by Wendy Tyson
“Yes, we could do those things,” Megan said slowly. She was collecting eggs, the phone plastered between her ear and shoulder. “You do understand what I said, Clay. Someone intentionally destroyed this property.”
“I understand, but there’s nothing either of us can do now except make the best of it. My concern is for you and Bibi. This means someone was on your property. I realize Eddie and Sylvia are there, and you have the dogs, but I can stay with you, Megan. Just say the word.”
Megan placed another egg in the basket and stood straight. “You amaze me, you know.”
“Because of my stunning wood-fired pizzas?”
“Because you always remind me that there is good in the world.”
The morning passed quickly. Today they were harvesting more tomatoes—Roma this time, to sell at the farmers market, to bring to the Philly farm-to-table restaurants, and for Alvaro’s rich tomato sauce. Despite the drought, they’d had a good tomato crop, and Megan and Clay worked side-by-side, picking bushels of vine-ripened fruit.
“More rain,” Clay said, looking up at a clear lapis lazuli sky. “Think a rain dance would help?”
“My mental state, perhaps,” Megan said. “I’ll throw in an extra hour of overtime to watch you do it.”
Clay smiled. “I don’t come that cheaply.” He picked up a full bushel and disappeared into the Cool Bot, where they stored produce. A moment later he was back. “Want to bring some veggies to Alvaro for me later this morning, before you head into the city?”
Megan nodded. She had three Philadelphia restaurants buying her produce, and she was careful to provide the white glove touch to each one. This meant driving the produce into the city herself and always making sure she was offering high quality, clean products. One stray grasshopper in a bed of arugula, one batch of mushy tomatoes, and that line of business would dry up. She needed all of the diversity in income she could get right now.
“What does Alvaro need?”
Clay started picking from another tomato plant, his long, slender fingers quickly and carefully plucking fruit from the vine. “Tomatoes, basil, Swiss chard, more lettuce, and broccoli rabe. He says he’s making an Italian-themed dinner tonight.”
“Sure, I’ll stop there. I can bring him some garlic too.” Megan placed the two tomatoes she was holding in the basket. She loved the shape and scent of the thick-walled Roma tomatoes. Bibi used them to make her tomato bisque soup, which was on the menu at home tonight. “How did he sound?”
“Back to his grumpy self.”
“Any more on Maria?”
Clay stopped working. He wore a babushka over his hair to keep the sweat from dripping in his eyes, and he pulled it off and used it to wipe his face. It was only ten in the morning, but already the temperature outside was near one hundred.
“She’s still a person of interest, according to Clover. Bobby doesn’t seem to think too highly of the Dartville detectives.”
“I share his lack of enthusiasm.”
“Their ineptitude is dangerous,” Clay said. “Especially if they decide they need to wrap this case up soon.”
“It’s been all over the papers.” Just this morning, Megan saw Thana’s death—and the lack of an arrest—splashed on the front page of The Philadelphia Inquirer. “That’s a real risk.”
“Well, it sounds like Maria isn’t out of the woods yet. Nor would I assume is Sylvia.”
Megan nodded. She was afraid he was right. She glanced around the field, looking at the array of vegetables they had coming up. In every direction she saw the fruits of their labor—and their risk-taking. It amazed her how much could be grown on just a few acres.
“Let me wash up, and then I’ll head to the café and into the city.”
Clay had resumed picking. Without pausing, he said, “I’ll load the truck in the meantime.” He met Megan’s gaze. “Go easy on Alvaro. I’m afraid this has really shaken his world.”
“Yes, I imagine having your beloved stand accused of murder would do that.”
“It’s not just that.” Clay chose another tomato, held it up to the sun, and then tucked it into the basket. “The whole time we were at the commune, when Maria was secretly giving us food, Alvaro never spoke to us. We knew he was complicit. Sometimes he would even bake us special little treats, like mini pies on our birthdays, but he never, ever said anything to us. Not even a real hello. Maria did that. She was the family spokesperson, his connection to the outside world.”
