by Wendy Tyson
“Faster,” she said and clapped her hands. “Make it go faster, Clay.”
Clay’s finger was pushing a tiny joystick. He frowned. “Bonnie, I’m trying, but I think that’s as fast as it will go.”
Her grandmother laughed as the buggy made its way over a small mound of dirt, laboring in a particularly soft spot. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of Megan. “Do you see this?” she asked with another clap. “There it goes. Now follow with the other.”
Clay obediently pulled another vehicle from a box near the edge of the bed. This one had been reconstructed to add what looked like a small silo on the top of the car. After flipping a switch on the bottom of the buggy, he added the contents of a packet of leaf lettuce seeds to the silo. Then he put the buggy down on the edge of the same row gently, over the furrows created by the first buggy. With a “here it goes” glance at Bibi, he pushed the tiny lever with his thumb. To Bibi’s delight—and his own—the seeds sprinkled out in a neat pattern along the furrow.
Smiling, Clay handed the first remote control to Bibi. With patience that reflected the goodness in his soul, he showed Bibi how to work the seed sprinkler. Once she understood, he continued with the furrow-maker while she sprinkled the seeds behind.
Megan watched in silence as two buggies completed the work along the long garden bed. When it got to one end, they started another furrow train in the opposite direction. This went on for the better part of an hour. The sun started to dip closer to the horizon, and the only sounds were the birds overhead, the occasional chicken squawk from across the field, and the gentle whir of the two machines. Hard to believe a man died here a few days ago, Megan thought. She shivered and thought about Dave’s words—maybe the killer would be caught and this could all be put behind them.
About three quarters of the way through the last furrow, the seeder ran out of seeds. Clay finished the furrow and then took the remote from Bibi, who looked happy but tired.
Clay turned to Megan. “Well?”
“I love it.” She smiled. “Of course, that works for leaf lettuce because you can sprinkle many seeds in one place. I don’t think it will work for other vegetables, especially ones that require holes, not furrows.”
Clay grabbed a hoe from the ground near the boxes that had housed the buggies and began pushing soil over the seeds in tiny, careful strokes. “You’re right,” he said. “But it’s all about timing. For example, for broccoli, I need a buggy that digs a hole every nine inches. I need to calculate the time needed for a given vehicle to reach that distance and program it accordingly. Then the seed dispenser will need to drop one seed in the same time interval.”
“That sounds complicated,” Megan said.
Clay shrugged. “Not hard at all.”
“How will you use it on the farm?” Bibi asked.
“These are simply prototypes. The real ones won’t need remote controls. We get a bed ready, put them down, and they do the job. They won’t work for everything, but let’s say I’m planting leaf lettuce in early spring in the greenhouses. Once the beds have been mulched and composted, I can use these to plant the seeds while I get beds ready for spinach.”
“A day saved here or there adds up,” Bibi said knowingly. “Maybe if your father had had something like this, Megan, he could have made a go of the farm.”
“Maybe,” Megan said, but she wasn’t so sure. Her father liked to have a good time, but with or without gadgets, farming was hard work. It took elbow grease, stick-to-itiveness, and more than a hint of faith, none of which were Eddie’s strong suits.
“I’m also working on a portable windmill we can use at the farmers market to run a refrigeration unit. That will come in handy in the height of summer. Everyone else will have droopy cucumbers; ours will be hard and fresh.”
Megan didn’t have the heart to tell him that coolers of ice did a fine job of keeping things fresh. And maybe he had a point—the church lot where the market was held was windy, even on a clear day.
“Well, this was fun, Clay, but I’m pooped.” Bibi wrapped her arms around her chest. “I’m going to head in.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Megan said. “I’ll cook tonight. I have some beautiful peas. I’ll make the risotto you love.”
Bibi smiled. “First seed-spreading buggies, then risotto—what a day.”
“Stay for dinner?” Megan asked Clay.
