by Wendy Tyson
“Oh, look at these adorable mini turnovers,” Merry exclaimed.
“Those are empanadas,” Clover said dryly.
“Is that Indian? I despise curry.” Merry scrunched her nose and put the empanada back. Megan tossed it in the garbage when she wasn’t looking.
“I love curry.” Dave ate an empanada, frowned, and said, “That’s very bland. I like my curry spicy.”
Jeremy and Megan locked eyes. He gave her a half smile and winked. “We’ll remember that for next time,” Jeremy said.
“And who is this?” Lydia asked, looking pointedly at Jeremy. A regular, Lydia was tall and curvy. A black pencil skirt accentuated a heart-shaped bottom, and the top three buttons of her pale yellow blouse were open, giving everyone a glimpse of the lacy white bra she wore underneath. Megan watched her walk on four-inch stilettos, surprised she hadn’t fallen on the cobblestones on her way in.
Jeremy reached his hand out, lightly touching her arm. She smiled demurely, showing him her whitened teeth, and bent low over the table, showing him something else altogether.
Neil Dorfman, who was quietly eating a pile of cookies in the corner of the store, had his eyes firmly affixed to Lydia’s ample bottom. His brother had his eyes affixed on Jeremy.
The front door opened and more people poured in, including Bobby King.
“Megan,” he said, nodding. “Seems like a different place.”
Looking around, Megan had to agree. When she’d first taken over the store, the kitchen was used for storage and the counter to display newspapers and gum. The walls had been a dirty white, the floor chipped linoleum, and most of the items for sale were nearing their expiration date. Eddie Birch may have had great ideas, but execution was not his strength.
“Thank you, Bobby.” She moved closer to the police chief and lowered her voice. “How is Lenora?”
“Still in critical condition.”
“Was she able to identify her attacker?”
Bobby hesitated before answering—just long enough for Megan to understand that he still didn’t trust her completely. “No,” he said finally. “He or she came from the back and caught her by surprise.”
“How about the knife? Did the attacker leave that behind?”
Bobby hitched up his pants. “Now you’re treading where I can’t go, Megan. You know that.”
“It was worth a try.” But the mention of tread reminded her of the footprints by the Marshall house. Quietly, she told King about the footprints she’d seen near the back entrance.
“Sheesh, Megan, they could belong to anyone. I’m sure that house has seen its share of teen partiers and dog walkers in the last several years.”
“These prints were newer. I know you’re checking every angle.” She told him about the foreclosure photos, about the tiny date and time stamped in the corner. “Whoever took those pictures may have seen something, Bobby. It was within the timeframe of Duvall’s murder, and we both know that house has a direct view to the back of the barn.”
King nodded. “I’ll send someone over to have a look around.”
“Thank you,” Megan said. She doubted he would follow through, but she wasn’t going to push it. Not here, not now. “Go have some food,” she said instead. “Clover says you love fancy eats.” Megan smiled.
“As a matter of fact, I do. The more frou-frou, the better.” King laughed in a way that made Megan like him—a little bit. “Sure smells good.”
“Eat up.”
Twenty-Four
By the time Bibi and Clay arrived, only a skeleton of the original table setting was left. Bibi stood in the front of the store and looked around at the twenty-plus people milling about. “Winsome Smiles” was emblazoned on the front of her light blue sweatshirt, but she had worn her best pants—she called them slacks—for the café opening, along with a light blue, butter yellow, and pink scarf that she had tied in a fashionable knot around her neck. Looking at her, Megan felt a stab of pride. Her grandmother’s eyes shone with intelligence, her posture stayed erect. Bonnie “Bibi” Birch was still one cool lady.
“Well, I haven’t seen this many people in this place since the day Elvis died and we had the only working television on Canal Street.” She honed in on Neil Dorfman. “And there’s Neil Dorfman. Now I know Megan must be giving away free food.”
Everybody laughed, including Neil.
“Come on in, Mrs. Birch,” Clover said. “I’ll get you a root beer.”
Megan watched her grandmother greet and entertain their guests, some of whom she’d known her whole life. She had a sophisticated ease with people, an ease that belied the fact that she’d lived solely in one location her entire life. She seemed to be enjoying herself today. She hadn’t been out other than to church and Bridge in weeks, and Megan was happy to see her this social.
“Will we see you Wednesday at the Historical Society fundraiser?” Merry was asking Bibi. Both women were dipping carrot sticks in Jeremy’s homemade dressing, but Merry’s eyes were on Jeremy; Bibi was watching Roger Becker, who was, in turn, talking to Clover and Lydia.
“Will that still go on in Lenora’s absence?” Bibi asked, clearly surprised.
“Oh, yes,” Merry said. Her head bobbed up and down for emphasis. “Lenora would want it that way. Both the Historical Society and the Beautification Board need the funds. There will be a silent auction, and dinner, of course.” She glanced over at the lunch counter, scrunching her features into a look of distaste as she did so. “Normal food.”
“Of course,” Bibi said. Megan caught the sarcasm, but she doubted Merry did. “And will you still be voting on the new preservation rules?”
