ROOTED IN DECEIT

by Wendy Tyson

  “Sometimes it’s hard for kids to admit when they need help.”

  “True. And he could be stubborn. So I called the police out of concern for this place. It was his haven. Zaneta said she showed you Elliot’s work. Gorgeous, right? So his workshop is all I have of my son, really—”

  Oliver pushed open the door and immediately stopped talking. His skin under the beard was bright red.

  “Oliver?”

  He kicked the door so that it opened the rest of the way. Other than a small pile of wood scraps and some old beer bottles, the workshop was empty.

  “What the hell?”

  He took a step forward and Megan’s arm shot out, blocking him. “You said the police are meeting you here?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Then wait for them. Either Elliot cleared this place out,” —which was Megan’s gut based on the cleanliness of the room—“or he was robbed. Either way, the police should be the first ones in here.”

  “Nonsense. I’m his father.”

  Megan interrupted him. “As a man of reason, you see the folly in messing with evidence. Footprints, fingerprints, who knows. You want Elliot’s murderer caught, don’t you?”

  Oliver’s face seemed to cave in on itself, and Megan saw the first hint of true grief. Oliver hung his head, but he backed out of the doorway and closed the door. Sinking down on the front stoop, he placed his face in his hands. Megan called King to be sure he was on his way, then sat on the far side of the entrance, giving Oliver his space.

  It was after supper time when Megan finally returned home. The oppressive heat from earlier in the day had given way to angry skies and a hot breeze, but still no rain. Megan sat in her truck for a few minutes watching Clay as he and Porter dug beside the old barn. It was too hot to stretch much less dig. But there they were.

  As she opened the truck door, Gunther and Sadie tore down the courtyard toward her, tails wagging furiously. It would be an idyllic scene had it not been for the murder just a few miles away.

  Megan placed her purse in the enclosed porch and traded her sandals for muckers before heading up toward the barn. If they were going to withstand this head to improve the property, the least she could do was help them.

  In the barn, she grabbed a shovel and met the men outside. The sun was just starting to set and the sky glowed orange and pink. While still hot, the space was shaded by the old oak and the barn and so the evening was more pleasant than it could have been. They worked silently for a while. Clay and Porter were drenched in sweat and streaked with dirt, but their occasional grunts seemed born of contentment rather than pain. After about twenty minutes, Clay stopped. Megan, now also drenched in sweat, was glad for the reprieve.

  “What do you think?” Clay asked. He took a long swig of water from a jug by the tree. “This will be the main outdoor eating area.”

  “I can’t believe how much you got done. And on a day like today.”

  “It’s too small,” Porter said. He was drinking Gatorade and he swallowed the blue stuff in three swigs. It wasn’t long ago that Brian Porter had been battling his own demons in the form of alcohol addiction. As a veteran suffering from PTSD, Megan knew this job and Denver’s friendship were sometimes the only things that kept Porter on track.

  “What do you mean?” Megan asked. “It looked pretty large to me.”

  Porter pointed to the dirt they’d dug up outside of the barn. “Not enough space for more than two or three bistro tables. For this to really work, you need more space so you can get five or six tables and still have room for the wait staff to walk around comfortably.”

  Megan saw what he meant. Right now, the patio would be fine as a household space, but tight for a commercial operation.

  “We need to contain it near the restaurant,” Clay said. “It’s part of the permit. So we can’t go too far toward the greenhouses or the neighboring property.”

  Megan leaned on her shovel and looked out over the farm property and the Marshall house beyond. “So you want to take down the tree?” she asked. She kept her voice steady, but that tree was special to her. She and Mick had sat under it as teens. Before that, she and Thana had planned for high school by its shady limbs. It always reminded her of childhood, when her grandmother would tell her to go up to “the big Oak” to get some fresh air and pack her sandwiches and small containers of fruit. It was as much a part of her youth as the house.

  But chopping down the tree was not what Clay wanted. “Just the knoll. If we flatten that area, we’ll have enough space, and some of the tables will be shaded by the tree.”

  The small grassy knoll was part and parcel with the tree. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” she asked Clay.

  Clay didn’t respond, but Porter caught her gaze and nodded slightly. Of course it meant a lot to him. The vision of the farm he and Bibi had shared—with the inn and the teaching programs and the restaurant—wasn’t that a dream they all shared?

  “Sure,” Megan said. “Just watch for the tree roots, okay? I don’t want to lose her.” She patted the great trunk.

  “Absolutely.” Clay picked the shovel back up and they worked for another hour, until the bats flew overhead and the mosquitoes had determined they were supper.

  By the time Megan went inside, she was achy and worn, but it was the best she had felt in days. Honest labor. She understood its draw and its ability to provide perspective.

  A sandwich and a bath later, she was in bed, down for the night.

  Twenty-Nine

  Megan’s alarm went off at four forty-five, but she’d been awake for fifteen minutes. Her hands had gone numb during the wee morning hours, a product of sleeping with her arm under her head so as not to disturb Sadie. Thinking about her numb hands made her think about her manicure, and that’s when she remembered where she’d seen the woman pumping gas at Wawa. Gina, her Center spa therapist.