Clay, who had finished covering the tiny lettuce seeds and was boxing up his prototype, shook his head. “I’m having dinner with Clover and Bobby tonight.” He frowned. “I’ll see what I can learn about the investigation.”
“Yeah, I’d be curious,” Megan said. The police had finally removed the crime scene tape earlier that afternoon, but their presence was still visible in the mess they’d left behind. Bales of hay, tools, packing material…all were spread along the floor of the barn like refuse. She wrapped her own arms around her chest, a sudden chill taking hold. Overhead, a crow called three times, the sound like nails on a clay tablet. “King’s called a few times, asking follow-up questions. Dave told me they have a suspect.”
“Hallelujah.” Clay shook the small bag that had contained their organic lettuce seeds. “That was the last of them.”
“I’m out at the store too. I’ll head to Merry’s tomorrow and get more.”
“That would be good. We go through the baby lettuces, and I’d like to plant a fresh batch every week. You’ll need them at the café.”
The café. The opening. “We’ll need more than that.” She shared her plans for the following Monday’s grand opening. “I’ll get you a list.”
Clay smiled, looking content for the first time since the murder. “This is what it’s all about, you know. Feeding people good, wholesome food. Getting back to basics.” He tilted his head, his eyes probing her own. “Thank you. For taking over the farm. For giving this a chance. I know it’s a far cry from big city life.”
Megan smiled. Clay was right, of course. This was what it was all about. She wished she could share his easygoing optimism. More than that, she wanted Simon to leave her alone. She felt his icy fingers wrapping around her mind, deadening her enthusiasm and making her doubt her dreams, even from his place in the grave.
“It’ll be okay, Megan,” Clay said, reading her expression. “It’ll all be fine.”
Sixteen
Megan was nine minutes into stirring the risotto before she had the courage to ask about Sarah Birch. Bibi was sitting at the kitchen table, dicing spring onions with a knife as old as it was sharp on a worn wooden chopping block Megan’s grandfather had made. She was quiet, concentrating intently on her task, but she looked well rested and happy, the result of some time spent outside.
Dusk had given way to night, and outside the brightly lit kitchen the farm was bathed in shadows. Megan, turning from the window to the stove to add another ladle of vegetable stock to the simmering Arborio rice, said casually over her shoulder, “I met Aunt Sarah today.”
Bibi paused in her chopping but only for the smallest fraction of a second. “Oh,” she said equally as casually.
“Are you curious why? Or how?”
“Not really.”
Bibi’s chopping increased in rhythm.
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway,” Megan said to the stove, thinking suddenly it was better that she not be able to see her grandmother’s expression. “I found out her address and drove over unannounced.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“She called me.”
Megan stopped stirring and turned around, hands on her hips. “I thought you weren’t on speaking terms.”
“You’re going to burn the rice,” Bibi said, all stern eyes over wire-framed reading glasses.
Megan resumed her stirring, adding more vegetable broth and testing for consistency.
“Bibi, why all the sudden
secrecy?” She glanced over her shoulder at her grandmother, eyes pleading. “You’ve never been one to hide things from me. Of all the people in our family, you were the person I could count on to be honest. Always.”
Bibi stood. Slowly, she walked to the stove, peeked into the pot, and with soft, fluid movements, scraped the spring onions in with the rice. Next, she picked up a small bowl of freshly shelled peas and added them too. Taking the wooden spoon from Megan, she gave the ingredients a stir, added another ladle of warm vegetable broth, stirred again, and then stooped to sniff the risotto. Clearly not satisfied, she added a pinch of sea salt from a salt cellar next to the stove. After one last stir, she handed the spoon back to Megan.
“Lemon rind. And a splash of juice at the end. Plus some butter and parmesan. A lot of butter.”
“Not too much butter. Your cholesterol.”
“Nonsense. I’m almost eighty-five. Let my final years be happy ones. And you know what makes me happy? Butter.” Her grandmother pulled a lemon from a basket on the table. She rinsed the knife and cutting board and then settled back on the Windsor chair. “When you were little, you were obsessed with Old Man Cambridge. Do you remember him?”
