RIPE FOR VENGEANCE

by Wendy Tyson

  “That’s exciting.”

  Megan didn’t think Merry looked remotely excited. The eyesore was going to get worse before it got better.

  “Megan, order’s up.” Alvaro sounded cross. But then, Alvaro always sounded cross.

  Megan grabbed a plate of cinnamon French toast and a tiny pitcher of maple syrup from the counter. She served it to the lone man at one of the copper-topped tables. He mumbled a thank you. Megan refilled his coffee without being asked and slipped a bill next to the cup.

  Back in the kitchen, Alvaro was cleaning up from the breakfast crowd and beginning the night’s specials. The prior summer, Megan had opened and wood-fired pizza farm on the farm property. The pizzas, with all their locally-sourced ingredients, had been a huge success, and it was open again this summer. Last night, the pizza farm had served a large crowd, and Alvaro was balancing the café’s menu with the pizza farm’s wood-fired offerings so they wouldn’t compete.

  Megan read the board. Mango curry, served with or without chicken, coconut sticky rice, and micro-green salad with peanut or avocado dressing. Three-cheese panini with early season tomatoes and arugula, and homemade kettle chips. Wild mushroom pot pie with a puff pastry crust.

  “I think you outdid yourself.” Megan spun around, ready to see Alvaro wave away her compliment or hear her cook utter some complaint. Instead he was staring past her, into the store.

  “What’s wrong?” Megan followed his gaze. She saw Bobby King walking toward the back of the shop with purposeful strides.

  “Damn,” Megan said under her breath. What now?

  Bobby walked around the counter, entering the kitchen uninvited. “Megan. Have a moment?”

  “I don’t suppose you’re here for breakfast.”

  “Afraid not.” He nodded toward the small office Megan had set up in the back. “Please.”

  Megan followed him into the cramped space and closed the door behind her. “Please don’t tell me something happened to Bibi.”

  “Oh, gosh, Megan. No. She’s fine, far as I know. Actually, I need to find Denver.”

  “Did something happen to his aunt?” Not again, Megan thought. The woman had suffered an attack at the hands of a psychopath almost two years ago. She seemed to have finally recovered.

  “No, it’s not Dr. Kent.”

  “Then what’s going on?” Megan’s stomach twisted. She remembered the Pioneer Village School. The hike. “Did something happen to Dillon?”

  “Look, I can’t say anything until family has been contacted. But I need to find Denver. He’s not answering his cell and his office manager isn’t picking up either. Just the answering service, and that guy’s as useful as a paper hammer.”

  King was a tall man, well over six foot. Large hands were fisted by his sides. His square jaw was clenched, his ruddy face almost crimson. Someone had died. Megan knew it by King’s reaction alone.

  Megan opted not to push it. “It’s Sunday, Bobby. Denver’s off. He’s kayaking at the lake.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Before dark.”

  Bobby walked around her and grabbed the knob. “I don’t have time to go searching for him myself or the human power to send someone. You hear from him, send him my way. And in the meantime, please don’t say anything. To anyone, not even Bonnie.”

  “You know you can trust me.”

  Bobby’s nod was curt. “I know, Megan. It’s why I’m here.”

  Megan called, but as expected, she got Denver’s voicemail. She didn’t wait for Denver to call her back. She left Alvaro and Clover alone to cover the store and headed up the valley toward the small lake where Denver tended to go when he was feeling contemplative. The lake was north, along the field-flanked back roads that led to the Lehigh Valley, and tucked deeply into the woods. It took her forty minutes before she turned into the small boat launch area, which consisted of enough parking for maybe four cars. A slime-covered, three-foot ramp provided access to the clear water.

  Denver’s SUV sat alone in the lot.

  Megan climbed out of her truck, still wearing her café clothes—a white blouse tucked into a pair of dark jeans and comfortable clogs. She made her way to the ramp and looked out at the water but saw no sign of Denver. The banks of the lake were overgrown with trees and shrubs. The water extended out to the left and the right of the ramp, but with the curve of the banks and the thick foliage, Megan couldn’t see more than fifty yards in any direction, and the banks were too thickly vegetated to hike along the shoreline. She considered calling for him, but she didn’t want to scare him.

