by Wendy Tyson
“What’s happened, Martine?”
“I think I’m just being paranoid.”
“You called me for a reason.”
“Jatin never showed up before the event started,” she said finally. “I guess he just sort of appeared at some point, but I don’t know when.” She ran a manicured nail across the table, continued studying her tea. “I’m not sure what to tell the police—if anything. I’m not sure if it matters.”
“Did anyone else notice he was gone?”
“Barbara.” She shrugged narrow shoulders. “Barb was worried at first, when we were waiting to take off, but then the groups started going, one by one, not together, and hers took off before his. I left with the second wave. To get photos of the girls. Especially the girls.” Her smile lacked humor. “They wanted the female students captured on film.”
“For good PR.”
“Of course. It may seem like I was just a tagalong, Megan, but you have to understand that in a twisted way, I was the main feature. The sad truth is that without a rendering of the event, without the right pictures, the right spin, this would simply be another nonprofit outing.”
“For BOLD to profit from it, they needed you there to capture the kids, the hike, the selfless volunteers.”
Martine sat back in her chair. “It’s the way of the world right now. Look at your friends on Facebook. Do they really live the happy lives they portray, with loving spouses and well-dressed children who never whine or complain? They don’t post the picture of Daddy after he’s taken care of vomiting children for three days, or Mommy when she gets back from a three-day work trip and the house is a wreck.” Martine tapped her fingers on the table to emphasize her points. “We all tell a story. It’s a matter of whose story is most compelling.”
From her tone, Megan couldn’t tell if this was a mission she believed in, or whether she’d simply become pragmatic over time.
“And Chase—where did he fit in with this story?”
“He was one of the company’s best visionaries, believe it or not. Some would say he had no conscience, which allowed him to think up ideas others would censor. Others felt he could lead the company into the future. That’s why he was promoted to Strategy after such a short tenure with the company.” Martine took a small sip of the tea. “I was to focus on him. Barbara wanted to do a piece on his rags to riches story.”
“Rags to riches?”
Martine nodded. “Poor family. Scholarship student. After losing his way to drugs and debauchery in the music industry, he put himself through graduate school. A real success story.”
Megan thought of the crude and obnoxious man she’d met at dinner. “Chase as the face of BOLD?”
“Just one face of BOLD. We are building out an image of diversity. Another reason for the outing.”
“Tell me, Martine,” Megan said, thinking of Martine’s comment—that some thought Chase could lead the company someday. “With Chase gone, who serves to gain?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Would Jatin move up with Chase out of the way?”
“I don’t see how. He’s in Finance. He’s great at his job, but BOLD never has the finance guys running the show. It’s always a scientist.”
“What did Jatin say he was doing when Chase was killed?”
“I was so focused on getting good camera angles that I didn’t pay any attention to where anyone was. Who knew—” her voice cracked, “—who knew that would happen?”
Megan gave Martine a moment to collect herself. Eventually, she said, “Whatever whereabouts Jatin gave the police, I’m sure they checked them out. Chief King seems young, but he knows what he’s doing.”
She nodded, looking unconvinced.
“You still seem upset.”
Martine took a deep breath, steeling herself for something. “Jatin and Chase had an argument the night before. Chase’s room was next to mine. I…let’s just say I could hear the shouting.”
Megan considered this. “Did you catch what they were fighting about?”
Martine frowned. “I’m not sure. Maybe money. I wish I could say for sure.”
“And you think—”
“I don’t think anything,” Martine said quickly. “That’s why I wanted Denver’s opinion. I do remember listening to them—I couldn’t help it, honestly, because they were so loud—and thinking that Jatin was angrier than I’d ever witnessed before. He’s usually a pretty quiet guy.” She took a sip of her tea. “I like Jatin. He’s probably the politest of that group. But when I heard them…and then what happened to Chase. I can’t even imagine, but I was worried.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Martine looked at her quizzically. “I’m not sure I would. And frankly, now that I’m saying this all aloud, I realize how silly it sounds. Of course, Jatin would never have hurt Chase.”