Merry, still looking at Jeremy—he was rather good-looking, in an urban-sophisticate sort of way, Megan had to admit—shook her well-sprayed head. “Lenora was supposed to present her findings during her talk. Apparently George Washington stayed at your farm,” she whispered loudly, clarifying that it was George and not some other Washington who had resided there. “Imagine that. Lenora says she found historical records that prove he was there. What a boon for Winsome!”
Megan sidled closer to Bibi and Merry. She busied her hands with a rag, wiping nonexistent crumbs off the copper-topped table, and strained to listen.
Bibi, playing at casual, said, “Oh, dear, that is exciting.”
“It is, indeed. The Historical Society has toyed for some time with applying for historic district status with Pennsylvania for Canal Street, but first we must have a local preservation ordinance. Frankly, Lenora’s findings gave us the push we needed to get moving.”
Coolly, Bibi said, “It’s really the downtown area you want designated.”
“Oh, no. We want to nominate Washington Acres. We can do that if we have a local ordinance and can show the significance of your farm.” She beamed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Your house would be a timeless treasure in our small town. And then if we can get the downtown area designated a preservation district, we can advertise that to tourists. Just think, we may even be able to get on the national register.”
Clenching the rag tightly, Megan bit her lip to stop from interrupting. It was one thing to nominate the downtown area—but their farm? Megan was familiar with the preservation rules; she’d looked them up after her conversation with Lenora at Merry’s nursery. While she and Bibi could make repairs and take basic restorative actions, she would have to ask for permission from the town’s to-be-created preservation board for any improvements or changes to the older buildings on the property. More red tape, and the possibility that the local board members could make decisions that would impact the farm. Even something as simple as a new outbuilding or a change to the home’s front porch—which needed paint and windows—would be subject to a vote. Like her grandmother, Megan had little patience for bureaucratic nonsense. Wasn’t that part of the reason she’d moved back to the country in the first place?
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“Merry, do you have a say in this?” Bibi asked. Clover had handed Bibi another glass of root beer and she was using the cup to hide the growing scowl on her face.
“Of course.”
“Well, this sounds lovely. Truly. I wonder who else might be deciding how to proceed?”
Merry, oblivious to Bibi’s true feelings on the subject, said blithely, “There are a number of us. Roger, of course. Lenora, God-willing she make it. Eloise. Sarah Birch—”
“Sarah?” Bibi looked startled. “My sister-in-law? Since when is she a member of the Historical Society’s board?”
Bibi’s cool was slipping. Megan wondered whether it was time to interrupt.
“She’s not,” Merry said. She grabbed one of the few remaining empanadas and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly. Finally she said, “But she has pledged a great deal of money to the Society and our cause. You asked who the influencers are. She will definitely be an influencer.”
Megan saw Bibi’s neck turn red. To her credit, her voice remained steady. “Is that it?”
“And then there’s Jeremy.”
Megan and her grandmother both shot glances in the direction of the chef. “But he’s new to Winsome.”
“Ah, but he is a native. And he has very strong opinions,” Merry said, smiling. “Like me, he envisions a prettified Winsome, a place with wonderful gardens, well-preserved historical sites, and glorious restaurants.”
Is that so, Megan thought. She was pressing hard on the table and her fingertips were numb.
Roger interrupted Merry’s chatter, and Bibi wandered off to speak with Bobby King. Megan, full of spit and fire, marched back to where her chef was standing, chatting up a very flirtatious Lydia.
“I need you.”
“Honey, don’t we all need someone like Jeremy?” Lydia smiled.
Megan couldn’t help it—her eyes rolled, nearly to the back of her head. “Kitchen. Now.”
Clearly not used to being ordered around, Jeremy looked indecisive about whether to comply. Finally he nodded at Lydia and said, “Duty calls.”
Megan walked to the large walk-in pantry at the back of the kitchen. She opened the door and motioned for Jeremy to follow. He raised his well-groomed eyebrows but complied.
“What the hell, Jeremy? Were you going to tell me about your work on the historical preservation project?”
Jeremy looked momentarily nonplussed, but he quickly regained his composure. “What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Megan hissed. “Your vision for a prettier Winsome? Your desire to see preservation ordinances enacted?”
“Oh, that.”
“Oh, that? That’s all you can say?”
“Megan, calm down.”
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down in my store.” Her head felt like it was going to explode, all of the angst and turmoil of the last weeks skipping like stones on the inside of her skull. Her peripheral vision dimmed and all she could see was Jeremy’s aristocratic face, pinched in a look of haughty amusement. “Meanwhile, you are colluding to nominate my farm for historical preservation status?”
“I’m not colluding on anything. I happen to think Winsome could be a quaint little town of some significance, if—”
“If?” She was shouting, and she willed herself to take a deep breath. Jeremy had a right to his own opinions. She realized she felt betrayed by her new chef, a thought that was unsettling. She barely knew him, at least the grown-up version, and she certainly had no right to control his extracurricular activities. But she did expect a degree of loyalty as his employer, and the fact that he would be part of a movement affecting her farm without so much as a mention…well, that she felt she had a right to be upset about.
“Did you know that Lenora and the Historical Society members want to nominate my farm for preservation?”