  She folded her body on a large rock by the boat ramp and waited, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d just sat somewhere—nowhere to be, no one hounding her for something. She reminded herself that something was wrong, someone was hurt or worse—otherwise Bobby King would not have shown up at her door. Suddenly the sun felt too hot, the air constricting.

  About fifteen minutes later, Megan heard the rhythmic splash of Denver’s kayak paddles. She saw the nose of the boat come into view, and then the whole craft. Denver sat inside with his Golden Retriever perched between his legs. The dog was staring into the water. Denver’s focus was off in the distance. While Megan waited for him to come within earshot, she studied him from afar. Broad, strong shoulders. A deep chest. Thick auburn hair, just a little more red than brown. A handsome man, more rugged than beautiful. So different than her late husband, Mick, in that sense—but with the same quiet strength, of character and of build.

  “Denver,” she called. “Denver!”

  He looked over, startled, and grinned when he saw her waving by the ramp. With deft strokes, he turned the boat toward shore.

  “What are you doing here, Megs?” he asked. He hopped out of the boat and pulled it up the ramp. Swirls of muddied water lapped at strong calves. “I don’t suppose you came to kayak.” His blue eyes pierced her own, a shadow falling across his face. “Something happen?”

  The Golden Retriever jumped out of the kayak with a splash and waded out into deeper water. Megan watched her swim, envying the dog’s ability to immerse herself, quite literally, in the moment.

  “King’s looking for you.”

  With a grunt, Denver picked up the heavy boat and hefted it over his shoulder. He whistled for the dog and trudged up to the 4Runner. He placed the kayak on the roof rack and began securing it. Megan joined him, and together they tied it to the four corners of the vehicle.

  “Did King say what he needed?” Denver’s tone was neutral, his face impassive. Megan knew that meant the waters were churning deep below the surface.

  “Wouldn’t tell me.” Megan helped Denver with the cords. “I think it may be one of your friends.” Megan glanced over at him, relieved to see his expression had softened.

  “I heard from Chase not long ago. Sent a photo of himself in the woods. Fooling around, as always. I’m sure everyone’s fine. Would have said something if bad things were afoot.”

  “What time did you get the text? Maybe there was a delay. Reception is sometimes poor in parts of the park.”

  Denver nodded. “Maybe. One way to find out.” Kayak tied down, he pulled his wet bag open and removed his phone from a baggie inside. With a glance at its face, he frowned. “No reception here, either. Let’s drive a bit.”

  Megan followed the 4Runner in her truck. A few miles away, Denver pulled into the parking lot of a mom and pop convenience store and climbed out of the SUV, leaving his car running for the dog. Megan joined him.

  “Six missed calls,” Denver said. “Two from King, one from Barbara, and three from my aunt.”

  With dawning horror, Megan remembered that Jatin had been missing yesterday when they started out. “Is it possible Jatin never showed? That something happened to him?”

  Denver was already dialing. He reach
ed King and did more listening than speaking. When he hung up, he looked like he’d just seen a demon.

  “Well?” Megan said softly. She walked over and touched Denver’s arm lightly. “Are you okay?”

  “Chase. He’s dead.” Denver shook his head. “Murdered.”

  “I don’t understand. You said you’d just heard from him.”

  “I don’t know details, Megan. Just what little Bobby said. Chase was stabbed to death.” He looked at her, his face stricken. “The only person with him at the time was Dillon.”

  Five

  It was nearly two by the time Megan and Denver arrived at the Winsome police station. They were immediately ushered into an austere, windowless room and asked to wait for King. He marched in fifteen minutes later carrying two cups of black coffee, his expression grim.

  “Sorry, Megan. Didn’t know you were coming too. Want my coffee?” King proffered the paper cup. Megan declined.

  “Okay that she stays?” Denver asked. “Just for moral support.”

