by Wendy Tyson
Megan studied Denver’s face, looking, perhaps, for some sign that he knew more than he was sharing. She saw only a sincere desire to help someone else.
She nodded. “But only if you agree to share that note with the police.”
Denver nodded his assent. Hands in his pockets, broad shoulders slumped, he started to walk away. Megan reached out and grabbed his arm.
“In there, it really was nothing. It’s important to me that you understand that.”
Denver’s eyes met hers, his gaze intense. “Aye, I hear you. But I know what I saw. I’ve been around enough to know heat when I feel it, and that in there—” he motioned toward the café “—that was heat. You might think it was nothing, Meg. It may have even been an argument to you, but I’m not sure that man in there would agree.”
“You’re being ridiculous. Any heat you felt was anger.”
“Don’t forget about the dog on Tuesday, lassie,” he said, as though she hadn’t spoken. “He’s ready for a home. And Porter. If you spot Brian, don’t go near him. Call me.”
Megan didn’t hear from Porter, but she did hear back from the bank that was foreclosing upon the Marshalls’ property. It was a small, local branch run by loquacious local people. It only took a few minutes of chummy banter to learn that it was the appraiser who was charged with responsibility for taking pictures, and only a few more minutes to find out the name of that appraiser. Megan hoped the appraiser could tell her who had taken the pictures of the Marshall house. She was pretty sure she knew. But she needed confirmation.
“Samantha Ginger,” said the foreclosure manager. “Call her if you’re looking for a good appraiser. She’s freelance. We love her work.”
Megan stepped out back, into the alley behind the store, and called the appraiser. Samantha Ginger was less friendly but no less talkative than her counterparts at the bank. She was happy to share with Megan her thoughts about the photographer who’d taken those pictures. “Brian Porter. You’re looking for a reference? Don’t ask me for one, that’s for sure. That boy hasn’t responded to a single call in days. And I have five properties needing pictures. Five.”
“When was the last time Brian Porter turned something in?”
Samantha told her: the day after Simon was murdered.
At nine o’clock that evening, Megan pulled a check from her pocket and handed it to Jeremy. “Your pay for today and yesterday, plus two weeks’ severance.”
He looked at her blankly. “What’s this for?”
“Your services are no longer needed at the café.”
They had just put away the last of the dishes, and he and Clover were getting ready to leave. Clover, her wide eyes tired and puffy, glanced at Megan with surprise, but she didn’t say anything.
“You’re making a mistake, Megan,” Jeremy said. “You need me.”
When Megan didn’t respond, the chef slammed his hand down on the counter. He picked up his white uniform, scowled, and said, “Merry was right about you. You’ll never make a go of this place. You’re just like your father.”
Megan watched him leave. His words stung, but she wasn’t about to let him get to her. She had other things on her mind.
“What was that about?”
“He hadn’t been completely honest.”
“About?”
“He was using us to plan his own restaurant. And he is one of the folks planning to nominate the farm for historic preservation.”
Clover chewed on her bottom lip. “But isn’t that a good thing?”
“Maybe for the rest of Winsome. For us, right now, it would be another thing holding us back.” She looked around the empty store, her eyes falling on the copper-topped tables, their surface still bright and hopeful. “And we have more pressing problems. Like a café without a chef.”
“I can do it,” Clover said. She smiled. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”
Megan had been the recipient of one of Clover’s grilled cheeses. It was certainly mean, but not in the way Clover meant. “I…uh…was thinking of someone with some training.”
“Hmm.” Clover leaned against the door. She stretched her hands over her head, baring her belly, and twisted back and forth, stretching. “I know,” she said suddenly. “Alvaro.”
“The cook from the commune?”
Clover nodded, her face alight with excitement. “He’s back in the area. Want me to call him?”
Megan hated to dampen Clover’s enthusiasm, but she was pretty sure Alvaro, the cook Clover and Clay spoke highly of, wasn’t the type of cook the café needed.
