’ll look at means, opportunity, and motive. Maria definitely had opportunity. She was at the Center and her job allowed her to come and go as needed. In the eyes of the police, she had motive, and from what I understand she had no confirmed alibi for the period in question. Back to the security cameras. Without proof of where she was on the Center’s grounds, she has only her word to go by.”
“And the murder weapon was a scarf.”
King drained his beer, grimacing. “Right. As for means, Maria is not a weak woman. She’s a runner and she helps Alvaro out in the gardens. Thana was slight. It’s conceivable Maria could have overtaken Thana, especially with the element of surprise on her side. And, as you said, the murder weapon was a scarf.” King rubbed the back of his neck with a beefy hand. He looked suddenly tired. “Opportunity. Motive. Means. Arguably Maria had all three.”
“And Sylvia?”
King took an audible breath. “Get her to be more specific about where she was and why she was arguing with Thana, Megan. Otherwise it’s possible she has all three as well.”
“She says she was on the walking path.”
“No one can confirm her whereabouts.”
“Why would she want to kill Thana? I just don’t see a motive.”
King frowned. “They argued that morning and Sylvia won’t say why.”
“That doesn’t amount to motive. And as for means, Thana may have been slight, but Sylvia is tiny. I doubt she weighs a hundred pounds.” Megan’s eyes widened. “So there must be something else. Something that ties her to the murder.” She snapped her fingers. “That scarf. The scarf did belong to Sylvia.” King didn’t respond but he didn’t need to—his face was the color of his Phillies hat. Megan felt her temples begin to pound. “She could have left that scarf somewhere. Or someone could have stolen it.”
“Sure. Anything is possible.”
Megan rubbed her own temple. Anything was possible. Little consolation. Two women. Each close to someone she cared deeply about. Each with baggage making them viable suspects.
Megan watched the Phillies game for a few minutes while her mind cleared. One of King’s teammates had wandered over to chat with him, and Megan took the time to consider what she’d learned. She was pretty sure Bobby was tired of this conversation, and she didn’t blame him. The whole thing was giving her a headache.
When Bobby’s buddy was gone, Megan leaned toward Hedy. “I’d like to buy one more for Bobby,” she said.
Bobby thanked her. “But I’m sure there’s a price attache
d.”
Megan smiled. “Just one more question.”
King popped a pretzel in his mouth. “Shoot.”
“How about Elliot Craddock?”
King’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “The boyfriend?”
“Yep. I heard he’s bad news.”
“Elliot’s okay. Kind of a drifter. Hangs around with an obnoxious crowd.” King smiled. “You must have been talking to Clover. She can’t stand any of them. Their choice of music disturbs her delicate sensibilities.”
Megan smiled. Sounded like Clover. “Is Elliot under suspicion?”
“I suppose everyone’s under suspicion. He wasn’t at the Center that day, as far as I know.” Bobby shrugged. “But they had separated recently. And someone saw them fighting at the Center, so I guess it wouldn’t surprise me if he was on the detectives’ short list. Then again, I heard Thana was a spitfire. The rumor is that she cycled through boyfriends like some people go through paper products. Which is why Wesley Moore was upset.” The Phillies scored and cheers and catcalls swallowed the quiet. King stood up and whistled.
Megan mouthed “thank you,” left a twenty on the counter, and headed for the door. The Thana she remembered from their school years had been quiet and shy, more passive aggressive than spitfire. One thing was for sure, a lot had changed in the intervening years. Perhaps that was where Megan needed to begin.
Eleven
“Everything’s set.” Clay rubbed his hands together in a gesture of accomplishment. “Oven’s ready, kitchen’s ready, plates and trays are clean.” He ran through the list of things that needed to be finished for the farm pizza kitchen to open Saturday night. “And Clover has the reservations ready. Alvaro and I will cook, Clover will play hostess and waitress along with Emily. You and Bonnie can wander, greet people, and fill in as needed.”
“Do we have enough staff?”
“We’re only allowed to have forty guests at a time under the terms of our permit, so I think we’ll be fine.” He glanced at a clipboard. “We have two seatings, one with seventeen guests, and the other with eighteen. If they overlap a little, we’re fine.”
They were outside, under the ancient, giant oak that separated her house from the greenhouses and the abandoned Marshall house next door. Bibi had made them a pitcher of iced tea and they were lounging under the maple’s shade—their version of a meeting. The Marshall house stood still and dark beyond the tree, it’s solid form a testimony to an era when houses were built to last. But the vestiges of time and neglect had taken their toll, and the Marshall house—once part of the Washington Acres parcel but empty and abandoned for years—seemed an empty shell of what could have been.
Megan had been eyeing up that property for a long time. She just wished she could afford to buy it before someone else did.
“Do we have room for two more people?” Megan asked, glancing at the reservation list.
“Sure. Who?”
“Just note two more. I’m not even sure they’ll come.”
“Five o’clock or seven o’clock?”
“I don’t know. Can you pencil two in for both?”
Clay gave her a funny look but jotted something down on his list. “Done. That’s it, though. We’re at capacity.”
“Are you excited?” Megan asked. “This is a big deal, and you were the impetus behind it.”
Clay grinned. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m very excited. I’ve been wanting to do this for quite a while.”
“You have.” Megan glanced out, over the stone fence that lined a portion of the property and toward the road beyond. She missed Denver, and found that she wished he was here with her—more so than she might have liked. “I’m impressed.”
“Clover did a lot of the work. She held me to a schedule. She can be a stickler for planning.”
