by Wendy Tyson
A thorough sweep of the entrance showed nothing. She was heading back up to the house to let Bibi know what was going on when a black and white pulled into her driveway. She jogged to the car, the adrenaline produced because of the night’s events giving her speed.
King climbed out the police car along with a young uniform Megan didn’t recognize.
“Show me where you saw the intruder,” King said without preamble.
“My grandmother—”
“Jake,” King said to the young man in uniform, “go tell Bonnie what’s going on and meet us down by the barn.”
“I should really—”
“You should really come with me.” King’s voice was tight. He asked, “Did you see the intruder?”
“No. I saw a light and then my phone rang. The noise must have startled whoever it was because next thing I know, the light was off and I thought I saw a figure dashing across the yard.”
“Where did this figure go?”
Megan pointed in the direction of the abandoned Marshall house. In the cover of night and the shadows born of a crescent moon, the old Colonial could give any haunted attraction a run for its money.
“Only one figure?”
Megan nodded. They’d arrived at the barn. King removed his gun from his holster and motioned for Megan to stay outside, behind the walk-in cooler. The police officer walked into the barn, gun tip up. He yelled a warning. There was a long silence followed by King’s return.
“Empty.”
“Anything missing?”
“Not that I can tell. Come inside. But don’t touch anything.”
They walked through the barn. Nothing seemed out of place.
King sighed. “I’ll meet you down at Canal. Jake can finish up here and search the dump next door.”
Megan felt herself bristle at the word dump—the home had potential, after all, and had once been part of the Washington Acres estate—but she agreed to go downtown after she checked on her grandmother. As she was heading out the door, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around to see King’s inquisitive eyes staring into her own under the glare of a flashlight.
“Any idea who’d want to mess around in here?”
“Kids?”
“Do you really think that?”
Meeting his gaze, Megan said honestly, “No, I don’t. I think whoever killed Simon came back.”
“Why?”
Megan shrugged, her mind rebelling against the thought of killers on her property. “They left something behind and don’t want anyone to find it?”
“Like a glove?” King smiled sardonically.
“Like a glove. Or—” Megan arched her eyebrows. “Or they have other unfinished business at my farm.”
“What do you suppose that business could be?”
“I guess that’s your job to figure out,” Megan said. “Because right now, I have no idea.”
Seventeen
The Washington Acres Café & Larder was in better shape than Megan had feared. Nonetheless, when she pulled her truck up against the curb on Canal, behind King’s unmarked, she put her head on the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths, holding back the urge to cry. The desire for Mick—for his friendship, his counsel, his steady hand, and his practical outlook—pelted her at every angle, a vicious hailstorm of grief.
But although she knew missing Mick was the most real thing in her life right now, she also knew what his advice would be. Get out there, Meg, and prove them all wrong. Figure out what you’re up against and conquer it.
And so she climbed out of the truck and headed for the café, pushing her wary exhaustion aside and letting anger creep in its stead. Anger, at least, was productive.
“Did a bang-up job,” King said as she approached. He was standing in front of the café, hands on his hips, while two uniforms poked around inside. “Broke your window, busted open the front door,” he glanced at Megan, “and that’s about the sum of it.”
“No theft?”
King shrugged. “Give my boys a few more minutes and then you can go in and see for yourself.”
Megan waited outside, next to Winsome’s police chief. The fact that he’d called his men boys seemed funny to her. Bobby couldn’t be thirty himself.
“Clover wanted to come, but I told her she had to stay back home.” King shook his head. “Good thing she wasn’t born a few centuries ago. She’s as able to obey as I am capable of bearing children.”
“And that’s what you love about her, Bobby.”
The police chief crinkled his pug nose. “Yeah, I guess that’s the truth.”
It must be, Megan thought, because the pair had nothing in common that Megan could tell. Clover was a throwback to the seventies, a displaced, late-born hippie with a carefree attitude and enough naïve goodwill to fuel a thousand soup kitchens. Her lover was a military school graduate with a gun collection and—so she’d heard—an eye on public office. But they’d been together for more than a year. Clearly something was working.
“Any idea who did this?”
Megan shook her head.
King chewed on the inside of his lip, his eyes focused on the uniforms in the store. Looking at him here, in the milky light emanating from her café, she had to admit she may have underestimated the man. This was only a break-in. It would have been easy enough for the Chief of Police to send uniforms and call it a day. But he’d had the sense to see a possible connection to Simon’s murder, and his presence here, in person, gave a clear signal to his crew: I am taking this seriously and so should you.
He turned his ruddy face in Megan’s direction. “Looks like they’re done. Let’s go in.”
Inside, the first uniform—a small, wiry man with glasses too large for his narrow face—said, “No prints, Chief. Nothing but this.” He held up an evidence bag containing a large rock. “Presumably the instrument that caused the hole in the window.”
“Good deduction, Lou,” King said sarcastically. He took the rock. “Check the security footage?”
