by Wendy Tyson
Megan lingered for a moment before going back to their booth. She caught herself wondering about Porter’s checkered past. Had any of those bar brawls included knives? It took an especially callous—or desperate—person to thrust a knife into another, to feel flesh rip and dig deeply enough to cut through sinew and cartilage.
Was Porter capable of such an act?
Just a day ago, her answer would have been a firm “no.” Now she wasn’t so sure.
“He was a soldier,” Clay said later, giving voice to the fact that had been bothering Megan all along. A trained soldier, like Mick. Had Mick ever killed anyone in the line of duty? She never asked him. She should have asked him.
“I know.” Megan sighed. They were sitting in the goat pen, attending to Dimples and Heidi. Dimples had recovered nicely, and her sprightly little body was up to its old antics. Just this morning she had eaten one of Megan’s galoshes. “He’s ornery and ill-tempered, and perhaps he’s capable of taking another life, but why would he go after Simon and now Lenora?” She shook her head. “It makes no sense.”
“Maybe they owed him money. Maybe he didn’t like them. Or maybe he is paranoid, thinks they were somehow out to get him and wanted to get to them first.” Clay knelt on the ground to pet Heidi, rubbing his fingers between her ears and down the slope of her nose. She rewarded him by chewing on his fingers with her tiny, strong jaws. “Alcoholics can become paranoid.”
Megan grunted. “I think motive is key. Who would want Simon and Lenora out of the picture?”
“Besides you?”
Megan stuck her tongue out at Clay. “Yes, besides me.”
“The cops did seem to grill you for an unnecessarily long time.”
Megan nodded. “I think they had moved on from Bibi and me after Simon, but now Lenora’s death raises questions again. Of course, it didn’t help that Merry Chance told the police she overheard Lenora and I having a ‘heated discussion.’”
“Nosy cow.”
Megan laughed. “I hadn’t left the tent, though—but she had.”
“You could have hired someone to go after Lenora.”
“Thanks, Clay.” Megan waved a white rag playfully in his direction. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I am, but you have to be ready to face down any and all accusations.” He looked out at the goats, reaching absentmindedly for Heidi. “Aside from Porter, I can’t imagine who it would be. Simon’s relationship with most people in town was strained. And then there’s your aunt and her sudden return to Winsome.”
“Sarah? You think Aunt Sarah killed Simon and attacked Lenora? She’s close to eighty. Why not blame Jeremy, while you’re at it? And Merry too.”
“Told you, Megan. You have the most to lose.”
She shook her head. “We don’t know who else stood to gain by Simon’s death.” She thought about the morning Simon was killed, the open goat gate, Mutton Chops in the house. The blood-soaked glove. “Whatever the motive, I’m convinced it involves Washington Acres.” She allowed herself a frustrated shrug. “But why?”
“And we may never know.” Clay stood and walked toward the gate. His jeans hung loosely around skinny hips. He’d been working at the farm nearly nonstop. He also had a tendency to lock himself up in his room, studying or working on some invention, forgetting to eat. “I’m going to feed the chickens, water the tomatoes in the greenhouse, and then I’m out of here. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick for Monday’s café opening. Is that okay?”
“That would be great.” Megan stood, following him out. Dimples trailed behind. “You need to stay here, little girl.”
“You have a date tonight?” Clay asked, a twinkle in his brown eyes.
“No,” she said, thinking of Denver—and the fact that he hadn’t called. “I’m going to finish up a few things, then head in for an early night. It’s been an eventful day.”
“Suit yourself. Just keep an eye out for anything unusual. Not that we even know what normal is anymore.”
