by Wendy Tyson
“But it didn’t.”
“It could have.”
Megan took his hand, which felt as tense as his shoulders looked. “I’m a big girl, Denver. Any choices I made were my own. What happened?”
The horse whinnied, his full lips back, and square, yellow teeth protruding. He stomped on the floor and brayed again. It was an overcast day. Brooding clouds marred a smoky blue sky. Denver looked up. “More rain soon,” he said. “The horses are acting off, and back home the dogs were wound.”
“Denver, tell me what happened.”
With one foot on the split-rail fence and the other on the ground, he said, “Porter called me to check on Sarge. I convinced him to tell me where he was.” Denver turned toward Megan. “I went there, tried to get him to give himself up and get help. He ran at me.” Denver rubbed his face, gave Megan a crooked smile. “Clocked me good.”
“I’m sure you were able to handle him.”
“I let him take some of his anger out on me. Then he settled down. Not so different than a dog that’s been cornered.”
“Poor kid.”
“Porter wasn’t in control of himself. He felt threatened. I should have known better.” He shook his head. “Worse, he was staying near you, in that abandoned house.”
“I knew it! The Marshall house. When I heard he’d been found, it made sense. The footprints. He’d been there before.”
“He could have hurt you.”
“But he didn’t.” Megan stood on tiptoe and placed a hand on either side of Denver’s face, forcing the veterinarian to look her in the eyes. “Stop blaming yourself, please. Anyway, I don’t think he killed Simon.”
Denver’s eyes narrowed. “You said it yourself. He’s a trained soldier.”
“But he has no motive. I think Simon’s death and Lenora’s attack were done by the same person. And that person doesn’t want Lenora’s paper to come out. But even more critical—Porter was there the day of the murder. For a legitimate reason.” She told him what she’d found: the photograph of the house, the confirmation that Porter had been subcontracted to take those photos. “Don’t you see? Porter saw something he shouldn’t have. That would have made someone very nervous, maybe nervous enough to threaten Porter in order to keep him quiet.”
“Leaving the flask at your store?”
Megan nodded. “Porter’s gate. Sarge.”
Denver’s eyes widened. “You think someone hit Sarge intentionally?”
“No, but I do think someone came by that night and left the gate open. Maybe to warn Porter. Maybe to threaten him. Maybe to get to Porter without the dog there to protect him. Porter knows something, but he’s scared to say anything. And with one person dead and another in the hospital, I can’t say I blame him.”
They looked at one another, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Denver said, “But there is another angle, Meg. One that could damn Porter.”
Megan had already thought of it. “That photo also puts him near the scene of the crime. Which means he may have had the opportunity to kill Simon.”
“That’s right.”
Megan thought about the police investigation that first night after Simon’s death. She remembered the crime scene investigator making a cast of a footprint—and the police having a suspect other than her or Bonnie relatively early on. Porter’s shoe? It could have tied him to the scene.
She said, “Porter’s not stupid. Why would he publish the photo with a time and date stamp if he’d recently killed someone? Even if he had acted impulsively and didn’t know what to do? Plus, there’s the little matter of the flask. What if Porter had been taking pictures at the house and he left it there? The killer saw him—or saw someone—and went up to the house to look around.”
Denver’s brow creased. “If they were from Winsome, they’d know whose flask it was.”
“Exactly. What they think Porter saw would determine their next move. Threats or visits. Leaving the flask at my store could have been a warning to Porter—or a test. ‘Open your mouth and you’re a dead man.’ Porter could have gone back to the store to see if anything else had been planted.”
“Hence, the broken window.” Denver patted the horse, leaving his hand on the animal’s neck. “I’ll give you one thing, Megs, you have an active imagination. Your logic makes sense, though.”
“I don’t want to see an innocent man go to jail. And if it wasn’t Porter, as we suspect, then whoever killed Simon and attacked Lenora is still out there.”
“You don’t trust the police to find the culprit?” Denver asked the question without hinting at his own feelings on the subject.
“This isn’t about trusting King and his crew. It’s about protecting my own.” She smiled up at Denver. “Everyone needs support now and then.” She brightened. “Come with me to the reenactment on Saturday.”
“Are ye going to dress up, then?” Denver grinned.
“No.” She smiled, ignoring her baser instincts. “I’m going to find a killer.”
Thirty-Two
The first Saturday in June started out with promise. Megan woke before five to the sound of her rooster crowing and the feeling of early sun warming her face. She turned over, hugging the pillow close to her chest, and thought about the day. She had a lot to do, but more than that, she was hoping to gain some insight into Lenora’s paper and this society of Revolutionary War buffs in Winsome—and any tie they might have to Simon’s death. First things first, she needed to get to the farmers market with a fresh crop of produce.
She climbed out of bed. Smells of cinnamon and yeast wafted from downstairs. Bibi couldn’t bake for the café in their kitchen because of the dogs and health regulations, but she was making a fresh batch of goodies to share with her worst critic and new friend, Alvaro. Megan smiled. Her grandmother certainly seemed happier now that she was working at the café. She didn’t go every day, and she didn’t always stay for long, but she had extra kick in her step on the days she did go.
