by Wendy Tyson
Thirty
“This should be entertaining,” Bibi whispered when Megan sat down next to her. “A lot of hot air, if you ask me.”
Merry was up at the podium, welcoming everyone to her home. Near her, the other members of the Historical Society were standing in a row, waiting for their turn to speak.
“Where were you?”
“Restroom,” Megan whispered back. “Miss anything good?”
“Not yet, and you probably won’t, even if you left for the evening.” Bibi took a sip of club soda, her gaze on Merry. “I did learn something interesting.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“Simon had his eye on more than a historical district.”
“More properties?”
Bibi’s eyes opened wide. “Merry told me he wanted to open a museum.”
“In Winsome?”
Bibi nodded. Her eyes still on the rambling Merry, she said, “Members of the Historical Society were split. Some thought it was a good idea; others felt like it would be a waste of tax dollars. Even Lenora couldn’t understand his insistence. She thought Simon should have been content with the historical designations and questioned what they would display in a museum. It was clear Merry agreed.” One white eyebrow shot up. “I think Merry did it.”
“You don’t like Merry.”
Merry looked sharply at Megan and Bibi. “Well, that may be true.” Bibi glanced at Merry demurely, hands folded on the table, the picture of respect. They both focused their attention on the makeshift stage.
“And now for Roger, who will explain our plans to enact a preservation ordinance,” Merry was saying. “Just the first step in putting Winsome on the map.”
“You ass!” rang from the back of the tent. “How could you?”
All heads turned to the voice, and then back toward Roger. Merry motioned for silence. A woman was crying. The tent door opened and three people ran outside, one after the other—Amelia Dorfman, her husband Dave, and Neil Dorfman. It had been Amelia’s voice that they’d heard. The blond woman who Megan had met outside the restroom was watching them, open-mouthed, her face twisted with grief.
“That’s another thing I heard,” Bibi said, making less effort to whisper in the din of voices that ensued after the trio ran out. “Dave wants to sell the business.”
“To Neil?”
“I’m sure Neil would like it, but he doesn’t have that kind of money. He’s been working odd jobs all around Winsome, trying to make ends meet. How could he afford it?”
Megan thought about the rest of the barn renovations, the house plans she’d designed for the future. “Dave hasn’t mentioned a word to me.”
Bibi shrugged. “Guess he’s yet to convince the missus.”
Curious, Megan thought. But she didn’t have time to ask any more questions. A young police officer in uniform stepped into the tent, closing the door against what was now a harsh wind and driving rain. All discussion stopped. He looked at the crowd, clearly uncomfortable. Finally, his eyes settled on King. He nodded at King and the police chief rose.
They conferred by the tent door for a few minutes, and then King went back to the table and grabbed his belongings. He glanced in the direction of Megan’s table, his expression unreadable.
Up front, Roger was clapping his hands for attention.
But Megan, attuned to watching witnesses and reading their lips and body language, had caught enough of the conversation between the two officers to know what was going on.
They’d found Brian Porter.
More precisely, Denver had found him.
Megan and Bibi returned home after eleven, exhausted and edgy. Megan had wanted to leave after King did. She was going to call Denver and find out what was going on. But Bibi had talked her out of it, convincing her that it would look suspicious if she left—and with this much attention focused on the farm right now, she needed to be at the fundraiser.
Acknowledging her grandmother’s wisdom, she’d stayed.
“That gentleman friend of yours,” Bibi said on the way home, “Dr. Finn. Know how he got Gunther?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Megan had said.
“He pushed Sauer into a wall, held him like that until the man agreed to give up the dog.”
“Okay, that I didn’t know.”
“Then he called King and admitted to what he’d done.”
“That part sounds like Denver.”
Bibi stared at her, her face half-shadowed, half-illuminated by the streetlamps outside. It was still raining. Waves of water lapped over the road, and Megan was on the lookout for washed-out blacktop, especially in the low-lying areas. It wouldn’t do to get stuck in overflow, not with her grandmother in the truck.
“Sauer probably deserved it, but a man’s got to keep hold of his temper.”
“Weren’t you the one who said you’d wanted to kill my father on multiple occasions?”
“Wanting and doing are two very different things.”
Megan turned onto Canal Street. The streetlights appeared to be soft, glowing orbs, their light seeping into the blackness of this rainy night. Megan passed the café, checking to be sure there’d been no more mischief, and then kept driving in the direction of the farm. She felt a headache creeping along the edges of her skull. Her suit, damp from the run to the car, felt binding and burdensome on her shoulders.
“What are you trying to say? Are you concerned about Denver?”
“No, I’m not. I just thought you should know. A man with a strong sense of justice is a good thing—when balanced with perspective.”
Megan glanced at her grandmother. “Do you know Eloise Kent?”
“I do.”
“Do you know her well?”
“She and her husband stay to themselves, mostly. I know she’s Dr. Finn’s aunt. I know her husband is a big-shot broker in New York City. Commutes back and forth. Makes a lot of money.”
“Do you know why she doesn’t seem to like my father?”
