ROOTED IN DECEIT

by Wendy Tyson

  “Bobby’s on his way here.” Bibi’s voice was a weary reprimand. “Whoever broke in trashed the restaurant.”

  Twenty-Three

  “Megan, walk me through your day again.” Chief Bobby King looked down at his pad of paper. “Just one more time.”

  Megan recounted her day—the trip to the Mission, her visit to the Center, her meet up with Elliot Craddock, and her return home. “I’ve been home since about seven.”

  King glanced at his watch. “It’s after nine. Your grandmother says she left at four forty-five, Clay left at three, and your dad and Sylvia went to dinner at five. You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when you got here?”

  Megan shook her head, feeling chagrined.

  “So you sat in your room, on the phone with Denver—”

  “I called Denver. He wasn’t there.”

  “And then sat on the floor in the craft room—”

  “Sewing room,” Bibi said.

  “Got it, ladies. Sewing room. Until your grandmother came and got you.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Bobby’s blond eyebrows arched. “And the dogs? Where were they?”

  “Sleeping by me in the sewing room.”

  King shook his head. “Look at this? How did you not hear it?”

  Megan looked around, her head pounding. How had she missed it? The carefully painted door was down—having been literally taken off its hinges. Not something she’d have failed to notice when she arrived back at the farm. Inside, the tables were askew, some of the Mason jars had been smashed, and there were printed menus all over the ground. Thankfully the oven remained intact, but the hostess station Clay and Clover had so painstakingly built was nearly destroyed and the large clock was broken.

  “It looks like someone was looking for cash. Drugs are my best guess. With this opioid crisis, it could have been kids looking for easy money.”

  Megan said, “We don’t keep cash in the barn. None whatsoever.” She felt Eddie’s hand on her back and tried to decide if he was propping her up or looking for support. “This barn has seen its share of troubles.”

  She didn’t need to say more. She knew King was as aware as anyone that the new business was an attempt to wash away the ghosts of nearly two years ago, when a body turned up in the barn. They were standing just inside the restaurant now. Twilight had descended, and the broken door did nothing to keep out the mosquitoes.

  King jotted something in his notebook. The corners of his mouth turned down. “They must’ve gotten frustrated when they couldn’t find anything to steal.”

  “Other than the paintings,” Megan said.

  “The paintings?”

  Bibi nodded. “You’re right. They were over there.” She pointed to the far wall, now bare white. “Even the hangers are gone.”

  “They were done by Thana Moore,” Megan said. She let the name sink in. When Bobby’s eyes widened, Megan said, “Maybe it’s time to contact Lewis and Jones.”

  “Motive for her murder?”

  Megan said, “Certainly seems like a connection is likely.”

  King ran a thick finger down the open page in his notebook. “And you spoke to the boyfriend, Elliot Craddock, today.”

  Megan nodded. “He was here Saturday. He’d have known about the paintings. According to Thana’s father, they’d broken up recently. Maybe he felt like he was entitled to Thana’s work.”

  “Or maybe he needed money,” Bibi said. “You mentioned that he seemed shaky when you met.”

  “Drugs?” King asked. “Did he seem like he was on something?”

  “Maybe.” Megan thought back to their parking lot conversation. “He seemed nervous. But, to be fair, his girlfriend had just been murdered.”

  Eddie, who had been quiet up until that point, cleared his throat. “If this Elliot lied to you and came here to steal the paintings, then who knows what else he did.” Eddie looked at King for support. “He could have murdered Thana. And if he did, and the police can prove it, then Sylvia will be free to go home.”

  The tone of her father’s voice made it very clear that home is exactly where he wished he was right now.

  King gave a noncommittal shake of the head. “None of this is my call, Eddie. My officers will be investigating the theft, and if there’s a connection, we’ll cooperate, of course. But the murder took place out of our jurisdiction.” King turned to Megan. “We’ll need a formal statement about the paintings. A description, appraisal, invoice, or even photos if you have them. These paintings could be worth some significant money.”

