by Wendy Tyson
She sank down on the wet ground, fighting back tears. Answers would come.
It was well after five when she finally stood to leave. She remembered that Dr. Finn was coming to see Dimples. She needed to get going.
All that thinking time with Mick helped. She would fight the zoning board, if she had to. And she would win.
Three
When Megan arrived at the farm, Dr. Finn was already there. She found him sitting with Bibi at the kitchen table drinking tea. Bibi made her own tea from a variety of herbs she grew in a small garden out back, and Megan was convinced she added a touch of whiskey to “keep the bad away.” Megan didn’t have the heart to tell Dr. Finn. He and Bibi looked quite content. In cahoots, one might say—that one being Megan.
“You two up to no good?” Megan asked, smiling her first real smile of the day.
“Megan, where have you been? Dr. Finn’s been waiting.”
“I’m early,” he said apologetically. He stood and grabbed his jacket. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Birch.”
Dr. Finn followed Megan through the courtyard and down to the barn shed. The rain had given up its hold around noon, and the sun was finally peeking out between the clouds, just in time for sunset. The courtyard was muddy, and they negotiated their way around the puddles, Megan’s dog Sadie trailing along behind. The chicken tractors, off to the side and near the other end of the barn, were full, the chickens inside for the evening, but the birds squawked loudly, their own private jeering section.
Sadie turned her head hopefully in the direction of the chickens. Although she’d never been around farm animals before moving to Winsome, the dog was gentle with the goats and barn cats. But sometimes she looked at the chickens with an expectant expression that made Megan uneasy. Megan was pretty sure Sadie thought the birds were moving squeaky toys.
“That dog’s got some Newfoundland in her,” Dr. Finn said.
Megan took another look at her canine companion. “Really? I don’t see it.” Sadie tipped the scales at eighty pounds despite a slender physique. She was a Mr. Potato Head of a dog, with a German shepherd face, a greyhound body, and a golden retriever tail. Her coloring was that of a shepherd. Megan didn’t see Newfie any more than she saw Dachshund.
Doctor Finn grinned. “Aye, have a genetic test done. I’ll bet you dinner.”
“I may take that bet,” Megan said, surprising herself.
“I hope you do.”
Their eyes met. Megan looked away first. They’d reached the covered shed, and Megan unlatched the gate and went inside the goat enclosure.
Dr. Finn picked up Dimples. “Seems to be feeling better. Let’s have a look at those stitches.”
He handed the goat to Megan. She held her up to the light while he traced the spot he’d shaved earlier today. The skin that had been stitched was slightly red and puffy.
Dr. Finn pulled something from his pocket and sprayed it on the wound. “Just to be safe.” He handed Megan the bottle. “Three times a day. If it starts to look worse, or if she’s acting off, call me right away. I left some oral antibiotics with your grandmother. Give them—”
His words were cut off by Sadie’s sudden barking. Sadie rarely barked—it was what made her a great city dog back in Chicago—so when she did, Megan took notice. The dog pawed the gate. She barked again, more insistently.
Megan looked at Dr. Finn, whose head was cocked to the side, listening. “Someone must be here.”
She placed Dimples back in her straw bed and she and the vet left the goat enclosure. Sadie ran ahead, sniffing the ground as she went. She bolted around the corner toward the main barn entrance.
“Sadie!” Megan called. “Sadie, come back here.”
Dr. Finn said, “I’ve never heard Sadie bark like that.”
“Me neither.”
They followed the dog into the pitch black barn. The massive structure was made up of three sections: a newer, cavernous space at the front, an empty older portion in the back, and an addition containing a wash room, an office, and horse stalls. The Dorfman brothers had gutted parts of the barn as part of the renovations. Now the newer section was mostly one giant, tool-strewn room. Megan fumbled against the wall from memory and grabbed a hoe. She handed it to the vet. Her toe kicked another tool lying on the floor, near the back wall, and she picked that up too. A shovel. It would have to do.
