by Wendy Tyson
Later that night, under the glow of the moon, Megan asked Denver Finn what he thought about Ophelia Dilworth.
“Only met her twice,” he said. They were sitting outside on his deck, close to one another under a wool blanket. The night air was sharp with moisture, and Megan could almost smell winter setting in. Denver’s five dogs were curled in various spots on and around the blanket. Megan had her head on Denver’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair with gentle rhythmic motions, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
“Did she strike you as competent and trustworthy?”
“Aye, I guess.” He tilted his face down to look at Megan. Megan was again struck by his rugged handsomeness, his fiercely intelligent eyes. “Why are ye asking me this, Megs? Did she do something to bother ye?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, ye don’t quite seem yourself. Why might that be?”
Denver’s accent got stronger when he was upset or tired. Tonight he looked exhausted. He’d spent the afternoon overseeing the breach birth of a foal. The foal and mare lived after hours of worry and struggle, but when Denver showed up at the farm, she’d sensed his weariness. She offered to make him dinner at his house instead of going out, an invitation he eagerly accepted. So after a light meal of salad niçoise and white Burgundy, they headed out to relax on the deck.
“I mean it,” Denver said. “Something’s bothering you. Even a country vet can see that.”
Megan smiled. Leaning against his solid frame, she told him about the Sauers’ farm and the Oktoberfest celebration. “Seems strange, doesn’t it? Sauer isn’t even that well-liked by most of the people on the committee.”
“He’s a cash cow though. Pun intended.” Denver’s face contorted in distaste. He’d stopped providing services to the Sauer farm last year after rescuing Gunther. “No matter their rationale, that’s not right,” he said. “Challenge it.”
“I tried to. I sound like a sore loser.”
“Don’t ye do that, Megs. This farm is your baby. They broke their own rules when it was convenient for them to do so.”
True, but Megan knew from talking with Ophelia that they would simply find a way to justify their actions. Her eyes were feeling heavy. Denver’s body felt so warm, a stark contrast to the biting fall air. She considered telling Denver about the conversation she’d witnessed between Otto Vance and Ted Kuhl, but she was suddenly too sleepy to form the words. She hadn’t mentioned the chair on Potter Hill either. She told herself she didn’t want Denver to worry, but she knew deep down it was more than that. If she told him, she risked resenting his reaction, and he’d be in a no-win situation. He knew about the treasure on her property too, so he knew as well as anyone what a stalker could mean. Whether he told her she was being paranoid or he tried to talk her into being more cautious, she would be annoyed. She didn’t want to go down either path with Denver. Better to say nothing. For now.
Megan sensed Denver looking at her, felt the caress of his breath against her cheek and the strength of his arm underneath her. He was waiting for her to make a move. A kiss, a gesture, anything to indicate that tonight she’d stay. It wasn’t just concern about leaving Bibi home alone that stopped her. She wanted to stay. She’d wanted to for a while now, but once their relationship went in that direction, there was no going back. She wasn’t ready. Sex for her wasn’t simply a physical act, and the emotionality of it wasn’t something she could deal with. Not just yet. But would he wait? She hoped so. She’d rather have him move on than betray her own needs though: two unwanted consequences, but one was worse.
Forcing her eyelids to open, she stretched, then disentangled herself from the man and the blanket. She stood.
“I should go.”
“Aye, it’s getting late.” Voice flat.
Megan asked, “Will I see you later this week?”
Denver unfurled to his full six-foot-plus height. “I’d like that.”
Megan stretched on tippy toes and kissed his lips. “We can have dinner in or out, doesn’t matter to me.”
One dog barked, another wound its way between Megan’s ankles.
“There may be more privacy out,” Denver said. “Git, ye wee pains.”
Suddenly feeling somber, Megan said, “I forgot. Otto’s memorial service is coming up next week. Want to come with me and Bibi?”
“Ta. That would be nice.” Denver rested his head atop Megan’s. “Shame, that. He was a good man.”
It seemed a rhetorical statement, and Megan didn’t respond. She stayed like that, entwined with Denver, feeling the beat of his pulse in time with her own. He was the first to pull away. Megan held on as long as she could before heading back to her car. Time to go home. Alone.
Six
As much as she tried, Megan couldn’t get the Breakfast Club—and the tension between Otto and Ted Kuhl—out of her mind. She replayed that morning over and over, looking for some clue as to why Otto might have driven right past Porter and ended up at the solar farm. Bibi was right, something was missing—but she came up empty every time. It didn’t help that Bibi seemed not to be herself since the accident. Her grandmother was pale, withdrawn, and more snappish than usual. Megan knew finding a body could do that to you. Accident or not, Otto’s time was cut short, and it was Bibi who’d first had to witness the grisly aftermath. Only Bibi’s current state of mind seemed related to more than finding Otto. It was as though the incident made her feel unsafe, insecure in the town she’d called home for her entire life.
Megan wished there was something she could do.
At the café the next morning, Megan asked Clover if she’d heard anything more about the investigation into Otto’s death. The café was unusually quiet, and Clover was waiting on a man Megan didn’t recognize. He was sitting at the lunch counter, drinking coffee and reading American Angler magazine. Clover topped off the cup and he thanked her, pulling the mug to his lips with fingers crisscrossed with burn scars.