  Megan nodded. “Of course.”

  “And you’ll look into Elliot Craddock?” Eddie said to King.

  “For the thefts? Yes, as part of a broader inquiry. Anyone looking for cash—drug money or otherwise—would know those paintings had value.”

  “But they’d have to find a buyer,” Megan said. “And that’s risky.”

  Eddie said, “So anyone who came to the opening of the pizza farm kitchen could be a suspect.”

  “That’s right,” King said.

  “How do you think the thieves got in here without Megan or the dogs hearing them?” Bibi asked.

  King walked outside and they followed. He stood on the grassy knoll in front of the old oak. “My guess? The abandoned Marshall place. I wish you’d buy that place already, Megan.”

  She smiled. “I wish I could buy it.”

  King regarded her for a moment before saying, “They came through that property and around the back. Why Megan didn’t hear the door come down is anyone’s guess.”

  “Professionals?” Eddie said.

  “Or Megan was preoccupied,” Bibi replied. “By the memory drawers.”

  Megan thought her grandmother’s tone seemed sad rather than annoyed, as Megan had expected her to be. She held no love for Charlotte. There was a reason those photos had been stuffed in the back of a dresser.

  King said, “That would explain Megan, but not the dogs. Of course, if the pups were asleep in that sewing room with the door closed, and with all those cabinets and shelves on the walls, maybe they didn’t hear anything.” King walked down the knoll, past a greenhouse, to the line of tall grass that delineated the abandoned property. He pointed to spots where the meadow had been trampled, just darker shadows now in a sea of shadows. “Someone came through here. So either the dogs didn’t react because they thought it was someone they knew—Brian or Clay, perhaps—or the perps were exceptionally quiet.”

  “Or it was someone they knew,” Megan said. She couldn’t help it—her mind drifted to Sylvia. All that sneaking around. Her desire to acquire Thana’s work.

  Megan followed King’s footsteps until she was just inches from the Marshall property. Her mind spinning, she recalled the murder in the barn almost two years ago, and the possibility of treasure on one of these properties. Back then, someone had invaded her land—for a very specific purpose. “Do you think the ransacking of the dining area was a decoy? To make it look more random than it was?”

  King agreed that was a possibility. “Stranger things have happened. In the art world—and in Winsome.”

  “For sure,” Megan said. “If it was a decoy then what they really wanted were those paintings.”

  “More reason to assume this is connected to that artist’s murder,” Eddie said. “And not to my wife.”

  Megan glanced at her father. She tried not to be annoyed that in the midst of all this he was thinking only of Sylvia. She tried not to consider that just maybe her father’s new wife was somehow involved.

  “My father has a point, Bobby. I know you say this is a job for the Dartville detectives, but you and I both know things that appear to be coincidental rarely are.”

  Bobby’s back was turned toward them, and seemed to be studying the old Marshall house. The building—another historic Colon
ial, albeit smaller than Washington Acres, and once part of the Birch land—stood stately despite years of neglect. Only a set of old easements and a relatively small lot seemed to keep it from being sold at auction to some developer. “That place is an eyesore and a risk. Drug addicts, runaways.” King sighed. “Until someone buys it and cleans it up, it’s a danger to you and your grandmother. But I know that’s a double-edged sword.” He spun around. “I’ll have my officers check it out. Just in case someone is, or was, hiding over there.” He looked at Eddie. “And again, I’ll make a report and connect with Lewis and Jones. Until there is evidence that this was connected, it will be treated separately.”

  “I need to patch up that doorway,” Megan said. “A temporary patch will be enough. Otherwise we’ll have raccoons nesting in the woodstove.”

  King nodded. “I’ll give you a hand while I wait for the patrol cars.”

  “Don’t you think you should go now? In case someone is still there?” Eddie asked.

  Megan and King shared a look of exasperation, but it was Bibi who said, “Eddie, go inside. There’s more at stake here than your wife’s patience.”