Sadie had stopped barking. Megan tip-toed to where the light switch was, a feeling of urgency washing over her. She flipped on the overheads, which brightened the center of the barn, bathing the corners in shadows. She grabbed a flashlight.
Megan and Dr. Finn stood stock-still, eyes searching for movement. “Sadie!” Megan called, hearing the panic in her own voice. “Sadie!”
Sadie barked. Relief flooded over Megan and she looked at Dr. Finn with a reassured smile. But he didn’t look satisfied.
“Call her again.”
Megan did, but Sadie didn’t come. Raising her shovel, Megan said, “Sadie, now.” Megan gripped the shovel harder, feeling the hairs on her arms and neck stand straight. Her stomach clenched and unclenched. “Sadie,” she called again.
This time Sadie came running. She stopped in front of them, barked, and headed back toward the farthest stall, where the overhead lighting didn’t reach.
Megan started to jog to cover the distance when her flashlight beam swept the floor. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Denver, look.”
He looked down to where Megan was pointing, then back at Megan. Their eyes locked.
“Oh no,” he said.
Oh no, she thought.
Sadie had left paw prints all along the floor—bloody paw prints.
They rushed quietly the rest of the way through the barn. In the stall, they found Sadie, barking madly again, standing over the body of a man. He was facedown on the floor, wedged between a hay bale and a row of rakes, shovels, and hoes that had been hung from the wall. His skull was bashed in. Blood splattered the floor and walls behind him.
Megan didn’t need to roll the man over to know who he was—the diamond vest and rotund body told her that. Simon Duvall.
The murder weapon wasn’t hard to identify either. There was one tool missing from the rack on the wall—a shovel. Her best shovel. With increasing horror, Megan shined the flashlight onto the shovel in her hand, the one she’d picked up at the entrance of the barn. Streaks of blood marked the metal. She hadn’t even noticed in the dim light. The tool clattered to the ground when she let it go. Her stomach lurched. She swallowed a scream.
Denver knelt down, careful to avoid the pools of blood. He lifted one outstretched arm and felt for a pulse. “Dead.” He stood, looking around. “Whoever did this must have run through the main portion and then out through the rear of the barn.”
“Bibi. We need to make sure she’s okay.”
“I’ll check on Bonnie,” he said. “You call the police.”
Bibi was fine. They found her in the living room watching television and eating potato chips and sour cream. Megan hugged her fiercely. She told her what they’d found while Dr. Finn checked the rest of the house.
“Well, that’s a new one,” was Bibi’s response when Megan finished the story. “Your grandfather died of a heart attack in the bathroom, and old Mr. Newsome was shot by a hunter down by Barney Creek. Never had anyone murdered here before, though.”
“One is more than enough.” Megan pictured Simon’s skull, the gray matter that had spilled onto the barn floor. She was no forensic expert, but she figured the murderer had been enraged enough to make the first blow count.
“Where’s Sadie?” Bibi asked.
“On the porch. I have to wash her before she comes inside. She has blood on her paws. Dr. Finn is going to carry her to the bathroom tub for me.”
Bibi looked at her sideways. “He’s single, you know. Wife left him years ago. Wanted a ma
n with regular hours, she said. And didn’t like dogs, imagine that. Dr. Finn never remarried.”
Megan shook her head. A man had been murdered on their property and Bibi was playing matchmaker.
At that moment, Denver walked in.
“House is clear.”
“Thank you.”
Sirens blared in the distance. Winsome had a police force of exactly five, and Megan knew who would be coming. A murder would mean the whole force. And the crime scene investigator. And the district attorney. There would be warrants and searches and police tape. She was still queasy from finding Simon’s body, but years as a litigator had given her a good idea of the circus that was to come. The noise of the police cars got louder.
“Rescue is on the way,” Bibi said.
“Bibi, it’s no time to joke.”
