by Wendy Tyson
She said, “I don’t think you’re being paranoid. I’ve felt it too.”
His eyes widened.
“Come on,” she said, unwilling to let fear take hold. “Let’s go pick spinach. I want to bundle it up to sell at the store today.”
“You’re going through with this?” he asked.
“Damn right,” Megan said.
“I thought…with everything that happened, the ongoing police investigation…”
But Megan waved away his concern with a bravado she didn’t quite feel. “If we stop now, Becker may change his mind. Besides, if someone is trying to sabotage the farm, there’s no way I’m going to let them win. And stopping out of fear? That’s akin to acknowledging defeat.”
Ten
Megan and Clay were still loading packages of fresh spinach, baby lettuce, and Russian red kale into her truck when Megan’s cell phone rang. It was Clover, and she was buried. “I need help,” she said. “And soon.”
“Are people actually buying stuff?” Megan asked. She wondered whether the good residents of Winsome really wanted organically grown goods—after all, the nearest Whole Foods was more than an hour away—or whether they were mostly after gossip about Simon’s murder.
“They’re buying,” Clover said. “And they want to know when the lunch counter will open.”
“Not until next week when Jeremy starts.”
“That’s what I keep saying. Hold on.” Clover put down the phone and Megan could hear her ringing up a customer. After a moment, Megan heard, “Thanks for coming, Jack,” before the phone was back at Clover’s ear. “Anyway, come soon. Please.”
“Give me thirty minutes.”
Megan clicked off her cell, ignoring a niggle of disappointment. She’d have to send Clay to get the cat. That meant no running into Denver. Oh, well, she thought. Another time.
The next few hours spared Megan thoughts of murder, chickens, Denver, or her grandmother…she was way too busy. Clover had been right: Winsome wanted fresh, organic goods. Badly. By two that afternoon, the spinach, kale, and lettuce were gone, and her patrons had made a solid dent in the local canned goods—even the pickled beets—as well as the selection of local cheeses.
At two fifteen, taking advantage of a lull, Clover leaned back against the wall behind the register and pulled a Snapple from under the counter.
“Hey, that’s not ours,” Megan joked. “We don’t sell Snapple.”
Clover took three quick gulps, as though she was afraid Megan would take the bottle away. Laughing, she said, “I don’t trust foods that don’t contain chemicals or sugar.”
“You’re joking.”
Clover shook her head slowly side to side. Her long hair was held captive by a pair of quaintly old-fashioned tortoiseshell barrettes. “Afraid not.”
Come to think of it, Megan had never seen her eat or drink anything other than fast food and soft drinks.
“That stuff will kill you.”
“Yeah, well, after years of living on the commune, eating nothing but rabbit food, I’ve decided I’d rather be happy and live a shorter life.”
“You say that now, but I think Jeremy will make a convert out of you.”
Clover smiled. “Let him try. I’m not giving up my Diet Snapple for anyone.”
Megan laughed. “Just keep that drink under the counter.”
Right then, the front door opened. Megan looked up, expecting to see a customer. Instead, King stood in front of her, hands on his hips. His face was set with the look of a man who had recently settled on the right answer to one of life’s conundrums.
“Hey, Bob. Can I help you?” Megan asked.
“I’d like to speak with you in private.” King looked around the store. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Clover started to say something and Megan placed a quieting hand on her elbow. “Sure. Let’s head back to the kitchen. We’re not using it yet.”
In the kitchen, King didn’t waste time getting to the point. He pulled out a black leather glove and placed it on the stainless steel prep counter. The glove was laid out flat within a thick clear plastic evidence bag, palm of the right hand up. Two fingers and a portion of the palm were darker than the rest, the material slightly wrinkled in those spots. It didn’t take a law degree to recognize dried blood.
“Can you identify this?”
“It appears to be a black leather glove.”
“Does it belong to you?”
“No.”
King narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, of course I’m certain. I don’t own black leather gloves.”
“Have you seen this glove before?”
Megan let out a sigh of exasperation. “It’s a black leather glove, Bobby—as common as black socks and white undershirts.”
“Yet you don’t own a pair.”
“No, I don’t.”
King gave her a long, hard look, one that suggested Megan had her chance and blew it. He picked up the glove and started to put it back in the bag.
“Was it found near Simon’s body?” Megan asked. When King didn’t respond, Megan said, “It must have been. The blood. But it could have easily been planted there. It could belong to anyone. Anyone who—”
Without a word, King dug inside his police-issued duffel and selected a pair of metal tongs. Carefully, he flipped over the evidence bag and pulled the glove out. Using the tongs, he turned it over. She saw the reason for the officer’s questions along a wide swath of wool cuff that rose above the cheap leather. In white machine-stitched lettering, the phrase “Stay warm in Winsome!” had been embroidered onto the fabric.
“Now you understand?” King said, not unkindly. “We both know where it came from.”
“It’s not mine.” But even as she said the words, Megan’s mind flashed to the morning of the murder, to her goat standing on the shed roof with a black glove dangling from her mouth. A black leather glove. A bit more quietly, she said, “And it’s not Bonnie’s, either.”
“I’m not so sure you can say that with conviction.”