“Yet someone did.”
Megan looked up, startled by the voice. It was Denver, who’d somehow managed to come in without being seen, probably because she and Martine had been so engrossed in their conversation. He was wearing a gray Colorado State t-shirt pulled tight across chest muscles. His auburn hair was tousled, his face chiseled under a dusting of beard. His blue eyes looked concerned, annoyed even.
Denver slipped into a seat next to Megan. He said, “Martine, someone killed Chase. Everyone is a suspect at this point. If you heard something, you need to tell King. Let the police sort it out.”
Martine stared at him, eyes wide, as though he were larger than life. Megan studied her boyfriend, seeing him through the eyes of this stranger. Storybook handsome. Strong hands, neatly clipped nails scrubbed clean, the dried strip of mud above his left brow, the sheer weight of his presence.
Denver said curtly, “What were Jatin and Chase discussing? Did ye hear any of the details?”
She shook her head. “That’s just it. Had I heard something specific, I’d know what to do. It was simply shouting. They could have been arguing about whether to have eggs or muffins in the morning.”
“But you know they weren’t, or you wouldn’t be here.” Denver leaned in toward her, and Martine didn’t move. “They wouldn’t have been shouting over nonsense.”
Face pale, eyes narrow, Martine looked ready to cry. “I don’t want to get Jatin in trouble if it’s nothing.”
“Jatin didn’t do anything, but let him answer to King,” Denver said.
“For all you know, he already told King all of this,” Megan said. “And you’re torturing yourself over nothing.”
Martine looked unconvinced. “King is a fair man?”
Megan nodded. She pulled her cell out of her purse and speed-dialed the chief. He answered immediately.
“What’s up, Megan?”
Megan explained the situation.
“Be right there.” King hesitated. “Stay with her, okay? Just until I can get there? I don’t want her to get cold feet.”
Megan agreed. She was watching the way Martine Pringle was staring at Denver. Megan didn’t think Martine would go anywhere as long as Denver was present too.
“What do you make of all of that?” Megan asked.
She and Denver were back at his house, sitting on the back deck of his bungalow, looking at the stars and playing with his five rescue dogs. The Golden Retriever asked repeatedly to play fetch with Megan, and after a half hour of throwing the tennis ball into the dark abyss of the backyard, Megan finally told her to be still.
“I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve known Jatin nearly as long as I’ve known Chase and Xavier. He’s probably the best of the bunch, as morals and integrity go.”
“You don’t suspect him?”
Denver rubbed his eyes, shook his head. He took a long swig of beer from a bottle he kept on the table between them. “I don’t know what to think. I meant what I said to Martine.
I guess everyone is a suspect.”
“She seemed pretty upset.”
“She’s a hell of an actress.”
Megan’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t like her much.”
“Can you tell?”
Denver was sinking into a funk again, so Megan opted to shift topics. “How is Dillon? Have you heard anything more from Eloise?”
“They transferred him to the psychiatric unit at the hospital where he’ll receive a full evaluation. He’s still not talking.”
“But he spoke to Eloise at the hospital. We both heard him.”
The Golden Retriever nudged Denver’s arm with the ball, and he gave in to her, throwing the object nearly into the woods. “She says it was nothing. That he mumbled a few words about being in the hospital and going home.”
“But it means he can talk. He’s not truly in some catatonic state.”
“Aye.” Denver finished his beer, placed the empty bottle on the table, and sat back in his chair. “I suppose that will be part of the evaluation. Poor laddie.” Denver lapsed into a heavier brogue. “As though he hasn’t been through enough.”
Megan said, “And I’m afraid things are only going to get worse.”