  Megan hadn’t recognized her in that odd outfit. Quite the departure from the sedate-looking woman at the Center.

  So why was Gina with Joseph Muller from New Beginnings Mission Church?

  Megan recalled Ray telling her that the Center was doing a fundraiser to increase its good will with the community. Was that it? But why would they send a therapist from the spa to coordinate a major event with the Mission? They wouldn’t.

  Probably a logical explanation, Megan thought. She belongs to that church, or she volunteers with New Beginnings.

  Still, the image of the two of them stayed with her while she showered and dressed. It seemed like such a random connection.

  Downstairs, Bibi was already up. She greeted Megan and sliced off two think pieces of pumpkin bread. After toasting them in the oven for a few minutes, she spread softened butter over the top and slid the plate to Megan along with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Another hot one today,” Bibi said. “Drink lots of water.”

  Megan nodded. “Where’s my father?”

  “They’re still sleeping. I heard that woman get up a while ago, but haven’t seen them yet. Sylvia’s on princess time.”

  “Is that so?” Sylvia walked in the kitchen just then. Her hair was held up in silver clips, and she wore a long, white dressing gown. The irony was not lost on Megan or Bibi, who gave her granddaughter a surreptitious smile.

  “Good morning,” Bibi said without missing a beat. “Pumpkin bread?”

  “Such an American thing. No thank you. Do you have sweet rolls? Or maybe just some tea biscuits?”

  “I’m sure the bakery in town does,” Bibi murmured, and Megan gave her a look.

  “Have you heard any more from Detectives Jones and Lewis?” Megan asked. “With everything happening, I thought maybe they’d give you the green light that you’re clear.”

  Sylvia smiled. “No, not yet. They’re clowns, those two. Making me wait. They call every day or so, and I send them to my lawye
r. Thank you for that.”

  Megan knew she needed to talk with Sylvia about Chiara, but she dreaded that conversation. With a glance at her grandmother, she decided to head out on a high note—and she’d take the thank you as a high note. She drained the remainder of her coffee and grabbed another slice of pumpkin bread to go.

  “I’ll be in the greenhouses,” she told her grandmother. “I have to transplant the lettuce and I want to do it before it gets to hot outside.”

  “Good idea.” Bibi handed her a sandwich she’d wrapped in wax paper. Then she handed her another. And another. “For you, Clay, and Brian. You never eat enough while you’re working.”

  Sylvia, who had poured herself a cup of coffee, said, “She doesn’t look like she’s starving.”

  Megan left before Bibi, whose face was turning as pink as her “Winsome Cares” t-shirt, could respond.

  Oh, Dad, she thought as she headed toward the barn, what were you thinking? All the women in the world and you chose her?

  * * *

  Sylvia found Megan in the fields later that morning. In a nod to the Birch family vocation, she’d donned sneakers with her long linen skirt, matching blouse, and wide-brimmed hat, and as she picked her way across the field, she held the soft beige skirt material up to keep it clean.

  Megan didn’t want to tell her it was a losing proposition.

  “Good morning,” Megan said. “It’s nice to see you up and around.”

  “I’ve been up every day,” Sylvia replied. “I just needed to get some things in order. That takes time.” She glanced toward Clay, who was still working on digging the foundation for the new patio. “Can I talk to you for a few moments in private? Perhaps somewhere out of the sun?”

  Megan was weeding the Swiss chard. She nodded and pulled off her gloves. “Let’s go in the barn.”

  Sylvia followed her inside the pizza restaurant, and they sat at one of the tables that Clay had repaired. The air conditioner wasn’t on, but at least the air was cooler inside with the lights off.

  “Did you call my aunt?” Sylvia asked without pretense. “Chiara is waiting to hear from me.”

  “Then you should contact her.”

  “You have not?” Sylvia looked stunned. “But I asked you to.”

  “In the midst of a murder investigation.”

  “This again?” Sylvia slammed a hand down on the table. “You don’t trust me?”

  “I didn’t say that, but I’m an attorney. I’m not in the habit of calling strangers to make statements about money when there’s an active investigation going on and the person making the request won’t give me any information.”

  They stared at each other. Megan refused to back down. Days of stress and missing Denver topped by the nagging heat had her on edge. Sylvia jutted a jaw forward, clearly not used to being challenged.

  The door swung open. Eddie stood there looking dapper in straight-legged checked trousers and a slim-fitted button-down shirt. Both women said, “Please leave” at the same time. Eddie glanced at each in turn, shook his head, and backed out.

  When the door was closed, Megan said, “Why didn’t you tell me your Aunt Chiara is a loan shark?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because my integrity matters to me. What’s the deal, Sylvia? Why do you need money from a loan shark? And while I’m at it, why were you arguing with Thana Moore?” Megan realized she was practically shouting. She made a conscious effort to lower her voice. “You’re not telling me anything, yet you expect me to trust you.”

  Sylvia glanced at the door through which Eddie had just left. And that’s when Megan understood.

  “This is for my father.”

  Sylvia pursed her mouth, nodded.

  “But for what? I don’t understand.” And then suddenly she did. The clothes. The new look. The money. “You’re setting him up in business.”