But the longer she hesitated, the more Clover’s face fell, until finally Megan said, “Fine. Call him. See if he can come by tomorrow for an interview.”
Clover clapped. “You will love Alvaro. He makes the best jalapeno cornbread I have ever tasted. And chitins that melt in your mouth.”
“Cornbread, okay. Chitins? I don’t think so.”
“Never say never. Bet you’d never thought you’d be a farmer.”
The girl had a point. Never say never.
Megan arrived home to find Bibi in the kitchen. She was stewing prunes and reading a large-print copy of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.
“Studying how to solve a murder?” Megan asked. She leaned down to kiss her grandmother’s cheek, Sadie lapping at her heels.
“You must admit, there are similarities,” Bibi said, smiling. “Winsome may not be an island, but someone here seems determined to lessen our numbers.”
“Perhaps.” Megan pulled some cheese out of the refrigerator and sawed off a few pieces of Bibi’s home-baked sourdough bread. She sliced a tomato, added some mustard, and sat at the table to share her sandwich with Sadie, who preferred the cheese to the bread. “So tell me, what did you learn today? I saw you chatting up the café’s guests.”
“I learned that my granddaughter has an admirer.” Bibi turned and looked at Megan knowingly. “That Dr. Finn is a handsome man. Don’t go for the other one. I don’t much care for him.”
“The other one?”
“The chef.”
“Oh, him.” Megan picked at her sandwich, appetite suddenly gone. “I let him go.”
“Did he get fresh with you?” Bibi looked alarmed.
Megan laughed. “No, Bibi. I overheard your conversation with Merry—”
“Yes, about that—your eavesdropping skills are wanting, Meg. Please don’t take up a career as a private investigator or try to join the FBI. You’re as subtle as a politician at a fundraising event.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m your grandmother. It’s my duty to help you make good choices.”
“Anyway,” Megan said, amused, “what did you learn?”
Bibi poured her prunes into a bowl, pulled a spoon from the drawer, and took her spot at the table. “Old body, old bowels,” she said. “And those fancy food things at the café—which looked absolutely beautiful, Megan—didn’t help.”
“Merry, Bibi.”
Bibi waved her hand. “I’m getting to that. I learned that your aunt is helping the Historical Society.” Bibi scowled. “Beyond that, I didn’t learn much more than what we knew before. There are a group of folks who want to see Winsome listed as a Pennsylvania historic district. They think this farm should be the first property nominated because Lenora found all that stuff about Washington, and she and Simon were working on that paper.”
“Simon? I thought he and his mother didn’t get along.”
“They are—were, I guess—competitive sorts, true, but Roger told me Simon helped with the research. I was surprised too. Caused a fight between Simon and Lenora in the end.”
“A fight?” Megan recalled that Lenora had told her multiple people helped with that research. She wondered if it was only the two of them—and what the fight was about.
“Not s
ure what about, and not sure it matters,” Bibi continued. “Lenora was focused on her article. It was Simon’s idea to introduce the historical preservation ordinance. Roger said Lenora agreed to back Simon’s idea, but she cut him out of the paper. Wanted the glory for herself.”
“True maternal love.” As soon as she said it, Megan regretted the words. But it was too late. Bibi looked at her sharply.
“Being a mother doesn’t make you any less human, with all the defects any person put on this Earth by the good Lord would have. Lenora’s passion in life has always been her research and her teaching. When that university let her go, she was devastated. I don’t have a great deal of respect for her, you know that as well as anyone, but I understand the need to feel useful.”
Was she also talking about herself? Megan watched her grandmother slice the prunes with a knife and fork and pop a piece into her mouth. Somehow she even made stewed prunes look appealing. I need to give her more to do around here, Megan thought. Make sure she feels needed.
“Well,” Megan said, standing. “Both researchers have been targeted by someone. Who else besides us wouldn’t want that historic preservation ordinance to go through?”