Megan planned a quiet evening with Bibi: a dinner of lentil stew, a field green salad, and Bibi’s crusty bread, followed by a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and some mindless television. But first she needed to clear her mind. After Clay left, she made her way past the barn and down the other side of the hill. The field of flowers she had planted last year—a sign of faith that things would work out—were in bloom, and Megan watched a dozen honeybees buzz from flower to flower, their presence reassuring. One wonderful thing—and there were many—about farming organically was the host of living creatures that made the fields their home. Megan noticed that with organic seeds, the plants seemed to have better natural resistance to harmful pests, and without all of the pesticides, she saw an influx of ladybugs, honeybees, and hummingbirds. A good reminder to keep her eye on her larger goal: bringing sustainable, wholesome food to Winsome.
Feeling a little lighter, she meandered through the fenced-in corn fields, past the garlic beds and out toward the perimeter of their property. It had been a long day. To get to the market by eight with fresh vegetables, she and Clay had been up and working since four, but rather than tired, Megan felt antsy and restless. She kept seeing Lenora’s body lying on the pavement not long after they’d spoken. The police believed she’d been stabbed in the back while walking toward her vehicle, her body hidden between two SUVs until the unfortunate owner of one of them returned to her car.
When she had told Clay she believed motive to be key, she meant it. Her gut still told her Porter hadn’t killed Simon, but his presence today had given her pause. What could Porter’s motive be? She wondered again whether the Duvall attacks could have had something to do with the Historical Society.
The sun sat low in the sky, an orange orb ribboned with swaths of gauzy haze. Taking advantage of the remaining daylight, Megan crossed the shaggy border of long grass that separated her farm from the abandoned Marshall property next door, her leather boots sinking into the soft ground.
When she was a kid, the Marshall house had been owned by an absentee landlord and rented to a young couple with two kids. Megan had played with their daughter, a small bird-like girl with hazel eyes and a soft voice. When Megan’s mother left home, the girl’s parents stopped inviting her over. She’d missed her friend, but Bibi had told her it was for the best. The family moved out when Megan was eleven.
Megan hadn’t been inside since.
In fact, it’d been so long since she’d been over here that Megan felt as though she was trespassing on hallowed ground. A bird called from one of the oak trees in the yard and another one answered from some distance. The field surrounding the house—once a manicured yard with a small swing set—buzzed with grasshoppers and bumblebees and industrious white moths. An ant crawled up her arm and Megan flicked it away. She scanned the play area, now an overgrown mass of weeds and detritus, including the rusting swing set frame. Megan’s heart ached—for the family who lost their home, for her own runaway mother, or for the broken Duvall family, she wasn’t sure.
At the edge of the house itself, Megan paused, listening. The house was quiet as a bomb site. Up close, she could see the impact of time and neglect. The stone needed repointing, the porch, once a grand structure spanning the face of the house, lay in disrepair. Paint peeled in strips off white window frames and missing roof shingles left patches like bald spots on the aging roof.
Megan strained to see inside one of the windows. Three of the upper panes were shattered, and the lower panes were thick with grime. All that was visible inside was a shadowy glimpse into what had been the living room.
Megan left the porch and walked carefully around the back of the house, mindful of the holes and debris in the high grass around the foundation. The cellar doors, which opened from the ground directly into the basement below, were secured with a rusty chain and new-looking steel padlock. On the other side of the cellar doors was a covered patio, its concrete ba
se cracked and buckled. Megan climbed over a discarded picnic bench and tried to see inside. One window was boarded; the other, which looked directly into the kitchen, was filthy. Only a corner of a stove was visible.
The house would need major renovations—and major money.
A bat swooped overhead, diving down toward the grass and then upward again in a graceful arc. Megan followed its movements, wondering whether bats were living in the attic…bats, mice, and who knew what else.
She turned to leave, the thought of crawling creatures urging her home, when she noticed the footprints on the edge of the patio. To Megan’s untrained eye, it looked like several sets of boot prints. Her mind flashed to the new cellar lock. Workmen, here to do repairs? A real estate agent? Or her trespasser—or trespassers?
Megan hurried home, scuttling creatures less of a concern than other things that could lurk here in the dark.
