Greenhouse Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-6

by Wendy Tyson

  Two

  By the time Megan left the café, she’d forgotten about the lottery and the Oktoberfest celebration. The next two hours after Clay’s phone call had been taken up by a mad rush of customer orders, a broken bathroom faucet, and a trip to the hardware store. With the bathroom finally back in working order, Megan finally turned into the driveway at Washington Acres. Sadie ran to greet her, a worshipping Gunther trotting behind.

  Megan bent down to pet the dogs, then headed toward the door that led to the enclosed porch and into the kitchen. Clay was up at the barn—she could see him sorting pumpkins into the bin for Saturday’s farmers market. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. The day had already gotten away from her.

  Megan was just pulling the door open when her cell phone rang. She pushed her way into the big country kitchen, dropped her belongings onto the table, and glanced at her phone. A number she didn’t recognize.

  She answered. “Hello?”

  “Megan Sawyer of Washington Acres Farm?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Ophelia Dilworth. From the Oktoberfest committee.”

  “Ah yes, the PR person. Good afternoon.” Megan opened the kitchen window, letting in some fresh air and allowing her gaze to wander toward Potter Hill. From this distance, she couldn’t see the spot where the folding Adirondack had been, but she could make out the fiery cluster of trees near the top where it had sat. Until someone moved it.

  “Megan, you have an incredible farm. I love, just love, what you’re doing there.”

  Megan closed the shades and tried a window on the other end of the kitchen. Perhaps the chair had simply been moved, not taken. She scanned the hills for a small dot of red—not easy to ferret out in a sea of changing foliage. “Thank you.”

  “And I think—the Oktoberfest committee thinks—that you will be in a perfect spot to represent Winsome at a huge event like this. In a few years, that is.”

  Megan closed the curtain abruptly and spun around on her heels. She leaned against the counter. “In a few years?”

  “Yes.” Deep, dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry to tell you that Washington Acres was not chosen as the farm sponsor. It’s not that you’re not doing a good thing—you are, obviously, and we’re all rooting for you—but the committee feels that the farm is too young to take on such a large responsibility.” Ophelia Dilworth had a voice that simply dripped with disappointment for Washington Acres. “And with so many people expected, it would be a large responsibility.”

  “What farm was chosen?”

  “Plus, you’re a female farmer going at it alone.”

  “My grandmother is here. And I have help.”

  “Yes, but you’re still the boss, which makes for an even better human interest story. We’ll find a way to highlight what you’re doing over there—”

  “What farm was chosen, Ophelia?”

  There was a long pause, during which the sound of a chainsaw buzzed through the open window.

  “The Sauer farm.”

  Incredulous, Megan sat down at the table. She rested one arm on the worn Formica and rubbed her temple with the other. Her head was starting to throb. “Glen and Irene Sauer?”

  “That’s them. A lovely couple.”

  Lovely was not quite how Megan would describe the Sauers. That decision made no sense. Megan could understand if one of the other, more established small local farms had been chosen, but Sauer? Glen Sauer had been Gunther’s abusive owner before the local vet rescued the pup. Megan felt no love for the Sauers, but beyond their treatment of animals lurked another problem—their sheer size.

  “Megan, I knew you’d understand. Just like me, you want what’s best for Winsome. This was no easy decision—the committee really struggled—but we all want to put Winsome’s best foot forward. Or clog in this instance.” She laughed at her own Oktoberfest reference.

  Only Megan wasn’t listening, her mind still swimming over the committee’s unexpected decision. “Ophelia, the Sauers grow mostly corn and soy—not the variety of vegetables you’d need for something like Oktoberfest. And their operation is much larger than the guidelines the committee itself set forth.”

  “Yes, well, we revisited those guidelines, and we decided they were too limiting.”