“Or that article to be published,” Bibi said.
“Good point. I guess we know why Simon was so interested in this house. Knowing what he and his mother found out meant he knew what a gem it would be for the Historical Society.”
“That’s the funny thing. Roger didn’t know anything about Simon trying to buy this house, and he’s knee-deep in the Society too. Does all those reenactments, dressing up like a Patriot and traipsing around town like he’s back in the 1700s.” The look on her face told Megan exactly what she thought about grown men traipsing about town in Colonial costumes. “He’s going to one Saturday, in fact.”
Hmm, Megan thought. She wondered who else would be there. “So we know the Duvalls were competing over research on the house and that Lenora had cut Simon out of the paper. We know Simon tried to buy the house after you offered it to Sarah. And now Brian Porter is missing.” She told her grandmother about Brian’s note—leaving out the details about the pantry closet and Denver’s obsession with the younger man.
“Brian is a troubled boy,” Bibi said. “Steer clear of him, Megan.”
“How do you know him?”
“His parents lived in Winsome for a while, tenants in the Marshall house. When they moved, they left Brian with his grandmother. Good woman, but a pussycat. Couldn’t control the boy.” Bibi finished the last bite of prunes, wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, and placed her fork and knife in the bowl. “His father was a tyrant. Preferred the belt to talking, if you know what I mean. Eddie and I hired him here a few times, before he went into the armed services. Eddie thought he could help. Didn’t do much good, I’m afraid.”
Megan thought of the rage-filled, drunken man she’d visited last week. “Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
Bibi looked thoughtful. “Sometimes, a person who is hurting that much can’t see through their own pain to recognize another’s.”
“But what about a motive?”
Bibi smiled. “I think most people are capable, Meg. Under the right circumstances. A mother protecting her child, a husband avenging his wife…not too hard to imagine any of us doing that. But those motives make sense to most people. When reasons for killing get muddy, when perceptions are based in paranoia or a twisted view of reality, well, that is another story. One person’s ‘motive’ may not make sense to normal people. That could be Brian.” Bibi looked at Megan with tired, sad eyes. “If Brian thought the Duvalls did something to him, even if it’s not a motive we can understand, he may have acted on his feelings.”
A soldier. A trained killer. Megan thought about that foreclosure photograph, the date stamped at the bottom. She remembered Brian at the farmers market with his camera, and she wondered. But what about Denver…what about his insistence that Porter was like him, once upon a time?
“What do you know about Dr. Finn?” Megan asked.
“I know he’s what you young people call a catch.”
Megan and her grandmother both burst out laughing. “How about a short-term cooking position at the café?” Megan asked. “Just until I fill Jeremy’s spot?”
Bibi glanced at Megan. “I can’t make all those sophisticated dishes.”
“You can make a soup and a big salad, and maybe we can offer paninis. Clover and I can help you. It’ll only be for a day or two. Clay can hold down the farm with the help of the students.’”
“I guess I can do that,” Bibi said. She smiled. She placed her dish in the dishwasher and then stood tall to kiss her granddaughter.
Megan swore Bibi walked more briskly on her way to bed.
Twenty-Six
Alvaro Hernandez was a five-foot-eight package of iron will, unpopular opinions, and Sharpei-like wrinkles, but he could make basic ingredients sing. His interview consisted of ten minutes of questioning, most of which he answered with salty brusqueness, preferring one-word answers when he could get away with it, followed by a cooking demonstration. It was after the lunch crowd—all nine people—had left, and only the few stragglers who still sat at the copper-topped tables drinking coffee and reading a paper got to sample his culinary delights.
With Bibi acting as his reluctant sous chef and a delighted Clover hovering nearby, Alvaro chopped and seared and baked his way through the interview.
“Here,” he said unceremoniously, placing a plate in front of her. Megan saw what looked like corn tortillas stuffed with something, a green sauce on top, and a small salad of Washington Acres Farm vegetables and strips of jicama.