But Denver only smiled. “I’m sure whoever did this is long gone.”
Megan nodded. Still, she suspected that sleep would elude her tonight. “I’ll bring the cats in the house. I’d bring all the animals in, if I could.”
“Maybe you and Bonnie should stay somewhere else tonight.”
“We’ll stay here,” Megan said.
“We’ll be fine,” Bibi echoed.
Denver shook his head. “I guess.” He walked to the window and looked outside. “I’ll wait until the police take our statements, and then we’ll get Sadie cleaned up. Okay?”
Megan nodded. The happenings of the last hour, of the whole day, really, hit her and she sat down heavily on an armchair. Simon Duvall. Dead in her barn. The argument they’d had earlier. Her rash words, her fingerprints on the shovel. It didn’t take a law degree to realize the police would look at her first.
She glanced at Denver. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Do ye need me to stay? I can stay.”
She glanced at Bibi, who had buried a husband. Megan had lost her husband and lived through it. We Birch women persevere, she thought.
“I’ll be fine.”
Denver grabbed her hand, gave a quick squeeze and let go. She found she wanted him to hold on.
Four
The next day brought cloudy skies and madness in the form of more police activity. The Winsome police force, all five officers, had cordoned off the barn and a portion of the grass behind it the night before in order to preserve evidence. The county coroner had arrived some time past eight and pronounced Simon officially dead before removing his body. Crime scene investigators took pictures and videos, dusted for fingerprints, used luminol to examine the rest of the barn, and searched outside for footprints—a mostly thankless task, given the recent rains. When Megan argued that she needed access to the barn in order to work, she was told firmly “no”—police business. She’d have to wait in case the police needed to regain entry to the crime scene.
And here they were to continue their investigation. They’d kept their promise.
“Megan, tell me again where you were between the hours of twelve noon and six in the evening on May fourteenth.”
“She’s already told you that five times,” Clover said. Clover had arrived at the farm right after Police Chief Bob King pulled in, so soon after that Megan suspected she’d followed him.
“Well, Clover—” he glared at his girlfriend “—she can tell me again.”
King looked at Megan for a response. Megan wiped her hands on her jeans and turned to look at Winsome’s young police chief. “I’ve repeated the story at least five times over. This is not a television show. You’re not going to get a different answer on try six.”
But King remained stalwart. “Humor me.”
And so she did, all the while continuing her task of collecting last night’s eggs. She had to keep her wits about her, and murder or not, there was work to be done—hard as it was to concentrate. When she had finished, King jotted down a few more notes in his small spiral pad.
“What can you be writing in there, Bobby?” Clover asked. “She told you the same story every time.”
King, a tall, broad man with a blonde crewcut and more determination than common sense, looked at his on-again, off-again girlfriend with annoyance. They were outside by the chicken tractors. He had been following Megan from task to task, ignoring Sadie’s plaintive requests to play fetch. Because the store opening was delayed, Clover said she was here to help with the farm chores, although the term “helping” was only loosely applicable.
King ignored Clover. “So you go to the church cemetery often?” he asked. “To talk to your dead husband?”
Clover elbowed him in the stomach.
“Clover, that hurts. I am a sworn police officer and someone died here. Please let me do my job.” He turned to Megan. “I’m sorry if that sounded insensitive. Maybe someone saw you? Someone who can vouch for your whereabouts.”
Megan stood, the basket of eggs hanging from her elbow. “Bobby, are you trying to tell me I’m a suspect in Simon’s death?”
King’s face colored. Although he was a few years younger than Megan, his family went back at least as far as the Birch family—and he’d never left. “Now, you know I have to do my job. And Duvall did die on your property.”
“And you think I would be stupid enough to kill him, leave him there so that I could discover him with Dr. Finn, and then call you?”
Clover placed a single watercolor green egg in the basket and nodded emphatically. “You have to admit—that would be pretty dumb.”