Megan thought she understood. “So when he is left to be the advocate, it’s hard.”
“I think it makes him feel impotent. To not be able to articulate the injustice, to fight for his wife. He only knows one way to fight—with his fists. And it doesn’t work for much in the modern justice system.”
Megan pictured Alvaro sitting on the grass outside the pizza kitchen. She’d seen that frustration in his posture, in the set of his jaw.
“How can I help him?” Megan asked.
“Unless you can find who actually murdered Thana Moore, I think the only way to help Alvaro is to pray that the police stop focusing on Maria. It’s breaking his heart.”
“I wanted the Roma tomatoes,” Alvaro groused. “And more basil. More.” He smelled a bunch of the fragrant green leaves and made a contented growl. “Good, but more.”
“I’ll tell Clay to drop off Romas and more basil.”
“And fresh oregano. I’m making a fresh lasagna. I need oregano and basil. And garlic. No one brought me garlic.”
Megan smiled to herself. Alvaro was in fine form today. “It’s in the truck, Alvaro.”
Her chef grunted. “Okay, well, let’s get it. I have work to do.”
Megan caught Bibi’s eye from across the kitchen. Her grandmother had gone to help out for a few hours, and she was chopping cucumbers for the lunch special—a cold cucumber gazpacho. With Labor Day fast approaching and families preparing for the fall back-to-school rush, they’d seen an uptake in business at the café and the store, and that was Bibi’s outward reason for coming. Only Megan knew she really wanted to be there out of concern for Alvaro. Eddie was hiding out in the guest room with Sylvia; there was little Bibi could do for him. But at least Alvaro was letting her work.
“How’s Maria?” Bibi asked casually as Megan trudged back in carrying a basket of garlic.
“She’s fine as can be expected.” Alvaro brought a cleaver down on a chicken breast. Megan was glad he wasn’t angry with her.
“Any more from the police?” Bibi asked.
Alvaro stopped chopping. “No.”
Megan and Bibi paused what they were doing to look at the chef. His voice was so full of anguish, of anger. But before they could say anything else, Alvaro was back to cleaving the chicken.
“Basil, Megan. Tell Clay I need it soon. For even a fresh sauce like that, I need to get started early. The dinner rush will be here before we know it.”
Megan promised to call Clay immediately. She knew Alvaro would rather cleave chicken than deal with Maria’s situation. She’d give him that.
Megan left the kitchen and went out into the café to make her rounds and check on the store. She found Merry Chance sitting at one of the copper-topped tables with Roger Becker and the town librarian. They were deep in conversation but stopped talking when they saw Megan.
“Do you have time to join us?” Merry asked. She looked guiltily at Roger—or so Megan thought. “We heard what happened at the farm.”
Less than twenty-four hours and already the break-in was town gossip. Megan mustered her best fake smile. “I need to get into the city, Merry. Another time.”
“But you and Bonnie are okay?” Roger asked.
“We’re fine, Roger.”
“It’s a shame,” Merry said. She glanced at the librarian, who gave her a knowing smirk. “It happens in every family.”
“W
hat does?” Megan leaned in closer, aware that her nerves were now on edge. “What happens in every family?”
Perhaps realizing she’d gone too far, Merry shrank back against her chair. “Just that we can’t always control our loved ones’ choices.”
Roger nodded. All three were staring at her.
Megan knew exactly what they were insinuating. That Sylvia had something to do with the thefts, and maybe even Thana’s demise.
Megan considered calling them on it, since none seemed willing to own it on their own. Instead she walked away, intent on being the bigger person.
Her good intentions didn’t last for long. On the way back to the farm to pack for the trip into Philadelphia, Megan called Denver. The call and his lack of response had been plaguing her. Only Denver didn’t answer.
“Denver, perhaps your lady friend didn’t give you my message from late last night. Call me when you have time.” Curt, angry—and instantly regretted. But there was no turning back.
