by Wendy Tyson
“Thanks for thinking of me, Denver, but I don’t want another dog. See, I kind of have my hands full, and the last thing I need—”
But Denver wasn’t listening. He’d entered the kennel and walked past two little Yorkshire Terriers yapping from the safety of a small pen, past a Rottweiler laying on his side in a cage, his right front leg in a cast, looking downright glum, and past a Vizsla with a shaved belly and an IV who clearly wasn’t letting a small thing like surgery cause her to stop barking. He paused by the largest pen and turned around.
“Ah, but he needs you, Megan.”
The seriousness in his tone stopped her. She walked closer until she could see inside the cage. Her breath caught in her throat. He—Gunther—was a veritable giant of a dog. Thin to the point of emaciation, with a thick white coat—or what might have been a white coat had it not been full of burrs and caked with mud—and a black nose and lips. But most arresting of all were the dog’s eyes: kind and gentle and wise, they burned like two embers of coal in the pathetic body.
“He’s not a wee laddie,” Megan whispered. “But someone has not been kind to him.”
“You are right about that.”
“Who is he? What happened?”
Denver knelt down and motioned for her to do the same. Slowly, he opened the cage. Pulling a dog treat from the pocket of his scrubs, he held it level on the palm of his hand. The dog stood with some effort and, studying Denver with those intelligent dark eyes, took the treat gently.
“Your turn.”
Denver handed Megan a treat and she echoed his motions. The dog sat before her and took the treat from her hand. She reached out to pet him. He pulled back slightly, then let her. His matted fur was silky—underneath the filth.
“Is he a Great Pyrenees? A white Newfoundland?” That’s what he looked like to Megan, with his great head and his thick jowls. A white Newfoundland, if there was such a thing, or maybe a giant Golden Retriever.
“He’s a Polish Tatra Sheepdog, and a good one. They’re rare, but they’re known for protecting livestock.” He cast a sharp eye Megan’s way. “And their families.”
“How did you get him?”
“From a local,” Denver said matter-of-factly. “And not without a bit of a struggle, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know Carl Sauer?”
“The farmer up Morton Road, off of Glen Dwyer Street?”
“That’s him. He uses me for his cows now and again when he can’t get someone else. I hate going there because he treats those animals poorly, like they’re nothing but chattel.” Denver rubbed his beard. “Which I guess to him, they are. Anyway, he knows I feel that way and I’m not quiet about it, so we don’t see each other often. Not exactly the romantic picture I had of being a large animal vet when I was a laddie myself, you know?”
Megan knew Carl. When she was deciding what to grow, she’d visited his farm. She didn’t want to create a hostile environment with the locals by infringing on their turf. She needn’t have worried. Unlike her own tiny farm, the Sauers were running a huge operation. Fifteen minutes on Carl’s land and she left disliking the man and his dour-faced wife.
“I’ve been there.”
Denver nodded. “Then you understand. I went to the farm earlier this week because one of his cows was having a difficult birth and I asked about that puppy, Gunther. I had given the wee dog his first set of inoculations awhile back but I hadn’t seen him since, you see. I figured Carl had taken the dog elsewhere, or maybe the pup hadn’t made it. Carl mumbled something about that dog not living up to its breed’s reputation and that was it. When I was leaving, I saw a flash of white in the distance. I walked up the hill, past the barn and found him tied to a tree. He looked like this. Had no water, no food, and no shelter.” Denver shook his head. “Bloody bastard.”
“So you took him?”
“I went back down to the house and Carl and I had a wee chat. Then I took the dog.”
Megan smiled. “A wee chat, huh?”
“Aye,” Denver said, smiling. “I’m a pretty persuasive fellow when I want to be.”
“What’s to stop him from claiming you stole Gunther?”
“Nothing to worry about. I quoted him section four-six-seven of local code seven-seventeen. It’s Winsome’s animal cruelty law. I was in my rights to pull the dog, and I took pictures of Gunther’s condition before I left.” He gave Megan a sly smile. “I sent them to King in case Carl tries to make trouble.”
Gunther had crawled across the floor until his head was close to Megan’s hand. She sat on the floor, legs crossed, and rubbed the dog’s ears. He placed his head in her lap.
“I’ve never heard of a Polish Tatra Sheepdog.”
“Not surprising. Carl wanted one for the novelty, I think, and because he’d heard they were fierce guard dogs. I helped him locate the pup.” He watched as the dog’s eyes closed with contentment. “He’s still a babe at heart, but what Carl didn’t understand is that they’re fiercely loyal dogs—gentle beasts, really. They want to be with their family, not shut outside and left to their own devices.” He frowned. “Bloody bastard,” he said again. “He likes you, Megan.”
Indeed, the dog seemed at peace. But another dog, another responsibility…now?
“I was trying to figure out what to do with the laddie when I realized you needed him as much as he needs you. He’ll be a good watchdog. These dogs guard livestock, and they can be awake at night. I will get him cleaned up for you. With some basic training, he’ll be a good addition to your farm.”
As though on cue, Gunther opened his soulful eyes and stared into her own. He was skinny and dirty and had clearly been neglected, but he didn’t seem aggressive or overly shy. He could be a striking dog.