  Eddie seemed to catch himself. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “Let me check on Sylvia and then I’ll come back and help you with the door.”

  Megan watched her father recede into the shadows. On one hand, she was impressed that he offered to help. On the other hand, she wasn’t holding her breath.

  Megan, Bibi, and King had the doorway covered with plywood and the area secured before the patrolmen arrived. Two black and whites pulled onto the Marshall property, and Megan watched as four uniformed male officers climbed out. King excused himself just as Megan was hammering the last nail.

  “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your investigation,” Bibi said. “Megan, shall we head back in? It’s been a long day.”

  Megan nodded. She placed the tools back in the main portion of the barn, checked the goats, and joined her grandmother for the stroll back to the house.

  “When your father gets hyper-focused on something, he can’t see straight. He’s always been like that.” Bibi’s voice had a slight pleading quality Megan wasn’t used to. “He means well. He really does.”

  Gunther was walking back to the house with them, and Megan appreciated the firm feel of the dog’s body against her leg. He was guiding her, she knew, and had probably picked up on the tension and was being especially vigilant.

  “A little late, Gunther,” Megan mused. She reached down and stroked the dog’s nearly white fur. “But you’re a good boy.”

  “Megan?” Bibi stopped walking under the glow of the porch lights. “Before we go inside, do you want to talk? About Charlotte and your father? About Sylvia?”

  Bibi’s earnestness took Megan aback. Bonnie Birch was a pragmatic woman, given to strong opinions and short on patience when it came to anything she perceived as drama. Megan assumed her grandmother would want her to get over Charlotte and move on. This sudden concern for her feelings was even harder to deal with.

  “I found the photo album you keep in the memory drawer.”

  “It was painful to look at, wasn’t it?” Bibi sat on the porch step and Megan settled in next to her. “I kept that for you.”

  “Why do you hate my mother so much?”

  Bibi looked out into the darkness. “She hurt Eddie and you. That’s the easy answer. And the mostly true answer.”

  “But there’s more?”

  Bibi was quiet for a long time. Megan heard the commotion inside the kitchen give way to silence. Her eyes adjusted and she watched as two bats circled and swooped overhead. Her grandmother was her rock. It was hard to see her so vulnerable. Another reason to resent Charlotte.

  When Bibi finally spoke, her reason surprised Megan. “Jealousy. There, I said it.” Bibi put her head back and something like a twisted laugh escaped her lips. “I was married to your grandfather from the age of seventeen. He had a cruel streak, Megan. You didn’t see much of it, but I can assure you Eddie did. As did Sarah and Charlotte—and me.”

  “You’re jealous that my mother escaped?”

  “No. And don’t take it that way, please. There’s not a day in my life I would trade. Not to be a queen or a lottery winner or even a Bridge champion. But Charlotte did something unspeakable, especially for an old crow like me. She changed course. Most of me hates her for backing out on her commitments. You just don’t leave a child. But a tiny part of me wishes I’d had just a few ounces of her courage. Maybe I would have told your grandfather where to put it once in a while.”

  Megan laughed and Bibi joined her. “I can see that. Whether we agree with my mother’s choice or not, she took responsibility for her own life.”

  Bibi nodded. “In a way that’s unimaginable to most of us—especially people from my generation.”

  The bats swooped close to the porch light and Megan followed their progress. She thought about her mother’s letter. “I think Charlotte accepts blame. I think she really does own her decisions.”

  “She’s not a victim of circumstance,” Bibi said.

  Like my father, Megan thought. She felt Bibi’s hand reach for her own. Bibi squeezed and Megan squeezed back. Grandmother, friend, surrogate mother…whatever Charlotte had done had led to this—and this was pretty good place to be.

  Twenty-Four

  Megan couldn’t sleep. While she felt better after her talk with Bibi, what she hadn’t told her grandmother was that the call to Denver—having the breathy stranger answer the phone—added to her unsettled feelings. Thana’s untimely death. Her father’s return. Charlotte’s appearance in her life. She was, she thought, in love with the veterinarian, and this was perhaps the first test of that love. Were they failing?