On her way out of Winsome’s small downtown, Megan decided to make a stop by Elliot’s friends’ house. She wanted to see if Bobby was around anyway, and she thought maybe Elliot’s friends could shed light on why he’d gone to LA.
King wasn’t home, no surprise there, but she found the one who’d been wearing the Drexel t-shirt carrying groceries from his car toward the apartment. When he saw Megan he did a double take and stopped walking.
“Elliot’s not here,” he said. “That’s who you are, right? Thana’s friend.”
Megan nodded. Drexel seemed friendlier without his posse around him, and she decided to take advantage of the sudden shift in manners.
“Do you have a few minutes?” She pointed to the open trunk of his newer Civic. Two bags remained inside. “I’d be happy to carry these up for you.” She knew she was breaking every stranger rule, but she figured he’d say no and that would be her chance to ask a few questions.
To her surprise, Drexel shrugged. “Sure—suit yourself.”
Megan grabbed the bags, which were heavier than they appeared, and followed Drexel up the steps to his second floor flat. Like Elliot he was large. Unlike Elliot, he had more fat than muscle, with the firm bulk of someone who had once been athletic but now partied harder than he played. Up close, he had a beak-like nose and small, dark eyes. His shoulders were rounded, hunched—a man who spent his days in front of a computer.
He unlocked the door and kicked it open for Megan. The apartment was a sty. Dirty laundry all over the living room floor, covering a pair of once khaki couches and a plaid chair, circa 1970. A large gaming console sat at one end of the space, a computer desk littered with Styrofoam take-out containers at the other. The kitchen was a dated galley with a stove so covered in empty beer cans as to make it useless, and the sink was full of empty take-out tins and beer mugs.
“Cleaning lady is off today,” Drexel said. He shrugged. “Enter at your own risk.”
They put the groceries down on a paper-covered portion of orange vinyl countertop. Drexel started putting them away and said. “So shoot. What do you want to ask me?”
Megan made sure she remained between the open front door and Drexel. “Where’s Elliot?”
“Hell if I know.”
“He lives here, right?”
“He crashes here on occasion.”
Megan watched him pull two bottles of Coke out of the bags and place them under the counter. He crumpled the bag up and tossed it on the floor. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Few days ago. Same as I told the cops.”
“They’ve been here?”
“Twice. Looking for Elliot.” Drexel opened the refrigerator and chugged milk right from a half gallon container. He held it out. “Want some?”
“I’ll pass, but thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Drexel said, “What’s your interest in Elliot?”
“My interest is in Thana. More specifically, why someone wanted to hurt her. I spoke with Elliot yesterday and he was helping me. He and I are on the same side—we both want Thana’s killer brought to justice.”
Drexel regarded her evenly. “Is that so?”
“Seems to me.”
“Huh.” He put the last of the groceries into a cupboard and tossed the last bag on the floor, not even bothering to crumple this one. “You sleeping with Elliot?”
“No, of course not.” Megan felt her face flush. “Why would you even ask that?”
“Because usually when a woman comes looking it’s because she’s jealous.”
Megan laughed. “I assure you that’s not me. Did Elliot often have women come knocking because of jealousy?”
“Just Thana.”
“I heard she broke up with him.”
“Is that what Thana said?” He smiled. “Maybe it’s true, who knows. Elliot keeps to himself and Thana was…different.”
“Different how?”
He shrugged. “She liked a lot of drama in her life. Attention, especially from men. First with Elliot. Then I heard she was sleeping with some bigwig at the new yoga retreat center.”
Ray. “Did Elliot tell you that?”
“Didn’t have to. Thana flaunted it. Thought she was hot shit.” Drexel reached down under the counter and pulled up a can of Budweiser. “Want one?”
“No thanks. I try not to drink before lunch.”
Drexel looked at the clock. “You’re in luck. It’s lunchtime.”
Megan smiled. “Elliot mentioned going to LA. Any idea why?”
