by Wendy Tyson
“As I told you last night, it wasn’t an argument. It was a disagreement.”
“Over the permits for the store and farm?”
“Correct.”
A pregnant silence forced Megan to consider her options. She knew her disagreement with the zoning commissioner would be the subject of town gossip, but she also knew she wasn’t the only person in Winsome who had a beef with Simon Duvall.
“Megan, you know how this looks. What can you tell me to help me shift my focus? Who else might have wanted Simon dead?”
Megan looked up, surprised. She rubbed her temple with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of mud across her forehead. “Seriously? He was the zoning commissioner and the head of the Historical Society. I bet if you dig, you’ll find a hundred people with something against Simon.”
“How much money do you have tied up in this—” Bob stopped to look around “—project?”
“Do you think that’s relevant?”
Bob looked chagrined. “If Simon was threatening your businesses—and your bottom line—yes, I think it’s relevant.”
“I’m in the black. For now, at least.” Megan shook her head. “You want more information than that, you’ll have to get a warrant. Our finances are our business.” She pushed the tip of the shovel into the wet ground and dug a spot about six inches deep. “In the meantime, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Winsome has a killer on the loose, and he or she doesn’t reside at Washington Acres.”
“What about the bid?”
“What bid?” But Megan felt her shoulders tensing. The bid Neil Dorfman had mentioned yesterday? Was it somehow related to Simon’s murder?
“Bonnie was entertaining an offer from Duvall. To buy the place on behalf of the Historical Society.”
Megan placed her shovel on the ground. She straightened, kneeling on one knee, and met King’s gaze. “My grandmother never mentioned that to me.” Which was the truth.
“That doesn’t seem right. Clover says you two are real close.”
Megan shrugged. “If you want to know about my grandmother’s dealings with the Historical Society, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her.”
“You’re going play hard ball with me? Really?”
“I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything. Ask Bonnie.”
King took an audible breath. “You seem awful calm for a lady with a dead body in her backyard. Doesn’t it make you wonder who hates you enough to frame you for murder?”
Megan kept her voice metered to hide her rising frustration. “I am angry, scared, and very sad for the Duvall family. But I’m not sure you can jump to the conclusion that I’m being framed any more than you can conclude I did it.”
“Simon was a resident of this town his whole life. I think his murder is as much about you and this farm as about him.”
“Did you find anything at the crime scene yesterday to support that?”
“You know I can’t divulge that.”
“Look, I don’t think Simon was a well-liked man. It’s quite possible someone simply followed him here. The fact that his murder took place on our property was happenstance.” But even as Megan uttered the words, she wondered whether they were true.
“Had you arranged to meet him here last night?”
“No. I don’t know why he was here.” Which, Megan realized, did call into question whether someone simply followed Simon. Why had he come in the first place? “Ask around, Bobby. Simon wasn’t easy to deal with. I’m sure I wasn’t the only person who had issues with him.”
“Simon was a pillar of Winsome.”
“Then Winsome is standing on some mighty unsteady ground.”
King sucked on the end of his pen, contemplating Megan’s words. “You’re not planning any trips in the near future, are you, Megan?”
Megan twisted pale lips into a smile. She waved her hand in the direction of the fields, sodden and dotted with fledgling plants. “I’ll be right here, where I belong.”
He nodded, but his eyes said maybe Winsome wasn’t quite the right place for Megan and her projects after all.
Clay had another opinion on the matter. He and Megan were turning over a small bed along the western wall of the house that would soon be home to wildflowers. In addition to brightening up the yard and attracting pollinators, the wildflowers would make great bouquets that Megan planned to sell at the café and farmers markets. Clay had started on one end of the fifty-foot bed and Megan on the other, but after a few hours of intensive labor—work that made Megan’s muscles ache and reigned in her wandering, worried mind—they’d met in the middle.
“He was a bastard,” Clay said. “I don’t care what King says. No one liked Duvall, not even his mother.”
Clay spoke between huffed breaths. He wore low-slung jeans and a thick plaid flannel shirt. As always, his beard was neatly trimmed and his longish brown hair was held back in a ponytail. One thick strand had come loose and flopped across his face as he worked. He wiped the hair back with impatient swipes of long, strong fingers.
A stunningly handsome man, Clay had Pierce Brosnan’s eyes and Jake Gyllenhaal’s smile, but without a hint of narcissism. He and his sister had grown up in a commune. Like Clover, there was something almost naïve about his honest approach to the world, and Megan was afraid that eventually the world in all its cruelty would rob him of that innocent outlook.
Megan raked a section of soil and sprinkled seeds in the shallow furrows. “King called Simon a pillar.”
“There’s the public face and the private face. If you ask around, people will say good things about Duvall, even now. Simon had power and no one wanted to cross him.” Clay stopped, resting his arm across the top of his new shovel, a shovel he’d had to buy from Merry Chance’s nursery because the rest of the shovels were tied up behind police tape. “But behind closed doors…well, that’s when you’ll learn how people really felt about the man.”
“Like what?”
“Like he was a pompous, controlling ass who used his power to get others to do his bidding.”