  “The Sauers run a huge spray and grow operation, on top of a national beef and poultry lot. I understand if you don’t want to take a chance on Washington Acres, but there are other farms the committee could choose. Smaller family-run operations like Mark Gregario’s place, Diamond Farm. I thought that was what this was all about. Buy local, eat local. Show the wholesome variety of what Winsome has to offer.”

  “We never required the sponsoring farm to be organic, if that’s what you’re getting at. Even your farm doesn’t have its certification.”

  “But it will. It just takes time. And besides, that’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?” A condescending impatience had crept into the perfect sing-song of Ophelia’s voice.

  “Oktoberfest is supposed to showcase Winsome’s small businesses. Winsome is a historic town with a proud agricultural history. That means small family farms and local produce. You’ve managed to choose the one farm that defies that tradition.”

  “We’ve picked the one farm that can supply all of the products we need for the event. Vegetables like corn as well as meat. Reliably, and without question.”

  Megan could name two other farms—humanely run farms with a strong local reputation—that could do the same. So why Sauer? But arguing with Ophelia was clearly pointless. Sadie, sensing Megan’s distress, pressed against Megan’s leg and nosed her way into Megan’s lap. Megan rubbed the dog’s ears absentmindedly.

  “The Sauer farm’s national distribution could be viewed as a plus. They have standing broader than Winsome. We’re trying to get your town on the map.” Ophelia stopped chattering long enough to take a breath. “Look, I actually called with other news.” Ophelia’s voice had lost its edge and was back to its practiced sincerity. “We’d like to highlight Washington Acres in the Oktoberfest program. We’ll do a spotlight piece on you and the farm. Female farmer and all that.”

  Megan didn’t immediately respond. She knew the committee was buying her agreement. Sauer Farm was the wrong farm to sponsor the event—for many reasons, including the fact that they didn’t meet the committee’s own original parameters. Well aware that Megan had been a lawyer, the committee must have figured a spotlight would keep her quiet.

  And it was a tempting offer. She could use all the publicity she could get. But not that way.

  “I don’t think I’m interested.”

  “Don’t be like that, Megan. Think of your farm. Of Winsome.”

  The kitchen door jingled and Clay entered with a hearty “hello.” Dirt streaked his face, and his normally worn but pressed clothing was also caked with mud. Seeing Megan was on the phone, he frowned, and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “I have to go, Ophelia.”

  “What’s your answer? Would you like to be featured in the brochure? Come on.”

  “I really am not interested.”

  “Just think about it.”

  “Fine.”

  Ophelia huffed her annoyance. “You don’t have much time though. We’re already late going to press. I need to hear from you tomorrow at the latest. Okay?”

  “Yes, sure,” Megan said. Clay was shifting from foot to foot. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll call you then.” Megan hung up. “What’s going on?” she asked Clay.

  “It’s Porter. He went to pick up more baling twine and now his car won’t start. I need to go jump it for him.”

  Brian Porter was the newest addition to Washington Acres. A young veteran with anger-management issues, he started working on the farm a few months ago at the request of Dr. Denver Finn, the town veterinarian and Megan’s sort-of bo
yfriend.

  Megan said, “You look like you’re in the middle of something.”

  “Turning over beds so we can plant more cover crops.” Clay glanced down at his clothes. “That bad?”

  “Pretty bad. How about if I jump Porter’s car and you finish what you were doing?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind.” Megan’s mind wandered back to her call with Ophelia. “I could use a distraction.”

  Clay gave her directions to where Porter was stranded. “What was that call about?”

  “You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to keep Porter waiting. I’ll fill you in later.”

  Megan pulled behind Porter’s truck and jammed her own pickup into park. It was a warm October day, and the mid-day sun beat down on the pavement, heating her face and reflecting off Porter’s silver truck like sharp shards of glass. He’d stalled on Horse Buggy Lane, a long stretch of nowhere that adjoined Curly Hill Road and passed only the Jenner solar farm, the back side of Lyle Lake State Park, and an abandoned kennel. Seemed like an odd way to get to the hardware store, but then, Porter was an odd bird.