“That shop was open years ago. There could be dozens of pairs of these floating around.”
King shook his head slowly back and forth. “It’s a tourist item. Pretty unlikely a resident of Winsome would own a pair. Other than your grandmother, that is.”
“Unlikely does not equal impossible.” Megan glanced at the police bag, which once again housed the offending glove. “Where did you find it?”
“I can’t say more. I’ve already gone beyond my bounds.” Regaining the reserved edge, he said, “We know Bonnie keeps all the old store stuff. Is it possible someone working for you took these gloves?”
“Possible, perhaps. Probable, absolutely not.” Megan shook her head, feeling her Birch temper rising. Clay was as unlikely as Bibi to be part of this.
King frowned. “We can’t ignore a possible lead. You of all people should know that. That’s not how an investigation works.”
Megan was about to argue, to throw out all the reasons those gloves didn’t amount to evidence against anyone at the farm, to point out the holes in their process and reasoning, but realizing she would get nowhere, she held her tongue.
She said, “Did you have the blood tested?”
“Preliminary tests match it to the victim.”
“Which doesn’t tell you a thing about the killer.”
“Other than the fact that they likely wore these gloves.” King stared at Megan through impatient eyes, eyes that questioned Megan’s reluctance to see the connection.
“Did you find any identifying material inside the gloves? Have you ruled out other blood at the scene? Fingerprints? Shoeprints?”
At the last part of the question, Megan saw King flinch. Nevertheless, he said, “You know I can’t answer your questions.”
&n
bsp; “Why did you show me the cuff?” Megan asked finally.
King’s stern features rearranged themselves into a professional veneer, one that belied the sympathy in his voice when he said, “Because I’ve known Bonnie since I was a kid. And if positions were reversed, I’d like to think you’d do the same.”
“What did Bobby want?” Clover asked later, when King was gone.
Megan mentioned the glove, leaving out the cuff. Whatever his reason, King had showed her a professional courtesy, and although Megan trusted Clover, she doubted Clover’s ability to keep her mouth shut when it came to her boyfriend.
“Sometimes that man is unbelievable.” Clover removed the barrettes in her hair. It hung loose around her shoulders. She tossed it back defiantly. “Let me talk to him.”
“No, please don’t. Concentrate on the store. This will all work out.”
Another wave of customers had entered, including Merry Chance, the owner of the local nursery. Merry wandered around the shop, peeking down aisles and in the dairy coolers.
“No meat?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Megan answered.
Merry made her way toward the cash register and stood in front of it, empty-handed. “I passed Bobby King on my way in. Funny thing, seeing a police officer here. I thought maybe he was coming to see Clover—” Merry threw a pointed look in the direction of Megan’s shop manager “—but perhaps he had other business?”
A line was forming behind Merry. Megan smiled politely and asked if there was anything she could help her find.
“Oh, I’m being nosy,” Merry proclaimed with a self-conscious laugh. “Stopping by to see what the competition is up to and all that.”
Clover stared at her. “We’re hardly competition.”
But Merry simply raised her over-plucked eyebrows and clucked in the direction of the organic seed display.
Megan smiled, her patience waning. “Merry, if you’d like help with something, let us know. In the meantime, I think the gentleman behind you would like to pay for his chocolate and flowers.”
Indeed, the owner of Winsome’s only bookstore was standing behind Merry, looking rather impatient himself. Soft, hairless white hands clutched two bars of Love’s organic chocolate and a bouquet of spring flowers.
The town rumor mill said the bookseller had a penchant for online slot machines and every time his wife intercepted an American Express bill, he bought her a gift. His basket had the makings of an apology.
The man moved around Merry, who had only shuffled to the side. She seemed to be weighing her next words. Megan decided not to give her the chance to continue. “Next,” she called. She’d get the next customer started while Clover finished ringing up the burnt offerings.
Denver walked up to the counter. Megan was surprised to see him. The veterinarian placed a bottle of sparkling apple cider, a loaf of wheat bread, and two cans of Aunt Lila’s organic butternut squash soup near the register.
“Quite a difference,” he said. “The store, I mean. It looks great.”
The line extended beyond Denver, beyond the rubbernecked Merry Chance, and out between the shelves.
Megan said, “Thank you.” She could see two of Winsome’s most eligible single women at the rear of the line, staring at the doctor and whispering. Their gazes skimmed the back of him, clearly appreciative of the view.
“Did Clay pick up my cat?” Megan asked, not sure what else to say.
“Aye, he did. But he forgot his pills.”
Their eyes locked. This time Denver was the first to look away. Clover had finished with the register and Megan slid the apple cider toward her. While Clover rang Denver up, Megan pulled a paper bag from beneath the counter.
“Is this stuff good?” Clover asked, pointing to the cider.
Denver shrugged. “I would have preferred a good lager, but I’m on call. Anyway, this is date food. I hear American women love to be wined and dined.”
Clover laughed. “Maybe, but I’m not sure canned soup and cider are exactly what most women have in mind.”
“Ah, but I don’t plan to share this with most women. My date is with someone special.”
Clover asked, “And who is the lucky gal?”
