by Wendy Tyson
It would be easy to say yes, that it was Bonnie. And her grandmother was part of it. She didn’t want to leave her alone, not with a new dog and a killer lurking in Winsome. But it was more than that. She’d only ever known Mick, and to have another man now, even someone like Denver…she just wasn’t ready.
“It’s okay,” Denver said. He pushed the hair back from Megan’s face and leaned in for another kiss, this one sweeter, less urgent. “You don’t owe me an explanation. In time, if it’s right, you will know.”
Megan nodded, grateful for his understanding. “I should go.”
“Aye, it’s late.”
But despite the hour, neither was quick to move.
Twenty-Nine
“Megan, you can’t wear that.” Bibi looked at Megan’s plain blue skirt and vintage peasant blouse and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not that it’s not pretty—it is—but it says ‘soft flower,’ not ‘tough cookie.’ You want the people on the Board to see you as a threat.”
“What do you suggest I wear?” Megan asked, a smile playing on the edges of her lips. Her grandmother was standing before her in a pale green floral knit dress, her white church shoes, and a tan cloth handbag with “Happiness is Winsome” embroidered in white stitching across the front. Not exactly a power suit.
“Something you would have worn at the law firm. A suit with shoulder pads. A tie.”
Megan laughed. They were in her bedroom and Bibi was sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to leave for the Historical Society fundraiser. “No one wears shoulder pads or ties anymore.” Megan sorted through her closet. She finally found what she was looking for: a slim charcoal pantsuit with a fitted jacket. It had been her go-to outfit for court hearings. Serious, but feminine. She held it up.
“Better?”
“Better.” Bibi looked down at her own frilly dress. “And I know what you’re thinking, Meg. But what I wear doesn’t matter. They already think of me as a harmless old lady. Let them underestimate me. It works to our advantage.”
Gunther was laying at her grandmother’s feet, his head resting on her shoe. The dog picked his head up and Bibi patted it fondly. “Change and we’ll go.”
“About the other day. I know Sarah was here.” Megan didn’t want to admit that she’d eavesdropped on their conversation, but if Sarah was going to be there tonight, it would be best to have things out in the open.
“You heard us.” Her grandmother smiled. “I saw you, of course. Maybe you should be reading more Agatha Christie.”
Megan laughed, embarrassed and relieved at the same time. “Did Sarah tell Simon about the offer?”
A shadow passed across her grandmother’s face. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, promising late spring storms. “She says no.”
“Do you believe her?”
After a moment, Bibi nodded. “Sarah is a lot of things, but I have never known her to be an outright liar. Unless she is part of some grand conspiracy, what gain would she have in seeing Simon, or the Society, buy the farm?” Bibi’s expression softened. “And I believe she feels genuinely bad about her part in your mother’s departure. Someday, when you’re ready, you should go talk to her.”
When you’re ready. Unknowingly, her grandmother had echoed Denver’s message from the night before. Being with a new man. Forgiving her aunt. Forgiving her mother. Would she ever be ready?
Merry Chance lived in a massive square home with a mansard-style roof. The house was perched in the middle of a double lot on the edge of town, across from the farthest end of the canal walking path. White and black, broad and imposing, the building was a stark contrast to the rosy woman who lived within. A white picket fence marked the boundary of her rose gardens. Rain threatened, but for now, the scent of the roses, heady and fragrant, perfumed the humid air outside. For tonight’s fundraiser, Merry had set up a grand tent attached to the back of the house, into the kitchen. Black and white-clad wait staff handed out flutes of champagne and passed around hors d’oeuvres on silver platters.
“Fancy dancy,” Bibi whispered as they made their way to the entrance. She handed Neil Dorfman their tickets and said, “Better be good for a hundred and fifty dollars a head,” under her breath.
“You paid that much? You don’t even like the Historical Society.”
“And miss all the action?” Bibi shook her head. “Just watch. You’ll learn more about Winsome in the next three hours than you will the rest of the year.”