Bibi took a long time to answer. She busied herself digging through her handbag for a tissue. After wiping the tissue along her brow, mopping up the raindrops still trickling down her scalp, she said, “They may have dated at one point or another.”
“May have or did?”
“Did.”
“I thought Eloise came to Winsome with her husband.”
“Your father has not always been known for his good judgment.”
“Was that one of the times you wanted to kill him?”
Bibi smiled. “It may have been.”
So Megan’s father had an affair—nonsexual, according to Bibi—with Denver’s aunt. Just dandy, Megan thought now as she was giving Sadie and Sadie’s new best friend Gunther some water. And Denver is willing to play the hero using a little extra physical persuasion. She wasn’t surprised. Underneath that kind exterior and those shockingly blue eyes lurked a certain lone wolf danger that Megan found attractive. It’d been the same with Mick.
With Bibi in her bedroom and the dogs attended to, Megan dialed Denver’s number. It was late, she knew, but she was hoping he’d still be awake.
He didn’t answer. After two tries, she clicked off her phone and went to bed.
Thirty-One
Megan spent the morning working side by side with Clay: mulching potatoes, weeding the crops, and picking an assortment of vegetables for the café. She and Alvaro had worked up a simple five-item menu, and she was picking, weighing, and bagging accordingly. They’d decided every day they would offer a soup, a salad, a sandwich with homemade potato chips, a hamburger or bean burger platter, and a blue plate special. The actual item would vary daily, depending on ingredients from the farm and Alvaro’s whim that day. Alvaro had what he needed for today; she was picking for tomorrow.
Around eleven, she decided to head to the café. She an
d Clay loaded the cooler onto the truck while Sadie and Gunther played and wrestled around them. Gunther had some puppy left in him. Although a huge dog, he still had growing to do—physically and mentally. Megan thought about what Bibi told her the night before, and while part of her didn’t like that Denver had resorted to physical confrontation, she’d seen the Gunther he’d saved. For someone like Denver, someone who viewed his role as protector and healer, that would be a lot to handle. And he’d helped Carl Sauer find the puppy in the first place…added guilt. Added rage.
“I heard you had some excitement at the Society’s fundraiser last night,” Clay said as they loaded the last of the goods into the truck. He wiped his long, slender hands on his jeans and smiled playfully. “Sorry I missed it.”
“Where were you? I knew Clover wasn’t going, but I thought maybe I’d see you there.”
Clay waved his hand. “Nah, too expensive. Anyway, I got lost in a project.” He raised his eyebrows. “Surprised you went.”
“Keeping an eye on the enemy.”
Clay laughed. He glanced at Sadie and Gunther, then beyond them at the barn. “Clover told me they nabbed Porter last night. The police are charging him with the break-in. More charges could be pending.”
Megan wasn’t surprised. She said, “Denver found him.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t tell me.” Megan looked beyond the barn toward the old Marshall house. “But I have a hunch.”
Denver still hadn’t called her back. His receptionist said he hadn’t gone into the vet clinic today and had cancelled all his non-urgent appointments. It was unlike him to ignore her phone calls. It was even more unlike him to ignore his patients.
Stomach tight, she pulled up on Canal and was surprised to find the road packed with parked cars, not a spot to be found. She drove the length of the street, past The Book Shelf, and into the alley behind the shops. Once parked, she pulled the first of the coolers out of the back and went in through the kitchen. She stopped when she heard the voices coming from the next room.
She left the cooler on a stainless steel work station and went into the shop, through the entrance by the lunch counter. The place was packed. Clover had a line of six or seven people in the store, but a majority of patrons were in the café. Some were seated at the lunch counter, eating and reading newspapers; the rest were crowded around the long farmhouse table, talking and laughing and—best of all—eating. And in the middle of it were Alvaro and her grandmother, bickering over something.
“That’s too many meat selections,” Bibi was saying. “And you need pie. I can make pie.”
“Do you want pie?” Alvaro shouted at the men seated around the farmhouse table.
“Absolutely,” one said. The rest nodded their agreement.
“Fine, old woman,” Alvaro muttered. “Make pie.”
“And all that meat?”
“Do you care if there’s meat in the soup and the panini?” Alvaro shouted.
“No,” was Oliver Craft’s reply.
But Ernie Doyle shook his head. “The missus says I can only have meat twice a week.”
“And you’re a damn wuss for listening to her,” Craft responded.
“Oliver Craft, be nice in my store,” Bibi said, quieting the men. “Or I will tell Dolly you’ve been sneaking ice cream again. Though she’ll figure it out when she sees your cholesterol levels.”
Everyone laughed. Bibi turned to Megan. “You’re here with Alvaro’s vegetables for tomorrow?” When Megan nodded, she said, “Thank goodness. Maybe now this old man can stop his crabbing and get back to work.”
The café customers lingered until nearly one o’clock. They seemed to like the combination of fresh food, unlimited coffee, and a place to stretch and talk. Most of them were local shopkeepers or workers from the town center. Megan didn’t much care if they stayed to chat. They paid their bills and seemed happy with the service—despite the bickering of her cook and grandmother—and that, right now, mattered most. Given the shadow death had cast over Winsome, she’d take happy wherever she could find it.