“Far as I know, it’s been ruled an accident,” Clover said. “Otto fell and smashed his head. Killed him instantly.”
“No signs of struggle?”
Clover arched well-shaped eyebrows. “No, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“You think someone did something to make Otto fall?”
“I just think it’s odd that he drove past Porter, who was clearly stranded on the road.”
“That bothers you?”
“It’s out of character.”
“You always did see patterns.” Clover made a “hmm” sound. “Maybe he was having an affair. He left his car at the park and met whoever it was at the solar fields.”
“That’s what Merry Chance said.”
“Oh, man, now I sound like Merry.” Clover leaned against the cashier’s counter, her scantily clad backside dangerously close to knocking over a display of Sunny’s organic mango lip balm. “Seriously though, you have a good sense for people. If you think there’s more to it, we should tell Bobby.” Clover chewed on her bottom lip, looking thoughtful. “Although his force is stretched thin right now. With Oktoberfest and all. I’m sure he’s hoping this was just an accident.”
Megan shook her head. “I don’t have anything concrete anyway.” Megan forced a smile—no use telling tales when she didn’t have a complete picture. “Looks like you and Alvaro have things under control. I’m going to head back to the farm and work in the greenhouses. Need anything?”
Clover shook her head, sending long silky brown hair in all directions. “Nope.” Her eyes widened suddenly. She snapped her finger. “Actually, yes! Ted left something here yesterday. I was going to give it to him this morning, but I must have missed him. Mind dropping it off at his house on your way?”
Clover walked around to the back side of the checkout counter. She reached underneath and handed Megan a thick manila file folder. “Here you go. Just let him know he left it under th
e newspapers.” She waved her hands, flashing nails like neon daggers. “I didn’t even open the file. Whatever he has in there remained safe in my keeping.”
“No problem.” Megan eyed the folder warily, wondering what was inside. She would drop it off—a good excuse to talk to Kuhl. She’d known Ted for years, since she was a little girl. If nothing else, maybe he could help her get over this feeling that all was not right in Winsome.
Ted Kuhl lived with his daughter, Emily, in a row home on the outskirts of the Winsome town proper. Like most of the residences on the street, the house was a plain-faced unit, more utilitarian than elegant, with a white stucco exterior and a concrete porch bordered by a black wrought-iron railing. A welcome mat greeted Megan at the front door, its blood-red and sun-yellow daisies faded nearly to gray. Megan knocked, and the door swung open almost immediately. Emily Kuhl stood before her, her face registering first relief, then disappointment, before finally settling on fear.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Megan said. “I was hoping to see your dad.”
Emily flashed a half smile. “Yeah, well, join the club.”
Emily pushed open the screen door and Megan followed her into a cramped living room. The house smelled of disinfectant and furniture polish. Green shag carpet graced the floor and two brown plaid love seats faced one another across a battered pine coffee table. Stacks of books covered every square inch of a small desk at the back of the room. Emily traced Megan’s gaze.
“Business books, brewing guides, recipes. Dad’s a nut when it comes to research.”
“I can see that.”
Research, Megan knew, for his fledgling brewery, Road Master Ale. The brewery he wanted to showcase at the Oktoberfest celebration. She turned to look at Ted’s daughter. Like her father, Emily Kuhl was tall and gangly. A severe ponytail twisted thick blond hair into submission. Somewhere in her late twenties, Emily had moved back home with her six-month-old daughter, Lily, after the breakup of her short-lived abusive marriage—facts Megan had overheard at the café. Today the frayed hems on the sleeves of Emily’s khaki sweater gave testament to raw nerves. Even now she was picking at the loose ends like some people worry a scab.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“I don’t want to keep you.” Megan pulled the file out of her tote bag. “I just stopped by to return this to your father.”
Emily glanced at the file without comprehension. She took it, opened it, and then stared back at Megan in disbelief. “Where did you find this?”
“Clover found it at the café. He’d left it under his newspapers.”
“Today?”
“Yesterday. Clover meant to give it to him today, but she missed him.”
“So he was there? For breakfast?” Emily looked to be on the verge of tears. “Tell me he was there.”
“I can’t say for sure. I didn’t arrive until later. None of the Breakfast Club—his group of friends—was there, but maybe they’d already left, including your father.”
Emily’s skin paled to the color of raw milk. She fingered a large gold cross that hung around her neck, twirling the chain around her fingers.
“Emily, are you okay?”
Megan didn’t know Emily well—just well enough for idle chitchat and to say hello when they bumped into each other at the farmers market—but clearly the manila file had jostled a nerve.
“Would you sit? I’d like it if you’d sit.” Emily swallowed. “I think I need to sit.”
So Megan sat. She waited while Emily fetched two plastic cups of ice water.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen my father since he left for the tap room yesterday. He never came home last night.”
“No call, email, or text?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you check his business lines? Maybe he tried to contact you through Road Master.”
Emily shook her head. “Did that—nothing.”