Who was she kidding? Gunther had her the moment he put his head on her lap.
“Fine,” Megan said.
Denver grinned. “I’ll bring him by one day next week. We can work with him together. Get him used to the goats and the chickens and that wee sweet dog of yours.”
“And Bibi.”
“Leave your grandmother to me. I’ll work my charm on her too.”
“Charm, huh?” Megan laughed.
“Aye, I can’t help it if the lassies love me.”
“They do, do they?”
Denver leaned over to kiss her. He teased, “Yes. It’s my Scottish brogue. Even the older ladies can’t resist.”
Megan went from the veterinary clinic to the café and then to Merry Chance’s nursery to buy more lettuce seeds. She’d forgotten all about the lettuce, but three texts from Clay served as a reminder. She didn’t mind. She was hoping Merry could clue her in on who the police had in their sights for Simon’s murder. If anyone would know, it would be Merry.
It was there, in aisle B of Merry’s crowded seed section, where Megan ran into Lenora Duvall, Simon’s mother. She’d only met the woman on a few occasions, but Lenora was a celebrity in Winsome—the closest the small town had to royalty. Other than, perhaps, Aunt Sarah. But it seemed most people didn’t know about Sarah.
“Megan,” Lenora said coldly.
“Lenora, how are you?” Megan stood up and turned around—her backside had been unattractively facing Lenora while she bent over to find the right variety of organic seeds—and gave Lenora a friendly nod. Lenora responded with a tight smile.
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry about Simon.”
“It was a shock.”
An attractive woman in her late seventies, with skin so tight it looked like Saran Wrap, Lenora had the kind of prim confidence that made people want her to like them. Megan found her to be judgmental. She always looked like she wanted to tell you exactly what she thought of you but knew it would be poor manners.
“Yes, well…” Megan sear
ched for a reason to end this conversation quickly. Awkward was not her specialty, and the longer she stood in front of the impeccably dressed Lenora Duvall while wearing jeans and a cream peasant blouse she’d found in a Chicago thrift shop, the longer she felt like a student in the principal’s office awaiting a reprimand.
“I trust you will be at the Historical Society dinner next week?” Lenora asked. Her tone had gone from cold to scolding. “Your farm will be up for discussion at this month’s session. It may behoove you to attend and spend some time with the officers from the Beautification Board.”
“Up for discussion?”
“George Washington stayed there.” When Megan graced her with a blank stare, Lenora said, “That is the reason for the name, right?”
“Right, but what does that have to do with anything? Anyway, it’s only a legend.”
“You know I’m a historian. I did quite a bit of research on the area, and the old stories are true. The Birch family farm should be rezoned.”
“Rezoned?”
“As a historical asset.” She smiled. “It could be the first home to be added to the historical preservation project.”
Alarmed, Megan said, “With all due respect, what exactly does that mean?”
“You need me to explain what historical preservation means?” Lenora put a hand on her hip. She was wearing wide-legged cream linen pants and a deep brown linen tunic embroidered with small vines in matching brown thread. Her hair, cropped close to her head, was a beautiful silvery-white, and all of her jewelry was understated gold. Her only nod to color consisted of a pair of vibrant aqua reading glasses, which hung from her neck by an aqua, cream, and fuchsia cord. She fingered the cord now with her free hand, wrapping the material around one slender finger until it was tight enough to cause the skin of her finger to pale underneath.
“I know what historical preservation means, Lenora. I’d like to know what it means for the farm.”
Lenora waved the hand that had been on her hip. “That’s what the Historical Society needs to determine.” She shrugged. “In any case, I’m sure you feel as strongly as I do about the importance of keeping our history alive. If my research is correct—and it usually is, dear—that farm of yours is a treasure. The aspects of it that make it special should be preserved.”
Could that be why Simon had wanted it? “I know they can’t change the zoning rules without public notice and a hearing.”
“Ah, but they had one, Megan. It’s a shame you didn’t come.”
Puzzled, Megan said, “You met? When?”
Lenora pulled claw-like fingers through her thinning white hair. “May first.” She smiled apologetically. “You know how it is. Zoning officials are volunteers. Sometimes they have to get together when they can, no matter how inconvenient for the larger group.”
Megan bristled internally. Awfully convenient—all of it.
Clearly enjoying the look of shock on Megan’s face, Lenora said, “You can find the full transcript online, I’m sure. In the future, you might want to pay a bit more attention to the local happenings so you don’t get caught unawares.” She put her glasses on, then studied Megan from over the aqua rims. “My son had his foibles, certainly. But he was a kind man at heart. He wanted what was best for Winsome, and documenting Washington’s stay at Bonnie’s farm…well, you know what they say. What’s good for the goose—”
Could kill the gander, Megan thought. Before she could say another word, she walked away, forgetting all about the lettuce seeds and any other reason she had for coming to Merry’s store in the first place.
Nineteen
“Bastards,” Clay said to Megan later, echoing Denver’s words from earlier in the day. “Damn bloody fools.”
“I guess no one told you either.”
