by Wendy Tyson
Megan called it quits at two in the morning. By then, Sadie was sound asleep by the front door, the counters were fully stocked, and Megan had scrubbed and polished the empty kitchen area. She needed to secure a cook. Given the mess she was in, and the questionable state of the café’s permits, it felt like an act of faith to hire someone now. She needed a little faith.
She grabbed a stack of resumes from her small desk at the back of the kitchen, next to the butler’s pantry, and pulled out the one she had tabbed: Jeremy Landers, a name from her school days. Megan had already offered him the job; she’d call him to confirm in the morning.
Mentally and physically spent, she snapped on Sadie’s leash and opened the front door. The street lights cast a lazy glow across the cobblestones, and the stars, visible in the clear night air, shone overhead. The street was silent. A cold breeze blew up from the canal, and Megan hurried toward the truck.
Two steps from the door, Sadie stopped and growled. She tugged on the leash, her body pulling in the direction of the alleyway between Moira’s Antiques and The Book Shelf. With a longing glance at the truck, Megan followed Sadie. She saw a snake of a shadow slink across the stones.
“It’s a cat, Sadie,” she whispered. “Come on.”
But the hair standing on the back of her neck along with the niggling pull in her belly said it wasn’t a cat. The shadow had been too long. Someone was watching her.
Six
It was after seven that morning when Megan finally crawled out of bed. She’d slammed down the snooze button on her alarm six times. After the seventh reprieve, Bibi finally intervened.
“Are you running a farm or a brothel?” Bibi asked. “Cause with your late hours and sleeping habits, it feels more like the latter.”
Bibi stood in the doorway of Megan’s room with her hands on diminutive hips, a sparkling purple “Winsome Rocks It” t-shirt draped over a white turtleneck and black pants. When Megan was little, her father had owned a souvenir shop in what would eventually be the café. The shop had earned Eddie Birch a marginal living, and had been one of a string of his promising ideas. Megan appreciated her father’s vision and passion, but like his last stint on the farm, many of his projects were met with more enthusiasm than good old practical sweat equity. Bibi still wore the seemingly endless supply of leftover t-shirts from the souvenir shop days. She didn’t like to see anything go to waste.
“Come on,” Bibi continued, her tone kind. “Roger Becker’s here. He wants to talk to you. I made both of you pancakes and coffee. Take a shower and meet us in the kitchen.” She smiled. “Things pass, Megan, and this will too. You’ll learn not to ride the high points or the low points for too long.”
Grateful, Megan nodded. Her relatively short marriage had taught her the truth in her grandmother’s words.
In fifteen minutes, Megan had showered and dressed in faded blue jeans and a navy blue “Feeling Winsome” t-shirt that Bibi had snuck into her drawer. Refreshed, she readied herself for a battle with Simon Duvall’s right-hand man, town inspector Roger Becker.
To Megan’s surprise, there was to be no battle.
“Megan,” Roger said warmly. He’d already been seated at the kitchen table, and was cutting into a stack of thick, plate-sized blueberry pancakes. Bibi poured him coffee (“Winsome Proud” on the mug), and placed it next to Roger’s plate. He smiled his thanks and Bibi nodded appreciatively. Bibi loved to feed people, and she never looked as happy as she did in the kitchen. Megan’s stomach growled.
“Two or three, Megan?”
Megan eyed Roger’s plate. Two would be enough, but she had a long day ahead of her. “Three,” she said, and was happy to see Bibi’s smile.
Megan slipped into the seat across from Roger. She forced herself to make eye contact with the man who’d been instrumental in holding back the farm and café.
“I’m sorry about Simon.”
“We all are.” Becker frowned. He looked down at his pancakes with a dutiful look of sorrow. “Simon loved this town. We’re all in shock.”
“Here too.” Megan glanced away, toward the window that looked out at the barn. “How is his mother?”
“Lenora is holding up as well as can be expected.”
Roger was a neatly dressed man in his fifties. Slim and balding, precise in manner and diction, he always seemed a tad reserved. He picked up the white cloth napkin Bibi had provided and touched it to his thick salt and pepper goatee before speaking further.
“I brought you this.” He slid an envelope across the table. Megan stared at it a moment before picking it up.
She looked at him questioningly. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
Megan tore open the top, bile rising in her throat. Another failure notice? Roger’s mysterious list of to-dos? Something worse? Annoyed, she pursed her lips. Bring it on.
But stapled together were two “Passed Inspection” notices—for the farm and the café. Megan looked up at Roger. “I don’t understand. Simon said—”
Roger shook his head. “I never failed your inspections, Megan. That was Simon. I was ready to hand you the permits weeks ago.” He shrugged. “Until they find a replacement, I’m the guy in charge. I was heading over to Lowry’s tackle shop, and I thought I would stop here on my way.” He smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. I like what you’re doing here, with the farm and all. When do you finally get your organic certification? Three years, right?” Megan nodded. “And that café? Please get that up and running.” He patted his stomach. “Local grub isn’t what it used to be. We could use another option on Canal Street.”
“Well, thank you,” Megan said. She heard the tentativeness in her own voice. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Only doing what’s right.”