Megan had a sudden flash of a stooped body, bristly white hair, a crimson slash of mouth. An unwelcome shiver ran down her spine. “How could I forget him?”
Bibi rubbed the lemon against a grater with swift, practiced strokes that left the bitter white pith behind. “Christmas. You were nine. The nativity?”
And like that, Megan recalled the scene. Old Man Cambridge had always seemed sad to her. The neighborhood children were scared of him, and behind his back they called him names. Sometimes, when they thought he wasn’t looking, they would throw eggs at his house or stick nails on his driveway. It had bothered Megan, but when she brought it up to her father, he’d told her in an unusually harsh tone to stay away from the man.
“But they tease him,” she’d insisted.
“He’s mean, Meg. Stay clear.” Her father had taken her face in his hands and said, “Don’t cross me.”
But Megan couldn’t shake the sadness of the old man’s lonely figure. She’d approached her grandmother about it days later. “He needs a friend.”
Bibi had taken her by the shoulders. “Listen to your father,” she said. “You must trust him.”
“Why?”
“Trust him, Megan. Stay away from Mr. Cambridge’s house.”
“You couldn’t stay away,” Bibi said now. “You had to bring him that tiny nativity scene you made in Sunday school.” She shook her head. “Look where that led.”
“It felt like the right thing to do.”
But it hadn’t been. With the self-righteous determination of a zealot on a mission, Megan had knocked on his door the day before Christmas to bring Gerald Cambridge her small token of friendship. He’d opened the door to let her in, but with the door closed behind them, the lost look in his eyes had hardened. He’d grabbed Megan’s arm, knocking the cardboard nativity to the floor of his dirty house, and started pulling on her, what Megan would later think of as a lascivious leer on his whiskered face. She had been terrified.
Panicked, Megan had tried to pull away. Old Man Cambridge had put his hand across her mouth. Megan had stomped on his foot and bit the inside of his hand all at once. He was old and slow and when he jerked away, she’d run out the door, crying all the way home. Stubborn, she’d waited two days to tell her grandmother, only giving up the information when questioned repeatedly about the thumbprint bruises on her arms. In the end, the police had been called. Cambridge had denied it, but her nativity had been found crumpled in the corner of his living room where he’d kicked it, damning him.
“A pedophile,” Megan said.
Bibi scrunched her face into a frown. “A pervert, but we couldn’t very well tell you that. And had you listened, you wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the old fool.”
Megan turned off the gas and added parmesan to the aromatic mixture in the pot. But memories of Gerald Cambridge had turned her stomach.
“I was a child then, Bibi. I’m an adult now. You can explain things to me. It’s hardly the same.”
Rising to taste the risotto, Bibi shook her head. “You’re missing the point. What’s the same is your tendency to disregard what others tell you and go your own way. What happened with Aunt Sarah isn’t important anymore. Don’t drudge up old hurts—it will do neither of you any good.” She dipped a spoon into the risotto, tasted it, and nodded. “Much better.”
“That’s it? First, a man is murdered in our barn, and I find out you and he had entered into secret negotiations to sell this house. Then I discover I have an aunt who is a famous mystery author, one who reappears in Winsome after years of estrangement, and I’m supposed to stay quiet and not ask questions?”
Bibi nodded. “That’s right.”
Seeing the look of disbelief on Megan’s face, her features softened. She put the spoon in the sink and came to where Megan was standing, on the other side of Sadie. She put a hand on Megan’s arm.
“Sarah’s back. Get to know her. Form your own opinions. But you have certain ideas about your grandfather—about your family—and these ideas are correct in the way one person’s interpretation of art is correct. Sarah has a different view, but if I share it—if she shares it—that would be unfair. It will color your ideas about your family in a way that can’t be undone, because your grandfather is no longer here to give his side.”
“So you’re trying to protect Grandpa?”
Bibi smiled, but only an echo reached her eyes. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“I’ll say it again: a man died here, Bibi. Have you thought about that?”