Jeremy’s eyes darted from the white, heavily stocked shelves to the door behind Megan, as though he was planning his escape. The room smelled heavily of garlic and cumin. “Yes,” he said finally.
“And have you been advocating for that too?”
“Yes.”
Hands clenched by her side, short fingernails digging into soft palms, Megan said, “Why?”
“Because it’s right for Winsome.”
“Right for Winsome, or right for you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You are obviously stressed and not in control of yourself.” He used a placating tone that only increased Megan’s ire.
“Oh, I am in complete control,” Megan said slowly, understanding dawning. “You’re using me and the café.”
“What on earth for?”
“To get a sense of the market in Winsome. To determine what works food-wise. To build a following.” She met his gaze, despising the arrogant smirk on his face. “You never intended to stay at the café. All that stuff about wanting to do something good? BS. You want to invest in Winsome, yes—with your own restaurant. And only after you use the café as a guinea pig and raise the town’s status through the Historical Society.”
Jeremy stared at her, that smirk still on his face—the confident smirk Megan remembered from high school. The one girls lusted over. The pantry was tight, a six-by-eight space lined on two sides with white metal shelves. Tight—and warm. Jeremy took a step toward her, his eyes bright, his shoulders squared. When he was inches from her, he looked down and shook his head slowly, back and forth.
He said, “So what?”
“So what? So what?” Megan closed her eyes. “You really haven’t changed, have you? Winsome isn’t some crappy town you can come into, remake to suit your needs, and then walk away from, counting the cash as you leave. Winsome is home to these people. To me.” She opened her eyes. “This café and the farm? Right now, it’s my life.”
Jeremy leaned in, his face inches from hers. “Megan—”
She placed her hands on his chest to push him away when the pantry door opened.
A surprised voice said, “Megan?”
Megan froze, hands on Jeremy’s chest, Jeremy’s face inches above her own. She took a step back, away from Jeremy, all too aware of how this looked.
“Denver,” she said.
“I need to talk to you,” he said coolly. “When you’re finished.”
“We were just…”
But Denver was already gone.
“Back to the party, then?” Jeremy asked, that smirk still on his face.
“We’re not finished with this discussion.”
Jeremy smiled. “I should hope not.”
Twenty-Five
Back in the café, Denver stood, arms crossed, watching the festivities from a distance. When he saw Megan, he walked briskly toward her.
“Can we talk outside? I only need a bit of your time.” He wouldn’t meet her gaze.
Megan nodded, aware of eyes on the two of them. She passed Bibi, who seemed deep in conversation with Merry again, but who nevertheless watched her walk to the front entrance.
Out on Canal Street, Megan said, “Back there with Jeremy, it wasn’t…it wasn’t what it looked like.”
“And what did it look like, exactly?”
Denver’s hair was damp, and his auburn waves hung in his eyes. Two days’ worth of shadow defined his strong jaw. He’d been outside, and the bronze skin on his face and arms held a reddish sheen. His eyes looked wounded. Wounded and angry. Megan had the urge to kiss him—or slap him. She wasn’t sure which.
“You know exactly what I mean,” she said. “Jeremy is my chef, and we had an argument.”
“An argument? Is that what you call it here in the States?”
Megan closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Denver’s expression had softened. She was sure it had looked bad in there—but what happened to trust? She wa
s meeting him halfway; he could do the same for her.
She said, “What do you need, Denver?”
Denver pulled a piece of lined paper out of the pocket of his khakis. “Take a look at this.”
It was a note, scribbled in the awkward, backwards slant of someone rusty at writing. “Need to go. Take care of Sarge,” Megan read aloud. The note was signed simply “Brick.” She looked up a Denver, who looked worried.
“This will look bad,” he said.
“You need to tell King.”
Denver’s expression tightened. “He’ll think the worst.”
“Denver, one person is dead and another in critical condition. Things like that don’t happen in Winsome. If he’s innocent, he needs to cooperate with the police. Porter’s a hothead—I saw that for myself.”
Denver glanced at her sharply. “When?”
“Last week. The day before the farmers market.” She looked away, realizing how foolish her actions were. “At his home.”
“You went to his house alone?”
Megan frowned. “If he’s innocent, why would that concern you?”
Denver sighed. He glanced across the street to the canal beyond and Megan followed his stare. A pair of teenage girls were walking along the canal path. Identical haircuts, both dressed in black yoga pants and tank tops. One turned, said something to the other, and laughed. The sun shone down, haloing them in golden light.
“He’s unpredictable. I wouldn’t want to see ye get hurt, is all. He wouldna mean anything by it, mind ye, but, well…he’s got some problems. But then, ye know that.”
Megan shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the crowd in the café shifting, people shaking hands, saying their goodbyes. Soon they would be moving toward the front door, herd-like. The party was winding down. She needed to get back inside, and she said so to Denver.
“I need your help,” Denver said. “I can watch Sarge, sure, but Porter…he’s got no one. If you see him, if he contacts you, will you let me know? Don’t deal with him yourself, Megan. I want to talk to him before he goes and does something stupid. I will convince him to go to King.”