King gave Clover a withering look. “And maybe that’s what she wants us to think. She could have killed Simon in a fit of anger and then panicked. She’s a lawyer, Clover. She would be banking on us thinking she’s too smart to do something that dumb.”
Clover arched thin eyebrows. “Listen to yourself.”
Megan left them alone to argue. She walked away from the chicken tractors, making her way through the mixed flock of chickens—Chanteclers, Delawares, Orpingtons, and a few Plymouth Rocks—and opened the padlock on the walk-in refrigerator outside the barn. She placed the eggs inside. Behind her, Clover’s angry monologue said the pair were following her.
“Megan, tell him you didn’t kill Simon.”
“Of course I didn’t kill Simon.”
King sighed. “It’s not that simple, Clover.”
Megan closed the refrigerator door—without the store and café, what was she going to do with all those eggs?—thought better of it, and reached back inside. She pulled the basket back out.
“Bobby, I need to get into the barn.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“Then you go in for me.”
He frowned. “What for?”
“There’s a big box by the doors, under a tarp. It’s marked ‘cartons.’ Bring that out here?”
“Seriously, Megan?”
Clover looked at him beseechingly. She ran a finger down the arm of his uniform in a playful gesture. He shrugged her hand away, but Megan could see him softening. Clover was hard to resist.
He shook his head. “Fine.”
He was back a minute later with the box. Megan opened it, pulled out three egg cartons, and knelt down on the still-muddy ground. She filled the cartons with the morning’s bounty, taking time to mix the browns, blues and greens so that each carton looked balanced in color and size. There were still more than two dozen eggs left over in the basket—enough to satisfy Bibi. She handed one carton to Clover and two to Bob.
“Thanks,” Clover said.
King looked down at the eggs in his hand. “What are these for?”
“Eating,” Megan said with a smile. “One for you and one for your mother.”
“Aw, thank you. She’ll like that.” King’s blue eyes narrowed. “Is this a bribe?”
Clover scowled. “Bobby!”
Megan stood. “You really have seen one too many episodes of CSI.”
She placed the basket back in the refrigerator and secured the padlock. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to help Clay transplant tomatoes.” She looked up at the sky, wishing for the warmth of the sun on her face. It would be nice if the ground would finally dry out.
“I have more questions,” King said.
“Then by all means, join me.” Megan glanced at Clover. “Why don’t you run the eggs up to the house and check on my grandmother? If she has any of her cherry Danish left, bring it down. I’m sure Bobby and the others are hungry.”
King gave her another suspicious look, which she dismissed with a wave of one chapped hand. “I have absolutely nothing to hide. Ask me whatever you want, but let me get my work done. One way or another, I have a farmers market to attend next week, and I need to be able to sell something other than mud.” She looked around the farm, her eyes settling on Clay’s narrow figure in the distance. She knew her need to work had as much to do with escaping thoughts of Simon’s murder—and the fact that a murderer was still at large in Winsome—but she had to do something. Something was better than worrying, after all. “And as of right now, mud is about all I have to offer.”
Undeterred, King followed Megan to the fields and through the deer fencing, where she picked up a tray of tomato seedlings and a small shovel. Clay Hand, Megan’s farm manager and Clover’s older brother, had turned over the bed, and Megan selected a row far enough from Clay that she could talk to the police chief without being overheard. She began to dig a small hole at one end of the row and waited for King’s follow-up questions. She’d sent Clover to the house in order to give him some time to ask hard questions without his girlfriend’s interruptions. The way Megan saw it, King had real potential, but youth and a desire to please had him convinced he could handle Clover and the investigation. As much as Megan hated this process, she had enough respect for the law to want it done right. She also wanted to be crossed off the suspect list—as quickly as possible.
“Would you like me to get you a chair?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine.” He paused and, although Megan’s gaze was on the task at hand, she heard him rifling through his notebook. “I understand you had an argument with Simon the day he was killed.”