Megan was about to tell her grandmother she wasn’t sure she wanted to know that much about Winsome when Roger swung by and took Megan’s arm. “Your table is over here,” he said. He led them through the crowd congregating by the makeshift bar and over to a round table set for ten. “You get your pick of seats.”
“Which ones are gold-plated?” Bibi asked.
Becker only smiled. “Money for the Society is for the good of all of us, Bonnie. Rising tides raise all boats.”
“Yeah, yeah, Roger,” Bibi said. “Or the swell wipes out everyone in its wake.”
Roger’s smile faded. “You ladies let me know if you need anything. There’s champagne and wine at the bar, and staff are passing around Jeremy’s wonderful creations.”
Megan swallowed. “Jeremy’s?”
“Oh, yes. Such a food artist, isn’t he? He’s catering the event.” He must have seen the look of surprise on her face, because he said quickly, “We would have used the café, of course, but, well, you weren’t up and running yet. Anyway, Merry booked him weeks ago.”
Megan bristled—she’d had no idea he’d been moonlighting as a caterer. When the first tray came around, Megan saw mushroom tartlets and empanadas—the same items he’d prepared for the café’s grand opening. So much for Merry’s normal food. She glanced around the room, hoping to see Denver.
Disappointed, she asked her grandmother, who was already seated, whether she’d like a drink.
“Club soda.”
Megan left to stand at the bar. The inside of the white tent was spacious, decorated with green plants in large ornate containers and hundreds of tiny lights. A photo of George Washington sat on an easel on one side of the tent. The tables were set with white linens, and on each was a bouquet of mixed white flowers in a crystal vase.
“It’s like a damn wedding,” someone whispered into her ear from behind. “Or a funeral.”
Megan had to agree. She turned to find Dave Dorfman behind her. He was dressed for the occasion—his finest church suit, navy blue, vintage 1970—and his breath reeked of Scotch.
“It’s quite something,” Megan agreed. The line moved and she took a step forward, acutely aware of Dave’s heavy breathing behind her.
“Neil did a great job of setting up.”
Surprised, Megan said, “Neil did this?”
“With some help from me. I told Merry not to use all white. White, white, white…like a damn wedding.”
Dave sounded as though he’d been celebrating a wedding most of the night. “I didn’t realize you and Neil were this interested in history.”
“We’re into getting paid,” Dave said. He pitched forward, his drink sloshing over the rim of his plastic glass. “Money’s money.”
Megan wasn’t quite following Dave’s intoxicated train of thought. No matter, it was her turn to order. She asked for champagne for herself, club soda for Bibi, and said goodbye to Dave.
“Yep,” he said, already on to other thoughts.
Bibi wasn’t at the table. The son of the local judge had been hired as the DJ, and he was blaring a Taylor Swift tune from a table in the corner of the tent. A small dance floor had been set up near the DJ’s table. Megan’s eyes scanned the tent for her grandmother. She spotted her two tables over, talking with an older woman Megan didn’t recognize.
Before she could make her way over there, she felt a hand on her elbow. It was Roger again. “Megan, I didn�
�t know you were interested in reenactments.”
“Oh,” Megan said, her mind spinning for some response. “I’ve been curious about them for some time.”
“I was thinking about your desire to be a Patriot soldier. I think that can be arranged. What’s one cross-gender soldier?” He smiled, his teeth biting down on his lower lip in a distinctly feline gesture. “And your house will be perfect for reenactments. That barn, that old house...perfect. We don’t even need to wait for the preservation ordinance or the nomination. If you wanted to get started sooner—”
“Roger, I would absolutely love to, but I have—”
“She has a farm to run.”
Megan looked up to see who her savior was. Jeremy was staring at her from a spot to her left. He was wearing his chef jacket, but he held a half-empty glass of champagne in one hand, a pen in the other.
“Isn’t that right, Megan? No time for things like Revolutionary War reenactments and fun. It’s all business, all the time.”