The uniform glanced at Megan. “There is none, sir.”
King swung around toward Megan. “Is that right?”
Megan nodded. “I moved back home thinking I wouldn’t need a security camera.”
“Clearly you were wrong.” He wrinkled his nose again, looked around the store, and focused on the window and the door. “Help Megan get the door and window secured.” Turning back to Megan, he said, “Do you have cardboard and duct tape?”
Megan pointed to the storage room. “There’s plastic sheeting back there too.”
“I’ll keep a patrol on Canal Street tonight. But I suggest you change the locks and get a security system pronto.”
“I will.”
King walked over to the counter that housed the cash register. He glanced from there to the stocked shelves and then over to the produce case, which was empty in anticipation of the next day’s crop. “You’re doing a good thing here, you know,” King said softly. “For the town and for Bonnie.”
With a weak smile, Megan said, “Clearly someone doesn’t think so.”
It was after eleven when Megan finally pulled into her driveway. She was surprised but happy to see Denver’s SUV parked there, next to Clay’s ancient, refurbished BMW. The lights in the kitchen glowed softly, and when Megan opened the door to the enclosed porch entrance, there was Sadie, waiting. The dog’s tail thumped loudly and she whined at the sight of Megan, alerting Bibi and their guests to her arrival.
Denver stood and opened the door that led into the kitchen. “We were worried about you.”
Behind him, Clay and Clover stood. Megan could see her grandmother behind them, still seated at the kitchen table. She wore a pale yellow robe over her nightgown. A worried expression darkened her face.
“I’m fine, the store and café are fine.” Megan smiled. �
�How did you know?” But as soon as she said the words, she knew. Clover must have been with King when the call came through, and she would have called Clay immediately. But Denver?
“I was tending to a customer’s dog and he told me. Didn’t know news traveled so fast in Winsome?” He smiled warmly. “I came over as soon as I could fix up the guy’s Coonhound. Got himself tangled up with a porcupine again. Six times now—you would think the dang dog would’ve learned.”
“They never do,” Megan said.
“Aye. They never do.”
Denver held her gaze a few beats too long and she felt like they were sharing a joke. He stepped aside to let Megan in the kitchen, and her arm brushed against his chest. She glanced up into his face. He smiled.
Behind him, Bibi cleared her throat.
“Do they know who broke in?” Bibi asked.
Megan shook her head. “Someone threw a rock in the window and used the opening to unlatch the door. No evidence and nothing seemed to be missing.”
“Kids?” Clover asked.
“Could be. But I don’t think so.”
“Because of the barn?” Clay asked. He looked as troubled as Bibi, his aquiline features pulled into a pained frown.
Megan nodded. She looked around the kitchen, noting the coffee cake and teacups on the counter. They must have been here a while, keeping Bibi company. A surge of gratitude for their friendship washed over Megan and she sat down in a chair, suddenly exhausted.
“We should go,” Clay said. “Now that we know you’re okay.” He glanced at Clover. “I’ll be bringing salad greens and sugar snap peas by the store tomorrow. Do you have room in the cooler?”
“We sold out today.” Clover glanced over at Bibi. “Mrs. Birch, your cakes are delicious. Have you considered selling them?”
Bibi shook her head, but she looked pleased. “I’m too old for baking with any purpose other than enjoyment,” she said.
“Besides,” Megan said, “we can’t sell what we bake here.” Megan looked pointedly down at Sadie, who was now stretched out on the floor, sound asleep. “No dogs in a commercial kitchen.”
Clover pouted. “Ah, that’s too bad.”
Denver had been silent this whole time, but he reached down and stroked Sadie behind the ears. She opened one eye, thumped her tail, and returned to her slumber. Clay and Clover rose to leave.
“If you need me, call,” Clay said. He glanced at Bibi and then added, “Unless you want me to stay?”
Megan smiled. The thought of Clay as their protector was sweet, but not necessary. “Thank you, but I think we’ll be okay.”
With a skeptical look at the dozing Sadie, he shrugged. “I’ll have my phone by the bed. Call.”
“Promise.”
Megan walked Clay and Clover to the porch entrance, and with a hug for each, watched them go. She was all too aware of Denver’s tall, broad presence behind her. When the Hands’ taillights were only red dots at the end of her driveway, Denver whispered, “Walk me to my car?”
Megan nodded.
“Goodnight,” Bibi called.
“Goodnight,” Megan and Denver said in unison.
Outside, the air was chill and crisp, the sky still starless. Megan wrapped her sweater tightly around her shoulders. She shivered.
“Are you cold, then?” Denver asked.
“I’m not cold, no.”
“Are you scared? Do you need me to stay?”
“So many men offering to stay, you’d think we were helpless.” The thought of Bibi waking up to find the deliciously disheveled Dr. Finn in their kitchen made Megan laugh. “No, honestly, we’ll be fine. Besides, we have Sadie.”