“Well, I haven’t actually asked her yet, ye see.” He looked at Megan. “Know anyone with a soft spot for butternut squash soup?”
Cheeks flaming, Megan said, “I may.”
The store was silent, all eyes suddenly on the counter. From the corner of her eye, Megan could see the two women at the back exchange a glance. Winsome was a small town—a very small town—and the only thing less common than a handsome eligible bachelor in this part of Pennsylvania was a Michelin star-rated restaurant. Most of the good ones married young. The rest left.
Paper bag in hand, Denver was ready to leave. He slid something across the counter. “Here are our business hours. Come by for the laddie’s medicine whenever it’s convenient.”
“Alright, everyone, nothing to see here,” Clover said after Denver was gone. She flicked back her long hair with two flower-stenciled long nails and reached for her Snapple. With a guilty glance at Megan, she put the bottle back underneath the counter.
But Megan was barely paying attention. Denver had slipped her a business card. And in small, even printing, he’d written “7:00—dinner?” and his address along the bottom. She slipped the card in her pocket, unsuccessful at suppressing a grin.
Eleven
Dinner was a casual affair.
After checking in on Bibi, who was watching television and knitting, Megan took a hot shower. She changed into a simple vintage dress in a beige and berry-colored floral fabric and a pair of sandals. Sadie demanded her dinner. Megan fed her and grabbed a Danish from the freezer before locking the doors and heading toward the west side of town, where Denver lived.
Denver’s house was a dark gray and white bungalow on a quiet residential street. Architecturally precise down to the low-pitched roof, broad eaves, and sturdy, square white columns, it was an attractive and tidy house, freshly painted and situated on a large trimmed lawn. The only nod to his profession was the fenced-in backyard and four dogs bounding along the fence line, barking madly at Megan, their mismatch in size making for a comedic pack.
Denver opened the front door and moved aside to allow her to come in. The front door led into a wide, deep living room with quarter sawn oak floors, white walls, built-in bookshelves, and simple, comfortable-looking Shaker-style furniture. It was a masculine house, but neat and organized. Even the dog beds were lined up neatly, smallest to largest.
Thanking her, Denver took the Danish Megan had rescued from the freezer and led Megan into the kitchen. Like the rest of the downstairs, the kitchen was simple and clean, with sturdy maple cabinets, unpolished soapstone countertops and stainless steel appliances. A pot of something fragrant was simmering on the stove and the bottle of sparkling cider was chilling in a silver ice bucket on the counter. True to his word, Denver was serving soup and cider. Megan laughed.
“I warned you.” Denver smiled. Megan loved the way his eyes crinkled, warming his fair features. He had the kind of face that transformed when he smiled. He looked at her apologetically, the left dimple more pronounced than the right. “I’m afraid I can’t cook a lick.”
“Lucky for you, I can.” She pointed to the Danish. “More accurately, my grandmother can.”
“I was hoping for some of that lovely spinach today. You were out of it by the time I arrived.”
“Come by the farm anytime. I’ll give you all the spinach, kale, and other spring greens you could want.”
Denver held up his hands. “Whoa, the word ‘kale’ never left my mouth.”
Megan smiled. “You might be surprised.”
Denver looked at her, long and hard. “Ye do have a habit of surprising me. Maybe you’re right.”
Megan
could feel her face warming. She looked toward the stove, afraid her eyes would give her away. “Put me to work.”
After a moment, Denver said, “Sure, why not? You can pour the cider while I serve the soup. Sound fair?”
“Lead the way.”
Over dinner, Megan found herself sharing her odd conversation with King. For some reason, she trusted Denver. Maybe it was his candor, maybe it was his warmth. Whatever the reason, it felt good to talk about the murder with someone who could be objective.
She said, “The glove must be Bibi’s—or at least it originated with her. And the police know that. So the question is, why would someone want to frame my grandmother for murder? Or, if they aren’t trying to frame her, how did they get the gloves?”
“You said it was the same glove the goat had in her mouth?”
“May have been. Truth is, I’m not sure. But why in the world would the police believe an eighty-four-year-old woman is capable of murder? Someone King has known his whole life.”
“Maybe they don’t, which is why Bobby showed you the cuffs. The police may know that Bonnie’s not capable of murder, and while they can’t come out and tell you that your dear grandmother is being framed, they can let you know that something smells fishy.”
“Maybe.”
“Have the police made any formal moves, Meg?”
“No. And if I felt like they were sniffing around with any seriousness, I would hire a lawyer.”
Megan glanced at Denver’s four dogs—a Golden Retriever, a very tall Great Dane mix, some sort of Chihuahua blend, and a one-eyed Beagle—all lined up in a row about three feet from the table. She could tell they wanted some of the bread but were too well-trained to ask. She longed to share, but one look at Denver’s watchful eye and she knew she’d get them in trouble.
“Quite a menagerie you have,” she said instead.
“Aye, a crazy lot. I started out with no dogs. I guess you could say these pups adopted me.” He put his spoon down and called the dogs. All four ran to the table and sat upright next to the doctor. “The pure-breed retriever was dumped at the clinic by her former owners when they decided her health care cost more than they cared to spend.”