  Megan grabbed the jumper cables from the truck bed cabinet and walked over to Porter’s vehicle, which had been pushed to the side of the road. Porter was sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette and looking put out—a sullen, tattooed James Dean in his dark blue jeans and white t-shirt.

  He said, “I get paid for this time.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Megan, still feeling argumentative after her talk with Ophelia, swallowed a biting response. Porter was a recovering alcoholic and a troubled former soldier. Like her late husband, Mick, Porter had seen the Middle East from the vantage point of the trenches. Unlike Mick, Porter came home—in one piece physically, if not mentally or spiritually. But despite Megan’s misgivings about Porter’s ability to stay clean, she’d found that he’d proven himself useful at the farm. She’d pay him for his time now, if only because he needed the cash more than she did.

  She tossed the jumper cables his way. Porter shook his head. He tossed the cigarette on the ground, saw the look of annoyance on Megan’s face, and picked it up again, holding it away from him like it was poison.

  “Flat tire. That’s why I stalled. I stopped to check the tire and couldn’t start the car again.”

  “Do you have a spare?”

  “Nope.”

  “Clay didn’t mention the flat. I don’t have a spare with me.”

  Porter shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  The reason it didn’t matter came rolling along the otherwise deserted stretch of road and pulled up behind Megan. A shirtless Dr. Daniel “Denver” Finn climbed out of his 4Runner. “Afternoon,” he said to both of them before disappearing behind the vehicle. He came back carrying a tire.

  “Think you forgot something,” Porter mumbled. He stood, stuck the cigarette butt in his pants pocket, and took the tire from Denver. “Ain’t it a little cold to be showing off?”

  Only Megan could see a gash running down the side of Denver’s torso. And a bruise blossoming along his lower ribcage, an angry red bullseye in the middle. “You got gored,” she said.

  “Aye,” Denver replied in his Scottish brogue. He rubbed a hand along his flank and winced. “Porter here caught me on the way back from a neighboring farm. The bull got the best of me.”

  “Ouch,” Porter said, suddenly fascinated.

  Megan took a long look at the veterinarian, trying not to stare. His dark auburn hair, tousled on a good day, formed a mop of waves atop a ruggedly handsome face. The beginnings of a beard shadowed his jawline. Her gaze traveled down his well-muscled torso, and she redirected it—with difficulty. They’d been seeing each other on and off since the spring and she’d told him she wanted to take things slow. Only standing here, on this beautiful fall day, with Denver looking wounded and devilishly strong at the same time…she thought maybe they were taking it too slow.

  Porter cleared his throat. “You two gonna stop staring at one another and help me get this tire on? Doc? I could use a hand.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Megan glanced at Denver. “He needs a doctor.”

  Denver shook his head. “Just a few bruises.”

  “And a lot of dried blood.” She touched the spot above the gash gently and Denver winced again. “He got you good.”

  “Aye, you should see my shirt. It fared worse than me.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  Sirens began to blare in the distance.

  Porter grinned.

  “Ambulance is coming for you.”

  The sirens wailed louder, getting closer. They were joined by another sort of wail—fire trucks.

  “Something must have happened.” Megan turned back toward Denver. “Please. Go see the doctor and get that wound cleaned up. I’ll help Porter. We’ll be fine.”

  Denver opened his mouth to argue, so Megan stepped closer. She balanced on her toes and kissed his lips lightly.

  “Unfair means of persuasion,” Denver murmured.

  “Holy hell, you two. Get a room,” Porter said. But he was staring at the vet worriedly. “She’s right, Doc. You’d better get that looked at. You don’t need an infection.”

  The sirens wailed louder.

  “Damn,” Porter said. “I wonder what happened.”

  Denver looked out toward the trees bordering Lyle State Park, and Megan followed his stare. Nothing beyond the sentry line of pines was visible. The sound was coming from the direction of the adjacent solar farm.