“Damn right.” He looked up from the weed trimmer he was fixing and gave her a hangdog grin. “I’m sorry, Megan. Had I known about the research or the meeting, I would have told you.” He shook his head. “I knew Simon wasn’t to be trusted, but people generally respect Lenora. I thought…well, I guess I was beguiled by her professional reputation.”
Megan tugged on the hem of her hiking pants and sat on the floor of the barn, next to Clay. She watched as dexterous fingers wound string around the motor. He didn’t even glance down as he worked.
“Don’t worry about it. How could you have known?”
“I had more interaction with Simon than you did. Should’ve realized they were in cahoots.”
Megan smiled at Clay’s choice of words. For a young man, he had an old soul…and an old vocabulary. “There’re a few things about this that are troubling. One, the fact that certain people in Winsome seem to be collaborating behind our backs to get to the farm. Whether it’s ownership they seek or simply some type of preservation hold on the property, clearly they want access to it. Why, I don’t know.”
Clay looked thoughtful. “Maybe it’s as simple as Lenora said. Maybe they really want to have that claim to fame made official.”
“That can be done without the zoning change.”
“Ah, but you could decide to sell the farm to a developer or a strip mall owner. Or you could come to hate old, crotchety homes with expensive-to-fix slate roofs and drafty lead glass windows and remodel the place into something modern and hideous.” He sat back on his heels, looking intently at her in the way of his. “You could put in a pool.”
He said the last word with such utter disgust that it made Megan laugh. “I suppose you have a point.”
He wiped his hands with a clean rag and stood, reaching a hand out to help her up. She shook her head and stood, glancing around the cavernous barn. It looked far less ominous in the light of day.
“Look, let me see what I can find out. If the zoning board hasn’t made any decisions, then you can still fight this.”
“It’s their underhanded approach that bothers me most. I checked the town’s website. They announced the meeting the day before and then held it at eleven at night.”
Clay’s eyes widened. “Is that even legal?”
“I’m afraid it is—for urgent matters, at least.” Megan made air quotes around the word urgent. “In this case, the justification was the Historical Society fundraiser. They wanted it on the agenda for the general meeting and that was the only way they claimed they could do it.”
“So it happened right before Simon’s murder.”
Megan nodded. “I think there’s a connection.”
Finished with the weed trimmer, Clay hung it neatly on a hook on the wall. He stared at the structure for a moment, then followed a crack in one large stone with the tip of his finger.
“What bothers me,” he said, still turned away from Megan, “is that I see these people all the time. Merry Chance, Amelia Dorfman, Roger Becker. Even Lenora.” He shook his head, turning around. “I can’t see them going behind your back that way. And certainly not behind Bonnie’s back. Maybe I don’t know them as well as I thought I did,” he continued, looking glum. “Group-think can be a powerful thing.”
“There’s another possibility,” Megan said quietly. “What if they were convinced they were doing the right thing? By someone who had something at stake.”
“And what stake would that be?”
Megan shrugged. “Hell if I know. Whatever it was, they believed it was worth taking a life.” She stared at the barn walls, thinking. “Maybe it’s time to do more digging of my own.”
Megan spent the evening on her computer, in the tiny parlor off the kitchen that doubled as an office. It was an old room full of old things. An antique dresser, its hard walnut edges worn smooth from years of use, served as a printer stand; Megan’s grandfather’s ancient rolltop desk housed her computer. Built-in curio shelves, lacquered with high-gloss white oil paint by her father when Megan was only a girl, now stored books—sideways, upside down and every which way, their multic
olored spines the only real color in the otherwise timeless room.
For Megan, the parlor held special meaning. It was the last place her mother hugged her before she went away, and keeping it the way it had been all those years ago somehow gave her comfort.
Megan had been eight when Charlotte Birch left, carrying a hard, red suitcase, a shoulder bag, and a basket of fruit for the drive. Her mother had been sick of small-town life and of her father—or so Eddie later explained. Megan was never sure of the truth because the history of Charlotte Hoffman Birch had been rewritten many times. Family and friends couldn’t even agree on whether the leaving was her fault.
To some, her mother was a saint, tied to the irresponsible and fun-loving Eddie Birch in nuptials forced upon them by an unplanned pregnancy, outdated social mores, and overly strict parents. Others painted Charlotte as a harlot—a tight-skirted, big-busted brunette with ivory skin and Hollywood dreams that overrode any common sense. Megan’s grandfather had been in this camp, and quite vocal about his opinions. Yet another reason Eddie had been a failure in his father’s eyes. Even his choice of wife and mother didn’t work out.
But back then, her mother had been a larger-than-life figure: beautiful in a fragile way, with a warm smile and distant eyes. Megan remembered her with a mixture of fondness and awe, the way one might think about a sophisticated but aloof aunt who drifts in and out of your life.
Only Charlotte had drifted out and never drifted back.
Sitting at the rolltop now, computer on and a search engine looking for links between her farm and George Washington, Megan thought about her mother. Megan missed the thought of having a mother, but her grandmother had always been the real maternal figure in her life, and Bonnie never left. Megan realized that any ache she felt over her mother’s abandonment had been soothed by her grandmother over the years. Bonnie Birch was both friend and mother.