Megan helped clean up the kitchen and restock the shelves. She couldn’t afford another employee, but if today was any indication, she might need to hire a waitperson sooner rather than later.
“I can handle it.” Clover pulled down her micro-mini so that it covered the top of her thigh. “It’s not like I have anything else to do with Bobby this preoccupied.”
“Anything new with Simon’s murder?”
Clover nodded. She was counting cash and moving some of the bigger bills so Megan could move them to the safe in the kitchen.
“Porter?”
“Sounds that way. So horrible.” Clover stopped counting, her long fuchsia nails still picking through twenties. “I don’t know that I could have been as brave as you and Bonnie, remaining at the farm.”
“Clover, do you know anything about reenactors?”
Clover shrugged, her slender shoulders, slightly hunched under normal circumstances, bent nearly double. “I know some people who are into it.”
“Besides Simon?”
“Yes. Roger, Oliver, Merry, the Dorfmans, especially Neil—”
“They really love the historical elements?”
“Maybe. They’ve been doing it since I can remember. Roger’s a cache hunter too. He and Neil have been looking for goods for years.”
“A cache hunter?”
“You know, digging around for remnants of the Revolutionary War days. Artifacts.” Clover shrugged. “Back then, I guess people hid their valuables by burying them. These guys go out with metal detectors and shovels. It’s their thing.”
“Have they ever found anything?”
Clover smiled, showing off her glacier-white teeth. “Damn if I know. It’s all part of the thrill, I guess.”
Megan nodded, curious. “Do you know Amelia Dorfman?” Megan asked, recalling their brief conversation and the scene at the fundraiser.
Clover had finished counting the money and was clipping together stacks of twenties. She handed the stash to Megan. “She attends the Pilates class I teach. Why?”
“A good student?”
Clover considered the question. “Kind of whiny.”
“Whiny about what?”
“The Pilates position, her abs, the kids, Dave’s job, the weather. You name it.”
“She sounds like a peach.”
The front door opened and three teens walked in. “More like a lemon,” Clover said quietly. “Poor Dave.”
“Then why would she care if Dave sells his business? If she hates Winsome that dramatically, that could be the ticket to freedom she’s been looking for.”
Clover smiled, flashing those teeth again. “When I was in the commune, it seemed like the people who complained the most stayed the longest. Only they couldn’t see a way out of their predicament, even when it hit them in the face. That’s Amelia.”
Megan nodded. Sometimes Clover showed wisdom well beyond her years.
“Let’s finish up here. I have more work to do at the farm.” Megan glanced back at the lunch counter, where Bibi was doing a crossword puzzle with Alvaro, the two of them arguing over every clue. “Apparently Bibi will be here for a while. Give her a holler if you need something while I’m gone. She has her car and can see herself home.”
Only Megan got sidetracked before she reached the farm. Her phone rang while she was driving, but it was Eloise, not Denver.
“Megan, could you come down to the stable?”
“Why?”
“Denver.”
“Is he asking for me?”
“No, but…I think seeing you would be good. Can you stop by?”
Surprised by Eloise’s show of vulnerability, Megan agreed to drive over. At the 7-Eleven, she made a U-turn and headed toward Eloise’s farm.
&nbs
p; Eloise met her at the truck wearing a yellow tunic, black leggings, and no makeup. She looked older than she had before—older and worried.
“Thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have called you, but…You see, Denver and I don’t really communicate. I’ve never known how to talk to children, not having my own.”
“He’s not a child anymore.”
Eloise gave her a wan smile. “Maybe not in your eyes.”
“Where is he?”
Eloise led her toward the stable. She stopped before going inside. “Riding. Just go through the barn to the paddock on the other side.” She turned away. Megan stopped her.
“Is it Porter?”
Eloise shrugged. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
Megan found Denver outside with the Quarter horse. He was brushing the horse with long, gentle strokes, muttering comforting things to him under his breath. Both man and horse were sweat-covered.
“Eloise called you?”
He spoke with his back to her. Megan took in his long torso, long legs, strong arms, and the windswept auburn waves of his hair. His spine was rigid, his shoulders tense. “She needn’t have,” he continued. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve been calling you since yesterday. First you didn’t show at the fundraiser, then I heard about Porter.” She stopped, seeing the way his shoulders tensed. “Are you okay?”
Denver turned around. His right eye was black, and scrapes marred one cheek. “Aye, I’m fine.”
“You fought with Porter?”
He looked indignant. “Just a bit of an argument.” Denver rubbed his jaw. “He clocked me a few times while under the influence of alcohol.” He gave her a crooked smile. “A lot of alcohol.”
She could imagine. “So why are you hiding out here?”
“I’m hardly hiding. I just need to think about a few things.”
“I called the clinic. Your receptionist said you canceled your appointments.”
Denver walked closer. Dark hollows encircled his eyes; his face was unshaved. He bit his bottom lip, contemplating his words. Finally, he said, “I was wrong about Porter. And it could have put you in danger.”