  Sylvia stood. Her small frame paced across the room. She stopped where Thana’s paintings had been. “It was a simple plan. Convince Thana to let me introduce her work to Europe. A dealer keeps significant profits. She was getting enough for her paintings to bring in twenty, thirty thousand euros a painting. Maybe more. I needed to raise only another thirty thousand euros to buy into the men’s clothing store Eddie so wants to run.”

  “And he would never know you paid to get him the position.”

  Sylvia turned to face Megan, hands on hips. “That’s not true—I would tell him. Eventually, once he built his confidence. He’s a smart man, your father. Sensitive in a way few men are. He has a gift for clothes, but also for people. This would give him direction. Energy.”

  “And when Thana refused, you argued. You went off in the woods to calm down.”

  “Your father cannot know. It would break his heart.”

  “But a loan shark?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “I’ll find a way to pay her back.”

  Megan felt breathless. She hadn’t expected an act of such selflessness from this self-centered woman. “So the phone calls. The secrecy—all for this?”

  Sylvia nodded.

  Reluctantly, Megan asked, “Do you still want me to call Chiara? I will.”

  “And you won’t tell your father?”

  “I think he should know. But no, I’ll leave it up to you to make that decision.”

  Sylvia’s curt nod was one of thanks. At least that’s how Megan took it. She watched her stepmother leave and felt at least some of the weight coming off her shoulders.

  Chiara didn’t answer on the first or second try. Her voicemail had no message, just a beep, so Megan said exactly what Sylvia asked her to say—no more, no less. Let the chips fall where they may.

  Thirty

  Megan spent the remainder of Thursday on the farm. She finished weeding, played with the goats, and helped Clay and Porter with the patio. Despite the heat, she relished the time on the farm and tried not to think about Thana or Elliot or anything beyond the borders of Washington Acres. But the outside world caught up with her in the form of a visit from Bobby King. He stopped by a little after three to ask Megan some questions and show her a picture.

  “Let’s go in the house,” Megan said. “I need some water, and I bet Bibi has some freshly baked cookies in there. She’s been talking about making them all week.”

  “I’ll have to pass on the cookies,” King said.

  “Got it.”

  Inside, she poured them each lemon water and put a plate of Bibi’s oatmeal raisin cookies on the table. King took a handful and stuffed them in his mouth, one at a time. Megan simply looked at him, amused.

  “You can’t put them near me, Megan. You know I eat when I’m stressed.” He put a file on the kitchen table and grabbed two more cookies. “Bonnie sure can bake.”

  “So what’s going on, Bobby?”

  He stopped chewing long enough to say, “Coroner found drugs in Elliot’s system. Heroin.”

  “Not really surprising.”

  “Tell that to his father. Swore up and down that Elliot didn’t take drugs. Not since he’d gotten clean a few years ago.”

  “Parents are often the last to know.”

  “Maybe.” King opened the file and slid a picture across the table. “Recognize this guy?”

  Megan pulled the picture closer, but more out of habit than need. She knew who he was immediately. “Yeah, and so do you. That’s one of the guys who lives near you and Clover. Elliot’s sometimes roommate.” She snapped her fingers. Drexel came to mind. “Steve something or other.”

  “Steve Stewart.” He slid the photo back into his file.

  “Why are you asking about Stewart?”

  “Because an eye witness saw Elliot and Steve emptying the workshop the day before Elliot was murdered.”

  “Together?”

  King nodded. “I was wondering if Elliot had mentio
ned this guy to you, or maybe he was in the car with Elliot when you met.”

  Megan shook her head. She told King about her trip to the Center and her conversation with Marcy the horse handler. “A stalker? Detectives Jones and Lewis didn’t have that in the chart.”

  “Think it could have been Steve?”

  “Based on Marcy’s description—‘a tall male’—it could have been me.” King had been staring at the remaining cookies and he snatched one, looking angry at the cookie as though his lack of will power was its fault. “But I suppose it could have been, I just don’t know why. We questioned Steve and he denies having anything to do with Thana and her artwork. Says that was Elliot’s thing and he was just helping out.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “No reason not to.” Although King looked troubled. “I spoke with Maria to see what she had to say about Elliot since she saw him at the Center. She said he was chummy with the head honcho, Carly Stevenson, and that he and Thana helped Maria get that job. And then they turned on her.”

  “How so?”

  “By becoming irate when she wouldn’t give Thana more floor space—that we knew—and by blaming her for the ruined painting.”

  Megan told King about her conversation with an art expert, leaving out the small fact that the expert in question was her mother. “So with paintings going for that much money, I can see why they’d be upset.”

  “Maria said it was ridiculous to think she would have destroyed a painting. And it was Elliot more so than Thana blaming her.”

  “His own relative, sort of. That’s not quite how Elliot portrayed it to me, Bobby. He made it sound like Thana was the temperamental one.”

  “And we can’t question either of them.” King drained the last of the water and stood up. “Did you meet this Carly Stevenson?”

  “Briefly.”

  “She’s what my mother would call a piece of work. Smart, driven, but a little loco.”

  And beautiful, Megan thought—which King wouldn’t mention. “So?”