Denver nodded. He reached across the table and took Megan’s hand. He stroked her fingers with his own in long, gentle caresses. “I wish there was a way I could help him. And Eloise,” Denver said. “She’s so upset right now. I don’t know that I have ever seen her so upset. And Dillon…I don’t know what to think, to be honest.”
“It must be excruciating for Eloise,” Megan said. “Taking in a boy like Dillon, someone who’s been through so much. Setting him up in a special school, trying to provide him with a safe and loving environment, and now this. One way or another it will have an impact.”
“True,” Denver said, squeezing her hand. “If he is innocent, and I have to believe he is, he witnessed something atrocious.”
Again, Megan thought. How much could one kid take? She didn’t know much of Dillon’s history, but she knew his father killed his mother. Could that have caused him to explode and do something heinous? Although she also wanted to believe him incapable of murder, she wasn’t as convinced.
“I’m tired, Megs,” Denver said. “I think I need some sleep and some perspective.”
He sounded tired. Megan knew the life of a country vet meant middle of the night calls. Denver sometimes traded on-call shifts with neighboring vets, but there were only so many large animal veterinarians in this part of Pennsylvania. He was rarely assured a full night’s sleep.
“I’m heading out,” Megan said. She stood and stretched. The Golden made another attempt to engage Megan in ball-throwing, but it was half-hearted. Even she looked tired.
“You could stay,” Denver said. “It’s nearly midnight.”
Megan looked out into the dark yard and the woods beyond. Bibi would be home asleep, guarded by Sadie and Gunther. The thought of driving home now was unappealing. The thought of being curled up next to Denver until morning—most appealing.
Megan smiled. “Let me text my grandmother. I think I’ll stay.”
Ten
By Tuesday, news of Chase’s death had reached the media, and Winsome was besieged by journalists. Megan left the café for Clover, Emily, and Alvaro to cover, and decided to focus on the farm. Selfishly, she needed to be away from the commotion. The café, as the only real hang-out along Winsome’s cobblestoned, historic main drag, Canal Street, had become a hotspot for reporters. Most were simply taking up tables, using the space to type up notes and make phone calls, but occasionally questions were asked. Megan, more in the know than anyone else at the café, didn’t want to be put on the spot.
It was a beautiful June day. The sun overhead shown bright against a backdrop of lapis lazuli. The massive barn, its newer portions—the part that housed the pizza farm—deep red, contrasted beautifully against the greens of the forest beyond. The only noise came from the construction on the adjoining property, and even that amounted to the comforting murmur of voices and an occasional hammer.
It should have been a peaceful scene. And it would have been—without murder in the background. Chase’s murder, the cold way he was stabbed, stuck with Megan and intruded on her thoughts. It was an act of anger, rage. Dillon was large enough to do it. Given his background, he could have been angry enough to do it. But why Chase? And from what Megan knew, Chase had gone to the lakeshore to help the kid. To bring him back to the group.
Then again, Megan had seen Chase in action. Who knows what he’d said in his effort to help?
Megan was harvesting kale. She pulled leaves from the plants lined up in the long beds outside. Dinosaur, Red Russian, Siberian, Tuscan…keeping the varieties in separate coolers of ice-cold water, which she pulled behind her on a wagon. Alvaro needed the greens for a stuffed puff pastry dish he was making. Garlic, spices, herbs, sautéed greens, roasted mushrooms, all covered with a layer of golden puff pastry. Another nod to Clover, but sure to be a hit.
She clipped another Red Russian leaf and placed it in the cooler, taking the time to inspect the plant. As the weather got warmer, the kale suffered. This plant was healthy, no signs of aphids. Satisfied, she moved to the next plant.
That’s when she heard it: a helicopter overhead. News sign emblazoned on the side.
Megan looked up, watched it move on, toward the west. In the direction of the hospital where Dillon currently resided. He was still a teen; surely, they couldn’t disclose his name or any information about him. Unless he was being charged with a crime. As an adult.