  He said, “Probably a car accident.”

  Megan agreed. She rooted in her car for the first-aid kit she kept in the glove compartment. The small box in hand, she tossed him a fresh roll of paper towels from her truck. He unfurled a few and pressed them against his side. She applied antibiotic and a square patch of adhesive bandage and declared him fixed up—for now.

  “Let’s get Porter back on the road, and then I’ll run by the clinic, Megs.” Denver smiled. “So ye will stop nagging me.”

  They worked quickly, getting Porter’s truck running well enough to make it into town and to a garage. It took Megan a second to notice the sirens had stopped.

  “See you back at the farm,” Porter said to Megan. He thanked Denver and drove off.

  Denver paused by his Toyota.

  “Will I see ye tonight?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He nodded, eyebrows knit into a frown. He was still shirtless, and the skin on his chest was coated with a light sheen of sweat, despite the cool air.

  “Ye look pretty, standing there with engine grease on your nose.”

  Megan smiled. “I do my best to look attractive for the boys.”

  Denver’s eyes narrowed. His mouth twisted into that maddening half smile. He moved closer. “All the boys?”

  Megan placed a hand on that chest, felt the muscles—hard and real and alive. “Just you.”

  He nodded. For a moment, it was just the two of them. Megan could hear the blood rushing through her veins. Her mind flitted to Mick. She felt the pang of guilt, pushed it away.

  The sirens started again, breaking the spell.

  Denver’s gaze strayed back to the road. “That would be Bobby King,” he said. “I recognize the wail.”

  Not good, Megan thought. She watched Denver drive away and started her own engine. The sound of sirens still shook her up. The sound of the Chief’s sirens sent a shiver straight down her back. She forced the truck into drive, reminding herself that what happened months ago was over. The chair meant nothing. The sirens meant nothing. Winsome had moved on—and so would she.

  Three

  Megan drove back toward the farm. Instead of fading, the sirens screamed more loudly. She hoped it wasn’t a forest fire in the stat
e park. It had been dry as of late, and with the fallen leaves and a summer’s worth of wooded debris, it would only take one careless hiker. But as she neared the giant solar fields that lined one side of Curly Hill Road, she saw it was the solar field—not the park—that was at issue. She rolled down the window. No outward signs of a fire.

  She was slowing to get around a half dozen official vehicles when she spotted her grandmother’s Subaru tucked between an ambulance and a police car. Pulse racing, stomach suddenly knotted so tightly she thought she would be sick, Megan pulled the truck onto the grass, jammed it into park and hopped out. She rushed to a cluster of firefighters standing by the side of the road, hands on hips, mouths moving. They quieted when she approached, looking at her expectantly.

  Winsome’s fire department depended on volunteers, so she recognized most of the men standing in this circle. She took solace in their facial expressions; none of them looked panicked when Megan approached. If Bibi had been hurt, they would show it in their faces.

  “Megan,” one of them said. “Come to collect Bonnie?”

  “I just happened by and saw her car. Where is she? What’s going on?” Megan pointed toward the far end of the solar field where a cluster of police and firefighters were gathered. She recognized Chief Bobby King in front of one of the solar panels. Most of him—and whatever he was looking at—sat beyond her field of vision.

  “There’s been an accident,” one of the firefighters said. He kept his voice low. “Bonnie was first on the scene.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  The man glanced around the tight-knit circle, clearly struggling with how much to say. One of the other men nodded, and the firefighter finally replied, “A person died.”

  Oh no, Megan thought. Her grandmother had been through enough—but now to come across an accident? And at a solar field? What in the name of glory was Bibi doing at Jenner’s solar farm? And who had been killed? And how?

  “I can’t say anything else, Megan. You know that. It’s up to Chief King to fill you in if he sees fit.” He started in the direction of the ambulances. “Let me take you to Bonnie.”