After a quick shower, Megan slipped into jeans and a plaid sleeveless button-down. She kept her hair down, pulling it behind her ears, and rubbed some sunscreen onto her skin. Sadie, who’d been downstairs with Bibi, was now hovering in the doorway, tail wagging. There was no sign of Gunther.
Downstairs, Megan found Clay already at the kitchen table, digging into a large plate of strawberry strudel. The flaky, buttery pastry looked amazing and Megan agreed to have a piece.
“Pizza farm,” Bibi said. She was slicing the strudel with a sharp knife, a “Winsome Weighs In” apron around her waist. Gunther sat on one side of her, Sadie on the other. The begging crew. “That’s what we should do next. Clay and I were just discussing it.”
“Last I heard, pizza doesn’t grow in the ground.”
“Ha ha,” Clay said with his mouth full. He swallowed, took a long sip of coffee, and added, “Friday or Saturday nights we could make pizza using ingredients from the farm. All you need is a pizza oven.”
“All I need, huh?” Megan sat down at the table, coffee and strudel in front of her. “That and thousands of dollars.”
“Clay priced it out. He can build it himself, cheaply. We can put some picnic tables in the old part of the barn, get the Dorfmans to do some work in there. I think it’s a lovely idea.”
“If the Dorfmans are still in business.” Bibi and Clay looked as though someone had just poked a hole in their favorite balloon. “But I love the idea. Maybe that can be the next phase, after the farm and café are more stable.”
Clay nodded. He stood, washed his dishes in the sink, and said, “I’ll be outside loading the truck.
“Will you be going, Bibi?” Megan asked.
Her grandmother shook her head sheepishly. “Sarah invited me to play Bridge at her place. I’m going there for a few hours, and then I told Alvaro I would help him with the lunch rush.”
Lunch rus
h. Megan liked the sound of those words.
“So I’ll meet you back here after the reenactment?”
“You’re definitely going?” Bibi asked.
Megan nodded. “Denver’s meeting me there.”
Bibi didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. The look on her face said she thought it was a foolish idea.
The farmers market had a strange, timid joviality, as though visitors were afraid to be too happy to attend after last week’s attack on Lenora. Winsome officers were stationed in the parking lot, and Megan recognized one of King’s baby-faced men in jeans and a t-shirt by the soap maker’s stand. A plainclothes detective? Perhaps King was not convinced that Porter was the killer.
Despite the presence of the police, the morning’s sales were brisk. By noon, they had sold out of most vegetables and what remained would be packaged up and sent to the café for use with the next day’s menu. Megan had made small Washington Acres recipe cards showcasing the day’s fresh picks, and they were out of the sugar snap pea and homemade hummus card as well as the one for spinach and white bean gnocchi.
“Not a bad day,” Clay said. He was putting away boxes and packing the truck while Megan reconciled the cashbox.
Next to them, Merry was placing the last of her rosebushes in the nursery van. Neil Dorfman, red hair matted with sweat, was pulling down her tent. He wrestled it into the case, then stood by the van, huffing and puffing. “Anything else?”
“No, that should do it, Neil.”
Neil turned to Clay. “Need help?”
“We’re okay. Hey, I have a question to ask you.” While Clay worked, he laid out his plans for the pizza oven. “But the barn will need a bathroom and some work in the old portion. Megan isn’t sold on the possibility, but I’d like to know what it would cost.” Clay glanced at Megan. “If that’s okay with the boss.”
“Sure,” Megan said. “But I’m not making any promises.”
“No promises. Understood.” Clay turned back to Neil. “What do you think?”
“I’ll take a look next time I’m at the farm. Dave and I still have a few things to finish up.”
Across the parking lot, Megan could see a group gathering. Most of the men were dressed in the uniform of an enlisted man, although she could see a few brightly colored officers’ uniforms sprinkled throughout.
“Participating today?” Megan asked Neil.
“I guess.” He frowned. “If the weather holds out.”
Megan looked up. Gray skies—again. So much for promise. “Should be clear until tonight.”
“Hope it’s not a soaker. The river is already at capacity and most of the area streams are at saturated. Remember the floods of 1991?”
Megan nodded. It was the year the roads around the farm washed out. She had been young, but when you’re cooped up on your property for days on end, the memory sticks.
Clay was on the ground, pulling up a particularly stubborn tent stake. “I checked the creek by the farm this morning and it had already overflowed its banks by several feet.”
“You didn’t mention anything to me,” Megan said, alarmed. While an overflowing creek wouldn’t impact the crops, it could flood the road leading to the farm again—which would make transporting goods difficult.
“Figured you have enough on your mind. Nothing we can do about it in any case.” Reading her thoughts, he said, “There’s the road down by the Marshall house if you really get stuck.”
“Well, if you folks don’t need me, I guess I’ll go look for my brother.” Neil tipped his Yankees cap toward Megan. “Later.”
“Will this be it for the reenactment?” Megan asked, looking at the slender crowd.
Neil laughed. “Lord, no. Half the town will be here. Weather holds up, you’ll see. What else is there to do in Winsome?”