Megan pulled off her gloves. She took the coolers back to the barn, used the hose to clean the leaves thoroughly, and packed them in accordance with variety. She’d have Porter, her farm hand, drop them off for Alvaro.
Megan considered the conversation she’d had with Martine a few days earlier. She hadn’t heard anything more from the woman, or from King for that matter. Things had been eerily quiet. She fished her phone out of the pocket of her jeans. She flipped from CNN to local stations. Nothing new on the murder.
Finished with this chore, Megan went in search of Porter. She’d take a break for the afternoon. King wanted her help keeping Eloise Kent cooperative. That meant she needed facts. If the reporters were going after Dillon, something must have transpired. She needed to figure out what.
King was out, and his next in charge wouldn’t tell her anything. Megan left the police station and headed to the Bucks County Inn. Plan B: she’d try to meet with Martine or one of the others. She thought of calling Eloise, but Denver said she hadn’t been answering her phone. She was busy procuring resources for her foster son, he said, and would be hard to reach.
That also sounded like a bad omen. But Denver didn’t know more.
The Bucks County Inn was a neat stone Colonial tucked back off the road, a few miles from Winsome proper. Megan had looked at the inn’s website before coming over. The main structure housed half a dozen en suite guest rooms. Two outbuildings—a small cottage and a barn—offered a cozy couple’s retreat and a small apartment, respectively. If Martine had heard Chase and Jatin arguing through the walls, that meant she was in the main house.
Inside, two matching desks flanked a large center hall entryway. Wide-plank pine floors, a navy area rug in front of the doorway. A white-muzzled Schnauzer with a Scottish plaid collar padded over slowly and greeted her at the door. Soon after, a white-haired older woman in a Scottish plaid skirt, white cardigan, and white sandals joined the dog and welcomed Megan with a warm smile.
“How can I help you, dear?”
“I’m looking for Martine Pringle. I understand she’s staying here.”
“Oh, yes. Poor thing.” The woman walked toward the desk on the left and shuffled through papers. Pulling one from the pile, she glanced up at Megan. “Your name, dear?”
“Megan Sawyer.”
The woman smiled again, highlighting warm green eyes and a set of dimples. “The Washington Acres lady! So nice to meet you. I’m the Inn’s owner.” She picked up the phone, dialed, and waited. When no one answered, she put the receiver back in the cradle. “I’m afraid Martine isn’t answering. She must have gone out for a bit.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see her at breakfast this morning either.”
“Could she still be sleeping?”
“I guess. I don’t normally keep track of my guests, other than to make sure everything is locked up in the evening once all of the guests are back.” She lowered her voice. “Of course, these aren’t normal times, are they?”
“No, they’re not.” Megan paused, listening for footsteps and sounds overhead—anything indicating someone else was here. “Martine came home last evening?”
“Martine never left, to the best of my knowledge. Her Volkswagen is still here. Her friends didn’t mention anything.” Concern flashed across the innkeeper’s pleasant features. “You don’t think she left without paying?”
“Oh, gosh, no. Given everything, I was afraid—”
“Oh! Yes, I should have thought of that.” The woman’s face flushed crimson. “Sorry. It’s been a long week. We’ve had the police by almost every day. I can tell you, that’s never good for business.”
“How about the rest of the group? Barbara and Xavier and Jatin. Are they around?”
“They left earlier, after asking me to set the apartment aside for their boss. Apparently, she will be flying in from California and staying with us as well.” She picked up the phone again. “Let me try Martine one more time.”
When again no one answered, the innkeeper used a key on a ring attached to her skirt to open a desk drawer. From inside, she pulled an old-fashioned looking brass key. She held it up. “Let me check on her.”
Megan nodded, concerned. Martine had been agitated on Sunday night, but neither Megan nor Denver had talked with her since Martine had met with Chief King. Megan didn’t know what had come of that meeting or whether there had been backlash against Martine. Maybe she was now a pariah from the others from BOLD. Maybe she was missing.