After dinner, Megan sat at her computer in the parlor and looked up the Marshall house. It didn’t take long to find it on a half dozen foreclosure sites. The house was selling for cheap; but even cheap surpassed her budget. She skimmed through the details about the house, which were very limited, and opened the photos attached to the link. There were only two: one of the front of the house, one of the back. Both were slightly out of focus, as though the photographer had been unskilled, or in a rush. At the bottom of both photos was a timestamp, notable only because the date reflected was the same date Simon Duvall was murdered.
Fifteen minutes of internet research later, Megan found the bank that was selling the Marshall house. She made note of the bank’s phone number. Tomorrow she’d call. Someone had hired that photographer. There had to be a trail. And that photographer may have seen something related to Simon’s murder.
Later that night, her father called, his voice sounding raspy and sad.
“Hey, Dad,” Megan said. She tried to picture her father in his apartment in Turin but couldn’t. “It’s very late there.”
“I wanted to hear your voice,” he said. “See how things are going on the farm, and with Bibi.”
“Bibi’s fine. The café opens Monday, and today was the first farmers market.” Megan went on to describe their crops and the heavy sales volume. She found that she couldn’t mention the murder, or today’s attack on Lenora—nor did her father bring it up. Perhaps he didn’t know. Why would he, living all those miles away? She had a hunch that even if he did know, he’d prefer not to talk about it.
“So you’re doing well then?” he asked.
“I am. You?”
He paused, and Megan could hear the hushed murmurings of a British television show on low volume. “Doing great,” he said finally, and the lie rang loud and clear.
Megan could have said many things in that moment. She could have told him about the murder. She could have inquired about George Washington, the Caldbeck family, and the history of the house. She could have asked him what was wrong. She could have mentioned Aunt Sarah. Instead, she said “I love you,” and hung up the phone, an anxious feeling lingering.
Twenty-Three
Chef Jeremy was already at the café when Megan arrived early Monday morning. Clover, dressed in a long tie-dyed skirt and a midriff-baring peasant blouse tied right above her tanned, pierced navel, had driven to the farm early to help Megan bring vegetables and eggs to the café for the day’s open house. Together with Clay and Bibi, they’d loaded vegetables from Jeremy’s list, placing them into coolers and then the large coolers into the truck.
Once at the café, she, Jeremy, and Clover unloaded the truck. Megan was happy to see the window had been fixed, and Clover had come in late on Sunday to clean the store and polish the copper-topped tables and the bar. Everything gleamed, ready for show time.
The trio worked without talking, listening instead to Clover’s The Cat Empire CD, each focused on their own task. Clover stocked the small produce section of the store, carefully stacking the vegetables in the small glass-front refrigerator. Megan acted as sous chef, washing and chopping vegetables, rolling out dough, cutting bread—whatever tasks Jeremy requested. And Jeremy created little bits of edible art.
By eleven, when the open house was set to start, trays of cold appetizers had been set out along the lunch counter. Megan and Clover stepped back to admire the presentation. There were beet and goat cheese toasts, deviled eggs with chives and country ham, Caesar salad spears, mini goat cheese and spinach quiches, vegetable tortes, finger sandwiches, and crudités with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing. In the kitchen, Jeremy was putting the finishing touches on his hot offerings—spanakopita triangles stuffed with spinach and tender kale, mushroom tartlets with garlic and gruyere, and tiny empanadas filled with fragrant grass-fed meat, vegetables, and cheese. The store was rich with the smells of roasted vegetables, beef, and garlic.
Megan took a step back. “Do you think it’s too much, especially given everything that’s happened in Winsome over the last few weeks?”
Clover, eyes wide with excitement, shook her head. “I think it’s incredible. Everyone will love it. Don’t worry.”
“Tartlets, salad spears, empanadas—” Megan rubbed her temples, thinking of the hard-working men and women of their small town, many of whom grew up on meat and potatoes, quite literally. “Will our customers be willing to try these things?”