  “That’s fine for now.” He glanced at Megan, obviously weighing his words. “Maybe she can offer some insight. Being a former lawyer and all.”

  Confidentiality issues, Megan thought. Which must mean Dillon’s involved.

  Sure enough, King’s next words gave her chills. “The boy found the body.”

  “Damn,” Denver muttered. “Dillon’s been through enough, Bobby. Do you know about his past?”

  Bobby nodded. “Father is in prison. Accused of killing his mother.” King rubbed his temple with a beefy paw. “Look, this is a rough one, I get that, but before I can tell you anything, we need to ask you some questions. On the record. Any objection?”

  “None at all.” Denver sat straighter in the chair.

  “Not here. One of my officers will talk to you.” His expression was apologetic. “She’ll want to know where you were this morning.”

  Denver nodded. “Chase was a friend. I understand. You need to be thorough.”

  “Your aunt too. It’s just routine. You get it.”

  Denver said, “Not exactly our first rodeo.”

  King nodded. None of them needed reminding that Chase’s body was not the first to turn up in Winsome. King started to stand as the door to the room opened. A red-haired, heavily freckled officer entered.

  “If you could go with my officer, that would be great.” King turned to Megan. “Can you stick around?”

  “I’m with Denver, so sure.”

  Megan watcher Denver leave. Silence hung between King and her, a silence filled with the dread of resignation. Both parties knew that a murder in Winsome meant news media, shock, rumors, and panic. Especially an unsolved murder.

  Megan waited for King to speak. He’d want to keep the lid on this for as long as possible. But he knew she was discreet. If he wanted to talk with her it was about something other than discretion.

  Finally, he said, “We got a messed-up kid here, Megan. I didn’t want to say anything to Denver until we go through the official protocols and get his statement, but Denver’s right. Dillon has been through a lot. He could be a ticking time bomb.” King paused. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”

  His shrug seemed almost shy. It was such a young gesture, one that reminded Megan that their Chief was not that much older than a kid himself. She felt fondness for King rush through her. Fondness and a strong sense of protectiveness. They’d been through a lot together. She was glad he consulted her, even unofficially.

  Megan nodded, meeting his gaze with a half smile that, she hoped, conveyed empathy. “What can I do?”

  King sat forward in his chair. He folded his hands on the scarred wooden table wedged between them. “Thing is, this kid—Dillon—found the body. At least he says he did.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “You know as well as I that it’s not my job to believe or disbelieve. It’s all about establishing facts.”

  “Fine, Bobby, but you know what I mean. You have some reason to think he’s lying?”

  After a pause, King said, “I have every reason to believe Dillon is lying.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I’ll say.” King stood up and walked to the door. He opened it, glanced into the hallway, and pushed it shut again with more force than was necessary. “Denver’s aunt. A potential media blitz. Winsome’s collective mental health. It’s a nightmare. But Dillon…no investigator wants a kid like Dillon to be their chief suspect.”

  “And poor Chase.” Megan said, thinking of the man she saw the day before. “Having him die, and in our beloved Lyle Lake State Park, no less, is a nightmare, period.”

  “Yes.”

  Megan motioned toward the chair opposite her. “Sit, Bobby. There’s a reason you wanted me to stay. What is it?”

  King turned the chair backwards and straddled it. “The victim was found with the murder weapon. A utility knife. We’ve identified it as Chase’s utility knife.”

  “Were they alone?”

  “From what we can tell, the victim—”

  “Chase.”

  King nodded absentmindedly. “Chase. Had been alone. The kid split off from the group and wandered down into a clearing by the pond. Chase went after him. They were gone for a short while—some witnesses say five minutes, others twenty—when screams erupted. Three of the adults went to find the source of the screams while the others stayed with the kids.”

  “Chase had been screaming?”

  King shook his head. “No. They found Chase on the ground. He was already dead.” King swallowed, hard. “It was the kid who was screaming.” He closed his eyes. “For his mother.”