  Megan climbed out of bed and flicked on the light. Gunther remained downstairs, guarding the property from his perch in the kitchen, but Sadie was curled up on the foot of the bed, and she stood and stretched, echoing Megan.

  “Let’s do a little digging, girl, shall we?” Megan turned on her laptop and waited for it boot up. She didn’t feel like heading to her home office in case she came across her grandmother or her father—or worse, Sylvia. She’d do her digging from the comfort of her bed.

  Legs crisscross on her quilt, Megan typed in her first search—Elliot Craddock. His name pulled up more than two dozen relevant hits. She scrolled through his social media sites, but other than the kind of frat-boy photos she’d expect to see from a twenty-something partier, there was nothing of relevance. His artist website was another story.

  Elliot’s main website painted a picture of a struggling artist of minimal talent. Megan didn’t pretend to have an eye for art, but even based on the little she knew, these were paintings and sculptures of the amateur category. The paintings were basic watercolors, mostly of old cars and garages. Unlike Thana’s work, there was nothing differentiating the use of color or subject. Like his paintings, most of the sculptures were of cars or car parts. Elliot had taken everyday household items—cans, hangers, Slinkys, metal bracelets—and fashioned them into vehicles or vehicle parts. They were more interesting than the paintings, but unlikely to warrant the four-figure price tags Thana’s work seemed to merit.

  Which is probably why the website’s last copyright date had been 2014.

  Megan clicked on the “All about Elliot” tab. Elliot had laid out his personal story—how he had been born in a poorer section of Northeast Philly to a janitor stepfather and homemaker mother, how he’d lost his older brother to a gang when Elliot was only eleven, and how he’d attended two years of college for business, bucking the family trend. He’d discovered his passion for art during college and never looked back.

  Yet for someone so passionate about his artwork, he hadn’t done much in several years.

  Keeping that tab open, Megan searched for Thana’s webpage. This one seemed more professional. Her name
was in black lettering across the top, and a menu of items along the left hand advertised her latest works as well as sold items. Megan was startled by the pricing. Some of Thana’s paintings had sold for as much as forty-thousand dollars.

  Suddenly, the theft of the two paintings seemed even more grave. And the likelihood of a connection to Thana’s murder, stronger.

  Megan returned to the search results. There was little more she could find about Elliot. He seemed like a pretty average guy, and she had some difficulty reconciling the controlling man Thana’s father spoke about and the laid back, grieving man-boy she’d met in that parking lot. Nevertheless, he seemed the most likely suspect when it came to those paintings.

  Set his alibi by telling her he was leaving town.

  Then break in and steal what he’d probably convinced himself was his for the taking.

  But killing Thana? If he was a controlling boyfriend whose career and ego were shattered when Thana left him, then perhaps so. Clearly his own art career had not taken off, and Thana’s had become lucrative over time. Losing Thana likely meant losing his income.

  Men had killed over less.

  Megan’s eyelids were feeling heavy, and she found she was having trouble staying awake. She logged off her laptop and placed it on her bureau. She paused by the window, looking out into the yard. Her journey home had been fraught with trials, but she loved it here. The farm. The café. Her grandmother. Denver.

  Denver.

  Megan closed the curtains, flipped off the lights, and crawled into bed. Denver never called her back. She fell asleep thinking about Scottish women and large, fancy casseroles.

  The next morning, Megan had the unpleasant task of telling Clay what had happened to his beloved farm pizza kitchen. They were on the phone and it was five-forty, twenty minutes before Clay was due to arrive, but she wanted him to know before he set foot on the property. His reaction surprised her.

  “This gives us a chance to make it even better,” he said after a long pause. A very long pause. “Clover and I have a list of things we’d do differently. Some smaller tables inside, for one. And patio seating. That’s Alvaro’s idea. He likes the woods and says people will enjoy dining outside.”