by Wendy Tyson
Copyright
BITTER HARVEST
A Greenhouse Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | March 2017
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2016 by Wendy Tyson
Author photograph by Ian Pickarski
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-173-6
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-174-3
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-175-0
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-176-7
Printed in the United States of America
For you, Ian.
I love watching you fly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people made this book possible. I owe much gratitude to Frances Black of Literary Counsel, my agent extraordinaire. Special thanks to everyone at my publisher, Henery Press, especially Kendel Lynn, Art Molinares, and Rachel Jackson. Thanks to Carol Lizell, my godmother, beta reader, and remarkable line editor, and to Rowe Carenen at The Book Concierge, whose hard work, insightfulness, and support help me through every release. Gratitude to Ian Pickarski, whose insights and advice on knife making and modifying lent an air of authenticity to Bitter Harvest. As always, thanks to my family, who walk beside me on this writing journey, offering encouragement, late-night caffeine, and the occasional plot twist. And, of course, I’m grateful for the crime writing community—my amazing readers, fellow authors, book bloggers, reviewers, and my friends at ITW’s The Thrill Begins and The Big Thrill. I feel like I’ve come home.
One
The harvest moon glowed bright overhead, a burnt offering to the demons plaguing Megan’s peace of mind. The woods beyond Washington Acres felt inviting—until nightfall. It was early October, the start of fall foliage season, and by day the leaves on the oaks, birch, and mountain ash shone bright in a rainbow of reds, golds, and deep oranges. But once darkness hit, the ghosts emerged. Or so it seemed.
Halloween was just a few weeks away, and the pace on the farm had finally lulled to a more comfortable frenzy. Most of the summer crops had been picked and sold, and what was left had been canned, frozen, stored, or donated. The fields were being turned over and planted with cover crops like clover and daikon radish. The fall bounty was just coming in, and Megan had enough pumpkins to supply a dozen fall festivals. Autumn had been kinder than the previous spring, and the October air was cool but not cold, dry but not arid. The farm’s coffers, too, were full—well, at least not empty.
Megan should have felt content. Pleased, even.
Then why this feeling of unrest? Megan opened the door to the porch and stepped outside into the chilly night. Overhead, the stars were eclipsed by the reddish, eerie moon. Gunther and Sadie, her two dogs, ran out behind her. Gunther, a Polish Tatra Sheepdog, took off for his nightly rounds, checking on the chickens and goats and monitoring the perimeter of the farm just as Megan and Dr. Finn had trained him to do. Sadie stayed pressed to her side. Megan reached down to pat Sadie, taking comfort from the dog’s warm presence.
But she couldn’t shake the image of the chair.
Oh, she knew very well that it was just a chair. A battered red Adirondack seat, the kind you see at homes all across the United States. Nothing scary about that. Except that this one wasn’t parked on a patio or beside a pool in some suburban lot. It sat alone at the top of Potter Hill, in the woods—the same thick woods that bordered her property.
Megan had hiked up there yesterday, seduced by blue skies and the allure of those fiery leaves. Out of breath, with Sadie beside her and Gunther running up ahead, she reached the top of Potter Hill and spied the chair. Her first thought was one of gratitude—how nice it was to have somewhere to sit after a grueling climb. But after she lowered herself into the chair, she realized it was oddly positioned. It didn’t take advantage of the sweeping view of the valley below or the red-hewn tree line in the distance.
It did, however, have a clear view of her house.
Megan had hopped out of the seat, still thinking it was purely a coincidence. Whoever had placed the chair there had done so on a whim, and they had probably paid no attention to how it was situated. But when she stood and examined the spot, she realized she was wrong. The ground under the chair’s legs had divots where the base had worn into the dirt, and the grass and foliage near the foot area, thick elsewhere, had been trampled from frequent traffic. Where Megan’s feet had rested, the earth was worn bare.
Spooked, she’d called the dogs and raced back to the house. In the comfort of her kitchen, she’d decided she was overreacting. So what if someone had been sitting alone on Potter Hill. So what if their chair faced this property. What could they possibly see from that far away?
But now, as she stared into the dark woods under the glow of the autumn moon, Megan realized her earlier angst had been warranted. With a good set of binoculars, someone could see quite a bit from that spot. Like her comings and goings. And the times she and Bibi were alone.
The Washington Acres Café and Larder was abuzz. Megan was happy to see a small line waiting to pay by the front register. She scanned the space, letting her gaze travel over the well-stocked shelves and back toward the kitchen. She spotted Alvaro Hernandez, the café’s beloved, if not slightly grumpy, cook. Only today, “slightly grumpy” didn’t quite capture it. The scowl that covered the bottom half of his face was rivaled only by a pair of tightly knit gray bushy eyebrows.
“Morning, Alvaro,” she said.
Her chef grunted in reply.