Neil had been right. By two, the church’s grounds and lot were full. The Historical Society had set up a small registration tent for participants near the church entrance. The church had set up a refreshment area in the basement and was selling lemonade, cookies, and small cakes they were calling Johnnycake, even though Megan was quite sure the original Johnnycake contained neither chocolate chips nor vast amounts of sugar.
Adults and children were lining up behind a red rope set up along the sidewalk, watching the participants in costume as they huddled together by the church, talking. The participants were divided between Tories and Patriots, although the Patriots well outnumbered the Tories. Megan noticed Merry by the registration desk. She was dressed in period costume, complete with a white cap and apron, and was giggling at something Oliver Craft was saying. Megan headed in that direction.
She was intercepted by Roger, who, Megan had to admit, looked surprisingly dashing in his officer’s uniform.
“Megan! You decided to join us after all.” He squinted at her jeans and plaid shirt. “Where’s your costume?”
“You wouldn’t let her dress as a soldier, and our Megan isn’t suited to traditional women’s work.”
Megan smiled, turning to see Denver behind her. To Becker’s obvious disappointment, Denver was wearing jeans and a Nike t-shirt, not a British uniform.
“Well, Merry will handle your entrance fee. But next time, come dressed and be part of the festivities. The more the merrier.” He smiled.
“I’m glad you came,” Megan said to Denver once Roger had left.
A quick grasp of her hand was Denver’s only answer. He pulled a ten out of his wallet and plopped it in front of Merry. “I’m taking this fine lady on a date, ye see. Nothing but the best for our Megan.”
Megan elbowed him and he laughed. She liked the way he laughed, his eyes crinkled and his smile wide. Merry, however, didn’t laugh—whether because one of the few eligible bachelors in Winsome was on a date with the town’s only female farmer or because she thought they were making fun of the event, Megan wasn’t sure.
Megan said quickly, “Where do we go?”
“Behind the red line.”
“Tell me again why we’re here,” Denver said as they climbed over a section of red rope. They moved along the waiting crowd until they found a spot directly behind the rope, by a massive oak tree.
“We love history?” When Denver shook his head, she said, “We’re looking for clues. What do we have to lose?”
Denver scanned the parking lot, focusing on the participants chatting by another oak, their rifles by their sides. “A few perfectly respectable hours of the day.”
“You don’t like this stuff?”
“I like being with you.”
Megan laughed. “Good answer. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”
A whistle blew and one of the Patriots came by dressed in an officer’s uniform. He asked everyone to stay behind the rope. “Things can get rough,” he shouted. “Stay clear of the action.”
What action, Megan was thinking, when suddenly a group of Tories came charging toward her. They turned at the last minute, chased by a smaller group of Patriots waving rifles. Shouts and cheers erupted from the crowd. One little boy, dressed in his own Patriot costume, hung from the red rope, his tiny legs swinging back and forth, until his father pulled him back.
The sky had darkened to the color of ripe plums, and surly clouds were moving in from the west. The wind had picked up too, lending an authentic air to the happenings before them.
“Won’t be long before it’s pouring again. They’d better move it along,” Denver said.
Another group of Patriots came running through. Dave was “bleeding” from the arm, a soaked bandage wrapped loosely around his bicep.
“Merry must be playing nurse,” Denver whispered. Megan laughed at the thought of Merry playing hospital with Dave. She could only imagine the frown on Amelia Dorfman’s face if she saw that.
“You know, they asked to borrow Eloise’s horses for this. I had to say
no, of course. They would be terrified by all the noise and clamor.”
And it was noisy. In addition to the excitement of the onlookers, fake gunshots rang out, accompanied by smoke and soldiers falling dramatically in all directions. In the rear of the parking lot, under the trees, someone had set up a cannon, and the roar of fake cannonballs being fired at intervals added another layer of clatter to the chaos. Every tree, every crevice near the church, was a potential hiding spot, with blue, brown, and red-clad soldiers whipping between them. It truly looked like a battle scene, and for a moment, Megan forgot where she was.
A flash of yellow on the far side of the church caught Megan’s eye. She turned to say something to Denver, when a loud pop ensued, followed by a low, ominous roar. The yellow flickered red and orange. Someone shouted, “Fire!” and the crowds dispersed in every direction. Roger stood on the church steps. He screamed into a megaphone, demanding that everyone stay calm. It was no use. Panicked onlookers were running every which way.
Denver said, “Go to your car, Megan. I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Oh, no,” she shouted. “We stay together.”
She and Denver jogged past the church and toward the flames. Megan recognized the young officer who showed up at her house days earlier. He was standing within ten feet of the fire. “Stay back,” he shouted. “There could be more explosives in there.”
Denver said, “The flames are contained. Whoever set these explosives meant to scare, not kill.” He looked around, his gaze falling on a shed in the back of the church. “Wait here.”
The flames climbed and flickered their way out of an old carriage, placed at the church as a prop. Now that the threat of a massive explosion seemed past, a few onlookers drifted over. The young officer glanced at them. “Everyone, get back. Go to your cars and stay there. There could be bombs planted in other locations.”
He had a point, Megan thought. Although there could also be explosives planted in cars. The church really looked like a war zone.