“About time someone did,” Bibi said. She was flipping more pancakes, although Megan wasn’t sure who she thought would eat them. Sadie, maybe—the dog was sitting by the stove, suddenly Bibi’s new best friend.
“Bibi, come sit with us. Have some food.”
“Yes, Bonnie. Sit.”
But her grandmother waved away their words. “I already ate.” She turned to Roger. “Any news about Simon’s death?”
“Nothing so far.”
“Think Lenora will make a bid for Simon’s position?”
Roger shook his head slowly. “Maybe for Chair of the Historical Society—eventually. She was the one who planted that idea in Simon’s head in the first place. But run for zoning commissioner? I doubt it. She’s been working on some big project that has her pretty well occupied.”
“Never liked that woman.” Bibi slid a pancake onto a platter and poured more batter onto the old griddle.
Megan gave her grandmother a sharp look. “Tell me, Roger,” she said. “Why did Simon refuse to give us the permits?”
Roger scratched his head with one pale finger. “Honestly? Not sure. Maybe because he could.”
“That’s an abuse of power. And it doesn’t make sense. Why us and not others?”
“Who says there weren’t others?”
“Were there?” Megan asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Roger took another sip of coffee. Almost daintily, he placed his napkin across his empty plate. “That sure was good, Bonnie. Thank you for the hospitality.”
He stood, reaching for his hat.
“You didn’t answer me, Roger,” Megan said, unwilling to let it go that easily. She watched as Roger and her grandmother exchanged a look. “Why us?”
It was Bibi who finally said, “Simon was a petty man. Probably didn’t like that you have a law degree. Felt threatened by that.”
Roger nodded.
“Now get back to work, Roger Becker,” Bibi said. “Before I tell your mama that you’re slacking on the job.”
Back in her room, Megan called Clover to let her know the perm
its had come through.
Megan should have been elated, but instead a wariness had hold of her. That was too easy. After Simon’s murder, she was suspecting ulterior motives everywhere.
“Whoop!” Clover yelled into the phone. She’d never been one to hide her emotions. “Awesome news.”
It was awesome news. So why did Megan have that little niggling feeling in her gut?
“Can you head over to the café?” Megan asked. “Let’s try to open—at least the store section—by week’s end.”
“And you have the cook lined up?” Clover asked.
“Sure do. He’s a professional—trained in France.”
“Terrific. I’ll head over there today and start stocking shelves.”
Megan interrupted her to tell her she’d been there last night. “You can work on the refrigerated stuff,” she said. “That’s still in the large cooler.” Megan paused. She toyed with whether to mention the flask. Finally, she asked, “While you’ve been over there, have you seen anyone drinking on the job?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“It’s nothing. Sadie found a flask there last night. Someone must have dropped it.”
“That’s curious,” Clover said, although her tone said it wasn’t that curious, not in Winsome. “I’ll see you at the café?”
“Yep. I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Clover gave another squeal. “The café will finally open its doors. About time!”
Megan clicked off her phone. It was about time.
Dr. Denver Finn showed up two hours later. Megan had just watered the seedlings and was checking on the goats, mulling over her conversation with Roger Becker. His sudden interest in getting her those permits seemed odd. And the fact that Simon had blamed Becker concerned her. Either Simon or Becker had been lying, but which one? She couldn’t very well confront a dead man—and she didn’t want to antagonize Becker.
“Are you applying the antibiotic?” Denver asked, breaking her reverie.
Megan looked up from her perch on the ground, startled. She smiled when she saw the veterinarian. “I figured you’d stay clear of this place after all that’s happened,” she said.
“And miss more fun?” Denver sat down next to her and lifted the goat onto his lap. “How’s she been?”
“A bit lethargic.”
After taking the goat’s temperature and giving her a thorough onceover, he shook his head. “No fever. Wound is healing. She may be recovering from the trauma. If she still seems off in a day or two, or if she gets worse, call me.” He looked up, into Megan’s eyes. “Actually, call me either way.”
Megan felt her face flush. She stood, brushing her hands against her mud-streaked jeans. “I will, Doctor…Denver.”
The doctor, however, didn’t seem inclined to move yet. He furrowed his brow. “I heard Bobby King spent most of his day here yesterday.”
“Word got around that quickly?”
“Winsome’s a tiny town.”
“That’s for sure.” Megan thought about her conversations with King and his crew. “As far as I know, the police don’t have any leads. King was here trying to figure out whether I had enough of a motive to kill Simon. I wish he’d focus his energy out there.” Megan pointed toward the road and beyond. “It’s surreal, you know? A killer in Winsome.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “A killer here, on the farm.”
Nodding, Denver unfurled his long, muscular body. At full height, he was a good ten inches taller than Megan. With Denver this close, Megan felt small—and oddly secure. Both sensations made her feel vulnerable. She turned away, annoyed with herself. A man was murdered and she was thinking about Denver Finn.
“Are you okay, Megan?” he asked.
Rather than respond—and no, she was most definitely not okay—she said, “Wait here. I want to show you something.”