Megan held his gaze. He was still angry and was baiting her—and she knew it. She summoned her brightest smile, bestowing it upon Jeremy, then Roger. “Oh, I don’t know. Parties and fun sound just fine. Eventually. But I think you would both agree that it’s best for Winsome if Washington Acres gets off the ground first.”
“I’m sure that makes the most sense.” Jeremy returned her smile. “What’s best for the farm is best for Winsome.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
“You’re a tough woman. And a hard worker.” His eyes narrowed, not unkindly. “You’ll need that resolve. That house has a whole history of women who have struggled to maintain it. Your grandmother and you are not alone.”
Megan tilted her head questioningly.
“The original owner’s husband deserted her, and she had to carry on alone.” Jeremy’s tone was flat, but his mouth never lost that hint of a smile. “Quite a legacy.”
Elizabeth Caldbeck’s husband? He deserted her? “What’s behind your sudden interest in local history, Jeremy?” Megan asked.
“Jeremy is a history buff, aren’t you?” Roger looked at Jeremy with such an earnest interest that Megan felt badly for participating in Jeremy’s passive-aggressive game.
“I find the local lore fascinating.”
Becker nearly glowed with admiration. “In fact, he’s considering buying a piece of it himself.”
Now Becker had Megan’s attention. “Really?” She looked at Jeremy. “And where would that be?”
Jeremy’s smile had disappeared. He glared at Roger.
Roger, a few drinks in and oblivious to Jeremy’s anger, said, “Right next door to you, Megan. The old Marshall place. Isn’t that right, Jeremy?”
But Jeremy had decided it was time to get back to work. He mumbled something and marched off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Busy man,” Becker said when he was gone. He still seemed nonplussed over Jeremy’s reaction. “Great ideas, though. He’ll be good for Winsome.”
“What kind of ideas?” Megan asked casually. The DJ had lowered the music and guests were starting to wander to their tables. Dinner would be served soon.
“He’s thinking of making the old Marshall house into an inn, for starters. With your farm and his inn both preserved properties, they’ll be part of the Winsome historical trail. Downtown—the buildings along Canal Street—would be next.”
Megan’s mind was busy processing this news in the context of all that had happened over the last few weeks. “How did he know my house had any historical significance?”
Becker shrugged. “Lenora, I would assume.”
Lenora…or Simon? “Has he placed a bid yet, Roger?”
“Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Just then, Merry sauntered over, her blue dress swishing around her knees. “Roger, it’s almost time for speeches.” She eyed Megan’s suit and said, “Seats, Megan. We’re about to get started. Perhaps you can collect Bonnie too.”
“In a moment, Merry. Where are the restrooms?”
“We have port-o-johns outside,” Becker said.
Merry waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Don’t be silly. There is a loo on the ground floor.” To Becker, she said, “Come on. Everyone is anxious to get started.”
Megan made her way to the back of the tent, through the opening, and into Merry’s spacious and bustling kitchen. Rain had begun to pelt down on the thick white plastic and Megan wondered if the seams would hold.
Despite the storm outside, the kitchen was warm and dry and fragrant. Jeremy was there, barking orders at a young, uniformed assistant. When he saw Megan, he turned away quickly and continued his task.
Two others were waiting in line for the bathrooms: a woman she didn’t recognize and Amelia Dorfman. Amelia, who had been engaged in conversation with the unknown woman, nodded cordially at Megan as she approached. Amelia was wearing a simple, well-cut black dress and a diamond pendant, and her hair was pulled back into a neat chignon. A sheer layer of makeup covered, but didn’t hide, a generous sprinkling of freckles on her nose. She looked nice, and Megan told her so.
“Thank you,” Amelia said. “You do as well.”
Megan had only spoken with Dave’s wife a few times since returning to Winsome. Unlike Dave, Amelia was not a Winsome native. Her family was from Philadelphia, but Amelia had lived in California before she and Dave got married. Megan found her hard to warm up to. While Amelia was polite enough, there was a steely reserve underneath the sophisticated clothes, one that seemed hard to penetrate.