“And what bidding would that be?”
Clay shrugged. “Depended on the day. Voting for him to be commissioner, getting someone he didn’t like off the zoning board, driving customers to or away from a given business, enforcing the Beautification Board’s directives.” He smiled. “Like I said, he wasn’t well liked.”
This wasn’t news to Megan, but Clay’s knowledge of the townsfolks’ sentiments was a surprise. “How do you know that much about the zoning commissioner?”
Clay smiled. “Shocking?”
“You’ve never struck me as a gossip.”
Clay shrugged, but some of the humor had left his eyes. “When you grow up the way I did, you learn to pay attention to people. Besides, the few times I’ve run into his mother, Lenora, I didn’t much care for our interactions. She’s…self-righteous.”
Megan considered the little she knew of the Duvall family. She’d seen Lenora here and there but had never spoken with her. An iron-haired, tight-lipped woman with impeccable posture, she certainly hadn’t struck Megan as warm and fuzzy. Lenora had been a history professor at NYU for many years, returning to Winsome a decade ago. Now she wrote scholarly articles and lorded over the Beatification Board. “And Duvall never married?”
“Never, as far as I know. Winsome and his career have been his life. That and history. He was a history buff.”
“Like Lenora?”
“More of a hobbyist than Lenora, but maybe even more passionate.” Clay sprinkled seeds in the last furrow, then stood straight and picked up his shovel. “Simon is—was—an odd bird, but I can’t imagine who’d want him dead.” He shook his head. “Things like that simply don’t happen in Winsome.”
Megan thought about the goats’ escape and the cat inside the house. Was it possible someone had been on th
e property the morning of Duvall’s demise? Or even the night before? The thought was unsettling.
Clay started toward the small shed they were using as makeshift storage until the police finished with the barn. When he was a few feet away, he turned around.
“You need to be careful, Meg,” he said, a look of concern in his deep-set eyes. “There could be more here than meets the eye. I’ve lived here for fifteen years and I’m still considered a newcomer. You’re a prodigal daughter returned. Hard to say who’s happy to see you and who’s not thrilled you’re back.”
“You think I’ve ruffled someone’s feathers without realizing it?” Megan asked. She thought of King’s hypothesis—was someone trying to set her up?
Clay shrugged. “Until King and his henchmen figure out who killed Duvall, I would watch who you trust.”
Megan tilted her head, giving Clay an inquisitive nod. “And whom can I trust, Clay?”
“For now? Your grandmother, of course. And me and Clover. And Denver Finn. But other than us?” He answered with an apologetic smile.
Megan stood still, thinking. She looked toward the barn, at the trampled grass and grimy footprints that evidenced recent police activity, and considered what Clay was saying. He was right. Winsome was a small town, but people—with all their human frailties—were, in the end, just people. Perhaps those shortcomings were better hidden in a small town out of necessity, but they still existed. Someone could feel threatened by her return. But who—and why?
“In the meantime,” Clay said, “we need to figure out who will clean up the crime scene. I can do it, once King gives the okay.” The look of distaste on his face told Megan what he thought about that idea.
Megan shook her head. “I’ve already called a crime scene cleanup crew, a firm King recommended. They’ll be here later today.”
“Will the police pick up the tab?”
Megan smiled. “Hardly.” She nodded toward the fields. “Let’s hope insurance covers it. Otherwise, we’d better sell a lot of vegetables.”
Five
It was after eight when Megan finally came inside for the evening. Intent on keeping her hands—and mind—busy, she’d planted and watered and weeded and sowed until her fingers were raw and her lower back ached. More than anything, she’d dreaded the conversation she knew she had to have with Bibi. Either people were fabricating tales about Bibi or Bibi had failed to share some pretty important information. Whether it had anything to do with Simon’s murder remained to be seen.
Megan placed her dirty work boots on the porch. Sadie, loyal as ever, hovered next to her, her long face pressed up against Megan’s arm. She sensed Megan’s angst.
“Come on, girl,” Megan said. Together, they made their way into the house. In her bedroom, Megan peeled off her jeans and t-shirt. After she showered and dressed in a pair of pale green cotton pajamas, she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, applying cream under her eyes and around her mouth. At thirty-two, she already had laugh lines around her eyes. Too much sun, she thought, and vowed for the millionth time to wear hats and sunscreen. She stared into the mirror; the woman gazing back at her looked tired. She picked up a comb and ran it through her thick, dark, shoulder-length hair, struggling to get out the knots.
She turned her head from side to side, looking for gray. She didn’t see any, but figured if anything would cause her to go gray prematurely like Bibi, Simon’s murder would.
Simon’s murder. She sighed. Bibi. The clock in her bedroom said 8:32. She’d stalled long enough.
She found Bibi in the sitting room, knitting something small and pink. When Megan walked in, Bibi looked up at her over black-rimmed reading glasses. “Rough day?”
Megan nodded. She sat across from her grandmother on a worn upholstered armchair, its thick arms covered by crocheted doilies. The arms were a dark walnut and the fabric a deep red, the color of poppies. The chair had been in this room for as long as Megan could remember, although that fact gave her no comfort now.