Megan refused to jump to conclusions. “Let’s call the café. If he was there this morning, Alvaro, our cook, will know.”
But a quick call to the café was inconclusive.
“Alvaro doesn’t think your father was there, but he was so busy he couldn’t say for sure.” In actuality, the cranky cook had said, “I’m too busy to babysit our freeloading customers, so how would I know?” but Megan chose to paraphrase.
“He wasn’t there. If he had been, he would have asked for the file. He would never have purposefully left this there.” She raised the file, opened it, and fanned through the contents. “This has been his life for the last three years.”
“The brewery?”
Emily tore at the hems on her sleeves frantically. She nodded. “After Mom died, he sold the house and moved into this dump. He used the garage out back to home brew at first. People told him he was on to something, and he believed them. He put every cent he had into Road Master, rented the tap room, thought he could grow Road Master into a national brand.” She slumped against the back of the couch. “At first I thought it was a good distraction, a way to deal with grief. But he became more and more obsessed.”
“And then the town turned down his bid to serve at Oktoberfest.”
“He saw Oktoberfest as his ticket to building his brand. Even though he could still sell, he wouldn’t get the advertising and attention the sponsors get.” Emily’s eyes darkened. “Otto is established, has a bigger operation. Plus, Oktoberfest was Otto’s idea to begin with. But Dad’s beers are better. Otto brewed beer so he could have a microbrewery that complemented his tavern. My dad is all about the beer. He deserved that shot.”
“There are other things he can do to promote his brews.”
Emily shook her head. “Not like that. Thousands of people in one spot over the course of a week? The name of the brewery slapped on every billboard, every advertisement? Talk about exposure. When the committee chose Otto Vance, my father was heartbroken. Irate. He asked for a spotlight piece, a mention at the chili cook-off. Anything.” She met Megan’s gaze. “I think he took it personally. As though the whole town didn’t believe in him.”
Megan could see that. She understood how valuable a sponsorship could be if the Oktoberfest celebration drew in the kind of crowds the committee was expecting. Washington Acres Café was selling food at various events across the week-long celebration, but it would be the Sauers’ name on the brochure cover, the billboard, the newspaper articles. That kind of exposure could trigger sales beyond Oktoberfest, so Ted’s disappointment made sense. But Megan could also see that a man so obsessed, so hurt, might act out in desperation.
“Does your father blame anyone in particular?”
Emily looked surprised at the question. “I don’t know. Not particularly. Maybe the committee overseeing the Oktoberfest. And his competition, of course.”
“Otto?”
Emily nodded. “He felt sure that Otto had made the committee block him so the competition would be limited. Honestly, he was so upset that he was directing his anger everywhere. It was hard to determine what was real and what was paranoia.” She frowned. “He just hasn’t been himself—and it seems to be getting worse.”
Clearly the thought that Otto’s death and her father’s plight were related had never crossed her mind. That or Emily was an excellent actress. “Why would your dad have brought his business file to the café?”
“I have no idea. Maybe he was meeting with someone about a loan. He’s run out of money. Maybe he’s still trying to convince someone on the committee to allow him to take over the brewery sponsorship.”
Now that Otto was out of the way, Megan thought. But was Ted Kuhl—quiet, diligent, wounded Ted Kuhl—capable of doing something so heinous? No. The thought was ridiculous.
Then why this constant hammering tension in her belly? Megan finished her water and rose to leave.
“Don’t go.” Emily’s eyes widened, panicked. “I thought…maybe you could help me figure out where to look. You being a lawyer and everything.”
“Former lawyer.” Megan smiled gently. “I don’t know where your dad could be, Emily. He’s probably out nursing his hurts and needs time alone. If he shows up at the café, we’ll call you. I’ll ask Alvaro and Clover to be on alert.”
Emily sat there. Teeth gnashed at a bruised bottom lip.
“Is there something more?” Megan asked. “Something you’re not telling me?”
Emily nodded. Megan could hear light whimpering coming from somewhere deeper in the house. Emily glanced backwards, seemed to be weighing her choices. Finally she said, “Wait here. Please.”
When she returned, she had Lily on her hip. The baby was chubby and rosy and happy—all the things a baby her age should be.
Emily shoved something toward Megan. “Look at this.”
It was a single piece of lined paper, ripped out of a three-ring binder. At the top was a small silver key taped onto the paper with clear Scotch tape.
The paper had several sets of numbers on it. Megan eyed Emily questioningly.
“They’re his bank accounts, and that’s the key to his safe deposit box.”
“He left these for you?”
Emily nodded. “When I came home from work yesterday, these were on the dining room table.”
“With anything else?”
“No.” Eyes darted toward the doorway. She hugged the baby closer to her breast.
Megan sighed. She could tell Emily wasn’t telling her everything—but why should she? She didn’t know Megan well. She was simply scared and looking for someone safe to confide in. “Emily, have you called the police?”
“No.” That alarm again. “Why would I call the police?”
Megan waited for Emily to draw the conclusion herself. Eventually Emily said, “In case he hurt himself.”
“That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?” Megan asked gently.