“Give them some credit,” Jeremy said. He walked into the seating area of the café carrying a small sampling of today’s menu and held the tray out to each of them in turn. Megan took a mushroom tartlet; Clover ate three empanadas and stole a quiche off the counter.
“Amazing,” they said in unison.
“Why would you want to work in a hole like Winsome,” Clover asked, her mouth full, “when you can make magic like this anywhere?”
Jeremy, dark, brooding eyes suddenly stormy, gave her a tepid smile. “Anywhere is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
True, Megan thought, and remembered Denver had said something similar. But she didn’t have time to comment before the bell on the front door alerted them to customers. Looking up, Megan saw the Dorfman brothers, Dave and Neil. Dave was dressed in his Sunday finest; Neil, as usual, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—stained jeans, a ragged t-shirt and sneakers worn through in two spots.
“Smells great,” Neil said. He ambled back toward the table, broad shoulders balanced by equally broad hips, and smiled. “I’ll have one of everything.”
Dave reached a hand toward a quiche and Clover slapped it back. “Not yet. Wait until the doors open.”
“They are open,” Dave said.
“I mean until the party officially begins.” Clover pulled a chair over and plopped down, hiking her long skirt up above her knees. “I know Bobby will be here soon. He texted me from the hospital.”
“Is he with Lenora?” Dave asked.
“Yes. He’s been there since early this morning.”
“How is she?” Neil asked.
Clover shrugged. “He doesn’t tell me anything. I know she lost a lot of blood. I mean a lot.” She gestured with her green-manicured fingers, indicating copious amounts of something. “She’s still alive. I guess that’s good.”
“The attack is in the Philadelphia paper,” Jeremy said quietly. “Simon’s murder too.”
“Imagine that,” Neil said. “Little Winsome in the big city paper.”
“Well, that’s not exactly what we want to be known for. The Historical Society and Beautification Board are trying to make Winsome a place tourists want to visit, not a place to be scared of. Forget ‘Win Back Winsome.’ They’ll start calling us Gruesome Winsome or something like that. You know how the media are.” Clover reached up and stole a Caesar salad spear. Jeremy shot her a withering glance.
“Hey, I thought you said they were for the guests,” Dave joked. He looked at Jeremy, appraising the chef in that unsettling, steadfast way both Dor
fmans were known for, and added, “Nice to see you back in town.”
Megan smiled. “Chef Jeremy, I guess you know Neil and Dave Dorfman, the craftsmen behind the remodeling of The Washington Acres Café and Larder and the farm.”
The men shook hands.
Megan clapped her hands. “Okay, ten minutes until the open house officially begins.” She looked at Clover. “Balloons and banner?”
“Balloons—check.” Clover pointed toward the front window, where a bouquet of helium balloons floated above the cobblestone pavers. “And here’s the banner.” She pulled a roll of neon-pink paper from her bag. “Take an end,” she said to Neil, who obliged. Unrolled, “Grand Opening of the Washington Acres Farm Café & Lardey” was written in bold black letters. Someone had crossed out the “y” and written “r” above it with black Sharpie. “I may have made a small error.” She brightened. “But I fixed it! And now if one of you gentlemen would be kind enough to help me hang it out front, we’ll be good to go.”
Dave and Neil looked at each other, communicating in brotherly shorthand. Dave nodded reluctantly. “Fine, Clover. It’s always something with you women. Let’s go.”
Clover rolled her eyes dramatically but followed Dave outside.
The rest watched them leave. “Ready, Chef?” Megan asked Jeremy. “This is the big test to see whether Winsome is ready for some winsome grub.” She smiled at her own corny wit.
“They will love it,” Jeremy said with a confidence only someone who hasn’t experienced failure can muster. “Every last bite will be gone. I guarantee it.”
Jeremy was half right: every last bite was eaten. As soon as the banner went up, Winsome’s residents began wandering into the store.
“Where’s the beef?” Dave Dorfman teased as he popped four tartlets in his mouth at once.