  Megan remembered what Eloise had said. The boy’s father was in prison, mom was deceased. Megan felt bile rise in her throat. “Oh, Bobby.”

  “Sad, right? Heartbreaking. Problem is, he was covered with the victim’s blood.”

  Megan frowned. “That doesn’t necessarily make him guilty.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But take a troubled kid with a family history of domestic violence, add an isolated setting, and give him the means—access to the murder weapon—and the opportunity, and you have a problem on your hands.”

  “You need motive too, Bobby. Why would Dillon want to do that to a man he barely knew?” Her face contorted in horror. “Could it have been self-defense? Have you asked him?”

  “That’s the other thing.” Voices could be heard on the other side of the door, and King lowered his own. “The kid won’t talk.”

  “Won’t say anything until he has an attorney? Or won’t talk at all?”

  “Just won’t talk.” King’s young face sagged. “It’s like he’s comatose. Just stares out into space, silent.”

  “Shock?”

  A curt nod. “He’s at the hospital now being evaluated. We’ve asked for a psychiatric evaluation. It will take time.”

  Megan let all of this sink in. Dead businessman in Winsome for a charitable deed. Troubled teen at the scene of the crime, screaming for his late mother. A killer? Or an unfortunate witness?

  “Where was the staff? The other people from BOLD?”

  King said, “They were up at the campsite involved in their own groups’ activities when this happened. No one was paying much attention.” King pulled a beefy hand through limp blond hair. “Denver will be back any minute, and I’ll share some of this with him. But I want Denver and Eloise Kent to know I’m not the enemy here, Megan. This kid looks guilty. And maybe he is. You didn’t see him in that hospital room.” He shook his head as though ridding himself of the memory. “This big kid rocking like a child. If I know Eloise, she will fight me tooth and nail to protect Dillon’s confidentiality. She’s stubborn. I want the truth, not a scapegoat.” His gaze was beseeching. “I’d appreciate if you’d help me get through to them.”

  “I can’t convince Eloise to
do anything she’s uncomfortable with. She’s a pediatrician. Her concern will be for Dillon, Bobby. You know that.”

  “I’m just afraid in her effort to protect him, she’ll make things worse.”

  Megan understood. Bibi could be the same way with Megan’s father, Eddie—so determined to protect him that her actions hurt him in the end. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

  The door handle jiggled, and King hopped out of the chair. “She needs to know we’re on the same side. I want him protected too. From the media. From those who will assume guilt.” The door opened. King turned in the direction of the entryway, and said, “And from himself.”

  Six

  Denver was quiet during the drive to his aunt’s home. Eyes on the road, jaw rigid, hands wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly his fingers were white sausages, he maintained a speed that would have him losing his license if any police in Winsome were monitoring the roads. Megan sat beside him, resisting the urge to speak. She knew he needed his space. She also knew she didn’t have the right words. How do you express sorrow in a situation like this? Denver would be blaming himself—right or not.

  Denver pulled up to the old farmhouse, parked next to Eloise’s three-year-old BMW, and jammed the 4Runner into Park. With the vehicle still running, he sat back and let out a long breath. Megan studied her hands, the side of the barn, the hills in the distance—the same hills that delineated the edges of Lyle Lake.

  Unable to stand his silence any longer, she finally said, “None of this is your fault, Denver.”

  “Ta, Megan. I wish I could agree.”

  “How are you to blame?”

  He turned to face her. No reproach, only sorrow. And exhaustion. “Aunt Eloise asked me if Dillon should be involved. I said yes, let the boy take part. I assured her he would be fine.”

  “She would have sent him anyway? It sounded like a great opportunity. Mentoring? The possibility of college tuition? How could she say no?”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. Dillon didn’t want to go. She urged him to go, because I told her I thought it would be good for him. Because Chase and Xavier and Jatin were my friends, she listened to me.” He put his head in his hands. “And when Chase called and told me Barb had approached him, I urged him on too. ‘It’s in my backyard,’ I said. ‘I’ll get to see you,’ I said. And now the bloody bastard is dead.”