“Did Bobby King speak with you today, Bibi?”
Eyes firmly planted on her knitting, Bibi nodded. “For twenty of the longest minutes of my life.” She looked at Megan over her glasses. “And I’ve had a long life.”
Megan took a deep breath. She studied her grandmother’s hands, still nimble despite thick, swollen knuckles. “Bobby spoke to me too.”
“As you knew he would.”
“Some of his questions were…well, they were ones I couldn’t answer.”
“You’re beating around the bush.” Bibi glanced up from her knitting and, seeing the pained expression on Megan’s face, placed the needles in her lap, giving Megan her full attention. “What is it, Meg? What has you worried?”
“Were you planning to sell the farm to the Historical Society?”
“Oh, is that all?” Bibi picked up the needles. She shook her head. “That man is grasping at anything right now.”
“You never told me you were considering selling this place.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Bibi returned to her knitting, and the rhythmic click, click, click of the needles filled the room. Megan normally found a soothing comfort in the sound, but currently it only heightened her frustration. Bibi was hiding something. Why, Megan didn’t know.
“Bibi?”
When her grandmother looked up, she appeared tired and slightly cross. “Simon did try to buy the farm on behalf of the Society and I said no. That’s all there is to it.”
There was a finality to her tone that Megan chose to respect. That didn’t stop her from wondering, though…what wasn’t her grandmother telling her? And did it have anything to do with the body in the barn?
Megan couldn’t sleep. She’d been glib with Bob King, but the truth was she had a lot of money—all her money—tied up in the farm and café. They had the house, but it had been heavily mortgaged by her father. When he’d called two years ago to announce his engagement to an Italian woman and ask Megan to take over the farm and stay with Bibi, she’d agreed. She knew it would cost her—her father was no businessman, so the farm was sure to be hurting. But things looked even bleaker than she’d anticipated. If they could make the operation into a going concern, they would be fine—a prospect that was looking less and less likely.
At quarter after midnight, tired of fighting insomnia, Megan climbed out of bed. She traded her pajamas for a pair of jeans, a thick wool sweater, and her sneakers. She walked as silently as she could through the darkened house. Sadie, confused about the change of schedule, yawned and stretched her way behind Megan.
Megan thought about going out to the greenhouse to plant some flower seedlings, but the thought of being down there alone after what happened to Simon frightened her. Instead, she’d head to the café. She could use the time alone to sort through inventory and stock shelves. It would be good to focus on something tangible, and if she stayed here, she might wake Bibi. She left Bibi a note on the kitchen table and made sure to bring her cell phone, just in case.
Outside, the night was clear, the air crisp. Stars glowed overhead, their brilliance a reminder of how small she—and her problems—really were. She opened the truck and Sadie jumped in, happy to be included in Megan’s plans. Megan kept the headlights off until she was out of the driveway. She made a left and headed her way back into town.
Canal Street was empty. Megan pulled up in front of the café, turned off the car and unlocked the front door. Inside, she flipped on the lights. Normally she wouldn’t have thought twice about locking the door behind her, but tonight safety was on her mind, even with Sadie beside her. She locked the door and then double-checked to make sure it was tight. Satisfied, she walked back toward the lunch counter and pulled a box of locally canned goods from underneath. Sadie ran into the kitchen area and Megan let her go. Once the café was up and running, Sadie wouldn’t be allowed in the café. For now, she wa
s fine.
Megan dragged the box toward the front of the store, then stood straight to survey the space. The store was deeper than it was wide. In the back was the small kitchen, lunch counter, and what would be a long, copper-topped wooden farmhouse table. When facing the rear of the building, the check-out counter was on the left. The right side housed refrigerated sections for farm perishables—vegetables, fruits and fresh-cut flowers—and the center sported three short rows of shelves, enough to sell local food products and a few other necessities.
Most of the store remained empty.
Not for long, Megan thought. One way or another, she’d need those permits soon. She busied herself placing jars of pickled beets, cucumbers, garlic, tomatoes, and roasted peppers along the shelves. That task completed, she moved on to canned soups, paper goods, condensed milk, and the odd item that seemed more interesting than useful. She stepped back to admire the shelves. Things were shaping up.
A noise from the back startled her. She tensed, eyes darting toward the café. Sadie came running toward her, tail wagging madly. She stopped in front of Megan, dropped something at her feet, and crouched down, ready for a game of fetch. Megan bent down to pick up the object. It was hard, but wrapped in a layer of what looked like dark red felt. Megan unwrapped it slowly. Underneath the felt was a silver flask. It was old and worn, and the initials “BP” had been carved into the front. Megan unscrewed the cap. She didn’t need to sniff the opening to know what was inside: whiskey.
Must belong to one of the Dorfmans’ crew, Megan thought. She screwed the cap back on and wrapped it back in the felt. Yet the Dorfmans mostly worked alone. And Megan couldn’t think of a single person with the initials B.P.
She shrugged, placed the flask on the counter, and got back to work, too tired to think more about it. Maybe if she stayed with this for another hour or two she’d be able to sleep.