“Well, now, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Denver leaned against his Toyota, his lean, muscular body looking quite James Dean in the soft glow of the outside lights. But his expression was serious. On impulse, Megan reached out a hand and traced her fingertips lightly down the sharp angles of his handsome face. He lifted his own hand to hers, pressing her finger into the whiskered skin of his cheeks, his eyes questioning.
Megan stretched up on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his. She felt his body react. Strong arms encircled her, pulling her close. His hips moved against her own. She gasped.
“Did I hurt ye?” he asked, his voice husky.
“No, no…I’m fine.”
“I have a proposition,” Denver whispered into her ear. His day-old beard tickled her skin.
“Does it involve more of this?” Megan kissed him again, frightened and startled by the hunger she felt—hunger that had been absent the last few years.
Denver smiled through the kiss. She felt one large hand engulf hers, fingers intertwining with her own.
She could feel his hardness pressed against her belly. “Denver,” is all she said before pulling away. She wanted him, there was no denying that. But she was like a kid living at home. She couldn’t invite him to stay, and she couldn’t leave.
Under different circumstances, she might have suggested the barn, but that seemed, well…improper, all things considered. And downright creepy.
“I really do have a proposition for you, Counselor,” he said, moving backward himself. “You need some protection here, Megan, and that sweet dog of yours loves you, clearly, but I don’t think she’s up for the job of farm dog. Too much of a city life before now.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Can you come by tomorrow? The clinic is closed for surgeries in the afternoon. Maybe stop by around three? I should be done by then. I will explain it all when you come.”
Megan nodded, curious. “Okay.”
With obvious reluctance, Denver opened his car door. “Go inside, then. I want to watch you lock the door.” He smiled sheepishly. “For my own peace of mind.”
Megan was about to argue—she could take care of herself and Bibi, after all—but stopped herself. Denver looked genuinely concerned, and it had been a while since a man had regarded her that way.
He climbed in the car, door still open. She bent low, fitting herself in the space between the door and the driver’s seat, and kissed him again, gently. Before she could change her mind, she went back inside.
Eighteen
The next day, Megan pulled open the door of the clinic expecting to see Denver’s receptionist, but instead Denver met her in the lobby. He wore a gray Colorado State University t-shirt and a pair of hospital scrub pants. His hair, normally combed neatly back from a high forehead, fell around his face in tousled reddish-brown waves. The stubble that was barely noticeable last night was now a light growth of beard. His blue eyes, normally bright and amused, were ringed with dark circles. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night.
“Hi,” Megan said, feeling suddenly worried. “Are you okay?”
“Aye, I’m fine.” His accent sounded heavier today. “Ta. Appreciate you asking.”
Megan stood, clutching her purse. “You don’t look so good. I mean…you look fine, it’s just—”
Denver held up his hand. “It’s okay. I dinna have a good evening after I left you.” It came out “guid eenin,” taking Megan a moment to decipher what he said.
“What happened?”
But Denver only shook his head and turned away, back toward the surgery. Megan followed him through a narrow hallway, past the immaculate operating room and toward the ruckus that sounded like an entire pack of dogs barking.
“Sarge still here?”
“No, he went home this morning.”
The words appeared to trouble him, and Megan put her hand on his arm. He froze under her touch.
“What’s the matter? You don’t seem yourself.”
He rubbed his temples, his eyes locked on her own. He pulled himself up a degree taller, taking her measure, while he made up his mind about something. Finally,
he said, “It’s Porter. I think he’s the one who broke into your store yesterday.”
“Porter? But why?”
“Because when he came in this morning to get his dog, his right arm was covered with deep scratches—the kind you’d get when reaching your hand into a broken pane of glass to unlock a door.” He bit his lower lip. “Doesn’t take a medical degree to figure that out.”
“I meant why would he do that?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. He may have simply been a drunken fool, looking for trouble.”
A thought occurred to her, one she was sure had occurred to Denver as well. “Do you think he went from there to the farm?”
“I guess it’s possible, though the laddie denied it.”
“And it could have been him who—”
Denver shook his head vehemently. “I’ve known Porter since before he joined the service. There’s no way that boy is a murderer. A vandal—maybe. A thief? Even that’s a stretch. But not a killer.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No.”
Denver said that one word with heaviness so absolute it told her of the struggle he was battling within himself. She decided to let the subject go for now.
She said, “I heard the police have a suspect. I don’t know if it’s true, but if it is, this may get cleared up soon.”
Denver looked like he’d swallowed a horse pill and it didn’t quite go down. “Let’s hope it’s not Porter. He’s had enough trauma in his life.”
Megan decided a change of topic was in order. “What was that proposition?” she asked, pointing to the door that led to the kennels.
“Not a ‘what’ but a ‘who.’ The pup’s name is Gunther, and he needs a home.” Denver placed a hand under Megan’s chin and raised her face to meet his gaze. “And the way I figure it, you could use some company a bit more discouraging of trouble than that sweet-natured lassie of yours, whether the police have a suspect or not.”