“Enjoying the party?” Megan asked.
“Sure,” Amelia said, but the pinched expression on her face said otherwise. She turned toward the bathroom door, letting Megan know she didn’t want to make small talk—or any talk.
Bob King, at the fundraiser alone because Clover refused to attend, joined the line.
Happy for a friendlier face, Megan turned to him. “How’s Lenora?”
The bathroom door opened. The town postmaster came out and the unknown woman bolted inside.
“Not well.”
“Will she make it?” Megan asked. She watched the postmaster walk through the kitchen and out into the tent.
“We don’t know. Whoever stabbed her knew what he or she was doing. They went low on the back, straight through the ribs. Another fraction of an inch and they would have pierced her kidneys.” King held Megan’s gaze. “Instant death.”
But Megan was thinking about what King said. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. A former soldier would know where to stab someone in order to kill them.
“So whoever did it meant to kill Lenora, not simply warn her?”
King shrugged. “Stabbing someone is not as easy as you would think. It takes knowledge and precision, especially if you only have one shot at it.”
“And during the busy farmers market, whoever stabbed her would have wanted to act quickly. Get in, get out. Multiple wounds would have meant time for Lenora to struggle and scream.”
King nodded, looking impressed. “I guess they teach you something useful in law school?”
“Nah, learned it on television.”
King laughed. A door opened, the woman came out, and Amelia entered the bathroom.
King said, “See you, Susan.” The woman, a petite blond in her thirties, smiled and passed into the kitchen.
“Who is that?” Megan asked.
“Susan Dorfman, Neil and Dave’s younger sister.”
Interesting, Megan thought. “I’ve never met her.”
“She’s been kind of a hermit since her business closed. I dated her, once upon a time. Can you imagine?” King smiled, and when he did so, his whole face changed. “No more waiting. I’m going to head to the john outside, rain or no rain.” He nodded to Megan before also disappearing into the kitchen.
Megan considered Susan, the Dorfmans’ sister. It had been Simon who closed her business down—Aunt Sarah had mentioned that. She didn’t have time to dwell. A few seconds later, from behind her, a woman’s voice said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Megan turned to find herself face to face with Eloise Kent, Denver’s aunt. This evening, she wore a floor-length red sequined dress. Flashy but elegant. It was a dress meant to make a statement, and after Megan’s conversation with Eloise’s nephew, Megan knew Eloise Kent was a woman not afraid to make a statement.
“Eloise.” Megan flashed a welcoming smile. “So nice to see you again. I was hoping to see Denver here.”
Eloise smiled back. She had tiny white teeth and extra-long canines. “I’m afraid he couldn’t make it. I asked about you. He said you’ve been busy getting the café going.”
“The café and the farm, yes. It’s been a lot of work, but we’re almost there.”
“Interesting choice for a lawyer. Farming, that is. And didn’t you work for a big firm in Chicago? A very prestigious firm?”
She waited, obviously hoping Megan would explain why in the world she would leave the glamorous big city for a pit stop like Winsome. Amelia took that moment to step out of the restroom, and Megan seized her opportunity to use the facilities.
As Megan was entering the bathroom, Eloise’s arm shot out and she touched Megan above the elbow. “Denver hasn’t had an easy life,” she said quietly.
Megan froze, muscles tensed. “I know, he told me.”
Eloise let go. She gave Megan a sad, apologetic smile. “I don’t want my nephew to be a casualty when you tire of small-town life, as you will inevitably do.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know Eddie.”
“Is Denver like his father?”
Eloise shook her head. “Of course not. He’s nothing like him.”
“We’re not all replicas of our parents.”
Megan closed the door of the restroom. She put her back against the wood and breathed. She wasn’t like her father—or her mother. She was in Winsome to stay. For better or worse.