The café had only been up and running for six months, but already it was starting to feel like a Winsome hub, a place where townspeople came to pick up necessities like homegrown vegetables, canned goods, and local pastured meats, and—increasingly—a place where they met to dine and socialize. In fact, the café had regulars, a number of men and a few women, who’d started to call themselves the Breakfast Club. They began meeting twice a week over the summer to plan for Winsome’s Oktoberfest celebration, but even after most of the details had been ironed out, they continued to show up. And now they were there almost daily. That’s what seemed to have piqued Alvaro’s impatience today.
“More coffee, Alvaro,” one of the men called.
“I’ll have some too,” another yelled. “And maybe a muffin. Cranberry orange.”
Alvaro shot Megan a look of exasperation.
“I’ll get the coffees,” Megan said.
In the kitchen, she shuffled around the cook, making a fresh pot of brew. The air was rich with the aromas of sautéed onions and peppers and the pungent, sweet scent of cinnamon. Alvaro was pouring brown batter into muffin cups, his hands moving swiftly with graceful agility. He popped the muffins in the commercial oven and walked over to the sink. He was short and slender with a long, drawn face and a shocking mop of white hair. But his eyes—hazelnut brown and surprisingly kind—shone with keen awareness. Alvaro owned no poker face.
“I have to watch every ingredient when Ted Kuhl is here. All those allergies. And Albert Nunez is causing trouble again,” Alvaro muttered under his breath. “Six cups of coffee.” He waved a dishtowel, his face turning red. “No more. I should charge him for the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth.”
“Alvaro—”
“That man’s a freeloader.” But Alvaro’s voice had softened, as it normally d
id when he was speaking to his boss. “You want to make a profit here? You can’t let these men sit and loiter.”
Megan glanced out at the café section of the store. When she’d agreed to leave her Chicago law practice and return to her hometown of Winsome in Eastern Pennsylvania, she knew it would be hard reinventing the farm and the old store, but things were slowly coming together. She wanted the café to be a meeting place for the locals. Hadn’t that been her vision all along? Sure, they tended to sit and talk for hours, sometimes racking up nearly nonexistent bills. And yes, they were loud. But they congregated at odd times, so there was usually room for other customers, and they were always polite. Alvaro was just sore that he had to keep an eye on these gents rather than cooking. The answer, perhaps, was to eventually hire another server—not to kick out her most loyal customers.
Suddenly a loudly yelled “Damn it, Lou,” caught Megan’s attention.
Albert Nunez seemed to be picking an argument with Lou Brazzi, Winsome’s sometimes real estate attorney. Brazzi was giving Nunez a bemused smile, all the while stirring packet after packet of sugar into his coffee. Nunez caught Megan looking at him and lowered his head. He glanced sideways, at the opposite end of the long table, and tried to catch the attention of Ted Kuhl. Only Kuhl, one of the town’s two beer brewers, seemed lost in thought.
Kuhl shared space at his end of the table with Winsome’s other brewer, the owner of Otto’s Brew Pub, who sat with his arms crossed on the table. A furious gash of a mouth marred his otherwise handsome features. Wearing gray wool pants, a white button-down, and a gray vest, Otto had the distinguished good looks of a man addicted to clean living and fresh air. He was usually a gentle man, quick with a kind word or compliment. Anger didn’t suit him.
“It’s not fair, Lou, and you know it,” Nunez was saying. “Whoever gets that sponsorship has a helluva good quarter.”
Brazzi shook his head.
“A lottery is a lottery.”
“Not when it’s rigged,” Ted said. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen under the ruddy veneer.
It took Megan a moment to realize what they were talking about: Oktoberfest. Otto Vance had proposed the idea more than a year ago during one of the Historical Society sessions, and the town representatives jumped on it like ants on a donut. His vision had been modest—a few tents, some authentic German food provided by his brew pub, a band—but as with a lot of things, many hands made more work. After a year’s worth of planning, the upcoming Oktoberfest was to be a week-long affair that would showcase the town’s small businesses. The Society had hired a public-relations expert to run the festival, and businesses—including Megan’s—were scrambling to sponsor specific events. Sponsorship meant advertising and exposure, and with several thousand visitors expected, a lottery had been put into place to ensure fairness. Apparently not everyone thought the lottery was working as intended.
“That’s a serious allegation, Teddy.” Lou’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be walking around saying that. It could get you into trouble.”
“I’m already in trouble.”
“You need some sleep.” Nunez’s voice was unusually gentle. The former union negotiator and rabid Phillies fan could be abrasive, but he stared at Ted with genuine worry. “Get some perspective.”
“Blame me, go ahead. I’m not the issue here.” Ted turned sharply toward Otto, who looked ready to pounce.
“Can I get anyone anything else?” Megan asked, interrupting before an argument could break out. She eyed the group.
Nunez turned his attention to Megan. He rubbed his ample belly. “Bonnie make any more of that apple strudel she’s known for? With ice cream, maybe?”
“No apple strudel,” Alvaro called from behind the counter. “You ate the last of it.” The cook scowled, then disappeared into the pantry.
“You might want to find some friendlier help,” Nunez grumbled.
“Don’t even suggest that,” Brazzi said. “We finally have someone around here who can cook.”
“How about a slice of pound cake?” Megan said. “I think we have some left over from yesterday.”