Megan sprinted up to the house, retrieved the wrapped flask, and jogged back down to the goat enclosure, avoiding the yellow police tape that still cordoned off a portion of her barn.
“Do you recognize this?” she asked the veterinarian. After all, his job put him in contact with most of the pet owners in Winsome. It was worth a try.
She watched as slowly, carefully, with hands used to delicate surgical work, Denver Finn unwrapped the flask. First he examined the felt, holding it up to the light and sniffing the material. Then he turned his attention to the flask. After flipping it over and staring at the initials, his expression changed from mild curiosity to alarm.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the café. Sadie found it.”
“When?”
Megan hesitated. “Last night. Late.”
“Late as in…”
“Late.”
Denver’s eyebrows shot up. He frowned. “All things considered, that doesn’t sound wise.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Still frowning, Denver turned the flask over again. He traced the initials with his finger. “I know whom this belongs to. He’s not someone you want to mess with.” He rewrapped the flask and handed it back to Megan.
“Why? Whose is it?”
Denver sighed. “Look, the initials on that match up to Brian Porter. Brian David Porter. Do you know him?”
When Megan shook her head, Denver said, “Not surprised. Around here, people call him Brick. That’s what he used to do. Brick-laying. Before.”
“Before what?”
“Before Afghanistan.”
“Oh.” Megan thought she knew most people in town, but Brian’s name was unfamiliar. And then there was the matter of the armed services. Just like Mick. “Tell me,” she said softly.
Denver looked pained, his handsome, good-natured face twisted into a mask of sympathy and concern. “Brian—Brick—went over in 2013. I honestly don’t know what happened, but he returned a year later and he wasn’t the same man. He lives over on the other side of town now, in a small house, with his dog. I only know him because of the dog.” Denver shook his head. “Brick has some anger issues. Understandable, perhaps.” He pointed to the flask. “But ye don’t want to be on his bad side.”
“Why would his flask be in my store?”
The doctor shrugged. “Could be he was there visiting the Dorfmans. They do work at the café, right? The Dorfmans and Brick go way back. He does some odd jobs for them here and there, as I understand it. Or maybe he stopped by to see what was happening.”
“And he happened to leave behind his flask?”
Denver reached out and took the flask from Megan again. His fingers brushed against hers and she felt a jolt run through her. Carefully, he unwrapped the flask again and stared at the letters. “Most likely, he visited the Dorfmans and simply forgot it.”
Megan took the flask back from Denver, careful not to touch it. Once covered in its felt casing, she tucked it into her back pocket. “Thanks for the info,” she said.
“You’re not done with this matter, are you?”
Too many strange happenings for one small town. “How can I be?”
Seven
Megan toyed with whether to call King and tell him about the flask, but given her last conversation with him, she was afraid it would seem as though she was trying to throw suspicion elsewhere. Instead, she’d figure out whether the flask was something to be concerned about first. As a young environmental attorney for a big firm, she’d done a fair amount of investigating. Sure, it usually involved things like talking to neighbors in areas designated as “hot zones” by plaintiffs’ attorneys, checking Center for Disease reports and statistics, and snapping the occasional picture of a garbage dump or an industrial site for the firm’s partners, but what the heck…she figured the same principles applied.
At noon, she was raking organic hay around the newly-transplanted broccoli plants when Clay came bounding down the hill, a she
et of paper in his hand.
“I need to run out.” He waved the paper. “Cops are still tying up the barn—and everything in it. We can’t exactly start picking vegetables for the farmers market without these things, so I guess we need to buy them again.”
“Let me talk to King.”
Clay shook his head. “I already called him. He mumbled something about forensics and said the barn is off limits for at least a few more days.”
“Darn,” Megan said under her breath. The barn was where they would sort and wash the vegetables for sale at the store and market. She sighed. “Why don’t you give me the list. I need to go to the café. I’ll stop by Merry’s store and get what we need.” And do some investigating of my own, she thought.
Clay nodded. “Awesome. Thanks.”
Megan handed him the rake. “Don’t thank me yet. That means it’s your turn to spread hay.”
She found Merry Chance manning the cash register, her ample bottom pressed against a tall stool behind the counter.
“It must be awful,” Merry said in her sing-song voice. “A dead body? In the barn? And Simon Duvall, of all people.” She tsk-tsk’d her way through the checkout process. “My lord in heaven, his mother must be beside herself with grief.”
Megan glanced around the empty nursery, wondering if Merry’s saccharine banter was a cover-up. Suddenly, everyone seemed like a suspect, even the matronly woman before her. Merry was a fixture in town. Like many people, she could trace her lineage way back. Merry, an outspoken Anglophile, claimed to be the great-great-great-niece of some English aristocrat Megan had never heard of. She proved her provenance by raising award-winning English roses, some of which lined the interior of the nursery’s gift shop area and checkout counter. The scent was overpowering. Megan tried to stifle a sneeze. She was unsuccessful.
“God bless you,” Merry said, barely pausing in her ramblings. “You’re getting sick. A spring cold can be a doozy, you know.” She shook her head. “As I was saying, Lenora must be crazy with grief.”
“I imagine she is,” Megan said. “Do you know when the funeral service will be?”