“The incredible Hand duo.” Megan smiled. She was wearing jeans and a fitted Green Mountain College t-shirt. She pulled a caterpillar off the sleeve of her shirt and tossed it into the grass, on the hump around the tree’s roots. “Funny that someone who grew up so unconventionally can have such conventional attitudes.”
Megan was teasing and Clay smirked back at her, happy to play along. “What, you don’t think commune life is a conventional upbringing? We had Alvaro. He was pretty conventional.”
At the mention of Alvaro, Megan thought about Maria. Alvaro had returned to work, but he was surlier than usual. Surly and quiet. Every attempt to draw him out was met with stony silence.
“Tell me about Maria,” Megan said.
Clay seemed surprised. “What do you want to know?”
“I know her now as Alvaro’s chattier better half, and as the put-together, professional events coordinator, but Clover’s hinted that Maria wasn’t always that way.”
Clay lay back on the grass, using the hilly area around the tree to prop up his upper body. He studied Megan for a few seconds before turning his attention to the flawless sky.
“Jeez, Megan, I’m not sure where to even begin. Maria’s story and our own intertwine.”
“Then start there.”
“Yeah, okay.” Clay placed one hand behind his head, and he picked at the grass with the other. “My mother had a good heart. She was young when she had me, and Clover followed right behind. We never really knew our father, and Mom joined the commune when she was only twenty. I was two, Clover was one. The community was all we knew.”
He paused and Megan waited. Gunther sat at attention a few feet away, his focus on Megan, and Sadie snored softly in a dappled patch of sun nearby.
“That’s the beginning of the happy children’s book version of our lives,” Clay said. “In that version, the commune was like one large, supportive family and my nuclear family never wanted for anything. I could stop there. I think that’s the version my sister tells herself.” Clay readjusted so both arms were behind his head. “The truth is a little more sordid.”
“Sordid in what way?” Megan had been sitting cross-legged on the grass. She shifted so her legs were outstretched in front of her and tilted her head toward the sun.
“I wouldn’t call the commune a cult, but it did have a fairly rigid social structure. It recognized marriages and long-term relationships, and single parents, especially mothers, were looked upon as charity cases. My mother had no interest in another relationship, and she earned her keep by baking bread and cleaning up the kitchen after meals. In return, we had a small apartment—just one bedroom for my mom and Clover and a living area where I slept on a couch—and Clover and I attended school. My mom was…quirky. Eccentric. She meant well, but her judgment wasn’t always the best.” Clay sighed. “Anyway, life in the commune was strictly regimented, which I think is why my mom liked it. She didn’t have to make decisions. But as part of the regimen, men and their families ate first, so by the time we ate, much of the healthy stuff was gone.” His smile was tinged with melancholy. “Much of the food was gone.”
“That must have been hard,” Megan said. She pictured young Clay and Clover waiting for the dregs in the cafeteria. The image tugged at her core.
Clay agreed. “Don’t get me wrong. People were nice enough. It wasn’t like we were abused or anything. Or starving. But the commune was poor, and we knew the pecking order and the elders, as they were called, made it clear that we were on the bottom of the list. Unless my mother wanted to marry one of the single men, that is. It was like relationship blackmail.” Clay tilted his head so he was looking at Megan. “I guess it’s why I consider myself a feminist. I know what my mother went through to maintain her freedom of choice. She had no power because she lacked a certain piece of anatomy—and she refused to marry a man she didn’t love.”
Megan pondered that. Clay’s mother had chosen to live in that environment, had made the decision to stay, and yet Megan didn’t hear bitterness in his voice. “And Maria?”
“Yes, Maria.”
Clay put his head back on his hands, and Megan felt like he was on the therapy couch. A first—normally he was the one listening to her. “Maria and Alvaro worked at the commune, but they weren’t really part of it. Alvaro was the chef and Maria ran the kitchen. Mostly we saw Maria storming around looking purposeful and stern. One day she found Clover crying outside the meal room. She asked what was wrong and I told her my sister was hungry.”
Clay smiled at the memory. “Maria’s face turned bright red and I thought for certain she was angry at us. The next thing you know, she disappeared inside and came out with a bag. She took us to a quiet spot and fed us meat-filled sandwiches and milk and fresh fruit, which we never got—especially the meat and fruit. After that, she saw to it that we were well fed.” He sat up, shook his head. “She never acknowledged us publicly. No special treatment that could give our friendship away. But always, always, she found us and made sure we got protein and fresh fruit and vegetables.”
Which explained Clover’s unrelenting loyalty toward Alvaro and Maria. Watching out for children—and risking her own job to do so. Hardly the character of a killer. “Clay, I’m worried about Maria. She was at the Center the day Thana Moore was murdered.” Megan went no further. She had promised Bobby King.
“So?” Clay looked confused. “You’re afraid she’s a suspect?” He watched Megan’s face, and when she didn’t deny it, he said, “Ridiculous.”
“Maybe not so ridiculous. You’ll have to trust me on that.”
Clay shook his head vehemently back and forth. “It can’t be true, Megan.”
“If it is true, if the Dartville police are looking at Maria for this heinous crime, how would Alvaro react?”
Clay seemed to consider the question. “I doubt it’s true, Megan. Maria is quiet, but she’s an angel. Literally. But if she was somehow implicated? Beware the wrath of Alvaro. Maria is his life.”
Clay’s words stayed with Megan for the remainder of the morning. Maria as an angel—an image so at odds with the suspicions cast her way. Megan decided to drive by the Hernandez’s home. Perhaps if Alvaro wouldn’t talk with her, Maria would. Megan was worried about her chef, and if Clay was right, and Maria was ultimately implicated, she wanted to know how to help him.