“How should I know? I’m not his secretary.”
“No, you’re not.” Megan took a step toward the door. Suddenly the hopelessness of this place was getting to her. “Thanks for your time, Mr.—”
“Stewart. Steve Stewart. And not sure what you’re thanking me for. I have nothing to tell you.”
At the door, Megan paused. She turned slowly toward Steve and caught him watching her, a blank expression on his bland face. “Was Elliot ever violent with Thana that you’re aware of?”
Steve’s eyes widened. “Seriously? No. Elliot’s not like that.” He seemed to understand the reason for the question. “You think Elliot could’ve killed Thana? No way, man. Absolutely not. Just ask his mom. He lives with her when he isn’t here or shacking up with Thana. Violent? No way. He would have married that woman if she’d have let him. He was crazy about her.”
Megan wasn’t naïve enough to think marriage and violence were mutually exclusive. “Where can I find Elliot’s mom?”
“Becky? Northeast Philly.” His eyes narrowed. “You really going there?”
“Probably not,” Megan said. Probably, she thought. After all, that section of the city wasn’t far from the restaurants she needed to visit.
Twenty-Five
Megan figured that Becky must be Elliot’s birth mother, but she called Clover to confirm.
“Sounds right,” Clover said. “I don’t know Alvaro’s sister Zaneta well. Met her once or twice at Hernandez family functions. Zaneta’s new husband is from the city, so Becky must be his former wife and Elliot’s mother.”
Megan and Clay had just loaded the truck with the fresh vegetable orders for the three city restaurants. She needed to deliver them by early afternoon so the chefs had them for dinner prep. She’d go from the restaurants to Northeast Philly if there was time.
“Bobby said they can’t find Elliot,” Clover whispered. “He never got on that airplane.”
Megan stopped what she was doing. “Had there been a ticket in his name?”
“Yes,” Clover said, “He checked in online and then didn’t arrive at the gate.”
“Another decoy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hold on.” Megan covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “Clay, I’m heading out. You okay here?”
Clay nodded. “I’ll be weeding this afternoon. Porter and I may also start to prepare the garlic beds.” Gunther barked and Clay patted the dog on the head. “We’ll be fine.”
Megan climbed in the truck and started the engine. She waited while the phone connected to her vehicle before resuming the conversation with Clover.
“What I mean by a decoy is that maybe all of this—the trip to LA, the robbery—was a decoy. He told me he was leaving so he could break in to my barn without anyone suspecting it was him. He made it look like a random robbery even though the paintings were the target to try and shift suspicion. He never got on that flight, but by the time the authorities figure that out he’s driven half way to Mexico.”
Clover said, “Pretty smart.”
“Or desperate.”
Clover snorted. “Desperate people do desperate things. This should help allay suspicions against Maria and Sylvia.”
“I hope so.”
Elliot did seem the most likely candidate for murder, but as Megan clicked off the phone, she couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that this was a little too neat, a little too convenient.
Fiddlehead, a farm-to-table restaurant near the University of Pennsylvania, was Megan’s last stop. She dropped off the restaurant’s order of Yukon Gold potatoes, garlic, arugula, and baby lettuces, and met briefly with the chef while the woman inspected the produce. Happy that every restaurant seemed satisfied, Megan drove north, out of the city. Using the magic of the internet, she’d managed to find an address for Elliot’s mother on Crescent Avenue, and she decided to stop by before going home. If his parents wouldn’t talk with her, so be it, but maybe they could shed some light on his current whereabouts and his relationship with Thana.
Becky and Leroy Smith lived in a brick rowhome in a neighborhood of other rowhomes bookended by a check cashing business and a Dollar Store. Litter blew across a wide street and under cars parked on either side of Crescent Avenue. Some of those cars looked like they hadn’t been moved in years. The Smith home was distinguishable only by its updates—new windows, fresh white trim, pristine white wicker furniture on the front porch, on which a fifty-something woman relaxed now.