Nunez said, “Nah, not now. I’m okay, Megan.”
The thick tension in the café caused Megan to pause outside of the kitchen. A look passed between Ted Kuhl and Brazzi. The lawyer mouthed something to Ted. Whatever Brazzi said, it caused Ted to stand up suddenly and storm toward the window. He stared outside, shook his head violently back and forth, and turned toward the table of men. His mouth struggled to form words that never materialized. After a painful pregnant moment, Ted let out a low moan. He pulled his wallet roughly out of his pocket and threw a twenty on the table.
Otto flew from his seat. He grabbed Kuhl by the arm and pulled him to the side, near the kitchen entrance. Noticing the alarm on Ted’s face, Otto took a step back, but his hands remained clenched, his jaw tight. Megan busied herself folding dishtowels, but she could hear much of their conversation. She felt her own body tense.
“Knock it off,” Otto said. “Let it go, for everyone’s sake.”
“We both know how that will end.” Ted thrust his chest out. “Don’t be a fool, Otto. This isn’t what you wanted. It’s not what anyone wants. Not really.” Kuhl’s eyes burrowed into Otto’s, hot coals of accusation.
“Bugger off,” Otto said.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? ‘Ignorance is bliss’ and all that happy horse manure.”
Otto closed the distance between him and Kuhl. He whispered something in Kuhl’s ear, something Megan couldn’t hear.
Ted stood there listening, hands clawed by his side, face red. While Otto was still speaking, Ted tore away and sprinted out of the café.
Megan glanced at the men around the table, noticing their reactions. She watched Brazzi watch Ted go, his face expressionless. She saw Nunez return to his newspaper. But Otto Vance sat back down, his brooding form throwing a shadow across the shiny copper table top.
Megan was about to speak when her cell phone rang. A glance at her screen told her it was Clay Hand, her farm manager. She looked back at the men, still wondering what had turned these Dr. Jekylls into Mr. Hydes, and continued into the kitchen to take her call. Oktoberfest had everyone on edge. Like the harvest moon, surely this too would pass—and tempers would be back to normal.
In the relative privacy of the café’s kitchen, Megan answered the call.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s going on back at the farm?”
“I hiked up to Potter Hill, but there was no chair.”
“You’re joking.” Only she knew he wasn’t. Clay’s voice was dead serious.
“I wish I were. There is no chair. In fact, I couldn’t even locate the spot you referred to.”
“Maybe you were in the wrong area?”
“Top of Potter Hill, facing the farm. We zig-zagged our way back and forth across the area—and nothing. Two of Bobby’s men were with me.” Clay got quiet for a second. “Are you sure that’s where you saw it?”
Megan’s spine stiffened. She knew what she’d seen and where she’d seen it, and the fact that it was gone now made her that much more concerned.
Appearing to read her mind, Clay said, “Look, I have to ask because I know Bobby will.” Bobby was Chief Bobby King, Winsome’s youngest-ever police chief. “Plus,” Clay continued, “I’d almost prefer if you’d misplaced the chair’s location, because if it’s gone the day after you spotted it, that means—”
“That someone saw me up there.” Megan finished his thought. What she didn’t add was, because they were probably spying on me. She was pretty sure Clay was thinking it.
“Yeah.”
The silence that ensued was thick with unspoken memories. A bloodied, battered body in Megan’s barn. An intruder with murder on their mind. And something Megan would remember but Clay would not—a secret separating her from the rest of Winsom
e. From the rest of her family. Was it possible whoever placed that chair on Potter Hill knew about the treasure buried somewhere on Washington Acres’ property? Megan figured anything was possible. History had taught her that.
The steady contented activity from Alvaro’s corner of the kitchen had stopped, and the café was suddenly quiet. Megan looked over to see Alvaro watching her, his lined face scrunched with worry. Megan immediately regretted having the conversation in the kitchen. She also regretted not taking a photo of the chair when she’d had a chance. She’d been too spooked to stay there—and now her haste was backfiring on her.
“Look, Clay,” she said, forcing her voice to sound cheerful, “it’s no biggie. It was a folding Adirondack chair. Someone probably enjoyed a picnic at the top of Potter Hill and packed it up when they were done.”
“Uh-huh,” Clay said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.
“Besides, we have a ton to do. Washington Acres Café and Larder won one of the restaurant lottery spots, so Bibi is baking later this morning and Alvaro will have his hands full. If we win the farm sponsorship, none of us will sleep for the next few weeks.”
“When will you hear?”
“Should be later today.” Megan glanced at Alvaro, now back to chopping. “I need to go, Clay. I’ll leave here shortly. And then we can tackle the remaining pumpkins and take inventory.”
“In case we win?”
“Whether we win the lottery or not, with so many expected visitors in Winsome over a week-long period, our produce will sell—through the farm or through the café.”
“Still, it’d be a real boost if we won that lottery. Help to get our name out there. Whoever sponsors is in all the advertisements and brochures.”
“True.” Megan considered the scene she’d walked into in the café. “It seems everyone feels that way. Funny how a little healthy competition can turn friends into frenemies.”