“Of course I have. Even more reason. Even more.”
The risotto was excellent; the conversation, not so much. Megan resented her grandmother’s paternalistic attitude and lack of what she saw as trust in her. Even more, she hated being angry at Bibi—the one person in her life at whom she almost never got angry.
For her part, Bibi was pleasant but quiet, which only made things worse. Had they been able to argue, Megan would have had a stronghold, something to dig her claws into.
Instead, she picked at a bowl of risotto, drank a glass of Sauvignon Blanc—resisting the desire to make it three or four glasses—and, after cleaning the kitchen in a moody silence, decided to go for a walk.
It was cool outside. A damp chill permeated the air, so Megan pulled an old cardigan over her sleeveless blouse before leaving. With Sadie beside her, she said good night to her grandmother, ignoring her pleas to be careful, and stepped into the darkness.
She walked along the perimeter of the farm, near the entrance to the woods, her eyes on the stars, her feet familiar with the rise and fall of the hilly landscape. Unlike Chicago, night was thick, the darkness a heavy blanket. Even the stars were hidden behind a thick layer of clouds.
Megan headed down the slope by the house, toward the chicken tractors. She’d tucked a flashlight into the back pocket of her jeans and as she neared the birds she pulled it out. A nightly fox inspection was a good idea. Fox, hawks, raccoons, bobcats…plenty of animals out here to raid the chickens and kill off her flock.
She was about to flip on the flashlight when she heard it: a low rumbling sound, like someone dragging a sack of flour across concrete. Sadie growled, alert beside her. Megan restrained the dog and pressed her own body against the nearest chicken tractor, willing the birds and Sadie to stay quiet and calming her irregular breathing. Her eyes, well-adjusted to the darkness, scanned the farm for movement. She focused on the barn.
Thinking of the goats, she slowly made her way toward their pen, careful not to make any sound. She saw it suddenly, the soft glow of a phone or small flashlight coming from the front of the barn. She turned her own flashlight around so that the metal base could be used as a club and fumbled in h
er pocket for her phone. Bibi. She looked back at the house and, relieved, saw her grandmother’s silhouette in her bedroom window. Megan had locked the porch door when she stepped outside. She was pretty sure.
Stepping back into the shadows of the chicken tractors, Megan laid a quieting hand on Sadie, who was wound tightly beside her. “Shhh, girl,” she said. Then she cupped her shaking hands around her phone in order to dial 911. Her phone rang, startling her. Megan jumped, dropping the phone before she could silence it. She watched as the light in the barn went out. A few more scrapes and then nothing. She thought she saw a figure running across to the abandoned property next door, but she couldn’t be sure.
Breathing hard, she finally answered the phone. It was, of all people, the police chief himself.
“Bobby, get a patrol car out here pronto,” Megan whispered. She told him what had happened, her words falling over one another in her haste to get them out.
“Someone will be on their way,” King said. “Go inside. Now.”
“Heading there as we speak,” Megan lied.
She wanted to check on the goats before heading back up to the house. Another glance at Bibi’s window assured her that her grandmother was fine.
“Megan, I’m afraid the barn’s not your only problem,” King said. “You’ve had a break-in at the café.”
“What?” Megan gripped the phone harder. “When?”
“Not sure. Someone drove by and saw the front window had been smashed and the door was open.”
Megan choked back a moan. “Did they…did they destroy anything?”
“Not that we could tell. But we need you to come down to the café.”
Megan agreed and hung up the phone. Now at the goats’ enclosure, she looked inside, probing the shadows for errant figures or anything that seemed out of place. Assured that her two Pygmies were fine and the shelter was clear, she flicked on her flashlight and looked around the entrance to the barn. She knew better than to go inside—if the intruders had been up to something she needed to preserve evidence—but if there were footprints or something incriminating, she wanted to show the police before they trampled on them. Not that she didn’t have confidence in Winsome’s finest…but, well, they were a young bunch.