Megan looked down. “Can you tell me what it is?”
“Lunch.”
Behind him, Bibi stood with her arms crossed over her chest, blocking the “Winsome” in her pale pink “Everyone wins in Winsome” shirt. Clover, a look of utter adoration stamped on her face, waited anxiously for Megan to take a bite.
Megan lifted fork and knife, cut into the corn tortillas, and placed the concoction in her mouth. She was hit with a symphony of flavors—smoky chicken, musky cheese, citrusy cilantro, earthy black beans, and sweet mango. The salad was a crisp, refreshing counterpoint to the heavier folded enchiladas.
“What do you think?” Clover asked.
Megan held the plate out, offering tastes to Clover and Bibi.
“Just like when I was young,” Clover exclaimed to Alvaro.
“Not bad,” Bibi said. “Needs more salt.”
The truth was, it was delicious. Not only was the dish simple and tasty, but it highlighted the food from the farm, which is exactly what she wanted.
“What else can you make?” Megan asked.
“I can make anything,” Alvaro said, chin raised high. “You tell me what you want to serve and I make it.” His white hair contrasted sharply with the muddy tones of his skin. His mouth was set in a firm, unforgiving line, but his eyes danced with intelligence and energy. He was, indeed, a man of contrasts—just like his dish.
“Well, I’ll have more of this, for starters.”
Ned Carter and Tony Weiss were seated at the long table, sipping coffee and sharing one copy of The Wall Street Journal. Ned looked up and caught Megan’s eye. “Sure smells good,” he said.
“Want a plate?”
Ned nodded. So did Tony.
“Two more, Alvaro.”
“He’s hired?” Clover asked.
Megan glanced at her grandmother, who had begun cleaning up the kitchen.
“If you want the job, Alvaro, it’s yours. But you may need some help, and I’m hoping Bonnie here will come in a few days a week.”
Alvaro grunted what sounded like consent.
Bibi looked up from her washing. “If you need help, I can be here,” her grandmother said. “As long as it doesn’t interfere w
ith Bridge. Or Days of Our Lives.”
Denver was due at the farm with Gunther by three. Megan almost called him to reschedule—or cancel—but then she pictured that poor dog living in a cage after already having had such a rough life. Plus, she hated to admit it, but she’d feel better about Bibi being here alone if they had a more effective watchdog. She loved Sadie with all her heart, but Cujo she was not.
The day was as bright as the Egyptian sun. Megan wore a sleeveless, button-down Coolmax blouse and shorts. Instead of feeling oppressive, the unrelenting sun felt freeing. There were no shadows on such a luminous day.
She’d started weeding the flower garden, using a hoe to gently pull the tiny weeds from between the wild flowers. While she worked, she thought of the article she’d read about this Saturday’s reenactment. They were holding it at the same church where the farmers market was held. In fact, it was to start directly after this week’s market, and there was going to be an organizational meeting this evening at Otto Vance’s brewery—open to the public.
Megan was almost finished in the flower garden when Denver arrived, Gunther beside him on a short lead. The dog looked resplendent, nothing like the sad creature she’d seen at the clinic. His white fur had been washed and brushed until it gleamed. His eyes were clear, his gait energetic. He even looked a bit heavier, his ribs no longer protruding like the frame of an old canoe.
“Wow,” Megan said, wiping her hands on the back of her shorts. She pushed a stray dark hair from her eyes with the back of one hand, hoping she didn’t look too much of a mess. “He looks like a different dog.”
“Aye, it’s a wonder what a wee bit of sound nutrition and a good scrubbin’ can do for a dog.”
And some love and nurturing, Megan thought. She squatted down in front of Gunther and allowed him to sniff her hand. He contemplated her for a moment, ears back, before that great tail started wagging back and forth, tentatively at first, and then with more gusto.
